A month ago, my son turned 10, and in the time since, I have been reflecting on just how much I have received in the lessons learned in these ten years; for him life and for me, a decade of Momming. Parenting. Learning. Stumbling. Loving. Questioning. Doubting. Knowing. Crying. Savoring.
I can remember looking at myself in the mirror, when pregnant, staring at that face looking back at me, and telling the woman in the mirror: You are going to be a mom. You will have this little person who is going to need you. There will be feet running through this house soon. You are going to be a mother. YOU. YOU? You can barely keep a house plant alive, just how do you plan to do this?
Looking back, I recall all of the cliches that have been shared with me over the years. And, they are all true: It’s a wonderful experience. It’s the toughest job you will ever have. You will never love anyone as much as your child. It all goes by so fast, appreciate each moment. You think you are tired now?
I have had all of that. And more.
…I, for the first time, see myself in another.
…I stop dead in my tracks on some days when I remember that I am not raising a child, I am raising a PERSON.
…I am humbled by this person, and a few years ago I stood back and looked at him and could see him as not just my son, but as someone I would want to know if I were not his mom.
…This person has a sense of humor that rivals many adults I know; the spark in his eye and the cackle in his laugh emerged at the ripe old age of 3 weeks.
…This person has a wise old soul that understands – and articulates thoughts – that make me wonder where he’s been all these years.
…This person has a threshold of emotion that manifests itself outwardly in ways that matches mine, on the inside. I am proud of him for feeling safe and secure to not hold back, hard as it is on some days.
…This person has a brain that works in all directions; its only a matter of time before it’s going in circles around mine.
…This person pushes my buttons, tests my patience, wears me out and turns me inside out.
…This person knows me; warts and all. And loves me.
…This person has taught me more than I knew there was to learn.
I know without question that I am a better, stronger, wiser, woman for having this now still little, but shifting – if only barely perceptibly – right before my very eyes, into this amazing person to call my son.
I have had to learn to dig deep to find the patience in my core, because I want this person to feel safe in who he is.
I have learned to learn to stop and listen and ask, so that he knows that no matter what, he can trust me. About anything. Anytime.
I have learned to say yes as much as possible; and to mean it when I say no.
It is clear to me that no matter how much I dig hanging out, rocking-out or laughing until our bellies ache with my son, I am here to be his parent, not his friend. He has his. I have mine.
I have come to recognize myself in new ways because this person mirrors my best and worst.
I have learned that I love us both more for that.
To the next ten…
“The open mind and the receptive heart – which are at last with fortune’s smile the informed mind and the experienced heart - are to be gained anywhere, any time, without necessarily moving an inch from any present address.”
- Eudora Welty
A few mind bending and heart opening finds from around the world found from the front row seat at my own computer screen.
Is your mind open and your heart receptive?
14-year-old Zev from Natick, Massachusetts, has taken the photography world by storm with his surreal photo manipulations. Better known by the nickname of ‘fiddle oak’, Zev presents a highly imaginative portfolio of surreal self-portraits, which he created together with his sister Nellie (aged 17). His work seems to mirror the transition from the fairy-tale childhood worlds into those that are way more complicated and still unknown. Websites: fiddleoak.wordpress.com, flickr, and http://www.demilked.com/surreal-self-portraits-14-year-old-fiddle-oak/
SUSAN SONTAG ON LOVE
The recently released volume of Susan Sontag’s diaries, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980, is a treasure trove of insight — on writing, on censorship, on aphorisms — from the deepest corners of one of the greatest minds in modern history. But besides her extraordinary intellect, what made Sontag a force of nature was also her complex and ever-evolving emotional perception, brimming with extreme self-awareness and keen reflection on her relationships with others.
“Nothing is mysterious, no human relation. Except love.”
source: Brain Pickings
VANISHED: THE SIXTY-YEAR SEARCH FOR THE MISSING MEN OF WORLD WAR II
The B-24, a WWII bomber, is nearly 70 feet long with a wingspan of more than 100 feet. You wouldn’t think it would be hard to find something that big, but in September 1944 a B-24 went down with its crew of 11 in the Pacific and remained hidden there for nearly seven decades. Hylton’s gripping book begins with a modern-day mystery. Did Tommy Doyle’s father, who was a member of the B-24’s crew, actually survive the crash and live a new life with a new family? Tommy’s wife, searching for an answer, located a man named Pat Scannon, explorer, wreck-hunter, seeker of lost WWII gold, who had been looking for the very same plane for the past six years. Combining the modern-day search for the missing plane and the stories of its crew as they prepared for what would be their last flight, the book is both the tale of an exciting scientific expedition and a little-known WWII story.
“I told my agent I wanted to do a book because I just wanted to find out what the hell did happen with Tommy’s dad,” he says. If this West Texas football coach who had broken down crying was representative of any significant portion of the families of 47,000 men lost in the Pacific, then “there was something big, some big epidemic of this particular kind of grief that I’d never heard about.” - Wil S. Hylton
Excellent Article on the story, it’s author and the book
It’s already downloaded to my Kindle.
Happy weekend. Happy exploring.
Be open. Be receptive.
I have worked with college age adults since, I was, well, just barely no longer a college age adult myself. And while not chronologically that many years ahead of them; I’d had life experiences that set me apart in ways that felt like light years. Some days, I would hear little pangs within myself; little pangs of envy at what seemed so simple, so fresh, so ready for possibility. I was putting things back together for me, so to speak, and at the same time helping them find their way. I realized years later how we truly helped each other.
Along with programs and events, my work entailed just spending time, talking, listening. Hearing their worries. It ranged from homesickness, to college majors, which fork in the spiritual path to follow; quiet conversations about where families went wrong and the years of wondering how to cope. Some made progress; for some the struggle continued. With each student, I would listen; we’d laugh. I knew a lot of stories.
The most consistent lament that stood at the threshold of my office was that of love; it hadn’t arrived, it had gone wrong already, it had shown up and then went away. It was unrequited; I knew one young man who so painstakingly tried to pursue each of three beautiful young women, sisters, who one by one all came to attend this same university. As each one arrived in her freshman year, I saw his heart expand with a little bit more hope each time, only to be dashed. I also often witnessed the exquisite joy when two sets of eyes met and never looked away and the great weddings in subsequent years.
I remember a few young women in particular who were just heartsick that the completion of their ‘Mrs. Degree’ was not going according to their much anticipated plans. Having been bounced around a bit, in the love department; I wanted them to realize that there is no rush. That they had so much good in their lives and to not come at this with fears of never and what-ifs. I ended up coming up with a phrase I ultimately used over and over; if you gotta hurry, you gotta worry. What’s the rush I would ask them. Why the need to fast track this?
I think all of us want to know what’s coming next.
The other day, a friend of mine updated her Facebook status to say: ”Why is waiting so hard?” I don’t have any idea if she was waiting for medical results, a pizza delivery or the departure day for a special trip. But her question caught my attention.
I think we all push the envelope in terms of wanting some kind of security in our lives; and for many of us, the security is in the knowing.
We are rewarded these days, by being in a hurry all of the time, and rushing on to the next big thing, rarely allowing ourselves to even fully realize, much less enjoy or savor that which we finished. TV and media of all kinds reinforce this quick pace and so when things move slowly, or perhaps seemingly not at all; I think it’s safe to say that we all struggle somewhat with not knowing what’s around the next corner; or what things mean, exactly.
We often want it all spelled out for us.
Another way of saying, perhaps, how difficult it is sometimes to just wait. No matter the reason for waiting – news, good or bad, a special day, a blossoming romance to blossom, wondering if we got the job – I love both the knowing and the wisdom found in the words that John Steinbeck wrote to his son more than 50 years ago, with sage advice in the form of an eloquent and intimate letter between father and son, about the importance of not being in a hurry…
New York November 10, 1958
We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.
First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.
Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.
You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.
But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.
Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.
The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.
If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.
Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.
It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.
Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.
We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.
And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.
A quiet Sunday stretches out before me; a day full of nothing, but well, nothing. Plans have not been made. The to-do lists of what needs to be done have agreed to be patient with me on this day. Always busy, and on the go, mostly by choice, I heartily welcome this day as does one who is just about to enjoy a perfectly created favorite meal set before them; anxious to dig in and yet desiring to savor every last bit, not wanting it to end.
In these moments, quiet as can be, I hear so much. No television, no music. But yet, so much.
I can hear the season finally starting to change from summer to fall; the gentle shift in the air makes an exquisite sound.
The leaves high in the trees tell me there is an easy breeze to this day.
The shadows, dancing across the grass, are the back up singers to this song; I can almost hear the way the getting-more-golden-by-the-day light of this early autumn day bounces.
My own thoughts in my head, make a variety of sounds; bumping, groaning and popping. Normally much noisier in there than it is today.
Memories sliding, shifting, and in some cases, readjusting. Settling. Resting.
The thundering of a jet high above, transporting people to places far and wide; I conjure the noise of an airport terminal in my mind and appreciate even more the stillness of this moment.
Birds squawking and chirping; carrying on fascinating and important conversations with one another.
Voices of neighbors in nearby homes, all living their own interesting lives, so different and yet so near, to my own.
The hum of cars passing by my urban dwelling, each carrying someone thinking their own thoughts on their way to somewhere. Do they ever have these kinds of quiet days, I wonder?
The clink of of collars and tags jingling as our four-legged friends are taken for a walk down my street.
Yes, it is a quiet Sunday, stretching out before me. And somehow, time seems suspended, and instead of fearing the nothingness, I sit in awe of the everythingness.
“I think your whole life shows in your face and you should be proud of that.”
This man, my father, just celebrated the completion of his 93rd year and the start of his 94th year, and that’s no small feat for anyone, and add to that- he’s a self-made man. Born in the oil fields in central California in 1920, and shuttled off on his own at the young age of 13, he enlisted in the army and then jumped rank from soldier to Full Colonel in the Army in WWII, and stationed in the South Pacific for the duration of the war. Upon returning to the US post-war, he decided to follow in the footsteps of his older brother and pursue a career in optometry. This consisted of walking onto the Berkeley campus in the late 40′s and signing up. And then showing up. [When I applied to colleges and universities decades later, he didn't quite understand the admissions angst...] He was THE optometrist in our small town and ran a successful practice until he retired. He’s a depression era make a difference in the lives of others kind of man. He’s a walk-the-precincts to get everyone registered to vote kind of guy.
We affectionately call him the energizer bunny, having survived more surgeries and near medical misses over the years; including open heart surgery and more nights in ICU than we can count. We are convinced that this man does not know there is an option but to keep on going. He’s not perfect, more than complex, suffers from dementia and the craziness that brings out in a person. But without question, this is a good man. Trustworthy. Solid. Responsible. Respected. Funny. And he loves chocolate. I mean, the man LOVES chocolate.
Upon arriving in my childhood home, my first inclination was to curl up on the couch for a little cat nap. My brother and father indulged me and made themselves scarce for what turned out to be nearly an hour and a half. When chided about that not really qualifying as a cat nap, I simply, and admittedly a tad bit ‘snarkily’, in that bratty little sister kind of way, said, well, it was a cheetah nap, you know a big cat!
I had to take my usual walk-through and survey this house, my home, where I spent nearly my entire childhood. It’s filled with the smells and feelings that only a place known so well can evoke. Things are the same, and yet not. I am still that little girl inside, peering into the room where she learned to read and wrote secrets in her diary. And yet, at the same time, now a woman who has been freed by sharing her secrets, a sister who’s bonded with her brother in ways neither probably ever expected. A daughter who misses deeply the mother who raised her here in this home and who now so much more deeply understands and accepts this father turning 93 in this moment.
As I made my way around the house, I had to inspect the backyard; my father is an amazing gardener. He always has been, and it’s a deep regret that in my silly, impatient youth, I never let him teach me this art. For when you ask him, ‘how does your garden grow?” all you have to do is take a sweeping look through his yard for the answer. Which he still cares for daily, as much as he can.
We moved on to happy hour, and in my house, that’s a long standing tradition. My parents, of the WWII era, always knew how to enjoy the evening and friends would stop by and enjoy cocktail hour and appetizers; it was a regular occurrence. Being the youngest and not always having a playmate, I wanted to keep myself busy and more than likely, avoid the boring adult conversation, so by the age of 10 or so, I had learned how to make all the regulars – martini’s, an old fashioned, scotch on the rocks, and others. I knew which drink called for the little white onion, the green olive or the maraschino cherry. Hold on, before you call children and family services, be assured that just because I knew how to make and serve the drinks didn’t mean I drank them!
That came later.
So, we started our evening with a cocktail and spent some time catching up.My father sat himself down, ever so gingerly, and once settled in front of the crackers and cheese, he patted the seat on the sofa next to him, indicating I should sit myself down next to him. We talked about my son, and fussed about how to deal with the sliding door so that I could try and snap a shot of the hummingbird who frequents the feeder just outside on the patio.
We never did get that right.
The conversation turned personal and I received the first of what I decided to call Dad-isms, little gifts to me, even though it’s HIS birthday!
Me: Dad, you know that my life has changed a lot lately, right? I know it’s probably a lot to think about.
Dad: Yes. You have my blessings. You’re a good person; things will go well for you.
Over dinner, the conversation was entertaining at best, especially with my father acting like a child about not getting to have as much wine as his kids. When the conversation turned to talk about ages, years, and remember-when’s, I asked my father a question.
Me: Dad, do you remember how old I am?
Dad: Yes. Pause. Yes. You are four years younger than me.
Me: Wow! That’s got to make me the best damned looking 89 yr old around!
On the way home from our celebratory brunch the next morning, I said to my father,
Me: Dad, you’ve lived a lot of life in your 93 years. If you could give out some advice, knowing that others would take your advice, what would you tell them?
Dad: Have the attention of someone who’s personality you like and can grow with.
Me: Gulp. Silent.
Before I left that afternoon, I ducked into his room to change my clothes for the ride home. I noticed something on his dresser and was compelled to investigate…it was something I had never noticed in all my years of snooping around in my parent’s dresser [so many fun little things in there!]. I opened it up and see an old black and white photo of a beautiful young woman. I asked my brother who it was he said he didn’t know and neither did Dad. I went directly to the source and tried to jog his memory, but with no luck. I asked him if it was an old girlfriend, or his cousin, and he just couldn’t remember. What struck me, the hopeless romantic, is that he’s had it all these years, tucked away. I found myself wondering what it would be like for that young lady to know that she’s been admired from afar all these years…
And the final Dad-ism of the day:
Happy Birthday Dad!
There is a phenomenon known in organizations as forming-storming-norming-performing-adjourning that speaks of the the life of the behavior of an organization experiencing change or major transition. It beckons us to understand the strife caused and experienced when big shifts occur and how to best maximize the true potential of a team.
It’s officially known as the Forming – Storming – Norming – Performing - Adjourning model of group development and was first proposed by a man by the name of Bruce Tuckman in 1965, who maintained that these phases are all necessary and inevitable in order for the team to grow, to face up to challenges, to tackle problems, to find solutions, to plan work, and to deliver results.
I have been fascinated by this process since I worked with high school kids in leadership development many moons ago. I’ve come to interpret the model a little more loosely over the years and see how, in ways, it gets played out beyond work groups or teams in a professional environment.
I have seen over the years how this process shows up in relationships, among children, and even individual responses to change or challenging situations.
And while there is no I in team, I have also seen how it plays out in my own life.
In the first stage of forming, we are driven by a desire to be accepted, avoid conflict and behaviors reflect this: we stay focused on busy-work, making impressions of what’s to come and how to survive in this environment. Then, we start storming, where individuality starts getting expressed and the variety of personalities and problem-solving styles begin to emerge; a truly necessary phase. Eventually, the bumps are smoothed out and the group begins what is called norming, where a mutual goal is the common objective and consensus is embraced to move towards the end result. Nearing the final stage, the successful team is able to function as a unit and reach the performing stage and get things done beyond what they envisioned, without prompting, supervision or too much conflict. Adjourning involves completing the task and breaking up the team.
Yes, I have seen this play out in my work settings over and over; it’s almost inevitable in a work environment with multiple players.
What’s interesting to me is that I have sensed incarnations of these stages, in their own way, in other settings too. For example, among kids in play and friendships time again: imagine the initial excitement which morphs into conflict that smooths over into working it out and results, ultimately, thankfully, in some kind of fun.
I have seen this when arriving at a destination for the first time: the excitement, the newness, everything seems shiny and perfect, only to start to settle in and realize the water pressure isn’t what you would like, and then you realize that the service or accommodations are not exactly to your satisfaction, but ultimately, you adjust, overlook the idiosyncratic imperfections and sink into enjoying this temporary home. And further, return home with some beautiful memories.
But what really struck me, is that I am seeing this right now, in my own life. I have not been secretive about the fact that change has been a very close and constant companion of late; and granted while I, in some ways, beckoned this change, it is no less challenging, daunting, thrilling and cloudy at the same time. Each day brings a new layer of awareness, of emotion, and realization of what this change really means to me. It plays out in my friendships. My job. My parenting. My finances. My dreams.
The change is not new, and yet so very new. We are talking infancy stages of new. I am forming; and yes, I am driven by a desire to be accepted and to avoid any more conflict. I have been focused on the tasks set before my hands, and the therapeutic value that nothing can provide better than that of emptying a box, painting a cabinet and organizing a new closet.
Oh yes, I am forming. Or is it re – forming?
I am keenly aware of each and every friendship and relationship; whether old and established to new and yes, forming. I would also say that because I’m in the midst of change, I have friendships in each of these four stages. Change is kind of like making popcorn – as each kernel springs to life, they all have to shift to make room for the new one!
As a mother, in the throes of transition, I am forming; every day, but driven to be both the same exact and yet a better mom than I was pre-change while navigating life with new parameters, with new schedules, with new realities.
My bank account and I are definitely still forming; making daily agreements with each other and my dreams reveal truths I didn’t know were there.
While I can’t see past my own nose on some days, I am confident that this forming bit will find some resolution at some point; life has a way of working out. To-do lists have a way of getting done. Emotions have a way of smoothing out. Bumps have a way of flattening. Yes, the forming will get done and when it does, let the storming begin. My inner ‘team’ – with many voices [inner critic, creative, practical, playful, sensitive] will no doubt emerge and have competing ideas for how how to do this I suspect. (And hopefully, it’s a team that will work in harmony.) As will some confusion over which problems I am really supposed to solve, how will I function in a truly independent manner and what ‘leadership model’ I will choose for myself, or what perhaps will choose me.
What will be tempting? To focus on little things that are not really that important to distract me from the bigger, harder, crazier decisions.
Storming is necessary. It has to happen. It will happen. According to Tuckman’s model, storming can be “contentious, unpleasant and even painful..and without tolerance and patience, the efforts will fail”. Uh-oh…I am not sure where my umbrella is, but, I do have that sexy new coral trench coat that I purchased on my recent time travels. I have the shelter of amazing friends and siblings. I have patience and resilience.
Let the storms roll in.
Sometimes I feel like I will never stop
Just go on forever
I’m gonna reach up and grab me a handfulla stars
Swing out my long lean leg
And whip three hot strikes burnin’ down the heavens
and look over at God and say,
How about that!
Joe DiMaggio called Satchel Paige “the best and fastest pitcher I’ve ever faced”. His pitching was amazing and his showboating was legendary. His career highlights span five decades. Pronounced the greatest pitcher in the history of the Negro Leagues, Paige compiled such feats as 64 consecutive scoreless innings.
This is the kid who didn’t want to pitch this season. First year in AAA/kid pitch division of Little League. This is the kid who who got seven strikeouts in 2 innings in one of his games, six in another and more games just like that. This is the kid who showed me how he can fight his way back from walking three batters and hitting the next, only to strike out the next three.
This kid, with that look in his eye. Alone on the mound, pitch after pitch, the game resting in his glove, his elbow, his brain. His eyes. His confidence.
Yes, I am proud. Of course I am proud, I am his mother, so pride is a given. But it dawned on me, it goes so much deeper than that. I get it now, what my own mother said to me so many times growing up, ‘find your thing’.
Proud, yes, of course. Absolutely.
But it is knowing, by that look in his eye, and watching him fight back after a few bad throws and seeing him focus; knowing that he knows what my own mama knew. I don’t have to tell him. He’s got it.
Me: So, what do you think about when you are on the mound, ready to throw?
Me: No, really, what do you think about out there on the mound?
Him: Just getting the ball into the glove.
This is the kid who said he didn’t want to pitch this season.
I never rush myself. See, they can’t start the game without me. – Satchel Paige
Here’s to all the moms…
May your day be filled with jewel beads, clean counters and tidy rooms.
And if not, perhaps a lovely mess filled with love and laughter!
To the Mom’s – what has been one of your favorite, or most ‘memorable’ gifts over the years?
And to the rest of us ‘kids’, is there a gift you remember being so excited or proud to give to your mom?
Happy Mother’s Day!
I can remember a conversation I had, that unbeknown to me at the time, would one day shape my entire attitude towards life and make some of the most painful and challenging and testing experiences that were yet to happen, bearable. And not just bearable, but valuable.
It was only 8 words in response to a question I posed to my mother, but I knew even at the time by the way the words struck me dumb that I had heard something that was significant and somehow, would shape me.
In approximately 46 days, I will turn, well, 46. There it’s out. That means you all have 46 days to get my mailing address and send a gift! Oh, wait, did I say that out loud?
Oops, that’s not what I meant!
What I meant to tell you is that I read something last week that made an impression on me. From a blog I follow, called Kind Over Matter and whose tagline reads: ‘touching the world with kindness, inspiration, gentleness and love” authored by a variety of writers, came an email with the subject line ”how giving gave my birthday meaning”. Knowing that I am just mere days away from turning a new number, it caught my attention. I am not one to shy away from birthdays for fear of more wrinkles, aches and creaks; I believe that age is a state of mind. But I do approach a birthday with an appreciation for and an interest in looking at what my life means, to me and to others. Cake [lava cake to be specific] and presents are always welcome, but not required. Wine, on the other hand; is most definitely required. I’ve heard that anti-oxidants are good for anti-aging…
When Random Acts of Kindness was a novel idea, I was an early adopter, intrigued by the whimsical and yet positive impact of reaching out to others in unexpected and unnecessary but delightful ways. I may have actually paid someone’s toll booth fee on at least one occasion. It also reminded me of a memorable experience from college, when all my friends and I were broke and had had our fill of Top Ramen and mac-n-cheese. A lasting impression was made on me when one of our friends invited a large group of us out to a nice restaurant – and paid - for a fantastic meal for everyone. He shared that in his culture, it’s the custom to give to others in your life on your birthday, to return the gifts of friendship and love. So, the more I considered this notion of a giving birthday, the more captivated I became. The blog post illustrated how one woman completed 35 acts of giving to celebrate her 35th birthday, and because this is me we are talking about, I have to take this literally – naturally - as much as I appreciate the random nature of things – and have 46. Right? Right.
I have been quietly pondering this possibility, considering the different sides of ‘signing myself up for this’ and on some days, I am fascinated, and on others, intimidated. I have a lot in front of me at the moment; this is my busy season at work, a big presentation to prepare for later this spring, and so on. And then I remind myself: we are all busy, everyone has too much to do. And each time I gave myself permission to let it go [after-all, who would know?], I found myself coming back to this idea. In my mind, the challenge has been presented, and frankly, I think it’s probably necessary, something I may even need.
So, here we go, we are doing this. Yes, you heard me correctly. We.
I was tempted to go about this quietly, not say anything, in part because that makes sense to me and in part because it’s often just how I do things. It’s counter-intuitive to me to make it my mission to share and then tell everyone about it. But then I realized: I would not have learned about this possibility if someone else hadn’t talked about it. I would not have been inspired if someone hadn’t taken the opportunity to be an inspiration. So, I convinced myself that sharing this is OK and again, because it’s me, put my own twist on it, and ask you for help.
Remember the WE that I mentioned earlier?
This is where you come in and where YOU and I become WE. I want to let myself be nudged, and turn the turning a new number into one of giving, and I’d like your help. My goal is to somehow give in 46 ways to mark 46 years and I need your ideas for how to give, what to give, and to whom.
Let your brains fly – WWYD – What would You Do? Think of ideas – from simple, sentimental, and silly, to as fun, crazy and ridiculous as you want. Some can cost money, and some shouldn’t.
I will make a list of our ideas…a combination of yours and mine..and over time, as I complete them, share how it goes with you. We are in this together after all.
And for those who might be wondering, my word for 2013 is…
And yes, I am intimidated. And fascinated.
“We make a living by what we get.
We make a life by what we give.”