Let Go

Hi, my name is Holly and I have a broken heart. It's a pretty big crack--right down the center. And it hurts. All sorts of heavy, emotional stuff has been whooshing out from that crack these last two weeks. But interspersed with those bouts of tears from the heartache are these dazzling glimmers of light. That's the hope and the possibility and the potential shining through. It continues to catch me off guard, this beauty in the breakdown. I decided at the outset of this heartache that I wouldn't fight off my feelings. Instead, I wanted to own each and every emotion, each and every tear, each and every gaspy sob. Letting my emotions run free has been the most liberating feeling ever. I've always been the type to get embarrassed--exasperated and angered, too--over my emotions. Somehow, I had it in my head that even-keeled (read: kinda numb) was the ideal--and that fluctuations were imperfections. And my god, I couldn't handle letting my imperfections be so blatantly seen. My freak flag has always been neatly folded and buried in the back of a drawer.

It's this heart of mine that has kept me from writing as much as I've wanted--as much as I've needed to--over the years. I've been denying my emotions the freedom and the space they crave. They need. If I couldn't write something "perfect" and positive, then I just couldn't bear to share it. With myself. With you. With the world. I'm breaking up with that bad theory right this minute.

So, hi. Yeah. Umm, here I am. It's not pretty, but it's real. And I've got stuff to say. Oh, do I have stuff to say. It has been far too long . . .

This heart of mine has been through a lot. But it'll only be better--more resilient, more receptive--for the experience. That crack will fuse together and my heart's walls will become pliable again. This heart of mine will know no limits.

Soundtrack: "Let Go" by Frou Frou

Yellow Light

There were two colors in my 64-pack of Crayola crayons that I wouldn’t touch as a kid: raw umber and spring green. In my world of Poky Little Puppy coloring books and stained “glass” art projects, these two hues had no place in my world. Their tips would remain snub-nosed while the remaining 62 would get peeled and sharpened, peeled and sharpened, until they disappeared into the depths of the box.

As an adult, having lived through nearly 40 long New England winters, I’ve grown to love that pop of spring green that one April day just dots the tips of the trees. And then, just a few days later, when those little dots unfurl into something so vibrant, so graceful, and so celebratory—that day, that moment, is one of my absolute favorites of the entire year.

Driving home from work, there’s a stretch of conservation land where the oak trees are so mighty that they form a canopy over the street. Earlier this week, as I drove through this tunnel of oaks, the 6:15 p.m. late-April sunlight cast a hazy glow on each and every one of those unfurling buds. I heeded the glowing yellow light that had engulfed me and slowed down. Way down. Mother Nature was operating this traffic light, and the sight was too splendid to just blow straight on through.

In this world of get-it-done-and-make-it-snappy mindsets, it’s important to remember that good things take some time. Whether it’s waiting for winter to make its exit, a relationship to develop its sweet spot, hard work to pay off, or a dream to come true, a willingness to slow down and to put a little faith in the nature of things will often do the trick.

Sheltered

I’ve spent the last week with my jaw agape, my nerves jangled, and my head shaking in disbelief. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The news outlets unfolding details that were so unreal—gruesome, dark, and deranged details—that I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to take it all in. And yet, I had to. This was my hometown that was hurting. And some 2,000 miles away, someone else’s hometown had been badly hurt, too. Act of terror or an accident, all of it so hard to accept. Friday afternoon, after a solid eight hours of “sheltering in place” just three miles away from the manhunt in Watertown, my mind unraveled from its tight, trusting knot. “Land of the free” had always been something that I’ve taken for granted. Gratefully, not selfishly so. I know I’m fortunate to say it, but freedom is all I’ve ever known. I’ve never felt before that my life could be in danger. I thought of the women in India who had endured horrifying, torturous rapes. Women whose religion dictated their style of dress. Whose gender dictated their equal rights. I thought of the husbands and wives who boarded planes back on September 11, 2001, just going about business as usual. Who sat at their desks, checking e-mail and sipping coffee in the Twin Towers as they got their workdays started. Who cheered on friends, loved ones, and strangers alike, all along the marathon route. I thought of the injustices, I thought of the misfortune, I thought of the loss. I thought of my loved ones—and I thought of myself.

“Home of the brave.” Now more than ever. There were 10,000 people at that very moment who were singularly focused on protecting me and my fellow Bostonians. All I could do was what had been asked of us all: sit tight. But I needed to do something more.

In the safe confines of my home office, overlooking the exact same spot where I had seen a swarm of police cars and bomb-sniffing dogs earlier in the day, I unrolled my yoga mat and found shelter in an entirely different way. I meditated. I acknowledged the panic and the sadness with deep exhales and softened their jagged edges in my chest. I filled my head with thoughts of safety for the men and women whose lives were on the line at that very moment. I inhaled security. I exhaled anxiety. I inhaled trust. I exhaled doubt. I inhaled strength. I exhaled fear. And on and on it went, until all I was left with was confidence that justice would be served and freedom would triumph.

When I settled back in front of the TV—CNN on one tuner, our local FOX station on the other, boston.com’s twitter feed on my iphone—I felt much less helpless than before. Doing all that I could from inside my home, at least energetically, I lent my hand.

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©2013 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because sometimes the best thing you can do is a little mental housekeeping. (Photo by Suzanne Kreiter/Globe Staff.)

On Letter-Writing . . .

I love getting letters in the mail. Meandering thoughts, one-of-a-kind handwriting, heartfelt sentiments. It all makes me happy.

In the fourth grade, we had a year-long class assignment that centered around studying the United States. We paged through encyclopedias and stared up at wall-mounted maps, handwrote reports, memorized state capitals, tasted regional foods, and corresponded with fourth graders around the country. My pen pal was from Louisiana and she started all of her letters with “Hi, hay, hello.” (Yep, hay.) Our communications fizzled come fifth grade, but my love of sending (and receiving letters) had only just begun.

In high school, I had a slew of international pen pals. I remember spotting an ad in the back of one of those teen magazines. For a few bucks and a SASE, I could get a list of addresses of 12 teenagers living in other countries—all who were just as letter-hungry and world-curious as me. From that moment on, my universe opened wide up.

Fast-forward 20-plus years. I still love sending and receiving handwritten letters, but times have changed. Correspondence is a dying art. E-mail is vying to take its place. Even if the purpose remains the same, the intimate nature is being swept away. Arial 10 pt (or its likeness) has taken the place of penmanship. The suspense (on both ends) is stifled. Bam, it’s sent—and received. Game over. A drop-everything instant response has come to be expected. E-mail is distracting—and unglamorous—tucked in between messages about a Shutterfly sale and LinkedIn updates.

So I was excited when my workplace decided to buddy up with the Timilty Middle School’s Promising Pals program. The idea of corresponding with a 12 year old is sweet and all—but even more importantly, it’s teaching these kids the art of question-asking and fact retention and rapport building and patience. All awesome things—and all awesome reminders for us grown-ups, too.

The child I’ve been paired with seems totally charming. Her favorite colors are red and purple and she loves video games and animals. I look forward to her sweet handwritten letters. As these layers unfold, I am reminded of all those international pen pals that I stayed in touch with through much of high school. Getting to know someone without the face time, without interruption, and with no pretense, is a rare treat.

Note to self—and other letter-lovers out there: Get on board with the More Love Letters movement. Gorgeous idea! Check out Hannah Brencher’s TED talk and get inspired.

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©2013 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because the joy of reciving something handwritten in the mail is undeniable. (Photo by mrchrisadams via Creative Commons.)

Wonder Without Googling

I got a set of World Book encyclopedias for Christmas in the sixth grade. With all those foil-embossed books just beyond the foot of  my bed, I felt mighty and all-knowing. A little page flipping (and maybe some cross-referencing), and I could find out just enough info to satisfy any and all of my kid intellectual curiosities.

Nowadays, I've got this little phone that sits just inches from my pillow--and a larger, glowing box that's pretty much always at arm's length. In an instant, I can look up anything I want on these devices--and I do.

Do I ever. Especially when I should be asleep. Sleepy-eyed googling, I have no shame. Plagued by an obscure desire to find out what ever happened to Tato Skins or The Sundays or my kindergarten boyfriend (he climbed Pike's Peak--or at least somebody with his name did).

So, when I read the 18-point contract that mother gave to her son along with a shiny new iPhone for Christmas, I was struck by the eloquence and the agelessness of her advice. But it was #17 on that contract that stood out to me the most: Wonder without googling.

It's powerful to have these tools at my fingertips that will give me the answers to pretty much anything I ask of them--in a matter of seconds. No matter where I am, no matter the time of day. And it's exhausting to have all of that information swirling around in my head. It's enough to make me miss the days of my leatherette World Books.

I'm cleaning up my online habits in 2013. Less Facebook, more face-to-face time. Less surfing, more diving in. And with that comes wondering without googling.

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©2013 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because some things are best left to imagination. (Photo by ~C4Chaos via Creative Commons.)

Times Gone By

I catch my reflection, gaze unabashed. Walking toward me as I approach the office door. Keeping my stride as I walk past the windowed shops downtown. And I wonder: how did I get here? Nearly 40, trousers and overcoat, settling in for a day at the office. So serious, so put together, so adult. Not the scrunchi and miniskirt-wearing teenager I expect to see. The days are long, but the years are short.

Today, a former colleague, whom I haven't seen in years, stops by my office. A high school friend and I run into each other at the yoga studio. News of another high school classmate is posted on Facebook; a tragic car accident taking his life. Their names and faces, the sound of their voices, all still so familiar.

Indeed, the years are short. And while the days can seem neverending, they're far from unlimited. I caught a commercial on TV recently--for Michigan tourism of all things--emphasizing that all we get is 25,000 mornings--give or take. 25,000 may sound like a lot, but that only 68 years. So why waste a single one?

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©2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. (Photo by Karl Gunnarsson via Creative Commons.)

My Happiness Commandments

I'm a champion list-maker. I find the process of writing something down, doing it, and checking it off so incredibly satisfying. What I don't enjoy, however, is that for every item I complete, three more seem to take its place. And there are only so many hours in a day. And I'm just one person. And . . . and . . . well, all that doing gets exhausting.

Ironically, for a good two-plus years, my someday-maybe list has included "draft my own happiness commandments, a la Gretchen Rubin." (It's amazing how many fun, meaningful things on the someday-maybe list get brushed aside in favor of practical, boring things--like laundry and taxes--isn't it?)

Fast forward to today: I finally made the time to create my happiness commandments list. What I love most about this exercise is that there isn't a single task in sight. Everything on the happiness commandments list is meant to stay on this list. To-bes, not to-dos. And while I do love drawing a line through all those completed tasks, I'm quite alright with letting these 12 items stand.

So, without further ado . . . my list.

1. Everything counts.
2. You don't have to. You get to.
3. Invest in love--and invest in life. (And vice versa.)
4. Quality not quantity.
5. Great--not just good.
6. Avoid crinkly things.
7. Just do it.
8. No apologies, no regrets.
9. Rest your head.
10. Everything is a miracle.
11. Flap your wings.
12. Foresake comparison.

Like Lucy, there's some 'splainin to do on each of these. But for now, I can say that I've written my happinesss commandments--and cross that off of my to-do list.

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©2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because making lists--on heavy weight, wide-ruled paper with a fine point Sharpie pen (preferably blue)--makes me happy. (Photo by donireewalker via Creative Commons.)

Investment Advice, Good Karma Style

Along with sending letters in the mail and talking on phones with a handset and a curly cord, I enjoy listening to the radio. I like the variety--and the live voice on the other end of the airwaves. And a few mornings ago, when I had the radio on while getting ready for work, two things caught my attention--a public service announcement and a song--both of which have been floating around in my head ever since.

"For each hour of regular exercise you get, you'll gain about two hours of additional life expectancy." --American Heart Association

"Where you invest your love, you invest your life." --Mumford & Sons, "Awake My Soul"

Each thought is profound on its own. Invest in your life--for your heart's sake. Invest in your heart--for your life's sake. But together? They deliver a terrific jolt of present-moment awareness.

The secret to living the biggest, richest life possible? Hit the gym. Unroll your yoga mat. Chase the puck. Romp around the park with the dogs. Take a long walk. Speak from your heart. Pursue your dreams. Teach. Listen. Say I love you. Make the time. Rinse, lather, repeat.

*~*~*~*~

P.S. Here's where you can find that stat from the American Heart Association--and a youtube link to "Awake My Soul."

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©2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because it's never to late to begin investing in yourself. (Photo by Makena G via Creative Commons.)

Love Is All Around

Around this time every year, I paint my toes red. Not for Valentine's Day (at least not directly) but in honor of my old college friend, Ashley. So that I can remind myself of the way she approached everybody with open arms--literally--admininstering hugs liberally. The way her eyes sparkled with sincerity. The way her rhythm of speech drew you in.  The way she made everybody feel like they were her best friend. That's what love is all about.

Candy and roses and heart-shaped jewelry are sweet. But if you really love someone, show it in your eyes, your smile, and your actions.

So, when I look down at my shiny red painted toes, I think of Ashley. Her fiancé, Joey, told me that she had just painted hers for Valentine's Day. He shared this fact with everybody who paid their respects that blustery February day.

And whenever I see a stained glass window and the sun is filtering through as bright as it was in that Doylestown church 15 years ago, I think of Ashley. And I remember the little symbol on her license that made it possible for for her heart to go on beating.

______________________________________________________________________________  © 2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because her plan always was to teach. (Photo by annieeleighh via Creative Commons.)

I've Been Waiting...

To say it has been a busy year is an understatement. Though when isn't it a busy year? Or week or day or evening . . .

Busy is fine. Good, even. I thrive on it. However, when being busy gets in the way of living--well, sometimes something's gotta give. You can't wait forever. You can't keep saying, "when I have more time." Oldest excuse in the book.

But what about when everything that's on your plate belongs on your plate? Or maybe you just like having it there--wedged right in between this, that, that, and . . .um . . . the other thing. Sometimes, the only solution is to just add another course on to this feast that is life. Make room and dig in.

_________________________________________________________________________  © 2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because while patience might be a virtue, procrastination--not so much. (Photo by malfleen via Creative Commons.)