Set Alight

I mean . . . I just . . . My life. This past year. How far I’ve come. How much I’ve grown. How much still lies ahead.

None of this happened overnight—or just in the last 12 months. I’ve been charting my course forward and upward long before then. Before the split. Observing. Experiencing. Feeling. Processing. On the surface, all of that looks passive. But so much has been going on inside. So much. I did my damndest to hide my struggles for far too long. Hiding was the hardest part.

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.”

When I felt like my words were failing me a few years ago, it was this quote that helped turn me around. The songbird necklace that rests on my collarbone reminds me of this every day. My words need not be right—or even in response to anything; but what’s inside is, indeed, worthy of being shared.

This past year has been all about sharing. Twenty-eight heartfelt blog posts. A hundred conversations with dear friends and kind acquaintances. A face no longer hesitant to showing a range of emotion. This lack of resistance in my head and my heart is all the proof I need to realize that I’m doing something right.

“The birds they sang at the break of day Start again I heard them say Don’t dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be . . . There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in ”  —Anthem, Leonard Cohen

I stopped aiming for perfection and started embracing uncertainty after my life cracked open last year. I finally got out of my own way and let in a whoosh of light. Airing out my “broken-ness” was way out of my comfort zone, but I knew, somehow, that this willingness to expose my vulnerability also held the key to my transformation. The opportunity to share my stumbles has made me feel more alive, more connected, more a part of something than ever before.

I’m so grateful for it all.

My life. This past year. I’ve zig-zagged all over the country, explored a new continent, and summited mountains. I learned a little more about heartbreak and a lot more about love. I debunked old beliefs. I found support. I’ve been transfixed by live music. I’ve sailed away on beautiful boats. I twirled around a museum in a floor-length evening gown. I’ve made new friends. I’ve strengthened existing friendships. I painted tulips with a two-year-old and whispered my hopes to a newborn. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve surprised myself. And I’ve only just begun . . .

Soundtrack: “Sea Legs” by the Shins

Next Stop: Maybe

So there’s “yes” and there’s “no”—which are like those slender metal bookends you see on library shelves. Their purpose is to form a boundary. But then there’s everything in between. Nobody goes to the library for the bookends; you go for the books, right? Same thing goes for life. It’s the mysteries and the adventures and the romances and the dramas and the comedies—cookbooks, travel guides, and how-to books, too—that are where the living takes place. The “yeses” and the “nos” in life are the edges we bump up against that nudge us back into the richness and variety and possibility. The good stuff. The “maybes.”

So, perhaps my thoughts from earlier this year on getting to yes need an epilogue.

It’s admirable and awesome and totally warranted to have my sights set on getting to yes. But the only way I’ll fully understand what yes is, is if I’m not afraid to bump up against the “no” boundary every now and again. It’s an invisible, shape-shifting boundary, of course—as is the “yes” boundary. But finding a comfortable boundary to cling to is not my goal in life—like it was my goal at that one swim lesson I went to when I was six. Having a stronghold on safety and security might look like winning from the outside, but that’s not what getting to yes is all about.

Getting to yes is about exploring the stacks. It’s about getting out of my comfort zone. It’s about not judging a book by its cover or jumping to the last page to see if it’s worth my while. Getting to yes is a sometimes murky, sometimes joyous, ongoing process. There is no timetable. No task list. No map. It’s just life—lived one rewarding, one eye-opening experience at a time.

Soundtrack: “Freewill” by Rush

Time to Believe in What You Know

Back in high school, I had exactly one driving lesson with my father. It was a barren, bright morning in the vacant lot of a nearby state park. I learned quickly that I did not have a knack for making that big ol' Buick smoothly stop and go. Apparently, despite there being two pedals on the floor--and us drivers (and wannabe drivers) having two feet--I wasn't allowed to use them at the same time. This was a fact that boggled my 15-and-three-quarters-old brain. Still, I drove around the parking lot that way--left foot stop, right foot go. It an unpleasant experience all around. Jerky and stressful and confusing for us both. Being that my feet were largely hidden in the wheel well, I continued with this approach, even after being told otherwise. Not only did two pedals and two feet seem like it should be a given, the stop-go-stop-go technique felt like the safer option to me.

Eventually, I enrolled in driver's ed and learned the right way to get around. But it took me a while to shed that instinct to tap the brake at the littlest flicker of concern. Now I could retrace the last 30-plus years of my life and probably point out hundreds of instances of me tapping the metaphorical brakes. Or I could just fast-forward to the latest and most relevant one: moving forward in my personal life.

I'm all for minding the signs and paying attention to the signals--literally and metaphorically. But I can feel that old instinct to hover my foot over the brake, to insert little halts when unnecessary, creeping in--just as life starts to get a little more unexpected. A little more interesting. Riding the brake is a fear-based action. Sure, it may seem wise at first, but it's no way to smoothly move forward.

There’s a time and a place for caution and there’s a time and a place for letting go of the restraints. I've decided to let go of the restraints.

In the days following my breakup, I replaced the family photo on my desk at work with this quote:

"Step into uncertainty--today and a little bit every day. That is how an epic life is lived."

At first these words served a bit of a fake-it-'til-you-make-it purpose. But after a few weeks of reading and rereading these words, I believed them. I embodied them. I began to welcome the mystery that lay ahead. And now--that feeling of being smack-dab in the middle of a Choose Your Own Adventure book is the most alive I've felt in a long, long time.

I haven't a clue what next turn of the page has in store for me, but I can tell you it's an exhilarating way to be living my life right now. It reminds me of the long, winding road that led to my old neighborhood back where I lived in those early days of driving. It dipped and curved endlessly and erratically, like the scalloped edges of Valentine made by a child. Once I became comfortable behind the wheel, there was nothing I loved more than touring all of that road's curves, never really knowing what lay around the next bend but trusting myself to handle it all with grace. Without obsessing over the brake.

In a moment today when my head and my heart were having a bit of a private debate over the brake metaphor, I came across this piece on the HBR blog: How to Have a Year That Counts. Its simple, elegant reminders to (1) start with your dreams, (2) walk toward the fire, (3) venture beyond certainty, and (4) let life happen were all the confirmation I needed that yes, it is time to get out of my head and experience life outside of my comfort zone. It's time to take my foot off the brake. That's where my story will start to get interesting . . .

Soundtrack: "Shine" by Alexi Murdoch

Getting to Yes

I came to yoga looking for an easy way out. I was a junior in college and needed a gym credit--and bowling was already full. So, yoga it was for me. Dressed in leggings and the requisite '90s flannel shirt, I made my way to the wrestling room in my campus' athletic center. It was a windowless, padded, smelly cell of a space. I took my seat on the floor and waited to be told what to do so that I could follow the instructions, earn my credit, and get back to my life . . . Funny the way those unexpected little things grab ya. 2014 will mark 20 years that I've been practicing yoga. Aside from writing (and reading, walking, and breathing), I haven't stuck with anything in my life for that long. What started out as a easy way to earn a gym credit has grown to become one of the most important ways--mentally, even more so than physically--that I choose to take care of myself.

The mental benefits took much longer to cultivate. Or maybe they just took longer for me to realize. Whatever the case, their lessons have been both subtle and profound. My yoga practice has taught me:

• To fall gracefully, and to enter into new things with grace, too.
• That perfection is an unattainable moving target I shouldn't be aiming for in the first place.
• That feeling sensation--that experiencing experience--is the real beauty of it all.
• That my body is a living, breathing thing. Embody it! Embrace it. Respect it.
• To feel my heart beat, to quiet my mind with inhales and exhales, and to use these tools to return to my home base.
• To go at my own pace, and not to worry about comparing my trajectory to anyone else's.

I know there are plenty of other ways for people to learn these lessons. But for me, there's just something about using a physical activity in order to tap into something mental. So, *that's* what that whole mind-body thing is all about . . .

For the last four years, I've consciously kicked off my new year with my radiant friend Chanel's soul-stirring class. We flow, we stretch, we restore, and we rock out a little bit to one of her awesome playlists. At the end of it all, we grab a sparkly slip of paper and an envelope. On that paper, we jot down for ourselves just one word that we're going to carry with us into the new year. Last year, I chose "truth,"--a word that has proven itself to be so daunting, so eye-opening, and so (deep exhale) right.

This year, I am going with "yes"--a word that came to me when I spotted a metallic wine-colored tote bag at the Cole Haan outlet last week. I've spent a lifetime already saying "no" to things. Not just "thing" things. To people, to opportunities, to possibilities. To my body, my soul, my heart.

I bought the bag--and a matching cosmetics case. I almost talked myself out of going to the outlets in the first place. Crowds. Sales. Chaos. Stuff. But I said "yes"--and then I said "yes" again. And then, as I drove home, I thought about all of the things I can't wait to say "yes" to in 2014.

And when I feel the "nos" start to creep back in, I've got all those tools listed above that will remind me how to get to "yes." Incidentally, there's a negotiations book called Getting To Yes--and every time I see it on a bookshelf, my brain translates it to "getting toys."

I sort of think saying "yes" is like getting a toy. It's fun. It's new. It brings about a smile, yes?

Soundtrack: "Blackbird" by Paul McCartney

Over the Rainbow

Eating a bowl of soup alone at Panera while texting your ex, it's inevitable that tears will fall. They have to; gravity won't have it any other way. On the one hand, having my head bowed just so means that I don't need to make eye contact with the strangers around me, or they with me. On the other, there I am--again--shedding spontaneous tears. My pockets all contain folded squares of tissues at the ready. The soup was a mushroomy bisque. The text message had to do with logistics for the Frank Turner tickets I bought before we broke up. I knew he'd enjoy the show and I'd enjoy the front-row seats and access to the Foundation Room. Something for everyone. He texted me first, wanting to know if I was going to use them. Legit question--but I thought sticking them all by themselves on the fridge door was the unspoken way of saying, "take them, they're yours. And, by the way, this blows."

These "poor me" moments are frequent--but fleeting. There are "hell yeahs" interspersed in here, too, but they take a little extra encouraging. It's not instinctive--at least not for me--to look toward the bright side. It's a muscle, for sure--and something I've been working on for years. With a little coaxing though, the bright side is brilliant and blazing and vibrantly alive. Like those sunrises and sunsets where the sky looks like it is on fire--there's magic going on all around, if only we can look up to notice.

I was reminded of this today when reading Kris Carr's blog post about manifesting your desires. Getting what you want out of life--and then some--really starts with the power of observation. In that post, she suggests making a list labeled "Noticing"--and jotting down what, through the power of observation, you're calling into your life. Reflecting back on these last six-plus weeks, here is my list:

Noticing:

• An opportunity to find a new soul mate, fall madly in love, and life happily ever after
• An opportunity for more dogs to be rescued from shelters
• An opportunity to expand my circle of friends
• An opportunity to travel
• An opportunity to nurture myself with more rest
• An opportunity to read more and write more
• An opportunity to make my health and wellness a high priority

Like Dorothy Gale in dreamland, she had the power to go back home all along. And even before this break-up, all of these opportunities were in my power to achieve. But sometimes it takes a sudden and jarring journey--complete with legions of friendly and supportive people cheering you on from the sidelines--to learn some important (and perhaps very obvious) facts about yourself.

Soundtrack: "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"--but the version by Ted's band from Scrubs.

Quitclaim

Today, I signed a document "hereby releasing me of all rights of homestead for myself and my family." Reading those words with my name at the beginning of the sentence made it feel like the earth had crumbled around me, leaving just the tiniest foundation for me to stand upon. My life. My home. My security. I didn't want to hereby release anything. I didn't want to be released. So I cried, I swore, and I quivered. Then I got the thing notarized, hereby quitting ownership of my lovely, comfortable home. Although we never married, that language felt like a divorce. And it is--but as A explained in his rational and supportive way, it is me divorcing the bank. It's me saying, "hey, I am no longer accountable." He then went on to remind me that a house is not a life. It's a thing. It's temporary. It's another  place to keep my shoes (in addition to my car). My value--my self worth--has nothing to do with my possessions, and everything to do with my outlook.

I'm good at letting go of things. After all, that's the premise on which I started this blog: less is more. I've spent years parting ways with my old things--some sentimental, some not--so that others can enjoy what no longer serves me at this point in life.

Here we stand at the end of paths taken . . .

I'm transferring my ownership of the house. I'm moving out this weekend. I found a great new place to live. I've got a coworker who's helping me move, a best friend who will be by my side, and a luxurious mattress on its way. And as I stay committed to being open and honest about my feelings, I continue to be humbled by an endless supply of encouragement from all the good people in my life. That's not quitting. That's surviving and thriving.

Soundtrack: "Still Lost" by the Cowboy Junkies

When "Fine" Is Anything But

Years ago, I attended some marketing seminar for work. I can't tell you what the program was about--only what the instructor said upon introducing himself to me. In response to the standard "how are you," he replied in a voice that was both booming and bright, "I'm positively positive." Which made my "I'm fine," from two seconds beforehand feel positively lame. Fine. That word is about as exciting as a room-temperature bowl of unflavored gelatin. It's the I'd-rather-not-say-and-I-don't-expect-you-to-understand-or-really-care response. And I'm guilty of this on thousands upon thousands of accounts. Not because things were or were not good. But because I didn't feel like sharing my truth. Feeling like I'd be judged as a Debbie Downer or a Perfect Pollyanna, I played it safe--unflavored gelatin safe--and gave my blasé answer. Sorry about that, world. Really, I'm not that boring.

But something happened a few Mondays back that changed all that. I came into work after everything happened and one of my coworkers innocently asked about my weekend. "Horrible," I replied and sat down. There was no hiding behind a "fine" that day. Or ever again. Tears pooled in my eyes and I told her the story. And there lies the turning point where I could readily identify "fine" as being anything but.

I've caught myself on a few occasions since, dialing down my old standby to an "okay" or an "alright." Same difference. Sometimes, yes--it's a cop-out. Other times I know we're both in a rush and one or two syllables are all we've got time for right then. But when appropriate, I've been getting much more truthful with my responses. I'm acknowledging the challenges, but balancing them with something hopeful and honest. Like this:

"I'm really sad about my relationship coming to an end, but I found a great new place to live that's a half-mile from one of my favorite yoga studios. And now that I have a monthly unlimited pass, I'll be there all the time."

"Fine" is a conversation killer, but the honest and open version is full of substance and talking points. And it's that kind of substance that's going to build connections between people. So, how about we commit to adding a double shot of truth to our pleasantries? I'll start.

Soundtrack: "Let Your Heart Be Known" by Steve Gold

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

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.)

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.)