Fast and Forward

With my new boyfriend, the conversation about his past relationships took all of three minutes. Not because he doesn’t have deep experiences and stories and lessons learned; but because he is living in the present moment. No self-help book, green juice, or meditation practice needed. He’s that good. He’s that unencumbered. I’m not.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m not good. We’re just different in the ways we regard our past loves and life experiences—and differences of all sorts can be quite good. They stretch the bounds of our comfort zones. They give depth and vibrancy to our everyday lives.

I mine my past for the lessons so that I can move forward in a totally rockin’ way. But I don’t just stop to smell the roses; I reflect on the sender and the sentiment and the color of the sky and the conversations that followed. I reflect on my feelings—the good, the not-so-good, and the truly mundane. I process it all until there’s a shiny souvenir for me to hold on to for evermore. There’s no knick-knack shelf long enough or sturdy enough to support this collection of mine.

I enjoy sharing my collection (i.e., my life experiences) with others. Hence this blog. Hence all the brunches, glasses of wine, cups of tea, hallway conversations, e-mails, phone calls, text messages and Facebook threads I’ve been party to over the years—especially over these last eight months. To know the path I’ve traveled is to know me. I wouldn’t change this part of me—even if I could. Even if it’s a bit unconventional. Even if it means that I count my exes among my dearest friends. I know that’s a rare thing.

As different as my boyfriend and I may be in the ways we hold onto our pasts, our goals in moving forward and living life are the same:

Make today awesome.

Do good, be kind, and have fun.

Build bridges, foster connections.

Laugh. Love. Be a little (or a whole lot) silly.

So, like today’s kale is destined to become yesterday’s Snackwell cookie, there’s something to be said for living a present-moment life by—simply—being present. No new-age-y stuff needed.

Damn, I love when a seemingly progressive idea, like mindfulness, can be factored down to zero.  Just. Like. That.

Bam. Life. There you go.

Soundtrack: "Fisherman's Blues" by the Waterboys

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

Playlist: Just Purr and Sing Along

[youtube]Lhop9Pd4xfQ[/youtube] Ah, the Meow Meow Lullaby. Such a silly, simple, sweet song. Makes me smile every time I hear it. Reminds me of my own little fella . . .

Definitely an atypical tune from Nada Surf. Most of the videos out there for the song are of some scrappy concert footage, tots and tweens giving it a go, and slideshows cobbled together from Google images. The link above was the best of the bunch. Be sure to listen close to the end of the song. Melts the ol’ heart.

* * *

I stumbled across this blog post, On Losing a Beloved Pet, from Christine Kane last summer and promptly bookmarked it—after reading it twice and shedding a few tears, of course.

It’s about guilt and second guessing and knowing (or not knowing) when “it’s time.” It’s about life and the gift of time, surrender and experiencing the release of this furry being you treasure.

If you’re a pet parent, bookmark it. If you have friends who are pet parents, bookmark it for them. The wisdom runs deep. In the meantime, just purr and sing along . . .

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2010 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because I wholeheartedly believe that pets are the secret to having a happy home.

Gifted with Love, with Patience, and with Faith

Back in grad school, I was researching motherhood for a story I was thinking about writing. In the process of doing so, I stumbled across scotthousehold.com, where a Texas couple, Jenny and Andrew Scott, shared photos of their cherubic first-born daughter Allie with friends and family.

I discovered the site in the summer of 2004—shortly after their daughter was diagnosed with leukemia at five months of age. On the family website, Jenny provided daily updates on Allie’s health. I read through the archives and kept this little girl and her brave family tucked warmly in my heart.

Every day, I checked in to see how Allie was doing. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of others doing the same. Through Jenny’s updates, I witnessed what it meant to have a strong spirit—and to be gifted with love, patience, and faith.

I remember checking Allie’s website when I woke up in the morning on September 14 and learned of her passing the night before. I remember shedding tears for this mother whom I had never met. I sent out a lot of positive vibes over the few months that I followed Allie’s fight with cancer, and her parent’s struggle to make sense of it all.

On that morning six years ago, when purchasing my morning bagel and iced coffee at Bruegger’s before heading to class, the song “Wonder” by Natalie Merchant came on over the speakers. The same song Jenny had sung to Allie during her final moments of life. Whenever I hear that song—and I seem to hear it more often than you might think—I am reminded that life is indeed an ephemeral gift.

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2010 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because memories are filled with life. (Photo by Frank Peters via Creative Commons.)

I Remember

  My favorite souvenirs are my memories. I scoop them up, everywhere I go—filing away the words, gestures, facial expressions, scents, sights, and sounds. Later, and again and again over the years, I’ll page through these memories. Their details so crystalline, they instantly transport me back.

A cloudless cornflower-blue sky is my anchor to September 11.

I remember walking down the sidewalk to work. The sun was warm on my shoulders, but there was a tinge of autumn in the air. It would likely be the last time I’d wear my magenta sleeveless blouse for the season. The same blouse I wore on my first date with Andrew. Soaking in that Crayola-like blue before stepping into my office building, I remarked to myself what a positively gorgeous day this was.

I clicked on my e-mail inbox. The Scotsman had sent a message to everyone in my small group. “THEY DID IT AGAIN. THIS TIME ITS REALLY BAD.” I clicked on the hotlink to the New York Times, not at all sure who “they” were. I hurriedly tapped the refresh button until I could get through to the webcam atop the twin towers. A swirling smoke cloud filled the screen.

My colleagues and I crowded around the small TV in the café downstairs, clenching coffee cups until they were lukewarm. Another building down. Another swirling cloud. A storm of debris raining over the streets. The Scotsman tells us about 1993. He was there. It was horrible. But it didn’t even compare.

New York. Pennsylvania. DC. Boston held its breath as its people retreated home to watch the uncertainty unfold on TV.

When I got home, there was a UPS package on my front step—one of the last to be delivered for a week as the fifty nifty (and beyond) was deemed a no-fly zone. With my new laptop, I looked up all of these unfamiliar words on the news: Al Jazeera, Al Qaeda, Bin Laden.

The next morning, the sky was that same shade of cornflower blue. And the day after that. The news footage was on repeat, too. People’s loved ones were missing. Colleen, one of my old college classmates was missing. We had traded bottles of shampoo our sophomore year. And she had that green and purple Laura Ashley comforter I had always admired . . . and eyelashes as thick and curled as a blinky baby doll.

* * *

To remember, quite literally means “to put memories back together.” Recalling what once was.

And so I do. Today it’s the candy-sweet scent of Finesse that I got in exchange for my Pantene. Which, incidentally, is also cornflower blue.

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2010 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because I have infinite storage space for memories, old and new. (Photo by cdsessums via Creative Commons.)

Theo Can't Fly

I’ve been carrying around this piece of pink paper for years. On it is a poem that I wrote in the hours between school and supper back in December 1981. I was in the second grade, and could entertain myself for hours with my pink doodle paper, markers, crayons, and imagination.

Trying to keep my lines straight was no small feat. I can remember writing out several versions, but my words just kept sloping down. Even still, I was quite proud of my creation. Especially sounding out all those big words. Like pueugeuns.

But carrying around this relic of my youth—one of my earliest writings—was getting to be burdensome. Every year or so, I’d come across it somewhere in our house—filed with invoices from the vet, tucked inside of a notebook, buried under blank notecards and address labels from the MSPCA—and think to myself, someday I should really do something with that.

Finally, in a mini decluttering spree a couple of weeks ago, I decided to take action. I brought it to the framers. I’m so happy with how it turned out! Now I just need to find somewhere to hang it . . .

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2010 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because my walls are decidedly less cluttered than my drawers. 

Walking in the Air

Noah Biorkman is a 5-year-old boy from Michigan who was diagnosed with Stage IV neuroblastoma more than two years ago. He passed away on Monday.

When it became clear to Noah's mother Diana that her son would probably not be here to celebrate his favorite holiday on December 25, the family moved up its festivities to November 8. As part of that celebration, Noah's mother posted a request online for folks to send Christmas cards to her little boy. The request quickly circulated the Internet; caught  the attention of local, national, and international media; and tugged at the heartstrings of many. So much so that Noah received more than one million Christmas cards at his home. One of which was from me.

I sent Noah my last Raymond Briggs' Snowman card, which I've been hanging on to for years. For anyone who's not familiar with the story, it's about a young boy who builds a snowman in his front yard and, in the late-night hours, it comes to life. The boy introduces the snowman to his world--shiny ornaments on the tree, the fruit bowl in the kitchen, roller skates, and dress-up clothes--and the snowman introduces the boy to his world which includes a magical, soaring flight over the forest, ocean, and Northern Lights--all the way to the North Pole. It's a dream-come-true sort of event that comes to an end all too soon for the boy. All that's left is a fond memory and a tangible reminder that our time together is not infinite.

It's a beautiful story--perhaps the most somber children's Christmas story I've encountered--but when I read about Noah's mother's plea and her plans to give her son the celebration of a lifetime, I knew that remaining Snowman Christmas card was meant for this very real little boy.

Watch The Snowman--complete with the 1982 David Bowie intro (26:07)

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2009 Good Karma Housekeeping. Making the space--mentally and physically--to live happily ever after. Because what fun is life if you can't dream about fairytale endings?

Even Vegetarians Crave Meat Sometimes

I once dated a guy who would talk with his roommates--in longing, graphic detail--about Thanksgiving dinner. About the crispy, crinkly turkey skin; the juicy meat; the flecks of sausage in the stuffing; the pan drippings for the gravy. Together they ooohed and aaahed over this fleshy feat.

"So, why not just eat it?" I asked, quite matter of factly.

"Oh no. We could never," they responded in unison.

That was my introduction to the world of not eating meat for ethical reasons. It had never occurred to me, really,  that vegetarianism was more than just a band of people who didn't like their mother's pork chops and swedish meatballs. Giving up meat a couple of years ago was not a great sacrifice for me. I just never got excited over a nicely-marbled filet or a roasted chicken like others do. Soon after though, I began thinking about what it meant to not eat meat.

Perhaps it was all those years of staring into my pets' eyes; the proliferation of words like "grass fed," "hormone-free," and "free range" in the grocery store; reading The Omnivore's Dilemma; or some combination thereof. But the idea of eating a once-living creature just didn't make sense to me--not when there were so many other food options available.

I hate it. It's just not an industry that I can support. I am grateful to know that there are an increasing number of farmers who are taking care to raise their livestock humanely--and the more people who support this kind of farming, the less profitable the factory farms will be. At the end of the day though, the outcome is the same: chili con carne and buffalo wings, lemon chicken and BLTs.

With Thanksgiving just a few days away, I too have been thinking about how much I would enjoy a juicy slice of turkey with some stuffing on the side and a drizzle of gravy across both. More so than the taste, I think it's the ritual and tradition that I'm craving most.

Early on in my yoga teacher training journey, I read a book called If the Buddha Came to Dinner. Essentially, it said that food that has been lovingly prepared--no matter what it is--is a gift, and that if somebody grilled the Buddha a steak, he'd eat every last bite and say thank you. Meat should not ever go to waste.

Does that make him any less of a vegetarian? Is it possible to still practice ahimsa and enjoy a traditional Thanksgiving dinner? Or a bacon cheeseburger for that matter. Oh, how I long for a bacon cheeseburger . . .

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2009 Good Karma Housekeeping. Just because less is more is my philosophy on eating meat, doesn't mean it needs to be so for you.

The Lost Art of Writing Letters

 

Here’s what I received in the mail yesterday: catalogs from Crate & Barrel and L.L.Bean and a coupon from Bed, Bath & Beyond. The day before that it was grocery store circulars, something from American Express, and a postcard from Lucky Brand jeans. In all, a whole lot of nothing. If the U.S. Postal Service is going to cut back on its delivery days, that’s fine by me.

(Insert wistful sigh . . . )

I love both sending and receiving letters in the mail. But with cell phone use, e-mail, text messages, IM, Facebook, and so on, I fear the days of sitting down to pen a letter are long gone. Even when we do “care enough to send the very best” usually that means just picking out something with a canned sentiment and just jotting our name to the inside. Does that make you sad? It makes me very sad. 

In my bedroom closet, I have boxes full of letters and cards that I’ve received over the years. Each one a snapshot of how our lives converged. Each one a bit of history. In my old-fashioned opinion, an online folder full of e-mails simply doesn’t make the grade. There’s just something about having the paper in hand, words inked, that gives the message a greater sense of value. It’s why I can’t send a card without adding my own touch. It’s why I have a drawer full of stationery.

While watching all of the news coverage on the late Senator Ted Kennedy, I was pleased to learn that he too was an avid letter writer. From notes of congratulations to the coaches of Boston’s sports teams to annual letters of condolence to Massachusetts’ families who lost loved ones in the 9/11 attacks–and much more–here was a man who understood that well-chosen words are a lasting gift.

It need not be a whole “Dear so and so” type of letter with paragraphs. Even just a personalized sentence or two inside a store-bought card is meaningful. Or a postcard. Heck, even a Post-It note can be special. Just as long as they’re your own words.

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2009 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because less (fleeting, electronic correspondence) really is more. Though, on occasion, I’ve been known to send a few of these delightfully sarcastic e-cards. (Image courtesy of Timothy Lloyd via Creative Commons.)

Related posts: My Manifesto

Capture Memories, One Sentence at a Time

I have a thing for remembering dates and events, big or small. Some people take oodles of photos, piece together artsy scrapbooks, or maintain detailed journals. I, however, store most of my memories on a little mental calendar in the deep recesses of my brain.

I like it that way. Memories are my absolute favorite souveniers. But I'm getting older and I can admit that my once-photographic memory occasionally goes on the fritz. So, I'm thinking it's time to do something about it. Enter Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project and her ideas for keeping a non-journal. Or, as I prefer to call it, a memory calendar.

The concept is about as low-pressure and easy to maintain as they get. Not to mention, it takes up practically no space. Simply:

• Buy a datebook with the month and day (no year) printed at the top of each page. (Or create your own using a nice notebook. Just make sure it has enough pages!)
• Write a one-sentence entry for each day that has an event or memory that you'd like to hold on to over the years.
• Keep adding to it until the book is full.
• Repeat.

Just one sentence. That's all it takes to serve as a rich memory jogger. A few words that can transport you back on a multisensory journey to that table for two on your first date ten years ago. From his adorable smile to his expressive eyes to his chatty personality. All as vivid as if it took place yesterday. All still true today.

 _________________________________________________________________________ © 2009 Good Karma Housekeeping. Making the space--mentally and physically--to live happily ever after. Even more happily ever after than Shrek and Fiona. (Image courtesy of Y0si via Creative Commons.)