To See and Be Seen

It was practically an annual conversation—especially as we rounded the corner on age 30 and all the other ages in our 14 years together—and I was usually the instigator.

Tell me again why you don’t want to get married?

Every time, A. would run through his punch list: Tax laws. Divorce rates. Inequality. Societal pressure. The wedding industrial complex. I heard him—and he made many logical points. But I hated the predictability of his recitation. I hated its lack of emotion.

When he’d turn the question around on me, I fumbled to put my emotions into words. I just did. I knew it in my heart. I felt it in my gut. But I couldn’t craft an explanation. I simply wanted to entwine my life and my name with the most special person I could ever know. Even harder to articulate was that this person was not him.

When I was 4 or 5 years old, I sent multiple letters to Miss Mary Ann on Romper Room, asking if she could see me through her magic mirror. When I finally heard her say my name on the TV, it lit me up inside and out. I’d been seen—and her facial expression filled my heart with all the convincing I needed. She knew I was there.

That’s how I want to feel in marriage. I want to be seen. I want to be chosen. I want to know that the qualities that make me who I am are not only appealing to another person, but they are sought after. And as much as I want to feel this way, I want to make another person feel the same way.

I am! I do!

In Dana, I’ve found my own magic mirror. When my husband looks at me, I feel seen. Just as clearly—and with all of my senses—I see him, too. And in seeing him, I can see myself for what I truly am.

It has taken me some time—including two years of marriage—to articulate this why. Being able to finally put words to it validates what I’ve believed all along: listen to your heart.

Soundtrack: “Green Eyes” by Coldplay

Thank you, Jenna Gallo, for capturing this magical moment!

Daring Greatly

Three weeks out . . . “Nice boots,” my brother commented—eyeing the Fryes I had left by his front door. He, too, had taken to wearing boots—his a bit more cowboy than my preppy riding ones—ever since moving to Georgia. “There are two things you should never skimp on,” he proceeded to tell me: “good shoes and a good mattress. You spend two-thirds of your day in one or the other.”

I nodded in agreement as I processed this nugget of simple wisdom from my younger brother. It was November, his 35^th birthday, and I was down there for a quick visit. For the last 22 days, I had been tirelessly processing all of the radical ways that my life was changing. Changes that were for the best, even if they didn’t feel that way in the moment.

I went down to Georgia partly to get my mind off of all the heaviness, partly because it had been ages since my brother and I had celebrated one another’s birthday in person, and partly because I just wanted to hear my baby niece make her contented sound that was a cross between a whisper and a cheer. All at once, this trip was a feeling of running away and coming home.

I bought a book on the flight down based solely on its title—Daring Greatly—and binged on its contents. Even though, at that time, I was immersed in so much uncertainty, every bit of me—head and heart, body and soul—knew that greatness was just over the horizon. Day by day, I was starting to see that my willingness to be vulnerable, to experience uncertainty, was the key to living an epic life. And from here on out, I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than epic. More than ever, I was looking forward to letting life surprise me with all of its unfolding.

That first glimmer of surprise came while riding in the back seat of my brother’s car on the way to his birthday dinner. He and his wife had just let me know that, in the event anything should ever happen to them, that I would become their children’s legal guardian. It was a somber turn in the conversation. “Of course, of course,” I assured them and then lightened the moment with a familiar self-deprecating jab: “Even though I’ll have no clue what I’m doing.”

They both turned around to face me. I startled. My brother spoke: “You know you would be an amazing parent, so don’t say that.”

His words rendered me speechless. For most of the last 14 years, I had dismissed the idea of ever becoming a parent. Even though I told myself—and everyone else—that I had come to my own “peaceful decision” not to have children, deep down I knew I had let my ex make that decision for me. It was in that moment while riding in the back seat—the way my pulse quickened upon hearing my brother’s words, upon something so unexpected snapping into focus—that I really started daring greatly . . . .

Soundtrack: “Human” by Civil Twilight

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.)

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.)

Gone, But Not Forgotten

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHytuO8xVkw[/youtube] I hear the sound of an orchestra tuning, and decades-old memories of sending out the concert C come rushing back. Creating a sonorous slice through the audience's chatter with my oboe, followed by the hush. The anticipation. Theirs. Mine. Ours. A symphony unto itself.

Long skirts and crisp white blouses at Alice Tully Hall. Matching blazers and Russian Christmas Music at Woolsey Hall. Sharing pizzas in New Haven. Soaking my reeds in one of my father's old film canisters. Humming melodies. Dreaming of the Boston Pops.

This jumble of noise, the vibration of everybody matching their pitch to me, filled me with equal parts fear and confidence. Leading the pack and blending in all at once.

Even though my orchestra years are long behind me, it's a role I find myself still playing to this day, in work and in life. I set the foundation and then retreat, only to occasionally and precisely--deliberately--be heard.

Swells and dips. Crescendo and pianissimo. Quality not quantity. Always.

_________________________________________________________________________  © 2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because resonance is multisensory. 

Bigger Better Faster More

I still believe that less is more. But sometime less is, well, less.

But "less" and "more" are not apples to apples. It's more like apples to rambutans. Or apples to kangaroo jerky. (Not that I've ever tried kangaroo jerky. Or a rambutan for that matter.)

I've written less, but I've worked more.

I've written less, but I've baked and cooked a lot more.

I've written less, but I've read more.

I've written less, but I've watched more HGTV. And TLC. Bravo, too. (Darn Housewives and their over the top, un-relatable melodramas.)

Less and more. Apples and rambutans. Writing and working and everything else. They need not be exclusive. They can not be exclusive. There's room for it all.

It's about balance. Taking a million (or more) teeny, tiny steps in the right direction. Saying no to the good--in order to make room for the great.

Oldest lesson in the book? Almost. Am I willing to give it another run? You bet.

_________________________________________________________________________  © 2012 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because Rome wasn't built in a day, ya know? (Photo by semuthutan via Creative Commons.)

Going Up

As I was weaving my way through Sears to get out of the mall, I overheard a little boy exclaim to his parents, “Look, an escalator!”

His enthusiasm was befitting of a basket of kittens or, say, a Matt Damon sighting in Harvard Square. But no, it was an escalator—going up—and to him,  it was a sight to behold.

I don’t know the last time I got that excited over something so ordinary—but he made it seem like such fun. I need to give that a try.

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2010 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because everything is relative. (Photo by (M.E) Morgan via Creative Commons.)