Positivity Post: Snow

Lately, we have been walking the line between seasons. The temperatures have been rising a bit, the ground has been bare, the birds are more vocal, and it has been feeling a bit like spring. Until last night when a storm blew in. This morning, we awoke to a foot and a half of snow and no school—a late season snow day when I was done with snow days. Mother Nature had other plans.

It is March, after all. After I had my daughter in early March, I began to realize how snowy this month can be. Countless birthday parties were cancelled, postponed, or spontaneously re-created because of weather—so many, in fact, that it was the topic of her college essay. But snow—even when we thought we were heading into spring—is really just a bump in the road.

For example, this time of year, with the longer days and the warmer temperatures, the snow will melt in no time! The melt of a foot and a half of heavy, wet snow will raise our water supply, decreasing the likelihood of drought conditions in the summer.

So today, I enjoyed the snow. This morning, I got some extra exercise as I removed the snow from my car then shoveled around and under my car—a necessity if I wanted to move out of my parking place. Late in the day, I went out with my daughter and took a few pictures of the snow. My focus was on bits of snow clinging to individual branches and the manner in which the white background made the details more vivid.

    

In between, I did some snow-day baking. Homemade bagels—an experiment that I will definitely improve upon. They don’t look so pretty, but they are delicious! I also made some chocolate orange biscotti. This was made from a recipe that I discovered years ago, but haven’t made since. For some unknown reason, today was the day. The biscotti is just as good as I remember!

         

March… it really does come in like a lion. Two nor’easters so far this month with another promised for next week. After that, maybe we’ll see a restart to spring. And maybe this time, spring will stick!

Advertisements

Solitude

It is dark and quiet and claustrophobic. A dim light glows from my iPad, currently in “night” mode, as the words of my book dance across the pages. There are other lights shining in my periphery, the reading lights of passengers across the aisle, and a row of gold and red “fasten seatbelt” icons starts above my head and runs toward the front of the plane. The constant low roar of the jet’s engines fills the silence that might otherwise be deafening, stuffing the cabin with its noise.

The book I am reading is one I have been poking my way through for a month or more. Poking. I am not a fast reader, but I have allowed this one to stretch out because it fits where I am in my life, and it allows me to both reflect and catch up with my emotions. If I finish it, the journey will be over.

The journey through Kelly Corrigan’s Tell Me More is one that celebrates life and death, and focuses on both happiness and grief. She talks of the love she had for her father (recently deceased) who supported her through the bumpiest of times—the back-sliding, the disappointments, the struggles of growing up. She talks of his life, his death, and how she’s been since. But there are other stories in the book. Losing her close friend, raising her children, parenting mistakes and triumphs. But it is the stories of her father that resonate most deeply with me because I am right there.

At various points through the book, I have cried. And now, sitting in the darkened cabin of an airplane hurtling through the night, I push my way to the end of the book, and I cry once more. The dark masks my tears, but I am not trying to hide. Grief is a part of a life—part of our deep and loving relationships. This writer, she gets it. The grief doesn’t go away. It quietly walks beside us, slipping into our consciousness every now and again when we least expect it.

As I read, as I work, as I parent, as I live… the grief is there. Every day, I relearn how to live with it as my life situations change around me. Here, stuffed inside the cavity of an airplane, the lessons are learned anew. When the plane lands and the passengers tumble out, I will reflect on this moment of solitude among the masses. And I will remember that grief is a shared experience.

Choose Happy

I’m working on happy, and for the most part, I am succeeding.

But lately, I have been trying to quell the noise that rattles around in my head. And by “noise,” I don’t mean just the self-talk. It is the noise of constant news from a society that often feels very broken and misguided.

I am trying to convince myself that change is on the horizon. Big change. It has to be. We just don’t know how long it will take to get there and how far away it might be.

And so, I pull inward where I can think and reflect and revise and pray. I hold on to the good moments of the day, the thoughts of positive actions, and the random acts of kindness. I remember what I am here for and whose I am.

And each time I am presented with the choice to be happy or not, I choose to be happy. Sometimes, I choose the better of two options, and it feels like a compromise. But most times, I choose happy. Either way, I am moving in a positive direction.

Happiness is a choice we make at various times throughout the day. When presented with the choice, choose happy.

Time for Action

Dear Elected Officials,

Today is Ash Wednesday in the Christian calendar and also Valentine’s Day. It is a day to celebrate renewal, rebirth, and love. The perfect confluence of holiday and holy day.

And yet, here we are, once again shocked and bewildered by a mass shooting in a U.S. high school. We are listening to horrific accounts of students scattering to escape gunfire; hearing parents’ fear as they talk of receiving panicked texts from their children; watching the post-shooting press conferences as law enforcement officials talk of casualties. Here we are. Again.

And there you are, sitting on the floor of the House and the Senate, collecting your donations from corporations and organizations promoting their agendas. Lining your pockets with blood money. Living out your days of public service in affluence at the expense of our most vulnerable—our children—while you refuse to consider that the real problem with our county might just be a government that is sponsored by corporate interests.

Senator Chris Murphy stood on the floor of the senate, visibly shaken by the most recent news, and delivered a brief message before he moved on to business. He said you are all responsible, but then he ended with the statement, “We will hope for the best.” What?

Seventeen more lives lost, and you are going to “hope for the best”? Seventeen young people who will not make their contributions to the world. Seventeen what ifs. These were young people with their entire lives ahead of them, young people with great promise. They were everything to their families, just as your children are everything to yours.

Perhaps one of these students was to be the  brilliant mind to find a cure for the very cancer that could now take the life of your grandchild. Another of the victims would promote an innovative and workable idea to create lasting peace in the most intensely war torn regions of the world. One could have developed a system to recycle and purify the Earth’s dwindling water supply. And another would figure out a way to reverse brain damage.

We will never know what might have been. We will never see what these young people might have contributed to our society. Because they didn’t make it to their high school graduation.

Yes, Mr. Murphy, you and your colleagues are responsible. You cannot “hope for the best” while you sit on the senate floor and do nothing. In this case, “hope” is not an action verb. “Hope for the best” all you want, Mr. Murphy, but hope without action is for cowards.

It’s time, Senators and Congressmen, to take on the work of the people who elected you to office. It’s time to protect the right to life of the children already born. Risk the disdain of those around you and take some action. If you step out of your comfort zone and do rather than hope, you might just change the trajectory of our society.

{photo used with permission of my talented daughter}

Do One Thing

On Wednesday, at the height of our most recent snowstorm, I went out for a walk. There is nothing to calm the soul and settle the noise of the world like a walk in a snowstorm. The falling snow muffled the noise in my head and pushed me toward a greater focus, allowing me to think.

I have been working on clearing out my head space, so I can more confidently forge a path toward my goals. It’s a journey, though at times it tends to feel like a journey of a million miles.

The first step is to simplify. I don’t just mean simplifying my environment by sorting through the things I own. I mean working to simplify my approach to the goals I have set for myself—those known goals that I am purposely working toward, and those goals that will evolve and become evident as I move down this path.

I have decided my approach will be to Do One Thing. I will start with the first step. It might be a big step, or it might be a teeny-tiny baby step. But any step will be one step more than the last. After each step, I will re-evaluate. If the first step didn’t turn out the way I’d planned, I will try something else. Regardless of whether I step or misstep, I will Do One Thing more, and I will be moving toward my goal, taking risks, and no doubt, learning more about myself in the process.

Because if there is one thing I have discovered in life, it’s that it’s never too late to become who—and what—you are supposed to be.

Kindness

We all have stories we tell ourselves. I have stories that I’ve woven into my reality that have been created to serve some purpose or other. Sometimes, the stories allow me to stay in my comfort zone. For example, lately I have been telling myself that once it warms up outside, I’ll start walking. If I tell myself this story, I don’t have to push myself to step out into the cold. In the winter, I like being warm, and even though I should go out and walk each day, it’s cold. And icy. And the wind will cut through even the heaviest of winter jackets. Winter is not the time to exercise outside, even though I used to do it all the time back when I was younger and more tolerant of the extremes in weather.

Sometimes, the stories I tell myself are designed for self-protection—i.e. so I am not disappointed about something that isn’t likely to happen. I might tell myself that a story won’t be published or that I am not good enough to be included in a group or accepted into a coveted program or opportunity. These stories are woven specifically to protect me from disappointment. Because after all, if I don’t get my hopes up, I won’t be let down, will I?

But the worst thing is the constant self-talk in my head. I can be brutal—constantly chastising myself for the things I say, the things I do, the things I don’t do. I have a whole series of conversations and monologues that I run through my head that focus on the worst about myself. I don’t think I am an anomaly in this respect. I think it is something that women, especially, do on a regular basis. Why do we do this? Why do we convince ourselves that we will never be enough?

Recently, I saw this video by TruthBomb Mom on Facebook in which she spoke with other women about their self talk. They admitted that they are harder on themselves than they should be. When the host then produced a picture of the woman as a little girl, she asked if the woman would say the same things to this child. And so, I took out a picture of myself as a child. Would I tell her the things I tell myself? Perhaps what we all need to do is be a bit more gentle on ourselves.

The next time I am tempted to criticize myself for every little thing I do, I am going to think of this girl. If I think of her, I have an inkling I am going to be just a bit more gentle, more patient, and more kind with myself. Because I am a work in progress, and deep inside my soul, this little girl is still a big part of who I am.

Fleeting Thoughts

I am sitting on the couch all cozy under a blanket as I watch my cat. She is looking for something to play with or something to do to keep her busy. She contemplated eating the charging cord to my computer, but then she remembered she’s not that kind of cat. She is the kind of cat who enjoys pulling my kitchen towel onto the floor, so she moved into the kitchen, perhaps to do just that.

The energy it took to get through the day has drained me, and I am savoring a few peaceful moments before I move upstairs to reread one of the books I will be teaching next week. Peaceful moments equal reflection and writing time, and since I couldn’t corral my thoughts into something coherent, I am writing down the ones that make sense.

Today was one of those days when the world seemed to stand still. The weather dampened everyone’s mood as the rain poured down in buckets and froze on every surface, both horizontal and perpendicular. In fact, everything has been so slippery that school was tardy for itself today, with a two-hour delay that came in an unexpected pre-dawn phone call. Since then, it seems, the day has been working to catch up with itself.

Here in the Northeast, I am craving sunlight and warmth, the advent of spring. It is the dead of winter, and my body is bereft of vitamin D. Like my cat, I want to spend the day curled up in a sunbeam, soaking in the light and the warmth, feeling the positive transformation within the depths of my being.

For now, perhaps sleep will have the effect of a sunbeam. And maybe tomorrow, time will follow a more predictable path.