Two to Tango

I only like coffee on Saturday.

Every Saturday morning after 2 1/2 hours of workout, all I want is coffee. On these Saturday mornings, myself and two of my dear girlfriends buy our toffeecoffees and sit at Mama Java's for hours. We sit until our hair wreaks of coffee beans, we're shaking from refills, and my husband has texted wondering if I died in Camel Pose. It's very Sex and the City - minus the city, minus the liquor, minus one woman, plus sweaty sports attire and smeared mascara. Though the scene looks a little different, it sounds the pretty much the same. We informally take turns sharing stories of the week - work, men, friends, men, men, men. Though two of us are married, there are still plenty of men stories to share.

One story stuck with me over the past few weeks. Perhaps because I've heard it before, or versions of it. Perhaps because it's a story told by so many. A story I've told myself.

This story starts with a man. A dreamy man. A charming man. It continues with a beautiful woman. An intelligent woman. She of course adores this man. And he reciprocates that adoration... sometimes. When he feels like it. But when he's not reciprocating, he always has a reason. He's stressed. Very stressed. His friend is sad. He must help his sad, sad friend. He's busy. Very busy. SO BUSY that he literally does not have 15 spare seconds to send a text. None. These are the reasons he cannot call, he cannot text, he cannot show this beautiful, intelligent woman proper respect. These reasons are all good enough... good enough when you don't know you deserve better.

It is never easy to sit at a table with your friends, male/female, long-term/new friends as they tell you a story and you already know the ending. On this particular Saturday, in this particular situation, I decided to offer this:

It was Freshman Orientation - the summer before my first year of college. I traveled the four hours to see the campus I would soon call home. I met some of the students, spoke with some of the professors, made a few friends who I still know and love today. I also met "my future husband." Oh yes. He was fair-skinned-blonde-haired-blue-eyed, just what you would expect to find at a northern Minnesota Lutheran College. Interestingly enough, he had actually gone to my high school too; he was a senior when I was a freshman. And now, four years later, he was a senior (again) and I was a freshman (again). If you can believe it, he was more than willing to show me around campus while I was visiting. Then, later that summer he came back to our hometown, he came over to my parents' house to see if I had any questions. The only question I could think of was, "Will I even see you when we get up to school?" His only answer, "Kindra, I hope we are dating when we get up to school."

As far as I was concerned, college was already a success -- while I told my parents I wanted a diploma, secretly part of me just wanted a husband. I couldn't believe I had found him so quickly. I was pretty sure I didn't even need to GO to school after all.

Unfortunately, within the first few weeks things started going downhill. Apparently summer promises don't hold up well once the semester starts. I remember one Friday night we had made plans to go to dinner, but then an hour before I was to meet him outside the dorm, he called to say his grandmother died. Awful. He wasn't going to be able to make it.

We rescheduled for the next Friday. Then, an hour before I was to meet him outside the dorm, he called to say his grandmother died. Awful. He wasn't going to be able to make it. I'll admit, I was taken aback by the coincidence. What are the chances he would lose both grandmothers within a week of each other. But, I was sad for him all the same.

We rescheduled for the next Friday. And then,... his grandma died. Again.

I was pretty sure something was up ... but I thought I should get some outside advice. As I told this story to my roommate, to the girls on my floor in the bathroom, to the girls in my health class, to the girls on the speech team, their reactions were all the same. What a jerk! I should show up on his doorstep with a grief gift. What a jerk! I should offer to attend the funerals. I should call him family and offer my condolences. What a jerk! It was unanimous. I agreed. What kind of a future husband behaves this way?

I planned to have words with him on the fourth Friday night of my college career. I was going to tell him that he should stop treating me like that. However, it would have to wait until after my Latin-Dance Competition for Spanish 3 Class that evening.

As my dance partner and I were warming up for the Merengue, I told him about the multiple-dead-grandmas. I told him what a Jerk my future husband was. It was obvious the response I was hoping for, and I fully expected him to to shout out "What a Jerk!" in spanish. But he did not. He wasted no breath telling me I was right - he didn't even touch on the fact that my future husband was being a jerk. Instead, he responded: "Kindra, it takes two to Tango."

Huh? I should have known better than to talk to a man.

I didn't have time to clarify before we were strutting across the floor, though I don't think clarification would have helped. It wasn't until years later that I truly understood his meaning. It wasn't until years after that, that I believed (allowed myself to believe) what he was saying was correct.

The tango is a passionate dance filled with twists and turns, but unless it's required for your grade in spanish class, this dance is your choice. In these situations, in order for someone to be a jerk, you must be participating. You have to be waiting for the call that won't come, the text that won't be sent. In my story he might have been a jerk, but it was my decision to keep dancing; to keep calling, to keep engaging, to keep plotting, to keep allowing myself to be treated that way. He was being a jerk yes, but my heels were on, the rose tightly between my teeth. It is easy to blame your partner, but satisfaction/relief will never come unless you realize the role you play in your own struggle.
---

When I shared the story of the dead grandmothers that Saturday morning at coffee, my friends laughed at me. I expected them to. It was funny. Ridiculous. Three dead grandmothers in a row -- and the fact that I kinda believed him... hilarious. I nodded and looked down into my fourth cup of coffee. Then after a pause (for dramatic effect), I raised my eyebrow. I tried with a look to say to my beautiful, intelligent friend, that she was dancing right now. And perhaps it was time to get off the floor. That was the last Saturday we spoke of her dreamy-charmer. Thankfully, shortly after, she decided to take her final bow and exit stage right to uproarious applause from her Saturday morning coffee crew.

If you happen to be tangled in the tango as you read this, though we are not sitting at coffee, I hope the story I shared makes you laugh at my foolishness. I was foolish. My second hope is that you'll take a close look at your story, at your foolishness and with a forgiving heart (forgiving of you) choose to end the dance.

Paradise Found

I love birthdays. Especially mine. And now, after waiting an entire year, my birthday is finally back. I turn twenty-nine on Monday. I’ll admit, I’m not a huge fan of birthdays being on Mondays, but I solved that problem. The celebration started Thursday with surprise birthday balloons tied to my bike at Spin Class. Additionally, I have been using the phrase “It’s my birthday!” liberally throughout the rest of the week – shouting it out in the grocery store, in the office, as a way to greet people on the phone when they call me. I have eaten no fewer than five cupcakes (some gourmet, some homemade with love) and have enjoyed three “birthday” dinners. Now that I think about it, this would be my best birthday except for one small detail…

Twenty-nine.

In a recent phone conversation, my mother asked me how I felt about the fact that I was turning twenty-nine. My answer was simple.

Yuk.

Let me be clear, I explained. I have no problem with getting older. That’s actually why this birthday is kind of a downer – I would rather be turning thirty. I feel like I’ve been here a long time. I feel like I have the wisdom, the maturity, the spirit of someone who is turning thirty. I’m ready to move into the next decade of ages. I’m ready for the big celebration that comes when you leave a decade behind. I’m ready to exit my twenties. Therefore, twenty-nine I explained, is kind of … anti-climactic.

There was silence on the other line. I prepared myself for the typical “Youth is wasted on the young,” or “Enjoy your twenties while you have them” responses. However, those phrases never came. Instead, my mother said in her contemplative voice (that I hope to one day master but I’m pretty sure I’ll have to be much farther along than thirty, forty even…)

“Twenty-nine was my most difficult birthday too. But I think for very different reasons...” Here were the reasons she gave me.

My mother and father got married when she was 22. At age 26 she had a (very very very beautiful) daughter. At age 28 she had a son. Therefore, the birthdays leading up to twenty-nine looked something like this. Twenty-two: she had the world at her feet, she was marrying the man of her dreams, she had her whole life ahead of her; a life of adventure and romance. Twenty-six: the wonder, the magic of her first pregnancy. The belly, the baby talk, there could be nothing better. Twenty-eight: her second pregnancy, the joy of a growing family, explaining what it was going to be like to be a big sister, the excitement of a full home. Then she turned 29.

While she loved her husband, adored her children, she couldn't escape the feeling that something wasn't right. That something was missing. Where was the adventure? Where was the romance? Now that the excitement of the changes in her life had settled ... was this it? Twenty-nine: work. wife. mom. work. wife. mom. She didn't remember signing up for this. This wasn't the Paradise she had planned. She felt lost -- like the thing that was missing was her.

A day that should have been a celebration of her life, and instead she felt like she had none. Twenty-nine, she explained, was … anti-climatic. At best.

I had never known this story of my mother. And hearing it reminded me of a different story.

This story is called Could this be Paradise? by Steve Sanfield and can be found in one of my favorite collections of stories, The Best Loved Stories Told at the National Storytelling Festival. Here is the story as I remember it.

There once was a man who was displeased with his life. Every morning at the kitchen table, over a luke-warm breakfast he would scorn his life that had fallen short of his expectations. He didn’t like his work, his wife was a nag, and his children could never be satisfied. Since it didn’t appear that his lot would be changing anytime soon, he spent most of his time dreaming of Paradise. “Someday, someday I will journey to Paradise.”

Then, one day, not much different than any other day he decided this would be the day he traveled to Paradise. Without a word to his wife, without a hug to his children, he pushed open the heavy front door, walked through the front gate with a broken latch and down the street to the village he had called home.

He passed the people who knew him by name, little did they know this would be the last time they saw him. He walked by the general store, the town hall, and the church. The buildings were old and tattered. He was happy to be trading them in for the beautiful buildings of Paradise. It didn’t take long until he was at the bottom of the hill that marked the edge of his village. He took one last, lingering look for this was certainly the last time his eyes would ever see this town. He was a man bound for Paradise.

The man climbed the hill and began his journey. He crossed the countryside, traveled in the direction of the sun, certain it would bring him to Paradise. However, Paradise was not a mere day’s journey. Eventually the sun slipped behind the horizon, the sky deepened and the chill of night fell. The man decided to stop for the evening. He found a tree that would provide sufficient shelter, and before laying down, removed his shoes. The man carefully placed his shoes beside the tree, pointed in the direction he had been traveling; pointing them towards Paradise. With that, he lay down under the tree and began dreaming of the Paradise that awaited him.

Whether as a joke, a prank, or to teach the man a lesson it is not clear. What is clear is that night while the traveler slept a troll came and, without a sound, took the man's shoes and turned them around. The shoes now pointed back in the direction from which the Paradise-seeker had come. With that, the troll vanished.

As the first rays of the morning fell, the man awoke. “Today is the day I find Paradise!” He leapt to his feet, put on his shoes, and began traveling in the direction they told him to go – traveling toward Paradise.

After nearly an entire day of walking, he arrived. “Paradise!” he shouted from a top the hill that marked the edge of Paradise. As he stared at the village below, he thought it looked vaguely familiar. “Strange,” he said. “It looks similar to my old village.” The man didn't think much of it - he was too excited to have finally found Paradise. He descended down the hill.

As he walked, he passed a church, a town hall, and a general store. “Strange,” he thought, “these buildings look as tattered as the buildings in my old village.” Writing it off as a coincidence, he kept on walking – thrilled to be in Paradise. As he walked, he met the people of Paradise. Strangely, they knew him by name.

The man continued until he came to the end of the road where there was a gate with a broken latch. He walked through and as he did, he heard a voice calling him in for dinner. “Strange, she sounds just like my old wife.” But never having turned down dinner before, he entered the home. As he opened the heavy front door, he was greeted by two children who wrapped themselves around him, happy to have their loved one home.

To this day, the man sits at the kitchen table every morning over a luke-warm breakfast, content with his life in Paradise. Or at least, he was pretty sure it was Paradise. If not, it was close enough.
---
I don’t personally remember much about my mother’s 29th birthday. I do know she never left. She probably opened gifts that she bought for herself and gave to my well-meaning father to give back to her. She probably cleaned the kitchen-turned-battlefield after her two children “baked her a cake.” She probably spent most of the day in the role of "mother" and "wife" and not much time as "the birthday girl." She probably called her mom and told her that her 29th birthday was ... anti-climactic. As the day came to a close, she probably tucked the kids in, kissed her sleeping husband good-night, removed her shoes and crawled into bed. And in those last moments before sleep took her away, perhaps she dreamed of Paradise…
---

The desire for Paradise is not itself a crime. Everyone desires Paradise. The confusion of where to find Paradise is where the problem lies. Paradise is your responsibility. It is a state of mind. Paradise doesn’t exist unless you create it, unless you choose it. The next time you seek Paradise, long for it, fear you may never find it … turn your shoes around and walk right back to where it all starts. With you.

My mother awoke on her second day of being 29 to two children wrapped around her, a husband who adored her, and a renewed perspective. In the night, someone had come and turned her shoes around. It wasn't a troll, it was her. And when she awoke, she chose to see Paradise.

So when you find yourself in that moment, birthday or not, when your life is not what you expected, when you are overcome with the desire to seek Paradise - before you do, be sure to first take a moment to turn your shoes. Take a moment to find the Paradise that exists around you. If improvements need to be made, fine. Those improvements can be grounded in the Paradise you've already created - it's there, and it shouldn't take a troll to find it.

With that said, I have decided to approach my twenty-ninth birthday differently. I am going to soak up every moment of that Monday, thrilled to have exactly that many years under my belt: no more, no less. Thrilled to be exactly where I am, pleased with where I intend to go. Paradise.

Besides, now I have more time to plan a really great 30th Birthday Party.

What It Takes to Run a Marathon

Every few months or so, I decide I am going to run a marathon. I believe that if I run a marathon I will be "A Runner." A Runner is something I never thought I would be, and to become one... well, that would be a VERY big deal.

Once I make this decision, I begin the planning. Marathon running takes A LOT of planning. First, you have to decide WHICH marathon you are going to run. I typically choose the Phoenix Rock n' Roll Marathon in January.

After you choose the marathon, you then have to decide which training program you're going to use. Marathons take A LOT of training. My training program default comes from Hal Higdon. He's pretty straight forward: Monday -rest, Tuesday - run Xmiles, Wednesday - run Xmiles, Thursday - run Xmiles, Friday -rest, Saturday - run way farther than you thought you could, Sunday - cross train.

After I familiarize myself with the schedule, I then fill it in on my desk calendar. I write down on each particular day how many miles I'm supposed to run. This way, I will not be confused -- I can simply look at my calendar and KNOW how far I should go. Unfortunately, I often mess up, skip a week somehow, and have to erase three weeks worth and start over. It is a very time consuming task, but necessary if you wish to successfully run a marathon.

Also necessary is entering the same information into the calendar on my phone; this way I can know the miles I need to run no matter where I am. I'll admit, this is more tedious than the desk calendar process, but a runner's got to know how far they're supposed to run on what days even if they’re not sitting at their desk, staring at their desk calendar.

You might ask, well can’t “A Runner” just go out and start running around however far they choose, on any given day just for the simple fact that they love running...

The answer is no.

Ok. The next step is to prepare my iPod. Everyone needs a strong, motivating playlist to get through the long runs and to make the short runs enjoyable. Now, I have two iPods. A Shuffle and a Nano. The Shuffle is limited in its abilities however, the Nano I stole from Michael so it is cursed. It works only when it wants. Sadly, Nike+ doesn't work with the Shuffle so therefore I run with both. The Shuffle and the Nano. BOTH iPods need to be well equipped with songs-for-running. But not the same songs. I wouldn’t want to take my earphones out of the Nano when it dies only to hear the same songs again when I plug into the Shuffle. So, two strong, motivating playlists are necessary to run a marathon.

Then it is time for the running apparel. Shoes chosen for my foot and step alone. Socks that don't slide or soak. Shorts that are comfy and cute. Tops that support with style. Accessories that keep wild hair tamed. I'm telling you, running a marathon is a lot of work.

Next ... well, I have to be honest, I haven't really made it past that point. I spend all my time preparing to start taking steps to run ... but have never actually moved my feet.

Do you think this hinders my chances of becoming “A Runner?”

----

When I was in sixth grade I met a girl named Ali. She was in tenth grade and also a competitive storyteller. I remember thinking that she was the coolest, most amazing girl I had ever met. She could drive. She talked to boys. And she was the best storyteller, the only storyteller, I knew. In an awkward time of my youth, she offered guidance and kindness -- something for which I have always been grateful. A few months ago, after nearly 15 years, we reconnected on Facebook. As fate would have it, I was once again at an awkward time. This time with my stories, my writing. I wasn't sure where to go next, what I was doing, and just as before, Ali offered guidance...

Though this time around, kindness was more of an after thought ...

Because she is in New York and I am in Phoenix, our communication occurs only by email. In one particular email, she pointed out an area where I could improve -- an area where I was getting in my own way (read Goal #15: Go to Church for more on that topic). I agreed and responded:

"Guess it's time to start taking the steps to do it..."

To which she wrote this:

"I love that you are so adorable that you say "time to start taking the steps to do it." Sh*t, girl, you kill me. I literally sit at my computer laughing my a** off, but I know you are serious. So I don't tell you. But really, it is adorable and I know this is offensive, so PLEASE, allow me this offense, but ... Wow. "time to START taking the STEPS to do it." so that would mean what, exactly? Hahahaha. I love it. Here's Harlem talkin': 'Just do it.'"

I told you. Little kindness.

I'll admit, when I read this email, I was a little pissed. I mean, come on. Laughing at me? I wasn't in sixth grade anymore thinking that hot pink tights under long jean shorts, ballet slippers and a shirt (that looked like it was backwards when it was really frontwards) was ok to wear. And what was with the "just do it" nonsense. That's Nike talking, not Harlem. Hadn't she read my blog about pursuing my passion?! Wasn't it obvious that I WAS just doing it?! I wasn't going to sit around and wait twenty years. Didn’t she realize that there were steps that needed to be taken before really... getting... into it ...

And then a thought occurred to me.

I met Ali when I was 11, just months after I knew that sharing stories was something I was meant to do. I am one of a fortunate few who don't have to waste any time 'figuring out' what to do with their lives. I knew. I was eleven and I knew.

I will be 29 on the 22nd of this month...

It's been eighteen years and I am still preparing to "start taking steps."

That's ridiculous.

In The Story of the Fancy Checks I scorn the thought of waiting 20 years to pursue my passion. Yet, it's been 18 years already.

Let me tell you, I prefer a wake up call to kindness any day.

----

We see this happen all the time -- people waiting, preparing to start taking steps to do it. The reality is, there are. no. steps. in between doing it and not. Unfortunately, we are very persuasive when it comes to convincing ourselves. With that attitude it is only a matter of time before the marathoners run by with numbers safety-pinned to their shirts and all you can do is watch and say, "maybe next year." Maybe next year I'll start taking the steps to do it... and before you know it, five, ten, eighteen years have come and gone. All the while you've been taking steps without ever moving your feet.

Whether it's to start a workout regimen, to open an animal shelter, to make your cold calls, to go back to school, to pursuit any dream; let me do you a favor, cut the kindness, and give you the reality -- I'm laughing at you, just as (I am so grateful) Ali laughed at me, just as I laugh at myself. From Harlem or from Nike, the meaning is the same. What are you waiting for, just do it.

The Happiest Place on Earth

I remember the first Christmas gift Michael, my husband, ever gave me.

I remember I had NO.IDEA. what it was.

I remember trying hard to act very excited/surprised/impressed/appreciative because it was also the first Christmas at his parents' house and I felt like I was auditioning for the part of "Future Daughter In Law" and I really wanted to get the role.

After the screaming and the holding it up for everyone to see, it became very clear that they all knew what it was. It also became clear that it was clear to them that I didn't have a clue what I was holding.

"I love it!" I wasn't going down without a fight.

"Do you know what it is?" Future Sister-in-Law wasn't going to make this easy.

"Ahhh... ping pong ball." Correct.

"And?" The Future Mother-in-Law was getting in on it now.

"A ping pong ball with... eyes." Correct.

"It's a character we all know ..." Michael.

"And he wears a white glove." Future-Sister-In-Law.

"Michael Jackson?"

"And kids love him." Future-Mother-In-Law.

"Michael Jackson?"

"Oh for chrissake. It's Mickey Mouse. You're going to Disneyland." Michael gave up.

Being a Minnesota girl, I had never been to Disneyland. I had been to DisneyWorld once on a family vacation the summer after my junior year of high school. I guess you could say I was a late bloomer when it came to the full Disney experience. Michael, being a California boy, went to Disneyland for every.single.one of his birthday parties and for every birthday party of any of his friends. Disneyland for Michael was the equivalent of a trip to the grocery store for me. When he realized I had never been, he took it upon himself to give me this gift that my childhood never allowed. This was ultimately a gift for him too, since his last trip to Disneyland was when he was 10 and he'd been itching to go back ever since.

The date to Disneyland was set: January 15th, 2007. It was a Monday. This is very important. It was a strategic decision on Michael's part. Monday meant there would be fewer people, shorter lines, easier to navigate the park. This particular Monday in January it was raining. Michael assured me as we drove north on the 5 that this was a good thing. Rain meant there would be fewer people, shorter lines, easier to navigate the park.

The entire drive Michael told stories of the wonders of Disneyland. His eyes were ablaze. He was using large, erratic gestures. His face had become animated. He warned me of the rides that were scary, the rides that were fun. He told me about the train that drove around the whole park; the WHOLE PARK! a REAL TRAIN. He told me about the village and the pirates and even a little about the princesses.

It was on the drive that I realized...
I was going to Disneyland with a ten year old.
This was going to be interesting.

We pulled up to the park just moments after it opened. Michael raced to get on the little train that took us from the parking lot to the gate. At the gate we had a few options: we could buy a pass that would give us access to both Disneyland and California Adventures, or a pass just for Disneyland. Now, the California Adventure park (as I understand it), is a newer park that has some of the more exhilarating-for-grownups-rides. Michael informed me however, that there simply would not be enough time to see ALL of Disneyland and another park. Disneyland takes all day long. We probably wouldn't leave til after dark. Not wanting to argue with the expert, I went with it. We bought our DisneylandOnly tickets and walked toward the door to paradise, hand in hand.

As we passed through the gate and traveled into Disneyland, I looked around. It was cute. Little Disney shops, Pluto was signing autographs, Mickey and Mini were holding their hands in front of their faces -- the universal sign of mouse laughter. It looked more or less like I had expected. Very Disney. Michael however, took a few steps forward and slowly let go of my hand. He looked around, standing in one place, turning in a circle.

"This. isn't. how. I remembered it ... It looks so ... small."
Let’s not get confused, Disneyland looks small to anyone over four feet tall. Michael is 6'4". But I have a feeling he was referring to more than just spatial relativity.
I could hear the heartbreak in his voice.

He wasn't going to let that stop us however. We charged forward to the Matterhorn. Michael warned me as our little cart climbed the make-believe mountain "Now Kindra, at the top of this hill there is a very large, very scary abominable snowman with red eyes and he growls. Just close your eyes if it's too much."

Sure enough, at the top of the hill, a three foot tall, red-christmas-light-eyed mechanical abominable snowman who jerked his arm forward and back as the speakers tried to play a sound that I assume was supposed to be growling but just sounded like TV static, greeted us.

Michael looked sheepish. We went to Peter Pan.

"You're gonna love this one because it really feels like you're flying."

It didn't.

We went to the Pirates of the Caribbean.

"At the beginning of this ride, and I'm serious this time, there is a big drop so just hold on."

The drop was like taking the ramp instead of the stairs.

We went to the Tea Cups.

"You have to turn this thing in the center to go fast. It's really really heavy so you'll probably want me to do it."

The ride started and Michael started turning the center of the cup. Apparently he was unaware of his own non-ten-year old strength -- within two seconds gravity had taken over and we were both slammed against the back of the teacup, unable to breathe, unable to control our saliva, and moving at the speed of light. I was trying to laugh, but couldn't, and Michael was trying to let go of the turner in the middle but gravity was holding his hands prisoner. When we stepped off the ride, we both had to excuse ourselves to the restroom.

We decided to call it a day shortly after the teacups. We were both wet and completely exhausted. It was 2pm.

As we walked out of the park, our shoes squishing in the rain, Michael thoughtfully expressed, "It was nothing like I remembered. It was nothing like when I was 10. It was like... a different place."
---

One thing I know for sure, Disneyland hadn't change. Disneyland wasn't what was different. It rarely is. The places we've been aren't often what change ... it is usually us. We grow, we learn, we become.

This is a wonderful thing that I don't often take time to celebrate; how far I've come. I'm always focusing on how far I have to go, the distance I have left to travel. Unfortunately, that kind of thinking can often be filled with doubt, with concern that I won't have the knowledge or ability to make it happen. Not very often are we thrust into an "old reality" to make it perfectly clear how far we've come - like Disneyland was to Michael that Monday in January - but that doesn't mean it's not important to take time to acknowledge it. If I were to just pause for a moment, I could look back, be inspired, and gain the strength and confidence I need –because what is more inspiring than someone who has come as far as I have. Anyone like that certainly has what it takes to go much farther.

You know what I'm talking about.

Whether it's conquering a new pose in yoga, mastering a new program in video editing, figuring out how to brown the pastry without burning it, it is time to get in the practice of celebrating victories of all sizes. When Oliver Wendell Holmes said, "A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions," he articulated one of the most beautiful human traits. It's time to congratulate ourselves for it.
---

Our trip to Disneyland put us face to face with a previous reality. A previous understanding of the world. Though it wasn't what he was expecting, Michael left the park with a knowing smile on his face. I left with an embroidered hat with ears on my head, a belated Christmas gift.

As we climbed into the car and left the garage painted thick with Donald, Daisy, Goofy and friends, Michael looked over with a smile...

"It's gonna be fun to have kids."

I love Disneyland.

The Stranger in Starbucks

A few days ago I was standing in line at Starbucks. This is not something I am used to -- typically I'm at Starbucks around 6:30am where the "line" is the same skinny brown-haired guy in a sweater and thick-rimmed-GQ-styling-specs. However, on THIS day at Starbucks it was around 8:00am and the line was 10 people deep and growing.

I briefly turned around to survey the situation. That's when I noticed the man standing directly behind me. He was in his early 70s I would guess, maybe older. African American. 6 feet 1 inch tall-ish. He was wearing an old, battered, exhausted hat and an expressionless face. He looked tired... then again, a lot of the people on our side of the register looked tired.

Just as I turned back around (trying to ignore the weapon of carbohydrates covered in a pile of cheese - otherwise known as an asiago bagel -- can't fool me, I know asiago is just a fancy word for cheese-that-you'll-regret-eating-later), another early 70s-ish man approached us. He was white, portly, and moving a little slow. As he passed, he looked to the man behind me and a slight smile crossed his face. At first I attributed it to the venti beverage in his hands, but then he spoke to the man behind me.

"Thank you for your service."

I'll admit, for an instant I was very confused. I thought he was thanking the man behind me for getting him the coffee... "serving" him. Though, I was pretty sure the man standing behind wasn't wearing a Starbucks apron. I turned back just to double check and that's when I noticed, for the first time, that his old, battered, exhausted hat said NAVY on the front. Ah, THAT kind of service.

I also noticed that his expression had changed. I'm not sure how to explain it - I am sure I'll never fully understand it - but I do know that it was good. I know it said "Thank you" and endlessly more.

I was paying as he ordered his drink with a smile.

.....
This experience reminded me of a story I posted in June. And since I am on vacation (and anxious to get to the beach!), I thought it might be a good time to revisit a favorite of mine. This story is called:

Be a Stranger


Tonight I had the privilege of dinner and a movie with a dear friend of mine. Despite the fact that we both live in the Phoenix Metro Area, she was in my wedding, and I watched her first daughter be born ... I RARELY see her. Not only do I not see her, but we barely even get to speak. It is an absolute shame, the world moves too fast -- but tonight, we made a date and kept it.

We met at the usual spot; California Pizza Kitchen. Ate the usual meal; Waldorf Chicken Salad (a salad that makes me not feel like I'm missing out on the pizza). Talked the usual talk; she listened as I blah blah blahed my way through. You know, typical girls' night out.

However, in a moment when I stopped to take a breath (or more likely a bite), she said something that I pondered the whole drive home ... Actually, it's what's keeping me up tonight, when in fact I should be sleeping. What she said reminded me of the day I decided to move to California.

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It was very early December of 2006. I had been in Phoenix (Scottsdale actually) for about two and a half months and I had had enough. Work wasn't what I was hoping it would be, I hadn't met any people I particularly cared for, and the ONE person I DID meet who I THOUGHT I cared for, turned out to have a live-in girlfriend (and all that time I thought he liked hanging out at my place because of my awesome futon). Yep, two and a half months were enough for me.

On a Saturday morning I made my decision. I had been out the night before with the people I didn't particularly care for and woke up with the kind of headache that would make anyone want to leave town. I packed a bag, grabbed my laptop, and prepared to hit the road -- the 10 west as a matter of fact; straight to Los Angeles. I remember just as I was about to close the door on the apartment I passed the mirror that hung on the wall.

It was a mirror I bought at IKEA the day I moved to Arizona because I loved it -- actually, I loved what I SAW when I looked into it. When I looked in that mirror that day at IKEA, I saw hope. Hope and excitement in my own reflection.

However, the face in the mirror on THIS day did NOT look hopeful; it was ragged, worn and tired. The hair was matted and the eyes were lonely. This face had had enough.

It was not my best day.

I walked down to my car, in my pajamas more or less, and drove down the street to the first gas station. I pulled up to a pump and started to fill up. I remember struggling with the key pad, trying to figure out why it needed SO MUCH information just to give me a little gas. I remember the handle kept clicking off when I tried to set it on autofill. I remember being so anxious just to get out of Arizona and so frustrated that this gas station was making it SO impossible.

And then someone pulled up along side of me and rolled down his window.

Oh no. I bet my tires are low. It was always OTHER people pointing out that my tires were low.

However, the man behind the wheel said nothing about my tires... instead he said in a voice that was not wanting or in the least bit suggestive,

"You know, you are really beautiful."

My jaw dropped and my hand slipped from the handle (so the gas immediately stopped pumping). I didn't know what to say. This was the last thing I had ever expected anyone in Arizona to say to me on this particular Saturday, or on ANY Saturday in Arizona.

Thank you? I started to respond... but he just waved, as if it were nothing, and drove off.

I never saw him again.

But I never forgot him.

I never moved to California. I went out there until Tuesday and then I decided it was time to "come home." When I walked into my apartment after that long drive, I looked in the mirror that hung on the wall and said to myself, "You know, you are really beautiful."

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Now WHAT you might ask could my friend have said at dinner tonight that would make me remember that day, those events? Well, it was this:

I told her her eyebrows looked nice.

That is something completely normal to say to a friend ... but when I told my dear friend this over dinner tonight, she proceeded to tell me this story:

She was driving through the drive through at McDonalds, something she didn't usually do, but it was just one of THOSE DAYS where the ONLY thing that seems right with the world is McDonalds drive thru. As she pulled up to the first window to pay, she of course couldn't find the cash she had brought with her. She was digging under her legs, in between the seats, under the floormat, in the glovebox, all with growing frustration and with her movements becoming more spastic and unruly. She finally found the it stuffed in her sock. She yanked out the cash and thrust it at the girl in the window, panting.

The girl froze. She looked at my friend intently. Oh no, she's probably mad the cash is sweaty, thought my friend. It was at that moment the McDonalds drive thru window cash taker girl said:

"I love your eyebrows."

My friend paused, let out a sigh of relief, smiled and thanked the stranger for making her day.

Years later, at CPK, my friend could remember the day a stranger liked her eyebrows.

In a world where friends have to book quality time a week in advance, where phone calls are replaced with text messages and texts are replaced with tweets, it seems the "stranger" carries a stronger responsibility. Just as I remembered the stranger at the gas station, she remembered the stranger at the McDonalds drive thru, I would venture to say we aren't the only to people who remember the strangers that made our day.

Though the phrase random acts of kindness has, over the years, become cliche; the recipients of those acts, I believe, have become no less grateful, especially since true moments of genuine kindness are so rare. This evening on my drive home, I thought of all the many interactions I must have had in my life - and how interesting it was, that one I remember so vividly is one I never saw coming and would never see again.

So, tonight I challenge you this. If the opportunity arises, be the kind stranger to make someone's day. Be the kind stranger people will tell stories about years later, as they enjoy a long-overdue night out with a friend.

.....

That is the end of the story I wrote in June, but the story continues to be written. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. It is not always easy to be the stranger you know you should. Yesterday, I was in the airport, and walking toward me came two men. Men about my age, maybe older. Men dressed in their Fatigues. As the gap between us closed, I thought of the man behind me in line at Starbucks and the expression of gratitude after a stranger reached out. I thought of the man at the gas station, the woman at McDonalds. I knew what I was supposed to do. They walked closer, and closer. One of the men looked me straight in the eye, as if he knew what I was supposed to do. I know it was only for a moment, but time seemed to suspend -- waiting, hoping I would take this opportunity to apply what I had learned ...

And then the moment passed. Just as I was about to open my mouth, they had already walked by.

I was bummed. I knew better. I don't know what held me back. Shyness? Fear? I don't know. I do know I'll be ready though. Next time, I'll be a stranger.

Beware the Buicks

Friday morning was a great morning. The kind of morning I believe they were singing about in the musical Oklahoma. The kind of morning where you just know you are living the life you were born to live and while yes, you may still be "in progress," you are endlessly excited about who you are becoming.

I have to say though..., this Friday morning it was more than just excitement I was feeling. I was overflowing. It was so intense it was contagious. I walked into Starbucks after my workout and I could feel people feel the glow radiating off me and I could watch it spread across their faces as they passed.

I credit gratitude.

It was the emotion of gratitude that was having such a measurable, profound impact -- not only on me, but on those around me. Gratitude has that rare ability, and let me tell you, I was feeling it. I was grateful for my health, I was grateful for my mind, I was grateful for my mom and dad, alll my friends, I was grateful for the great parking spot in the busy Starbucks lot. I was grateful for the inspirational song that was blaring from my car stereo and for the fact that I sound so good when I sing in my car alone. I was grateful for the kids in the crosswalk, holding hands, walking to high school, not at all aware of the fact that they were holding up traffic.

I was completely overcome, smitten, with gratitude.

Nothing could bring me down.

Then, I had to make a left turn. It was a particularly tricky spot for a left hand turn because the traffic from the east comes pretty quick around a curve, leaving little time to react. From the west there are a lot of opportunities for cars to pull out of parking lots, breaking up the openings when traffic is stopped at the light.

I waited, patiently creeping a little bit further out so as to maximize my opportunity when it arose. Moments later, as if the universe had ordered it just for me, the stoplight turned red to the west and the road was empty to the east. I started to pull out, grateful to be claiming my place on the road, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a spotless-white-Buick screech out of one of the many parking lots between me and the stoplight.

In most cases, I would have gone anyway. The distance between me and the parking lot driveway was enough and would allow for it. However, the spotless-white-Buick had pulled out with such force, such speed, that I was certain it would smash into the side of my car (which has just been repaired from the hit it had taken two days earlier). At that speed, I didn't want to risk it.

Besides, must be some sort of gang member, robber or thief driving that vehicle. Only maniacs drove like that.

In the same instant I decided not to pull forward, the spotless-white-Buick slowed down to a crawl. And not like the baby-on-a-move, look how fast I am, kind of crawl. Rather, this was a -I'm crawling across the desert and haven't had any water in three days and I'm about to pass out or hallucinate- type of crawl. If I had known the spotless-white-Buick was going to take THIS long, I would have gone already.

Dammit.

I could feel the gratitude drain from my body. Then, as the spotless-white-Buick passed, I caught a glimpse of a little old lady, straining her neck to see over the steering wheel, curlers still in her hair. Behind her, from the west, was a stream of traffic three miles long, and from the east cars came around the curve like horses on a race track.

I. Was. SO. MAD.

Why did she have to pull out then? Why didn't she use her lead foot until she drove past me? Should I call the cops and have her pulled over for reckless driving --she was probably going 85 when she pulled out -- hey, Buicks go from 0 to 85 in .5 seconds ... I sat at that intersection for no fewer than 10 minutes (or so it felt), as I stewed in my own fury.

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In the book The Science of Getting Rich (one of my favorites) it says: in order to receive that which you seek in life – you must be in harmony with the universe. Deepak Chopra says the most effective way to get in touch with the universe is through gratitude. When you are in those moments of deep gratitude, that feeling that takes on a life of its own is your connection to the universe. And it is by means of this connection that you feel yourself as a field of infinite possibilities.

It makes sense. I was feeling it. We've all been there before; where our spirit and gratitude lifts us three feet off the ground. The only problem is I often feel like the child who got a balloon at Hardee's and as he walks out to the parking lot, holding that balloon he gets distracted - his mom calls his name, or his sister pushes him, and the balloon slips from his fingers and dances away across the sky. All he can do is stare, know that it's gone, and hope he can get his hands on another one soon.

I feel this way with my Gratitude at times.

However, in reality, we are not children. And we certainly are not helpless in those moments when gratitude escapes us. The most important thing is to (in honor of girl scout cookie month) always be prepared (I don't think the reference is quite right, but you get the meaning). For me, preparation means this:

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Since it appeared as though I would be sitting at that intersection for a while, I decided to take a trip. Travel back to a memory. In a moment's time I was standing right outside the San Diego airport. It was July, 2006. The sun was hot, and I could smell the ocean. I had never been to San Diego before but this trip was special for another reason; it was the first time Michael (my now-husband) had invited me to come. He lived there half the month and in Arizona the rest. At this point I wasn't sure WHAT we were; dating? exclusive? friends? I stood there at arrivals in my green dress from Target, my strappy sandals, and my blonde hair shifting nervously in the breeze.

When he arrived he told me we were going to Coronado Island-- where he grew up. I remember being so nervous I tried not to talk... when in doubt, don't.say.anything. The drive from the airport was beautiful as it wound through downtown. When we neared the bridge to cross the bay, I remember rolling down the window. The wind was wild. It was then that Michael reached across the console for my hand, and when he held it, I knew I was done.

In that moment, with the sun, the sea, the city, and Michael ... I felt gratitude so intense I couldn't breathe. And to this day, all it takes is that memory and I am right back where I need to be.

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I will not say an "attitude of gratitude" is an easy thing to maintain. There are many ways we can be knocked off course. Unfortunately, for every moment where gratitude is lost, we waste a moment of greatness. So find a memory, a place, a person, a moment where you felt that connection beyond this earth, and let that memory guide you back to a grateful place.

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Seconds later, I turned left, and continued down the road. Grateful.

"Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeling, everything's going my way."