I was not expecting to have such difficulty with my 33 Acts of Kindness project. Yet it is already April, and I find that I am struggling.
One challenge that I'm running into is that part of my agreement in doing this was to avoid repeating the same act in different situations. That makes it particularly challenging. I'll be in line at Starbucks on one of my days home with the little one, and think, Hey! I know! I'll buy the order for the person behind me... oh, crap. I already did that one.
Do you see the irony here? I'm NOT doing acts of kindness that I would otherwise do because I've done them already and they won't "count" toward my 33 for the year.
Perhaps this is what happens when people are overly perfectionistic.
I have decided to revisit this entire project. I will continue to do acts of kindness, even if it's the same one over and over again. If something new occurs to me, I will do it. This takes me to my second issue which, oddly enough, was the reason I imposed the "don't do the same thing twice" rule to begin with.
Being kind in new ways can be anxiety-provoking.
It's like being new at anything. Whenever I attempt to do something that is outside of my comfort zone, it is exciting and frightening all at once. Buying things for people is a very easy way for me to be kind. Turning around at a church service to tell a young woman how inspiring and courageous I thought she was for leaving her native country due to the threat of persecution for her sexual orientation was much more challenging. In a way, it can be fun to challenge myself to do things in a way that is not the norm, and to see what happens. Often, I find that it opens doors that would have otherwise remained closed, or brings me closer to new people or opportunities that I might not have had exposure to otherwise.
This activity, the 33 acts of kindness, is interesting. It's bringing into focus some of the ways in which I sabotage myself and act in excessively self-limiting ways. It's amusing to see where I get stuck, and amusing to see how I haven't seen it before. It's also interesting and liberating to see what happens when I do things differently, and how tiny changes tend to have a ripple effect, creating a cascade of increasingly larger changes.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
I've read my fair share of love stories, some better than others. One of my main issues with love stories is that they tend to follow a predictable arc: boy meets girl. They fall in love. Guy becomes girl's reason for living. Drama ensues. They come out of it stronger. They live happily ever after. From time to time, that's just the kind of thing I like, but it was not what I was looking for when I happened to be ready for some new fiction to read.
When I picked up John Green's The Fault in our Stars -- a holiday season gift, and my first John Green novel -- I was reluctant to make the investment. I've started enough love stories with two-dimensional characters and rolled my eyes many a time at long, drawn out bedroom scenes and dull, uninspiring dialogue. It turns out that The Fault in our Stars made the #1 spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for good reason by taking familiar themes, adding less familiar twists, and defying predictability.
The Fault in Our Stars is an atypical love story from the start: the main characters are teenagers who meet in a cancer support group. Seventeen-year-old Hazel Waters is the edgy, sharp-witted, intelligent protagonist who has terminal cancer. Her life takes a turn for the more adventurous when Augustus Waters shows up to her otherwise craptastic support group. Gus shows up to the group in support of his and Hazel's mutual friend, Isaac, who is about to have surgery that will render him blind.
Although the story focuses upon Hazel and Gus's evolving relationship, a series of intriguing side plots are explored: Isaac's transition from sighted to blind; the eccentricities of Hazel's favorite author; and the ways in which cancer affects the lives of the teens and their families.
Throughout the book, Green transitions smoothly and suddenly into moments of devastating humor and devastating pain. He deftly creates snapshots within the story that draw upon the lives of the characters before the time of this story, infusing the dialogue with emotional depth and adding to the richness and complexity of the characters. One particularly potent example can be found in this exchange:
When I picked up John Green's The Fault in our Stars -- a holiday season gift, and my first John Green novel -- I was reluctant to make the investment. I've started enough love stories with two-dimensional characters and rolled my eyes many a time at long, drawn out bedroom scenes and dull, uninspiring dialogue. It turns out that The Fault in our Stars made the #1 spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for good reason by taking familiar themes, adding less familiar twists, and defying predictability.
The Fault in Our Stars is an atypical love story from the start: the main characters are teenagers who meet in a cancer support group. Seventeen-year-old Hazel Waters is the edgy, sharp-witted, intelligent protagonist who has terminal cancer. Her life takes a turn for the more adventurous when Augustus Waters shows up to her otherwise craptastic support group. Gus shows up to the group in support of his and Hazel's mutual friend, Isaac, who is about to have surgery that will render him blind.
Although the story focuses upon Hazel and Gus's evolving relationship, a series of intriguing side plots are explored: Isaac's transition from sighted to blind; the eccentricities of Hazel's favorite author; and the ways in which cancer affects the lives of the teens and their families.
Throughout the book, Green transitions smoothly and suddenly into moments of devastating humor and devastating pain. He deftly creates snapshots within the story that draw upon the lives of the characters before the time of this story, infusing the dialogue with emotional depth and adding to the richness and complexity of the characters. One particularly potent example can be found in this exchange:
Dad asked me if I was working on anything for school. "I've got some very advanced Algebra homework, " I told him. "So advanced that I couldn't possibly explain it to a layperson."
"And how's your friend Isaac?"
"Blind," I said.
"You're being very teenagery today," Mom said. She seemed annoyed about it.
"Isn't this what you wanted, Mom? For me to be teenagery?"
"Well, not necessarily this kind of teenagery, but of course your father and I are excited to see you become a young woman, making friends, going on dates."
"I'm not going on dates," I said. "I don't want to go on dates with anyone. It's a terrible idea and a huge waste of time and ---"
"Honey," my mom said. "What's wrong?"
"I'm like. Like. I'm like a grenade, Mom. I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties, okay?"
My dad tilted his head a little to the side, like a scolded puppy.
"I'm a grenade," I said again. "I just want to stay away from people and read books and think and be with you guys because there's nothing I can do about hurting you; you're too invested, so just please let me do that, okay? I'm not depressed. I don't need to get out more. And I can't be a regular teenager, because I'm a grenade." (p. 98-99)
As the story unfolds, Green deftly and skillfully weaves in several surprises. Some are pleasant ones, and others not so pleasant, but they are written in such a way that struck me as true to life. Perhaps it is trite to say, "I laughed! I cried! I felt like I knew the characters and I missed them when I closed the book! I couldn't put it down!" It turns out that all of these things were true. I encourage you to read -- and enjoy -- this wonderful story.
As the story unfolds, Green deftly and skillfully weaves in several surprises. Some are pleasant ones, and others not so pleasant, but they are written in such a way that struck me as true to life. Perhaps it is trite to say, "I laughed! I cried! I felt like I knew the characters and I missed them when I closed the book! I couldn't put it down!" It turns out that all of these things were true. I encourage you to read -- and enjoy -- this wonderful story.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Solitude and the New Mom
I wrote this post many moons ago about the reasons why solitude is such a great and useful thing. All of these things are completely true, and are major reasons why I think solitude is so grand. Of course, I was not yet a parent at that time, and looking back on it, I imagine that parents in the know may have wanted to laugh me off the face of the Earth.
"Solitude," I imagine some mother scoffing at me via her computer screen circa three years ago, hair greasy, wearing pajamas, and getting up for the third time in five minutes to deal with some child-related catastrophe before vacating the vicinity of her computer screen for six hours, finally coming back after the kids have gone to bed, sighing, and shutting down the computer while throwing a load of laundry into the washer.
Now that I'm that mom, I get it. I continue to need to adjust accordingly.
One of the most challenging things for me about solitude as a new mom is that my opportunities for it have dramatically decreased since the birth of my daughter, especially once I returned to work. For some people, perhaps this lack of solitude would be a welcome relief. For me and for others, the demands of being involved with others in a continuous way -- even those we deeply love and care for -- creates a practical challenge to a vital aspect of our self-care. In my case, lack of solitude makes it difficult for me to approach the tasks of my everyday life with the clarity and connectedness that I'd like to have. From there, it's only a matter of time before I wind up a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor, hair in a Medusa-esque pile on my head.
I am one of those people who cannot care well for my kid, my home, my job, or my relationship with my spouse without a little time to myself to fill my own cup, as they say. Otherwise, I have nothing to give. At first, trying to find time to myself was a daunting task, but I've managed to find it in a few places I wouldn't have expected before having kids.
1. The Workplace
Not every mother goes back to the workplace, nor had outside employment to begin with. However, for some women who relish solitude, going back to work in whatever capacity -- if you have the means and comfort to do so -- provides you with opportunities to be by yourself. Whether it's in the car, a few minutes with a cup of your favorite (work-appropriate) beverage, or the time between clients, a little downtime can be found.
2. Night Owls
For those who can wing it (ha ha, get it? Wings? Owls? What a hoot!), grabbing a bit of time after the kids go to sleep and before you go to sleep can help fill your own cup. Of course, if you'd just prefer to go to bed early, I'm certainly not going to blame you.
3. Early Birds
If you're this type, go ahead and get up before your kids if you like. Again, if you want to stay in bed, I won't judge.
4. The Car
For whatever reason, the car seems to work magic for my daughter, and for other small kids I know. You aren't exactly all by yourself, but a drive can give you a chunk of quiet time and space.
So I realize I'm not the first mother to ever walk the face of the planet, and I'm certainly not the first to come up with the above ideas. I have found, however, that you can do all of the above and not feel like you've really had any solitude. There are a couple of things I've learned about that, too.
1. Be Present!
I define presence as the quality of bringing your full attention to the task at hand and resting there. I have found that being by myself doesn't quite cut it -- I also need to be aware of the fact that I am in solitude and to fully engage it. I check the clock, maybe put on a timer or alarm, and let go of my to-do lists or other activities until the alarm sounds. By doing this, I get more out of the moments I do have, which leads me to...
2. It's Not the Time, It's How You Use It.
Even if you were accustomed to spending tremendous stretches of time in solitude pre-kids, as I was, the length of time you have available for solitude doesn't necessarily matter. Bringing presence to your downtime makes any time you do have -- whether it's three minutes or three hours -- more restorative and filling.
3. Solitude Is An Inside Job
One of the major lessons I've learned about solitude in the past four months is, by and large, solitude is an inside job. You can actually build a place of solitude within, like a wellspring or a reservoir, that you can draw upon to sustain you when even those brief pauses are difficult to come by. I imagine this ability is really helpful once you come to parenting toddlers, but I'll let you know if that's my experience when I get there.
I love solitude! I think it's great, and my consistent experience is that it helps me to stay calmer, more competent, and more sane than I would be without it. I am so glad to discover that I have been able to maintain some solitude in my life post-childbirth, although it looks different than it did before.
"Solitude," I imagine some mother scoffing at me via her computer screen circa three years ago, hair greasy, wearing pajamas, and getting up for the third time in five minutes to deal with some child-related catastrophe before vacating the vicinity of her computer screen for six hours, finally coming back after the kids have gone to bed, sighing, and shutting down the computer while throwing a load of laundry into the washer.
Now that I'm that mom, I get it. I continue to need to adjust accordingly.
One of the most challenging things for me about solitude as a new mom is that my opportunities for it have dramatically decreased since the birth of my daughter, especially once I returned to work. For some people, perhaps this lack of solitude would be a welcome relief. For me and for others, the demands of being involved with others in a continuous way -- even those we deeply love and care for -- creates a practical challenge to a vital aspect of our self-care. In my case, lack of solitude makes it difficult for me to approach the tasks of my everyday life with the clarity and connectedness that I'd like to have. From there, it's only a matter of time before I wind up a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor, hair in a Medusa-esque pile on my head.
I am one of those people who cannot care well for my kid, my home, my job, or my relationship with my spouse without a little time to myself to fill my own cup, as they say. Otherwise, I have nothing to give. At first, trying to find time to myself was a daunting task, but I've managed to find it in a few places I wouldn't have expected before having kids.
1. The Workplace
Not every mother goes back to the workplace, nor had outside employment to begin with. However, for some women who relish solitude, going back to work in whatever capacity -- if you have the means and comfort to do so -- provides you with opportunities to be by yourself. Whether it's in the car, a few minutes with a cup of your favorite (work-appropriate) beverage, or the time between clients, a little downtime can be found.
2. Night Owls
For those who can wing it (ha ha, get it? Wings? Owls? What a hoot!), grabbing a bit of time after the kids go to sleep and before you go to sleep can help fill your own cup. Of course, if you'd just prefer to go to bed early, I'm certainly not going to blame you.
3. Early Birds
If you're this type, go ahead and get up before your kids if you like. Again, if you want to stay in bed, I won't judge.
4. The Car
For whatever reason, the car seems to work magic for my daughter, and for other small kids I know. You aren't exactly all by yourself, but a drive can give you a chunk of quiet time and space.
So I realize I'm not the first mother to ever walk the face of the planet, and I'm certainly not the first to come up with the above ideas. I have found, however, that you can do all of the above and not feel like you've really had any solitude. There are a couple of things I've learned about that, too.
1. Be Present!
I define presence as the quality of bringing your full attention to the task at hand and resting there. I have found that being by myself doesn't quite cut it -- I also need to be aware of the fact that I am in solitude and to fully engage it. I check the clock, maybe put on a timer or alarm, and let go of my to-do lists or other activities until the alarm sounds. By doing this, I get more out of the moments I do have, which leads me to...
2. It's Not the Time, It's How You Use It.
Even if you were accustomed to spending tremendous stretches of time in solitude pre-kids, as I was, the length of time you have available for solitude doesn't necessarily matter. Bringing presence to your downtime makes any time you do have -- whether it's three minutes or three hours -- more restorative and filling.
3. Solitude Is An Inside Job
One of the major lessons I've learned about solitude in the past four months is, by and large, solitude is an inside job. You can actually build a place of solitude within, like a wellspring or a reservoir, that you can draw upon to sustain you when even those brief pauses are difficult to come by. I imagine this ability is really helpful once you come to parenting toddlers, but I'll let you know if that's my experience when I get there.
I love solitude! I think it's great, and my consistent experience is that it helps me to stay calmer, more competent, and more sane than I would be without it. I am so glad to discover that I have been able to maintain some solitude in my life post-childbirth, although it looks different than it did before.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
The Joy of Spring!
I have yet to live in a city or town that's famous for much of anything, other than colleges. However, I've discovered recently that we've beaten out Syracuse, New York in terms of total snowfall for 2012-2013, as noted at Golden Snow Globe. Hooray...? I guess...?
Today there is still snow on the ground, but it is melting away after two warmer, sunnier days in a row. On a drive earlier this morning, the car windows were lowered as I enjoyed the balmy, luxurious 50 degrees Fahrenheit that Mother Nature had on offer. You cannot possibly fathom my delight! Well, to be fair, you probably can, especially if you have perpetually cold hands and feet and live in the cold, snowy parts of the world for at least half a year.
Naturally, with the warmer temperatures, sunshine, and approach of the spring holiday season, my thoughts turn toward spring! Spring! AT LAST! All winter, we periodically purchase plants from the local florist in vibrant colors. Bright yellow daffodils, robust red roses, and delicate pink carnations adorn the dining room table and the counter top along the edge of our open kitchen. I love this! It keeps the beauty of nature alive throughout a season that is often thought of as a season of stasis (although anyone who has been through a blizzard can attest that "stasis" might not be the best descriptor).
As the tulips bud and burst through the still-cool earth, I am flooded with memories, but I am surprised to find that the memories of this time of year are limited and center around sports. The smell of snow becoming mud becoming dry dirt reminds me of chocolate bars and parades to kick of the start of softball season.
Softball season was a big deal in our town, or it was a big deal within my family and among some of my friends. Although we had an active Minor League in town, I never seemed to hear as much about them as I did about Girls' Softball. At school, you could find more girls playing softball than not. Many of my friends and acquaintances were involved in the teams. It became such a vibrant community activity that an old bike racing course was transformed into three softball diamonds, parking lots, and a big concessions stand. My first job was as a babysitter, and my second job was as a softball umpire for the younger leagues in town.
I loved to play, although I was not the strongest player. I found a niche for myself eventually by playing first base on our league team, and then later for the B-Team during tournament season. It was my sister, however, who played softball by what a college friend calls "California Rules." No-holds-barred, take-it-to-the-limit, badass softball. She routinely hit doubles, triples, home runs. Part of this was her powerful and accurate hit. Another part of it was that she would routinely ignore the third base coach and tear around to home plate, sliding in just as the ball reached the catcher and, since teams tended to place people who couldn't catch in the catcher position, my sister's carpe-home-run attitude paid off more often than not. We would come home, she doing her best to clap off as much of the dirt and mud as she could from her pants and shirt and shoes (and sometimes cap) while I stood next to her, running a hand along my slightly dusty knees and wishing I could slide into base without looking like a crash test dummy.
When I went to high school, playing softball was no longer practical, and I moved on to play on the school's lacrosse team. I loved playing lacrosse and the release it provided from the pressures of life. I couldn't shoot on goal to save my life, but that didn't matter because I was a fierce defender who could keep up with most of my opponent offensive players. I had a stick and I wasn't afraid to check. Sometimes I found myself in the path of a ball flying through the air, like the time someone shot on goal and the ball struck me in the center of the chest. It hurt, but I got over it and moved on.
As an adult, spring brings opportunities to hike in the woods and go camping. I love being in the woods with a backpack and my thoughts, and maybe a few people to travel with while I immerse myself in the richness of thick green leaves on trees and tiny buds poking through on their bushes. These days, I bring my camera and a book. I write poems and take photographs of waterfalls against a backdrop of wooden bridges and rocky hills. When I get home and see neighborhood kids outside running around and playing catch, I smile and remember the excitement of the outdoors as a child. I remember that winter is finally done and spring has returned again.
Today there is still snow on the ground, but it is melting away after two warmer, sunnier days in a row. On a drive earlier this morning, the car windows were lowered as I enjoyed the balmy, luxurious 50 degrees Fahrenheit that Mother Nature had on offer. You cannot possibly fathom my delight! Well, to be fair, you probably can, especially if you have perpetually cold hands and feet and live in the cold, snowy parts of the world for at least half a year.
Naturally, with the warmer temperatures, sunshine, and approach of the spring holiday season, my thoughts turn toward spring! Spring! AT LAST! All winter, we periodically purchase plants from the local florist in vibrant colors. Bright yellow daffodils, robust red roses, and delicate pink carnations adorn the dining room table and the counter top along the edge of our open kitchen. I love this! It keeps the beauty of nature alive throughout a season that is often thought of as a season of stasis (although anyone who has been through a blizzard can attest that "stasis" might not be the best descriptor).
Softball season was a big deal in our town, or it was a big deal within my family and among some of my friends. Although we had an active Minor League in town, I never seemed to hear as much about them as I did about Girls' Softball. At school, you could find more girls playing softball than not. Many of my friends and acquaintances were involved in the teams. It became such a vibrant community activity that an old bike racing course was transformed into three softball diamonds, parking lots, and a big concessions stand. My first job was as a babysitter, and my second job was as a softball umpire for the younger leagues in town.
I loved to play, although I was not the strongest player. I found a niche for myself eventually by playing first base on our league team, and then later for the B-Team during tournament season. It was my sister, however, who played softball by what a college friend calls "California Rules." No-holds-barred, take-it-to-the-limit, badass softball. She routinely hit doubles, triples, home runs. Part of this was her powerful and accurate hit. Another part of it was that she would routinely ignore the third base coach and tear around to home plate, sliding in just as the ball reached the catcher and, since teams tended to place people who couldn't catch in the catcher position, my sister's carpe-home-run attitude paid off more often than not. We would come home, she doing her best to clap off as much of the dirt and mud as she could from her pants and shirt and shoes (and sometimes cap) while I stood next to her, running a hand along my slightly dusty knees and wishing I could slide into base without looking like a crash test dummy.
When I went to high school, playing softball was no longer practical, and I moved on to play on the school's lacrosse team. I loved playing lacrosse and the release it provided from the pressures of life. I couldn't shoot on goal to save my life, but that didn't matter because I was a fierce defender who could keep up with most of my opponent offensive players. I had a stick and I wasn't afraid to check. Sometimes I found myself in the path of a ball flying through the air, like the time someone shot on goal and the ball struck me in the center of the chest. It hurt, but I got over it and moved on.
As an adult, spring brings opportunities to hike in the woods and go camping. I love being in the woods with a backpack and my thoughts, and maybe a few people to travel with while I immerse myself in the richness of thick green leaves on trees and tiny buds poking through on their bushes. These days, I bring my camera and a book. I write poems and take photographs of waterfalls against a backdrop of wooden bridges and rocky hills. When I get home and see neighborhood kids outside running around and playing catch, I smile and remember the excitement of the outdoors as a child. I remember that winter is finally done and spring has returned again.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Grieving and Gratitude
While I was out on maternity leave and home with my then-almost-a-month-old daughter, I decided to start listening to the stereo during the day. This is something my mother always did while I was growing up. Leaving the stereo on and one light whenever leaving the house, she always returned to a lighted, sound-filled home. I don't know what her reasons were for this, but I assumed it had something to do with not wanting to come home to a dark, quiet house. As I sat at home, nursing, changing diapers, sometimes cleaning the house, and sometimes eating lunch, the combination of our grandmother clock's steady tick-tock, and intermittent newborn cries could have induced a turn for the worse in my mental health. Fighting this decline was critical, and so I started listening to the oldies station.
I love music in general, and the oldies are no exception. Much to my surprise, I've noticed the music of my childhood years edging its way onto the local stations, indicating that the tunes of the decadent eighties are now going the way of the dinosaurs. It was noticing this, combined with decent pattern recognition skills and auditory recall, that led me to realize the local station was rotating a few playlists. Tiring of being able to predict the next song to play, I decided to really shake things up and listen to NPR instead.
Although there is predictability to NPR, it didn't bother me because I knew I'd be listening to different topics each day. I started to learn about politics as I changed diapers, and listened to people I've never heard of talk about their new books while I nursed.
Then Sandy Hook happened.
It was one of those moments when I knew I'd remember where I was when I heard the news. That day, I was eating lunch at my dining room table and my daughter was on the floor in her jungle animal play gym nearby when the news broke. It was the first major tragedy to make news since my daughter had been born, and I had no preparation for the impact it had upon me.
I looked at my daughter. I thought of my workplace friends. The teachers filling in for me on leave. My students. In particular, I thought of an elementary school in which I work. The principal, the office staff, the students with whom I work in the halls on travel skills. The dedicated teachers who support them in their educational programming every day. I thought of the people at Sandy Hook, desperately waiting for children, spouses, and friends to leave the school building. I looked at my daughter again and finally understood why some people live in desperate, controlling fear, and cloak their children in it.
Oh, how I cried.
The photos started to go up online. You know the ones I'm talking about. Young children and the educators who lost their lives. The person who carried the gun, and the person who brought him into the world. I have never cried so much over the deaths of people I did not know.
I began this post intending to write something about safety versus independence, and how being able to live fully means being willing to accept a certain amount of risk, to deliberately exchange our attempts at keeping ourselves safe for the richness and joy that can be ours when we stretch beyond our habitual ways of behaving. All of that is true. Sandy Hook is a painful reminder that we cannot be certain that this moment won't be the last one, and of how limited our control is over what happens to us.
We do have control, though, over the spirit in which we approach life. After all, we only have our lives, our loved ones, our memories and values and dreams, for so long.
Let us be grateful for what we have while we are fortunate enough to still have it, and let us express that gratitude by living as fully as we can.
I love music in general, and the oldies are no exception. Much to my surprise, I've noticed the music of my childhood years edging its way onto the local stations, indicating that the tunes of the decadent eighties are now going the way of the dinosaurs. It was noticing this, combined with decent pattern recognition skills and auditory recall, that led me to realize the local station was rotating a few playlists. Tiring of being able to predict the next song to play, I decided to really shake things up and listen to NPR instead.
Although there is predictability to NPR, it didn't bother me because I knew I'd be listening to different topics each day. I started to learn about politics as I changed diapers, and listened to people I've never heard of talk about their new books while I nursed.
Then Sandy Hook happened.
It was one of those moments when I knew I'd remember where I was when I heard the news. That day, I was eating lunch at my dining room table and my daughter was on the floor in her jungle animal play gym nearby when the news broke. It was the first major tragedy to make news since my daughter had been born, and I had no preparation for the impact it had upon me.
I looked at my daughter. I thought of my workplace friends. The teachers filling in for me on leave. My students. In particular, I thought of an elementary school in which I work. The principal, the office staff, the students with whom I work in the halls on travel skills. The dedicated teachers who support them in their educational programming every day. I thought of the people at Sandy Hook, desperately waiting for children, spouses, and friends to leave the school building. I looked at my daughter again and finally understood why some people live in desperate, controlling fear, and cloak their children in it.
Oh, how I cried.
The photos started to go up online. You know the ones I'm talking about. Young children and the educators who lost their lives. The person who carried the gun, and the person who brought him into the world. I have never cried so much over the deaths of people I did not know.
I began this post intending to write something about safety versus independence, and how being able to live fully means being willing to accept a certain amount of risk, to deliberately exchange our attempts at keeping ourselves safe for the richness and joy that can be ours when we stretch beyond our habitual ways of behaving. All of that is true. Sandy Hook is a painful reminder that we cannot be certain that this moment won't be the last one, and of how limited our control is over what happens to us.
We do have control, though, over the spirit in which we approach life. After all, we only have our lives, our loved ones, our memories and values and dreams, for so long.
Let us be grateful for what we have while we are fortunate enough to still have it, and let us express that gratitude by living as fully as we can.
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