Tidbits

Over the past month, I have had the opportunity to sit in on several hours of student-led review sessions for Anatomy and Physiology. In fact, I have spent so much time in these sessions that I am pretty sure I had an outside chance at passing the first exam, even though I never attended an actual class lecture or read the book.

As a non-science-type in these review sessions, I have begun to extract random tidbits of information that I find interesting or thought-provoking, that I might write into something meaningful (or completely meaning-less, I’m not sure). I would compile a bunch of random, overheard sentences or thoughts into a book, perhaps—something like Lessons Plucked from a Life of Listening. This book would contain helpful tidbits of information from many areas of life.

The particular idea that set me on this trajectory was the question of what would happen if our skin weren’t waterproof, and we were to go swimming. While the thought in the room was that the body would explode, I started to really think about that. If your skin weren’t waterproof, how waterlogged would you become? How heavy would your body be as you attempted to drag it out of the water? And what unsanitary microscopic creatures might enter your body if you were swimming in, say, a lake? My mind took off on a jaunt through a hundred different possibilities, as it often does. This book could definitely be a wild adventure—especially for a reader who would never know what was coming up next!

These thoughts, and the wanderings of my mind, led me back to reality… and to life. As I was running through the possibilities of the book such tidbits might become, I began to realize that life, too, is a series of tidbits. We take our memories and experiences as well as facts, thoughts, and ideas, and we pull them together into something that makes sense to us. From such a grouping of tidbits, we form a life. As we think back on our past, memory is a series of moments we remember for one reason or another. These memories become treasures that we hold onto, or lessons that we learn from, as we continue to move forward and create new experiences—new moments, or tidbits, which we will add to our ever-growing treasure trove.

So if I can create a (marginally) meaningful life by compiling tidbits, it would seem I could create a (marginally) meaningful book in the same way. And once compiled, that book might just be about life, in some strange way. So I’m going to keep compiling my list of tidbits while I live my life, and maybe one day, that list will make its way onto a different page.

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No, Thank You

It has been a challenging summer, and my work-life balance has tipped too far to the side of work, forcing me to slip away from the “life” side of balance—at least from the life I want to live. This situation has not been good for anyone, not for me and not for the various young people for whom I am responsible.

My current state of imbalance has made me nostalgic for the days I learned to say “No, thank you” to the things I didn’t want. I was young when my parents taught me the words, “No, thank you.” That way, if someone asked, Would you like more peas? I would know the proper response. “No, thank you,” I would say, and that would be that. No more peas.

However, “No, thank you,” has become a bit more complicated as responsibilities have piled on with adulthood. As responsibilities grow, the questions become increasingly complex, and they are not as easily answered with a simple “No, thank you.” As a teen, a tougher question might come from an acquaintance: Hey, we’re all going to the lake for a party. You wanna come? Even though I might be thinking, “No, thank you,” my response might be something along the lines of, “I’ll let you know,” and I’d walk away thinking, Nope. No way. As time passed, the questions—and the factors that needed to be considered—grew far more complicated.

Life is a series of checks and balances, shifting attentions, and maintenance. As an adult, I need to take a long, hard look at my life, my priorities, my family, my work, and my mental (and physical) health. Daily, these factors change, priorities shift and balance has to constantly be maintained.

Sometimes, things get out of whack—like this summer—and that’s when I realize my skill of saying “No, thank you” needs to be honed and strengthened. Because just like a muscle, if this skill is not used enough, it will weaken with inactivity.

So today, I’ve decided to begin regular exercise of my “No, thank you” muscle. I’m excavating deep into my childhood to help me remember how it works. I think it will just take some effort to jump start, but with some elbow grease and a lot of persistence, I’ll get that skill sharpened up in no time!

Blind Spot

It’s raining, and I’m driving to work, making my way down the highway a bit faster than I should. Cars are passing me, but I continue at the same pace, resisting the pressure to succumb to their impatience. My exit is not far off, and I need to move one lane to the right. I turn to look over my shoulder to check that the lane is clear, and I am startled by a large, red truck hanging out in my blind spot. An entire truck, bright red and visible even amid the road spray from the rain. How is it that something so big and bright is able to hide right next to me?

This, I realize, is not unlike the route my summer has taken. My life will be traveling along on what seems like a good path, headed in a positive direction, but then I notice something big and startling hanging out in my blind spot. I try not to swerve from my path to avoid it; I try to remain calm.

The past few weeks, it seems, there has been much that is hiding in my blind spot. These “life issues” hover on the periphery of my life, just out of my vision. So close yet so hidden. Every now and then, when I least expect it, they poke their heads out to taunt me: “Here I am!” mocks Loss. “Gotcha again!” shouts Grief. “Be quiet!” whispers Insecurity. “Not good enough,” chants Inadequacy. Each and every time, as I am caught off guard, I retreat within myself.

But I am tapping into my resources. This summer, I have been involved in some work with encouragement, wellbeing, belonging, and courage. Research that has affected me very deeply. And an important part of each of these is vulnerability. Vulnerability is at the heart of much we face in our lives; it’s a valuable part of connection—both to others and to ourselves.

The (involuntary) break I’ve (accidentally) taken from my blog has not been good for me. I am happier when I am writing and posting regularly. I am more centered and able to deal with the challenges—big and small—that life tosses in my path. Not writing has allowed me to realize that maybe what’s hiding in my blind spots needs to be tackled head on.

And so, I open myself up to the vulnerabilities. I will stand and be brave in the face of all that is hiding—the sadness and sorry, the challenge and grief, the insecurities and failures. By allowing myself to feel all of my emotions and be vulnerable, I can live into joy.

Patience in the Un-find-able

If I had a dollar for every minute I’ve spent searching for the un-find-able, I would be a rich woman. This weekend, it was a pair of shorts that we swore were in the house as both my son and I had “seen” them on Saturday. After a frantic search of the house, he returned to camp without them, and found that he had left them in his cabin when he left camp on Friday.

Over the years, there have been so many things. The “favorite” bean-bag dog that was pushed to the bottom of the sleeping bag in the night and ended up being rolled up inside it for months. The team jacket that we accidentally left (or did we?) in the locker room after the final competition of the year one June many years ago. I called the coach before she left the venue. On Monday, I called the school where the competition had been held. I emailed the coordinator of the event. We searched the closet, the car, and eventually, realized we’d have to buy a new one before the next competition season began. At the end of August, as we headed back to the studio, one of the other girls discovered my daughter’s jacket, along with her own, on the floor of her closet.

How many times have I heard: “Hey Mom, you know that form we were looking for…? It was in my locker.” How much time and energy have I spent searching, and in the end, the thing I am looking for turns up in its own time? Many such searches have confirmed that I can’t find the unfindable. That I shouldn’t worry about things that are out of my control. The things I am searching for will appear in their own time. Sometimes, lost items appear only to eyes that aren’t frantic from looking. And in this process, I have learned that (aside from endlessly searching) all I can do is be patient and wait.

This lesson is one that we learn over and over. The lesson reappears in small ways so we might recognize when it comes into our lives in big ways. We search for our career path, the fantastic opportunity, the house, the family, our way in life…. These things will all come in time and in their own way. When we are ready. When the world is ready. When God is ready. It’s important to recognize that the unfindable may be hidden from our view because there are situations that we cannot control—that we should not control.

When something is lost—or we are lost—remember to take a deep breath and let go. The simple act of letting go makes just enough space in our lives that whatever is lost might just find us.

Balance

Despite the fact that I started out July thinking I would “be bold” and post more frequently, I have gotten caught up in the crazy of summer life. I have gotten caught up in my work, reading the books necessary to complete that work, preparing for college, cleaning up and throwing out. All this amid the daily routine of household chores necessary to maintain a functioning home. Sometimes, I begin to feel I am losing my grasp on what is real and necessary and beautiful.

It seems out of necessity, I have been cramming too much into the summers. Actually… into life. I spend my days cramming too much into life. Too many jobs, too many chores, too many errands, too many appointments. These things take a toll, but as I prepare to pay tuition bills, I am hit broadside with the reasons why I constantly push, always taking on more. But cramming in so much is not always a good thing. Quality, simplicity, and reflection would be good things. These things would give me the ability to shift my perspective, breathe, and re-evaluate the crazy that dominates my days. Maybe find a better balance.

Each time I think I am almost to the end of my crazy, a new string of commitments and appointments makes non-crazy an un-truth. Once again, the crazy continues, off-kilter and out of balance, but next week looks promising….

Kinda funny about next week. There’s always next week, isn’t there? And next week always brings new hope for just a bit more balance.

Be Bold!

Each year, as I head toward January, I buy myself an inspirational calendar because… well, because it will be inspirational! And believe me when I tell you that I don’t flip through the calendar when I first get it to see what is waiting to inspire me each month. No. I wait. I am a delayed gratification kind of girl.

When I turned my calendar to July, I was met with a quote from Goethe: “Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it.” What a great thought to start the month!

And so for this month, I will be bold. For this month, I will write more blog posts. I will take more steps, set more goals, and implement more action plans. For this month, I will take more risks.

Because boldness has genius. And power. And magic. And for me, it’s all about the magic! Come on and join me. Just for this month, be bold!

Firefly Season

It’s firefly season in New Hampshire, a magical time that awakens the memories of long summer days and playful nights from my childhood. Each year, I discover firefly season quite by accident, and it always takes me by surprise—as if I had forgotten that fireflies exist.

This year, I was walking along a path through the woods with my children. I saw a tiny yellow-green flash against the darkness of the woods. And then another. “Fireflies!” I exclaimed, though my children had already seen them. Each evening since, I have taken a walk just before dusk darkens to night, so I might once again experience their fleeting magic before they slip away until next year.

Fireflies bring me back to childhood summers. Bedtimes were extended to accommodate early July activities—picnics and fireworks and ice cream. We would venture out into the darkness with jars to catch as many of these magical insects as we could. Bugs that light up! We would follow them with our eyes, attempting to predict their path in the darkness, hoping their bright tails would reappear where we were expecting them. As we opened our jars to catch the next firefly, one or two might escape, and the chase would begin anew. At the end of our hunt, when it was way past time to go to bed, we would open our jars and set them all free.

Firefly season always brings me back to those magical nights of childhood. I can feel the warm summer air and soft breezes. I can smell the scent of grass and dew. I can hear the muffled voices of my parents by the open window and the squeals and giggles of childhood.

When I spot the first firefly,  I am right there, surrounded by all the richness of life.

{Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash}