picture this

When I was younger, somebody (okay, an old flame) once told me that I didn’t inspire a lot of “Kodak moments.” It was during a breakup – the final parting shot, actually – and let me tell you, it scored a direct hit on the nerve it was targeting. I have always been somewhat solitary and reserved, a bit of a loner, and a chronic worrier to boot. You can imagine how this could potentially suck the life out of any wild parties waiting to happen.

So I did what any sane, dejected, mortally insulted person would do: I took it to heart with a vengeance. In fact, over the next several years, you could say that being crowned the Kodak Poster Girl became my mission in life. I hung out with musicians, tattoo artists, celebratory divorced people, and other spur-of-the-moment types. I became nuanced in the art of club-hopping and buying complimentary rounds of shots; carrying on futile conversations with my victims who, once propped securely yet contentedly against the bar, insisted on calling me “Marge” or “Amy” or “Sharon” in slurred and raspy voices. I took cruises and road trips and vacations to party-friendly places like Cancun and New Orleans, sleeping on hard-backed chairs or piano benches in those frequent instances when inert, bleary-eyed revelers had claimed every other square inch of surface area. And of course, I took pictures of every single slice in time.

Recently, I came across this mammoth box of photographs which, as you might imagine, had grown to approximate the size of the Berlin Wall. I flipped through hundreds of images showing that blithe, carefree person –- here in a sombrero, there dancing on a picnic table. She looked like an incredibly fun, energetic gal to hang around with. Exhausting, really. I felt kind of winded just looking at her. I also felt a strange sense of detachment. Because as I thought back over that entire span of time, so help me, I couldn’t remember a single moment when I’d felt truly connected to life.

And then I began to muse over more recent, more difficult years; remembering hardships, tears of worry, even fear. But I also recalled watching our dogs romp through a meadow. Adorning our fridge with the faces of sponsored orphans in Africa. Cutting my grandmother’s hair as she sat in her wheelchair, regarding her withered hands. Walking arm-in-arm with my husband, talking and dreaming. Feeling amazement and absolute awe at the unconditional love all around. And as I thought over these images, I realized each one was clear and vibrant and sharp -- both heartening and heartbreaking at once. Because life is a balancing act, and we fall down and get up repeatedly as the balance continues to shift.

And those Kodak moments? I think it’s possible to make such a frantic, driven rush toward something that you actually hurry right past it. Because the real Kodak moments are constantly there for the taking. And the best ones don’t require a camera.

lessons of the fall

When I was young, I hated fall. Short, chilly days. Slate grey skies. Stubby staccato shadows on the sidewalk. And that awful, omnipresent smell of leaf-burning -- a dark, smoky stench that lingered in your clothes and whispered, “Summer’s dead and gone.” To me, fall smelled exactly the way it felt: deflated, defeated, cut off from sunny warmth and reassurance. If summer was the pinnacle of the year, autumn was the plunge down a steep and craggy ravine.

Which is why, driving down the street the other day, I was surprised to catch myself admiring an autumn tree. It really wasn’t much of a tree, just sitting there by its lonesome on someone’s front lawn. But its leaves were its crowning glory: a rich, radiant mix of golds, rusts and reds that burnished to bronze when the light hit them, swirling down to the sidewalk in a lazy confetti spiral that formed a vibrant carpet across the grass.

And as I sat watching this striking display of slow-motion fireworks, it occurred to me that I could identify with that tree. That maybe I could finally appreciate its beauty because I understood that the days of warmth and radiance were mostly behind it. The abundant green foliage had faded away. It stood huddled in the chill; thinking of the winds to come; waiting for the certainty of dark snowy days, frost, freezing rain that would steal away whatever remaining softness and beauty it had.

But there it stood regardless. It stood straight and proud. And it shook down its final adornments in a dazzling firestorm, a gilded and glittering grand finale that rivaled anything the memory of summer could muster. Or the coming of winter could diminish.

I drove away slowly. Cracked the window just slightly. And breathed in the sustaining aroma of that sweet, smoky air.

a story with teeth

Recently, in an effort to see what all the fuss was about, I picked up the book Twilight. For those of you who have been deported and may not recognize the title, Twilight is about the star-crossed love affair between a young teenage girl named Bella and a bloodsucking fiend with a heart of gold named Edward. I ended up reading all 498 pages over the span of a couple lunch breaks. This is less a testament to my reading skill than it is a commentary on the writing. As weighty as cotton candy; yet sweeter and a whole lot stickier. Do teenage girls really think this way? I'm hoping I never did, though I really can’t remember. I will admit that around page 12, I started fighting off an overpowering urge to doodle little hearts and flowers in the margins.

I’m guessing the working title of this book may have been Ode to the Adjective. The author piles on so many that they start to obliterate the point of every sentence -- shrewdly distracting readers from the fact that the plot isn’t exactly hustling along. I’d plow through maybe 65 pages of angst-laden musings on alabaster cheekbones and gleaming white teeth, and then realize that -- during this actual span of time -- two characters had walked in the front door and made a bowl of cereal.

Now don’t get me wrong. On paper, at least, a physically dazzling figure like Edward can certainly get the average female heart fluttering. But ladies of the 21st century, let’s consider for a moment: Here’s a guy who follows you around in his car. He shows up in your room unannounced. He picks you up and carries you places. He stares at you while you’re trying to watch a good movie. He hovers above you while you talk in your sleep. He selects the food you eat. He keeps reminding you that you’re a hopeless klutz. And he absolutely will not stop playing with your hair. This reminds me of the way my cat used to mess with my hamster. Did somebody mention swooning? I would slug this clown, then slap a restraining order on him for good measure.

I know how the author could have pared this story down: substitute me for the lead female. Now certainly, the book would have easily lost its best-seller status. But on the flipside, it would have gained the dubious distinction of shortest vampire love story in history.

Me: Do you want some lasagna?
Edward: You’re so adorably human. Here you are thinking about food and I’m absolutely riveted by your bottomless amber eyes …
Me: My what?
Edward: ... and so hopelessly addicted to the honeysuckle aroma of your hair; it’s like a glorious summer meadow.
Me: Are you sleepwalking? Shut up. Do you want one breadstick, or two?
Edward: No, I think I’ll just silently worship you while you microwave the plate.
Me: Okay, really now, back off because you’re creeping me out. And stop rearranging my bangs.
Edward: I just love when you get infuriated -- the color rises in your cheeks like the blush of fine champagne.
Me: All right nimrod, I mean it. Get out in seven seconds or I’m calling the cops. Six ... five ... four ...

This would be followed by a short epilogue illustrating the futility of macing a vampire, capped off by my own horrible (yet tastefully tween-friendly) demise. The follow-up novel, a prequel (not like there would be sufficient reader demand, but this is my blog, so you know, go with it) could include real-life snippets of dialog taken from my own living room:

Me: I got us a movie for tonight.
Him: Okay.
Me: It’s (dramatic pause) The Bridges of Madison County.
Him: Oh.
Me: Do you want me to make popcorn? Because I could toss it with those little parmesan sprinkles.
Him: Um, yeah. Can I finish watching the game now?

The title of this one could be Fade to Black -- fitting, since it would undoubtedly be the final book in the series. (p.s. -- Click here for an entertaining count of adjectives in Twilight, organized by category for those keeping score.)

forces of nature

My husband made a funny comment recently about our two rescue dogs. He said they’re like thunder and lightning. I suppose he means that Maizy is sleek and nimble; and that Grant is low and loud. Or maybe he means that if they’re left in the house together too long, something is going to get wet. Regardless, it got me thinking about how rescue dogs are like the proverbial Forrest Gump box of chocolates: you really never know what you’re gonna get. Some are light and fluffy, some are dark and bitter. Then there are the ones I seem to pick out, who are 20% sweet and 80% nuts.

Grant is a perfect example. First of all, why do rescue services and pet shelters feel compelled to say a dog is “part poodle” when they really have no idea of its lineage? Is it because poodles are supposed to be mellow and low-shed? Grant is allegedly “part poodle,” but he looks like the product of a love-in between a raccoon, a duck and a baby hippo; and he barks like a Saint Bernard. I am guessing a lot of stars had to align just right for a dog like Grant to exist, and I’m pretty sure most of them would scare the bejesus out of your average poodle. Just tell me the dog is “half shih-tzu, half no idea” and I’ll take my chances.

Secondly, why are rescue shelters so hesitant to tell you the dog has anxiety management issues? Wouldn’t that be an ideal way to weed out the serious shoppers? If I had been locked in a cage and/or tied to a tree all day, I would certainly have anxiety management issues. In fact, anyone going in for a rescue dog and not prepared for this little hindrance might want to reconsider their options.

I was told Grant had “an excitable personality.” Here’s how I found out what, exactly, that entailed: We were walking down the sidewalk about a week after I got Grant. As we approached a cross-street, up rides an eight-year-old boy on his Big Wheel. I didn’t know how Grant would react to a child but I sure knew he was afraid of things that rolled. So I pulled up on the leash, and we stopped. The kid, who had seen us coming and had started to slow down, saw me put Grant into a “sit” so he started pedaling again. I had seen the kid beginning to slow, so Grant and I resumed walking. The kid saw this and threw on the brakes. And on it went. He stopped. We started. He started. We stopped. He stopped. We started. You’d think one of us would have just turned around and gone the other way, but no. It was like being locked in a Death Star tractor beam for idiots.

Mercifully, one of our stops finally overlapped one of his stops, and we found ourselves about a foot away from each other. Grant starts jumping around and panting, bright-eyed and wagging his tail. I am still holding the leash like a madwoman, but feeling encouraged. The kid sees this dog-like show of enthusiasm and, understandably, begins to stick out his index finger oh-so-tentatively. As he leans in, the Big Wheel’s big wheel moves, almost imperceptibly.

"BARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARR !!!!!!" Grant freaks. The kid screams and flees. I holler and pull back so hard on the leash that the dog goes airborne and we both hit the ground. I grunt. He yelps. Neighbors start flying out of houses. One of them is holding half a hamburger. Grant morphs back into bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed mode almost immediately. When my vision finally clears, the dog is sitting up eagerly, his tail thumping on the grass.

If there’s a moral here, it’s this: When it comes to calming a frightened rescue animal, food is the answer. Actually, when it comes to Grant, food is always the answer. In Grant’s case, he doesn’t even care if there was a question. And in that sense, the thunder analogy is truly on-target ... but that rumble you’re hearing isn’t the sky, it’s the stomach.

the next pitch

My husband, an avid baseball fan, recently took me to a White Sox-Orioles matchup and introduced me to the finer points of baseball strategy. Since then, I’ve been reading more about the game and recently came across an old interview with Greg Maddux. For those even less familiar with baseball than I am, Maddux spent a large segment of his career as a starting pitcher for the Chicago Cubs. Now the Cubs –- to put it rather delicately –- are possibly the most pennant-challenged team in the history of the sport. But Maddux, now retired, is largely regarded as one of the greatest masters of control and precision ever to grace the mound.

It sure didn’t start out that way. In his first full season with the Cubs, he compiled a pretty disappointing 6-14 record. But then in 1988 Maddux rebounded, winning 18 games. He went on to win his first of four Cy Young Awards in 1992, before leaving the (still-yearning-for-a-break) Cubs and signing with the Atlanta Braves.

So anyway, back to this interview I was reading. In it, Maddux was asked how he’d been able to improve his game so dramatically during his time with the Cubs. And you know what he said? He said that whenever he stepped up to the mound, he’d trained himself to focus exclusively on the next pitch. He blocked out the scoreboard. He blocked out the runners on base. He blocked out the weather conditions. He blocked out the legendary curse of the goat; the cheering, heckling, face-painted fans; his aches and pains and troubles … and just poured all he had into that very next pitch. Because that, according to Maddux, was the only part of the game he could really hope to control.

So did he reverse the team’s exasperating record? No. Did he keep Harry Caray even remotely on key during the seventh-inning stretch? No. Did he lift the relentless and weirdly-prophetic goat curse? Certainly not to date. But after adopting this approach, Maddux did manage to log one heck of a lot more good games than bad.

An interesting lesson on life. Because when you really think about it, how many of us have the on-demand mental discipline to block out everything but our next pitch? How many of us can stop worrying about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that, so we can give the very best of ourselves to the moment we've been given? We obsess over how the inning will end, how the game will end, how the season will end. When in reality, we were never in control of the series to begin with.

The next pitch. More than once I have encountered a related observation, attributed to another very well-respected source: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for each day has enough troubles of its own.” Another favorite of my husband’s. And, come to think of it, part of another, greater, and more thought-provoking read.

man in the mirror

Last week, within mere hours of each other, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day. Both had ascended to become icons of an era – he for a non-stop collection of catchy pop tunes and dance moves that captured the public’s imagination; she for a girl-next-door glamour that beamed radiantly from an entire generation's worth of posters and lunch boxes. In later life, she became known for her surprisingly strong acting ability and an involvement in community causes. He became known for his growing reclusivity, elective surgeries bordering on self-mutilation, and the constant companionship of children and a chimp. She died after a long and courageous battle with a formidable disease. He died as he lived, shrouded in mystery amidst questionable circumstances.

Here’s the thing: Our popular media machine – so gleefully on their game whenever a turn of events calls for collective teeth-gnashing – were poised to stage a public send-off for Ms. Fawcett when news of Mr. Jackson’s passing abruptly rattled the airwaves. You could almost feel the communal exhale of cathartic homage choked off in mid-breath by the first shocked, hysterical whisperings of the Jackson tragedy. And that instant spawned a new MTV for the ages: Michael Television -- all Michael, all the time. He was prodigious, he was mythic, he was brilliant. Did we forget about the unflattering monikers, the disdainful whisperings, the pop-tinged public spectacle that had shaded our perceptions in recent years? It seems we had. In death, the King of Pop was transformed into a minor deity … and the memory of Farrah was all but trampled underfoot.

The reaction may seem woefully imbalanced, but I have at least a theory. The theory is that Michael Jackson unwittingly pulled off the ultimate show-stopper: He died without warning, on the brink of a comeback, in the prime of life. Farrah Fawcett had been terribly ill. She was over 60. She had filmed a makeshift memoir of sorts. In short, her passing had not been wholly unexpected. But Michael Jackson, who wore surgical masks in public and dangled his infant son over a balcony rail, had the added gall to remind us that life can be short and death can be sudden. To rudely holler in our faces and say, you know what, all the money and fame and talent and plastic surgeries and Peter Pan trappings in the world cannot shield you from this random finality.

And we pick and pick at that, and then we pick some more, the way a child picks at a scab or a bug bite or a blister. It’s a fascination that flirts with the edges of mass hysteria. We can’t leave it alone, and we can’t leave him alone, because we’ve worked too hard to bury this knowledge deep beneath our daily routines. Keeping the image of his greatness alive makes the knowledge seem much less real. Though it doesn’t change the reality.

But then, you know what they say about a seasoned showman: He sure knows how to exit with impact. And our alarmed and urgent curtain calls follow him out, to no avail.

Rest and reflect in peace.

hidden seasons

I rolled over and looked toward the window. Early sunlight filtered through my room, and I could already feel the warmth rushing over my face. I was nearly overcome by a swell of joy and excitement. It was going to be another hot and sunny day! That meant I could walk to the library after breakfast, crossing that gray-weathered little wooden bridge over the railroad tracks. It meant we would be going swimming after lunch – a long afternoon of underwater handstands and cannonballs, chlorine and Coppertone smells. It meant cool little cut-up sandwiches for dinner, because it was too hot to cook in the kitchen. And it meant a whole night of four-square and swing races and kick the can, hiding behind big trees and scratching mosquito bites while fireflies flickered contentedly. It was summer, and the world was wonderful. I was eight years old.

And through countless summers ever since, I’ve wondered, where did that secret place go? A place of simple gratitude and unrestrained joy in a season of popsicles and picket fences, lemonade and lawn games. On the way home from work once, on a whim, I rolled down the car windows and turned off the radio. Sure enough, it momentarily rushed back to meet me. The buzz of fat bumblebees and cicadas. The whistled melody of robins and whippoorwills. Dandelion fluff dancing on my outstretched fingers. And the light, most of all the light: Full of dappled hope and happiness, hidden promises discarded and forgotten over time. I realized the place hadn’t changed, the season hadn’t changed. But I had; and in that breath I would have given anything to kick off my shoes and cross that crooked little bridge to the long-ago place I remembered.

Our lives today are so full of incredible advances – mobile phones and GPS, tracking chips and radar. But the place we really need to get back to resides in our minds and our hearts. The map was scribbled out in faded crayon and folded up in our back pockets, and our grown-up selves misplaced it long ago. Somehow, the path we once tended so carefully has become choked and overgrown with weeds of discouragement and worries that are often much too real.

Yet on some nights when sleep is a struggle, my mind still tiptoes back to a distant, lazy summer afternoon filled with swingsets and sandboxes, somersaults and giggled secrets. We were bronzed and barefoot. Homework-free until fall. The next school term light-years away. And as we ambled home to dinner, our shadows stretched so long and full before us that they nearly touched the place where the clovered meadow met the sky.

half glasses

My husband thinks that I am writing today to announce that he was right. Or, more precisely, to announce that he was right once again. But I am actually writing as a way to say thank you. Maybe you can relate to our situation, or at least to fifty percent of it. I am a card-carrying Chronic Worrier, and he’s what I’ve come to term a Delusional Optimist. “Delusional” in the sense that he has this seemingly unshakable belief in good things to come – and to Chronic Worriers everywhere, this just does not seem reasonable. Or even very safe, really. Hit him up with the infamous “Worrier’s What-If” litany of concerns, for instance, and he fires back right on cue:

“What if the results are bad?”
”What if they’re not?”

”What if we lose more money?”
”What if we don’t?”

”What if it doesn’t get better?”
“What if it does?”

And on and on, just like that. It’s a simple thing, really, this patient ping-pong game that he plays with me whenever the need arises. A quiet refusal to buy into dread, rising panic, obsessive pre-planning, and the often-irrational need to control the uncontrollable. He’s not lecturing or scolding, not pulling out his soapbox or raising his voice. Never buying into my side, never backing down from his. Just calmly, yet relentlessly, offering an alternative perspective that – for all we know – has an equal or better shot at being the eventual outcome. When it turns out he’s right, he sure lets you know it. And gradually, I’ve come to recognize this as an ultimate symbol of his love -- this insistent yet caring way of coaxing me to be a better person.

None of us ever has complete control in this life; none of us knows the “perfect” way to muddle through every difficult situation. And not everyone believes in heaven and hell, angels and demons. But C.S. Lewis and others have observed that Satan – whom Christians term a fallen angel -- would patiently, gradually prod us toward accepting lower standards for ourselves. So I’d like to believe that true angels would do the opposite: gently nudge us into raising our frail and fractured human sights toward the hopeful, the joyful, the expectant … just a little bit at a time.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I haven’t always believed that angels may actually walk among us. But I do now.
I know proof when I see it.

of dragons and drawbridges

When I was little, I figured that marriage represented the answer to many of Life’s Big Problems, and that was why so many people did it. My teacher was married. Our mailman was married. My best friend’s parents were married. Not that I dreamed much about actually getting married myself. I had glasses and braces and looked a lot like Curious George, so I just assumed potential suitors would not exactly be tracking me down on their Tuffy bicycles. I never fantasized about dresses. I never picked out music or daydreamed about cakes and colors and bridesmaids. I most definitely did not fit the “Cinderella” mold. At the time, come to think of it, my haircut was more reminiscent of Robin Hood.

I’m certainly quite a bit older now; and incidentally, I did find a handsome and wonderful prince (my braces were finally gone, so maybe that helped). Agreeing to marry him was the best decisions of my life. But the credit for this goes to the man, not the marriage. There is a world of difference. And I wanted to note this firsthand, because there seems to be this cultural presumption that little girls and boys will eventually grow up, get married, start a family, manicure a lawn. We’ve built an astonishing number of services, products, and institutions around this idea. Maybe that’s why I’ve encountered some incredibly accomplished, interesting, attractive single people who seem to give off this oddly indistinct aura of apology because they aren’t attached to The One.

Let me just say this for the record. There are many days when I don’t understand why my husband, the prince, has not simply jumped on his horse, the Honda Element, and fled the castle. There are other days where he’s retreated, with good reason, about as far away as he can get; and he would have gone farther if not for a load-bearing wall or immovable piece of royal furniture. The women in my family grapple with this Mediterranean shortness of temper that, on very rare occasions and in the privacy of our own homes, can sort of flare up and flame the immediate area. My great aunt actually lifted – while wearing a hoop skirt and heels – the back end of a 1952 Chevy Bel Air when her dander was, shall we say, up. Now this is not to say that when it comes to faults and frailties, my beloved does not have a couple doozies of his own. I am just way too smart to mention them here. :)

There’s something I’d like any discouraged singles out there to consider: I know the dating scene can be horrible. I have been there. If felt like a series of secret dance steps that neither partner ever mastered completely. My toes got stepped on frequently; and if I’m not mistaken, there were even a couple of malicious shin-kicks in there. But if dating is like a mystery dance, then marriage is a three-legged race. You are, quite literally, bound together for better or worse. A surprising, sometimes stunning range of weaknesses will rear their ugly heads, on both sides of the table. And there is absolutely no way to conceal them, unless you plan to lock yourself in the bathroom for life. You are forced to either war night and day, or work it out between yourselves. In the process, you labor harder and grow closer than you ever thought possible … and you learn some astoundingly tough and transforming lessons along the way.

I would not trade my spouse for all the riches in the world. He is a cute, kindhearted, ever-so-slightly quirky and ideal complement for a person like me. I know this because we’d both already taken copious amounts of time getting comfortable with our own selves, before even considering the idea of mutual matrimony. And once you’ve really, truly reached that point, the idea of marriage itself becomes a nice-to-have … not a need-to-have.

indigenous people

Here’s what I think. There are two basic kinds of people, extroverts and introverts. Okay, this is not Sociology 101, and I’m not plagiarizing Carl Jung. I’m also not ridiculing our collective tendency to lump fellow humans into one of two groups, although think about that for a minute. Brown-eyed vs. blue-eyed. Republican vs. Democrat. People who like the toilet paper flap facing toward the back, vs. those who prefer it in front.

But I digress. What interests me are the labels themselves – or, more precisely, what they mean to us. Sure, the first group reaches out and the second one reflects. Social butterflies flitting amongst shrinking violets. We think of them as polar opposites – but are they?

I have a dear family member whom I refer to – privately, mind you – as Tigger. She bounds out of bed. She bounces through her workday. She ricochets through the week being chatty and chipper with everyone. I am in fact using her alias here intentionally, because if she learned I’d mentioned her she’d bounce right over and shoot me. But beyond that, you simply cannot help but love, admire and adore her. She lifts you up and leaves you grinning, and it’s completely natural and unrehearsed. I once tried to emulate her at a holiday luncheon and sounded like a loon. People actually paused mid-bite, forks suspended and eyebrows raised, to wonder if I needed urgent medical attention.

Now of course, I should have known better. Because when it comes to interrelating, I’m a natural-born sideliner. I watch. I consider. I observe the situation, normally while it’s taking place, often with me in it. I’m not shy by any means – on the contrary, I very much enjoy hearing what you have to say. I just like to be alone and think, always with that miniscule trace of reflective melancholy. And here’s what’s interesting: I cannot count the number of times my more outgoing brethren have accused me of “failing to be in the moment.”

We speak such a unique mix of languages, and many of them have little to do with cultural dialect. Of course there are times we’ll fail to understand each other. But when we as humans are confronted with something we don’t understand, why do we put so much energy into making it more like us? You extroverts shape the moment by acting upon it. We introverts frame it by analyzing, playing it back. And in so doing, we frequently make it more significant than the sum of its parts.

Not long ago, I attended an exhibit on ancient civilizations. It talked about the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Incas, the Zapotech, and it really was fascinating. One contributed modern language. Another perfected cutting tools. Still others advanced transportation, weaving methods, agriculture. But here’s what I found most striking: All of these societies had members who functioned as warriors, and others who served as scribes. The warriors fought and foraged -- made sure the tribe was fed, clothed and sheltered. The scribes watched and memorized – recorded events for posterity. One group action-takers, the other passive thinkers. Both collaborating, in two entirely different ways, to make sure their people lived on.

fine

The job is great.
My family is good.
Life is wonderful.

I was parked behind this bumper sticker for several minutes yesterday, so I had time to reflect just a bit. It was affixed to a rusted-looking Honda Civic, and so -- cynic that I am -- I initially presumed it to be tongue-in-cheek. After all, our daily exchanges have become so automatic that they hardly even register:

“How are you?”
“Fine. Job’s fine. Family’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

But it was that last line that convinced me otherwise. Life is wonderful. How often do we ever think to say that?
For that matter, how often does it even cross our minds?

And then I thought, What if everybody, everywhere, all over the planet, made the decision to speak in positives for one entire day? What if, when you turned on the news or listened to the radio or walked down the street, you heard nothing but contented affirmations? No fearful pronouncements on the economy. No collective hand-wringing over the latest barnyard-bred global pandemic. No worrisome reports on orange highlighter pens and their possible link to cancer. No arguments over global warming. No “formal investigations” to identify the latest guy who Screwed Up Royally.

The job is great.
My family is good.
Life. Is. Wonderful.

What would happen? Because when you really think about it, for most of us, there’s lots more going right at the moment than there is going wrong. (You’re reading this right now because your eyes work. You’re deciphering the words because your brain is functioning. You’re sitting up because you’re breathing and fully alive.) In fact, when you really think about it, most of those “public service announcements” are not-so-cleverly-disguised messages of communal fear. Played without ceasing into our ever-sentient minds.

So what kind of world would it be if we all just resolved to ignore them … and then stuck by our agreement? What if we just decided, as a group all at once, to look on the bright side? It wouldn’t change the fact that things still need fixing. It wouldn’t change the fact that life is imperfect. But it might give us a new vantage point from which to regard the problem. A “collective perspective,” if you will. What do you think would happen?

John Wooden once had an interesting thought: “Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.”

signs of intelligent life

I was randomly flipping channels during a late-night bout of insomnia earlier this week, and I came across the ending credits of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Funny how less than a half-century ago, we humans presumed that we'd use our burgeoning technical prowess for outbound exploration. '60s and '70s favorites like Space Odyssey, Star Trek, and Star Wars -- backed by a virtual catalog of Isaac Asimov science fiction stories and an entire litany of Charlton Heston cult classics -- simply took it for granted that the dawn of the 21st Century would see humankind hyperdriven into the outermost reaches of distant galaxies with geeky, unpronounceable names.

Fast-forward to 2009, and Mr. Heston's alter-egos might be stunned by the state of affairs: A series of oft-disgraced shuttle launches and grounded attempts at lift-off; peppered with the occasional unmanned space probe sending filmy, nondescript images back from Jupiter (could be a man, could be a funky-looking boulder).

This is the final frontier we'd fearlessly hoped to conquer? Well, it's not a total wash. We simply took humankind's astounding technical aptitude and turned it inward ... so that now when we sit down on a couch, with a console, or at a keyboard, we're controlling things like Tivo or the Wii. We're posting our up-to-the-second state of being on Facebook, MySpace, or LinkedIn. We're tweeting on Twitter or texting nonstop (OMG, RU there?) while uploading live video feed onto YouTube.

Now certainly, we've also made huge leaps in medicine and research. But pardon me for pointing this out: Does it strike you that we're using a disproportionate percentage of these amazing technical advances to turn the spotlight on ... well, ourselves? Because it seems like a lot of these transmissions (including, some might argue, this one) imply a near-frightening fascination with making ourselves feel known, recognized, important, even celebrated.

Is that really so wrong? Well, it's not the question of right or wrong I'm debating. What I'm simply doing is observing what we all look like. Collectively, as a society. You give intrepid young minds a mirror, they'll often figure out how to create fire. You give babies a mirror, they can spend an amazingly long time just gazing into it.

When God regards his children -- collectively, mind you -- I wonder which age group we fall into. But mostly, I wonder what He thinks about how we're using the tools we've been given.

"I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do."
H-A-L 9000, in 2001: A Space Odyssey

for richer, for poorer ...

I believe the unrivaled Eric Hoffer once remarked (and I’m paraphrasing here) that a sense of inadequacy – however indistinct – sharpens our eyes to the imperfections of others. Hoffer went on to observe that we often strive to highlight in others the frailties we hide from ourselves.

How often I’ve seen this dynamic played out in even the closest, most caring relationships. We carry with us a menagerie of unresolved childhood conflicts. Then, inevitably, the world wallops us with its measure of hardship and unpredictability.
The resulting fear and frustration can cause us to snipe at even those whom we love most deeply. But as the accusations escalate, we are plagued by a deeper distress:
that it is we ourselves who have failed to fulfill an ideal.

There’s a reason the early stages of a romantic relationship are so addictive. For a short time, we become someone’s idea of the perfect person. Slowly, secretly, we dare to persuade ourselves that this might actually be the case -- that we might truly be someone’s soul mate, conceived to fit perfectly with our pre-ordained match! Our wedding day is often the culmination and celebration of this joyous illusion. And over the course of time -- the gradual and not-so-gradual process of breaking through to reality – we are forced to confront two disturbing facts. First, this person cannot possibly live up to our expectations. Secondly -- and infinitely worse -- we are doomed to fail them miserably. Most likely on multiple levels.

I call this very difficult process “expectation erosion.” And true to Hoffer’s observation, it often serves to echo and uncover deep feelings of inadequacy within ourselves. Sure, we feel some sense of loss that our “perfect person” is only human like the rest of us. But how badly we wanted to believe that we could actually be everything they ever needed.

I often wonder if it’s possible to love another person fully and completely until we’ve forgiven ourselves for this inevitable transgression. Until we (and our loved one) can recognize that we are uniquely lovable, just the way we are. Perhaps, in the end, that is what the journey of marriage is all about.

floodlight or footlight?

Society can do weird things to your aspirations. Our list of popular platitudes pretty much says it all. Look Out for Number One. Go Big or Go Home. Climb the Ladder. Winning is Everything. It's enough to make you believe that you're lost in the shadows if you're not in the spotlight. And nothing could be further from the truth.

You want to serve as a guidepost? There are two ways to do it. One is to become the floodlight. Big, dazzling, flashy, and visible for miles. People look up to you. You use your brightness to illuminate darkness and lead the way. And everyone knows exactly where you are, precisely what you're doing at any given time.

Lots of us want to be floodlights. All that attention can make you feel pretty important. Trouble is, if everybody were a floodlight the world would be -- ironically -- a pretty blinding place.

But think of the last time you were in a movie theater. Ever try to find your seat without footlights? You probably had to ponder that for a second. After all, when footlights are doing their job we hardly even notice them. But they weren't designed to be flashy or ostentatious. They're meant to illuminate quietly. They point to a safe and certain path. And gently, very subtly, they guide us in the proper direction -- even when we didn't realize we were headed off course.

Turn off a floodlight, the path becomes unclear. Turn off the footlights, the very same thing happens. It's hard to say whether one is more important than the other. They were simply created to shine in different ways.

so the story goes

The power of any story depends on the point at which its telling begins. And of course there's the challenge of timing. Some people like to plunge in and uncover all the details, maybe even wanting to know the ending up front. Others prefer to savor each new surprise and element as it emerges. So there is, perhaps, greater truth in the corollary: The power of any story depends upon the pace at which we choose to discover it.

Years back, I was hiking in the hills when I came across an arresting scene: a quiet, breathtaking pond, the surface as perfect as unblemished glass. It waters reflected back everything beautiful about my surroundings. They even captured a tiny image of me, silhouetted as I was against picturesque trees and clear August sky. Stepping closer revealed even more detail: crystal glint of sunlight on the surface, lazy drone of dragonflies, hushed movement of minnows somewhere far beneath. The image was so idyllic that I'll admit it took me some time to venture further. Barefoot, pants rolled to the knee, I finally waded in -- and of course, no matter how carefully I tried to step, it destroyed the mood completely. Bracing cold, clammy rocks, slippery shapes that nipped and nibbled disturbingly. Ew.

Needless to say, I didn't stay in for long. In the end, what had I expected? Like a Seurat painting, everything breaks down up close. But we humans wrestle with the stasis of superficial beauty. It never sustains us for long. We want to plumb the depths, learn the secrets, make our mark, discover more. Perhaps it has to do with that unbroken image of ourselves, that Narcissus-like picture we see reflected back. We gravitate toward things that suggest we are worthy, noble, lovable. Yet we also distrust them, because we know ourselves far too well. So we strive to break the illusion and wade on in -- but at a controlled and predictable pace. And life, that crafty old cannonballer, usually lumbers in to force our hand and reveal the unflattering ending. This hastened knowledge can often catch us, to put it mildly, unprepared.

In the end, I realized that my mountain pool was indeed an oasis of beauty -- both more and less mysterious than I'd given it credit for. The closer I looked, the less it could maintain that unspoiled illusion. And, unconcerned with my opinion, it went on being exactly what it was, eons before I'd stumbled into that clearing. Which, if we're honest, is more than we can usually say for ourselves.

The power of any story depends not on the ending, but on the telling. And even more depends upon our courage to accept the revelations on every page -- each unexpected detail beneath the surface.

moving forward, looking back

Can favorite colors predict friendship? Mine was red, hers was purple; and while both hues share the same base tone, it still seems like maybe that preference should have been reversed. One is vibrant, unrestrained, joyous; the other has those underlying traits, but is tinged toward blue, as if perpetually bruised.

But nonetheless, we liked what we liked and friends we became, though brought together by the most unlikely of circumstances. Me, the intense, studious, awkward perfectionist; her, slightly younger, learning disabled, uncoordinated, never to graduate from a fifth grade speller. What brought us together was her older brother, taking another friend of mine to task for making fun of her. What made us inseperable was an indefinable sense of otherness united against the uncertain outcomes – and unpredictable cruelties -- of the world.

Our Barbies actually became friends first, the way it is with many little girls. At the beginning of that first summer, we were trading doll clothes and fixing up teddy bears. By the time school started, we were sharing secrets and having sleep-overs. Her mother would drive us to the movies and on the way, we’d make up nonsense songs like “Somebody’s Tickling My Hair” and “Ice Cream All Over Your Chin.” We’d sit on the back step as the summer sun went down, playing checkers and comparing scrapes and mosquito bites. We had formed a club of two, a not-so-secret society based upon an understanding of what we were and a certain wariness of the world. But it was also based upon much more: By the time we parted ways much later – the year I left home for college – I had helped her learn to read, showed her long division, taught her to braid her own hair. And in the end, I was the one who learned the most.

Later, much later, we got together for lunch and it wasn’t quite the same. She had stayed very much as she'd been, I had moved on. Funny how we equate the latter with progress, because it isn’t necessarily synonymous. There she sat: Still unable to drive, still unable to make change, still sweet and overflowing with simple, innocent joy. I, on the other hand, was weighed down by a mortgage, family troubles, work worries, an armload of other concerns. And you know, it occurred to me even then to wonder which of us was at more of a disadvantage.

There are moments to this day when it all comes back to me: The slant of the sunlight on the pavement, the smells of suntan lotion and citronella, popsicle juice on our fingers, cats-eye marbles on the back porch. I have an education, a big office, a parking space with my name on it. And without a moment's reservation, I would trade it all in for one more summer day with her, the chance to be just as we were back then.

How much easier it seems to get rich, than to know when we have gotten rich.