8 minutes

8 minutes.  8 minutes away and it’s been 9 months since I’ve made the trip.  It’s not polite to broadcast, rude to rub in the fact that I live a hop and a skip away from the ocean, so I’ll murmur it above the breeze and inhale sandy toes.

I used to walk on the beach every morning, one of the ‘regulars’ collecting sand dollars and able to cite exact timings of low tides.  When I lived walking distance away, I couldn’t imagine how anyone California resident would pass up the chance to stroll at the water’s edge.  It was easy and familiar, dug into my safety zone with plastic shovels.

But then I moved, moved, and moved again.  New routines built small boundaries as I shirked the unfamiliar and strayed from the different.  The beach was too far.  There’d be nowhere to park.  It would be too crowded.  I didn’t know how to get there.  All fine lies to keep me stuck inland and falsely safe as the balm of crashing waves ebbed from my memory. This is usually how my trail goes: widening before narrowing, trampled with guests and picnic remnants leading to fallen leaves and missing footsteps.  But always, slowly, the worn path reappears, opening up with laughter and exploration.  New growth rooted in risk.

So it’s been a week of unfurling petals and stretching familiar zones, poking holes in routines and remember the sound of sea gulls.  8 minutes away and I even managed to parallel park for free street parking.  It wasn’t far, crowded, or hard to find – merely new.  New, looming large if enclosed in the dark, turns out to be exciting, added joy to the salty sunshine as I made sand angels by the shore, welcoming the sandy sprinkles I knew I would find later in my scalp.  And just to seal add confirmation to my spontaneity, the moment I sat up, 7 dolphins frolicked by for a free show in playfulness. 

It’s not polite to rub it in, and if it helps, traffic coming home added half an hour.  Of course I have my sore spots and mud holes, but for today I am where I need to be, 8 minutes from sandy toes and a routine with gaping arches. 

For today I’ll whisper out of respect: Waves are my murals and life is good.

For no good reason

Tucked amidst the ‘wrong side of the bed’ days, gray weeks, and ‘bang your head against the wall’ moments, are those days where minutes flow easily tinged with joy.

It’s one of those days where nothing is particularly good or exciting, no big plans or special celebrations, but simply a morning spent smiling.  I wish I could figure out what makes the difference – wish I were in on the secret, could bottle up my contentedness, and reproduce the simple joy when the world is rubbing me raw. But rather than analyze the whys and hows, rather than squander the day making lists of possible factors: good night sleep, entertaining phone chat with new friend, baby tomatoes beginning to grow...and I’m reigning my obsessiveness in....done.... really.

Rather than make lists, I feel like I should do something. Be out; enjoy the happiness, live life to the fullest. And that’s just a recipe for an abrupt end to my peace of mind, because now there’s pressure to have the ‘best day’ or do something great – like New Year’s Eve plans or Valentine’s Day.

And really, there’s nothing pressing to run off to – no crucial errands or important business to take care. It’s not a beach day or warm enough to frolic in the park.  But even so, I have to train myself to sit still, not to fill the seconds with cleaning and re-cleaning, organizing, errands, and lists – not to be scared of space stretched ahead, and to recognize that perhaps the sweet balance of the day sneaks in only when I’m still long enough for it to catch me.

So I’m just going to enjoy it, without stress to maximize or pressure to achieve.  I’ll write and I’ll work, I’ll putter under fresh mint blooms and curl up with a warm puppy and a book.  I’ll go about my normal day.  And there’s the beauty – sometimes the best days are just the normal, ho-hum days, the blessings that only occur in the absence of crisis. 

Leaving behind the reasons and wishes to capture and save, I wish you all a normal day of smiling over nothing and that sense that it’s “A Good to be Alive” day.

Dirt-filled Bliss

I never knew that bliss was covered with dirt.  In all the corners I’ve searched for balance, in the teachers I’ve sought for peace or the books I’ve read hoping for calmness, I didn’t expect to find it on my patio.  And yet, for someone who vacuums obsessively and runs late to do last minute dusting, I’m reveling in a love of soil. 

I’ve always wanted a garden with plants to sprinkle with hope and whisper sweet dreams.  I’ve always envisioned fresh herbs and green shoots tended by my hand.  I linger upon lush yards during my walks with my puppy, drooling over tomato plants and gardenia bushes that seem to never fall out of season.  And yet, I haven’t had a backyard, or a patio, or even a ledge to plant my seeds.  And I haven’t had the best luck with indoor plants – usually my downfall is overwatering, anxiously peering in soil and determining that more is better until they drown with my protection.  I’ve been limiting myself to cacti, which you actually have to have murderous intentions in order to spur their demise. 

With all of that, I am a gardener at heart. I just know it.  I love the pruning and the mothering. I love the morning checks for new leaves and glimpse of a miracle as seeds sprout into splashes of color.  So the clincher on my new apartment was the patio with a small bed of soil and ample ledges for things of green.  I wandered up aisles in the nursery, swirling with possibilities and unlimited by any knowledge of practicalities, seasons, or space requirements.  Admittedly, I missed a few items: planters, topsoil, and a watering can... But I was too distracted by the basil, cilantro, rosemary, strawberry plant, and various beauties to remember the basics.  It didn’t matter.  Yesterday I became a gardener as I left my gloves in the kitchen and dug with bare hands to create room for roots, whispering prayers for growth and strength for all of us.

Amidst the din of daily life traffic, for a few moments, I found my balance.  Something about new possibilities sprinkled with nurturance and warm breezes allowed me to breathe in the calm and settle into simple contentment.  Protective of their fragile roots, I steadied my feet in my own life.

I run on overwhelmed, with a default setting of anxiety.  I forget inhale, to prioritize, and to grasp that a to-do item doesn’t demand immediate attention simply by appearing on the list.  I wobble with change, and squirm until the last picture is hung on the wall.  I struggle to schedule fun before errands and relaxation in the face of emails unanswered.  And yet, filthy under a lazy Sunday sky, joy superseded groceries and my head ceased its 90 mph roaming to match my feet in the dirt. 

Maybe my plants will shrivel or my green thumb never appears.  Maybe.  But it won’t change the fact that I am a gardener, permanently imprinted with the sweet glee of my hands in the earth, taking deep breathes and gratefully balanced in my new home. 

Widening reflection

It’s a time of reflection.  A time to run fingertips over frayed edges, smoothing sharp words tied with wounded connections.  We poke thru attic boxes of mistakes, dusting off lessons for improvements, yearning to do better, master old mistakes, and avoid familiar stumbling blocks in the year to come.

But reflection isn’t limited to digging up remorse and voicing apologies we hope stand in for healing.  It is also a time for celebration, for polishing snippets of kindness and soaking in the rays of displayed compassion.  It is a time to hold up our successes and relish in the rainbows cast upon our days.  Searching for the risks taken, regardless of outcome, we award minutes of courage, steps taken toward whispered dreams, and catalogue the paths we blazed as we carved out space to be real.  It is a time to celebrate events of becoming who we were created to be. 

These introspective weeks include listing shared laughter and extended hands, looking back upon sweet smiles, never knowing how far our ripples extend.  I reflect on deeper friendships formed and explore crevices of familial love, filling scrapbooks with snapshots of a worthwhile life. 

This is a time of looking back, regretting our failures and making amends for spurred tears.  But no year is composed solely of “If only I had...” and “I should have...” and “I could have done better”.  Yes, we aim higher, brush off our motivation and renew commitments to don our best selves.  But we also must celebrate the distances we’ve advanced and applaud our baby steps.  Celebrate the volumes of hugs and hopes not abandoned.  I must stop being small in my introspection, limited to self-flagellation and guilt.  I widen these days before the New Year and remember to rejoice the truth that I, like everyone, add something irreplaceable to the world.  So I mourn shortcomings and apologize for my falls, and I remember to be grateful for gifts given and received. 

I reflect largely this year, with remorse and joy, using a panoramic lens as I embark on a bigger life. 

For no good reason

I don’t know how it started and I don’t know why, but I have a thing for manatees.  I simply adore them.  And it appears that I’m not the only one.  But what is it about these gentle sea cows that make them so lovable? I’ve never seen one in person nor can they cuddle with me at night like my puppy.  But somehow I’ve created this persona for them – a kind of snuffleupagus (yes, that’s actually how the Muppet’s name is spelled) meets Andre the Giant, innocently loping through the waves peacefully.  Still, there are plenty of endangered species to be passionate about, and I’m sure I could find ones that rank higher on the cuteness scale.  Yet, ever since I was in the 4^th grade writing poems about Manatees, I’ve been a fan.

My love of manatees falls into the category of simplicity, adoring them from afar for no good reason, just because I can’t look at a picture without smiling.  I find there aren’t many things I support without explanations, justifications, and rationales.  Usually, I have proof and evidence, anecdotes and personal experiences.  But with the manatees, I merely adore their rounded noses and oversized eyes. I don’t march for their protection or even really know that much about them. They just tickle my fancy, and I’m perfectly happy to leave it at that.  We could always use more things that make us smile for no good reason.  It keeps my mouth limber and dashes my spirit with whimsy. 

So for today, I’m dreaming of swimming with the manatees.

Abandoning Discovery

I spent years of research, trekking new trails, scanning fresh shorelines.  I marched past enemy lines and lugged my baggage upon bowed shoulders, seeking ultimate answers.  I was on a quest to discover.  Titles littler my bookshelves: “Find your perfect career”, “Find your self-worth”, and “Discover your purpose”.  I swapped hair colors by the week and traded flip flops for heels, testing new personas in efforts to figure out who I was, who I wanted to be, and attempting to capture dreams built on changing winds.  I read the magazines: Is he right for you? Find your perfect jeans? Introvert or Extrovert – take our 5 question quiz.  I looked outward, collecting seashells of truth in my pockets, fitting pieces together as I waited for the finale image to be revealed.  I looked outward to discover myself, scanning the scenery for hints of a well-lived life, clues that would unveil who I was and where I should place my next step.  I looked outward for discovery. 

I had it all backwards.

The world around me screams with orders: Look this way! Act this way! Carry this purse to ensure happiness! It dictates rules for living that aim to fit us all into the same narrow box of status quo.  If I heeded the chaotic tides, I’d take my place in the mass single file line, striped of individuality, an automatic pawn in pursuit of superficial pleasures, gagged to ensure toeing the line. 

It’s not about discovering who I am.  Rather, it’s a process of uncovering.  It’s beginning a different starting block, gathering mindful intentions, and then turning inward.  The answers are buried beneath the soot of errands and daily stresses, rusty after years of trying to fit into another’s’ mold. 

Uncovering is a solo quest, a return to the ancient knowing that we are all blessed with a G-dly spark, the flame of purity that whispers our answers from the heart of our soul.  I had it wrong.  There’s no need for treks and distant shores.  The horizons to explore necessitate stillness, a sweeping away of fears and hurts, shovels to unearth my core, digging to uncover my self.  I am, as we all are, complete right now, holding my answers even when I am unaware of their existence.  The jewels I search for are tucked within my history, solutions emanating from a deeper knowing.  Joy results from uncovering forgotten laughter and dusting off simple blessings.  Meaning shines from a glance backwards to our roots, to our loved ones, to the lands we have traveled and the lessons we have learned.  I don’t need to discover who I am.  I already know.  I simply need to remember and then have the courage to polish it off and hold it up to the sunshine. 

It’s easier to explore new destinations and seek absolution by addition: adding new identities along with trinkets, falling prey to ‘more is better’, ‘more equals happiness’ and ‘more is always the goal’.  Uncovering your own beauty relies on subtraction.  We strip away the expired rules and childhood grudges.  We erase the falsities lining our walls and focus our gaze on our inner flame.  Uncovering requires quiet patience and a willingness to retrain our eyes, a readjustment to the truth we already know, acceptance of our essential self, and a reconnection with the holiness that flickers within. We are all well schooled in discovering, urged on by the neon lights of a world that never sleeps. 

But as we strive to begin anew, to examine our lives, carefully eyeing snags needing repair for the coming year, the answers lie in turning our eyes away from distant shores.  The answers lie in uncovering our joy, excavating our soul, exposing our true self and allowing it to seep from our pores.  Now is the time to uncover.  Now is the time to remember our answers and grasp them with the strength of our soul. 

The Judges' Table

It’s the million-dollar question, the thought that steals sleep and lurks at the edges of routine.  We buy books and hold yoga poses, repeat meditative mantras and jot down New Year resolutions.  It’s the fear that urges forgiveness and prompts deathbed amends. We want it more than fame and fortune, more than unbridled success and lavish second homes.  It’s a universal craving.  We all want to have lived a well-lived life.  But how to define a good life? It seems the criteria lies entirely in the grasp of the asker.  Are we judging our own days or the moments of a loved one we mourn? Are we comparing our minutes to his, our family to hers, our good deeds to Mother Theresa?

Maybe for some, wealth does equal happiness, and the joy from the finer things earns her a gold star.  For some, wealth becomes an avenue to better the world, the means to support charities and establish endowments ensuring blessings for generations to come.  There are those who pursue pleasure at any cost, cramming maximum bliss into our mortal eye blinks. They live a good life by avoiding pain, indulging the senses, soaking in happiness absent of the ponderings of long-term consequences.  If your belief is that this is all there is, this short earthly jaunt, then a life of laughter and chocolate ice cream might add up to a well-lived life.  But even if you set out for bliss and chase contentment round each bend, we all know that tears are inevitable.  Man cannot stand as an island without building a narrow sorrow, isolation bred from loneliness and small boxes of rules and solitude.  But loving carries side effects of loss and connection invokes heartache.  Plus, a single pleasure track might derail mine.  So who has the right of way? Whose train matters more?

And then there’s the philosophy of good deeds, humanitarian acts and toiling for causes that add up to a good life.  Perhaps a life well lived is the one that leaves the biggest mark and improves the widest sphere.  Much like beauty, it seems the winner lies in the eye of the beholder.  We are all our worst critic, blinded by regrets and failures, ‘should have’s’, ‘could have’s’ and ‘if only’.  I will always come up short in my own comparisons as I handpick greatness and then weep at the gaps between us.  And yet, who are we to judge?

 Was my best friend who died at 16 from cancer less worthy of the prize simply because her allotted days ran out? From my viewpoint, she had a well-lived life, spreading smiles and hope within hospital hallways, and extending friendship to a lost girl visiting after school.  Her hugs soothed souls and her generous love inspired those of us lucky to know her.  But from an objective criterion, she wasn’t famous or rich.  She didn’t cure cancer nor stop genocide.  And sometimes she was cranky, snapping at her parents and frustrated with her team of doctors. So what’s the answer?

Of all of those I’ve loved and lost, I arrive at the same conclusion.  They all mattered, all were successes, and all journeyed a well-lived life.  Perhaps I’m biased.  None of them show up in history books or earned medals of Honor.  But for me, the measure of a good life sprouts in casual seeds, small gestures of comfort, hands to hold and words of care.  My criteria roots on a small scale, listing company in tears and laughter over completed crossword puzzles.  I catalogue investments of time, notes of support, silent hugs and meaningful glances.  

There are souls that wander our personal hallways, simply loving presences, touching lives with gentle kindnesses, and improving the world one smile at a time.  We can’t know the lives we touch.  We stay blind to the impact of a simple ‘thank you’ or nonchalant words that stir a heart.  We walk along, trapping in our worries and comparisons, perceived failures set on a grand-scale stage, never knowing our own greatness, never relaxing into our well-lived lives as we come up short and reach for higher peaks.

It can’t be measured in moments or even days.  Any random slice of life will be lacking, absent of essential ingredients for a final well-lived decree.  The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  We need a wide-angle lens and cheerleaders to sing our own value.  I could drive myself crazy with higher strivings and ambitions of moral perfection.  I could set requirements of faith and success, wealth and birthing of a legacy.  I could compare myself to grandparents whose list of volunteer activities put me to share, or mold myself into a woman I think the world asks me to be.  I could define my life as worthless without children, nest eggs, or injustices not righted.  Or I could stop.

 Maybe it’s not for me to judge, or at least not yet.  Maybe I am not the best critic for my own hours.  Maybe it’s been a well-lived life because I smile at the checkout counter and snuggle with my puppy during chilly mornings.  Maybe my life matters because there are those who love me and those I adore.  Maybe I don’t get to judge because I can’t possibly know, as none of us can, how we better the world simply by being in it. 

It’s a million dollar question and I don’t have the answer.  But I do know this: we all could do better, act better, be better.  But of all of those I cherish, my life is made better because I know them.  And that awards their days with the title of a well-lived life. 


dedicated to benjamin dov...

Matching words for words

There are long-awaited joys and eagerly anticipated treasures.  I like the thrill of the waiting, the excitement as I cross off calendar dates, inching closer to the prize. I am a fan of the knowing.  I delight in paper chains and use treats as motivation to endure shallow days.

But there is something about unexpected blessings that whisk my breath away, climbing upon my shoulders with the weight of gold.  There is an unparalleled gift of the surprise, powerful above all to veer a day into a course on fulfillment.  Just as the piece of sky that falls on a sunny day can crumble routine in a flash, such is the force of a kindness that I never saw coming.

I spent the evening huddled around my puppy as she shook and cowered, certain that firework bullets would be invading her couch as any moment.  Tail tucked and burrowed under my legs, I couldn’t explain the concept of celebration or point out the pretty lights during the five hours that neighbors had fun on July 4^th.  I gave too many treats, shut the windows and turned up the tv volume, hoping to convey safety with soft pats and noise. By midnight, the sparks had ended and I turned on the computer for one last email glimpse before bed and there it was – the unexpected jewel.

As a writer, I write to help myself, composing lessons of healing that I need to hear, stringing phrases of hope that guide me to my own wholeness.  As I writer, I speak my truth explore my heart as a destination.  I write for clarity and balance.  I write to uncover my voice and study my soul. But there is a secret wish lingering behind the page, the unspoken dream that my words might touch others, leaving a mark of honesty upon their journey. 

As a writer, there is no sweeter blessing than hearing that my words made a difference to someone else, that they struck a meaningful chord or touched hidden joys. The jewel awaiting me last night appeared in my inbox, a note forwarded by an editor who had published one of my articles: “this is for you... it's not often articles make such an impact... so take pleasure in this!” I sat back after finishing this reader’s letter, awestruck with her message and grateful for her kindness. To hear that my article “had a profound effect” and that it “went a long way toward healing my heart and...her words broke through somehow and ‘made sense’ to me” sang with healing for my own self, patching insecurities and doubts with her affirmations.  It was an unexpected pot after a bumpy rainbow, reminding me of how powerful words can be and how we can never know the ripples originating with simple strands of letters.

There are days when the joy seems too much, celebrations where I try to save some for later, becoming overwhelmed with too much gladness to truly appreciate.  There are days where blessings pour forth and everything appears shiny; days when laughter spills over sharp edges and friends flow through hours.  There are holidays and birthdays, graduations and special occasions.  There are ‘firsts’ and honorable mentions, sunshine arriving at the doorstep, bows tied with ribbons of fulfillment. These are usually the times I have anticipated, preparing myself for the happiness as I try to stockpile it in corners of my soul for the dry months.  Anticipation can also backfire, building up a moment until nothing in reality could possibly fulfill its shoes.  But still, I value the excitement of promised bliss, needing the carrot at the end of stick to trudge on. 

However, at the end of a long day, yawning in the dark beside a worn-out puppy, I anticipate nothing.  So the email explaining that my words worked “a miracle” in her life floats above all joys. This sense of contentment is unfamiliar, a knowing that something is right in my world and that I am finally finding my footing. Maybe I’ll run out of articles to write or will never earn enough to pay my rent.  Maybe I’ll be uninspired next month or bow under shades of misery and pessimism.  Maybe the sunshine will cease and rosy glasses uninspiring.  Maybe.  But for tonight, the words of a reader have brought me peace.  Just as my words touched her, her comments unwrapped trinkets of satisfaction and purpose, lending hope to my evening and delight through my veins. 

As I planner, I like to know.  As a compulsive list-maker and organizer, I prefer tidy schedules detailing joy with asterisks. But today I am grateful for the gifts of surprise. 

Today I am blessed by the unexpected.

Free Hugs

“And for one moment, our lives met and our souls touched.”

-Oscar Wilde

I can’t figure out what the tears are about.  It’s a simple concept taped on a grainy video, and yet, I'm sobbing. 

I am not a crier.  I sit Kleenex-less at tearjerkers and get nervous before funerals, lest it appears that my dry eyes signify my lack of grief.  This qualifies me as the black sheep in a family where tears are displays of love. Did you write a moving card? Check dad’s eyes.  Is mom happy to see you? Are there tissues involved? We raise our glasses in honor, using a red eye rating system to rank our words.  I come from a family who cries at Hallmark commercials, airport pickups, in times of joy, in times of sorrow, and the spaces in between.  I come from a family where it’s a badge of love to be unable to get through the toast, and Kleenex is bought in bulk. 

So what is it about this ‘Free Hugs’ video that has my puppy nervously licking tears off my cheeks?

 I go down the checklist:

• Tears of Joy or Sadness? A bit of both I think
• Is it that the background song is one of my favorites? It doesn’t hurt...
• Unbelievable cinematography? Definitely not
• Triggers some painful childhood memory? Nope
• Triggers an overwhelming desire to become a professional ‘Free Hug’ giver? Yes…but why?

I mull it over all afternoon.  I ask my mom, who forwarded it to me laced with her own tears. I read an email from my uncle…the tears now spread from California to Arizona to Virginia…ah, and the video gets 4 stars.

As I watch the video again, it hits me.  It touches a hole in my life, a yearning for connection, for family, for someone to wrap my arms around and grip with all my might.  It tears at the edges of loneliness and trails its fingertips over lumps of loss.  It awakens a grief for those I can’t hug anymore and a homesickness for the arms that live plane rides away.

It touches a cord of existential sadness, mourning for a world that rushes into technology, shedding human connection by the side of the road.  It reminds me that phone calls aren’t warm and texting lacks shared laughter.  It reminds me that email will never squeeze my hand and that hugging never shows up on my to-do list. 

It begins with a pain of those who walk quickly by, wary of the strange man offering hugs.  My eyes blur as I wonder, would I walk the other way? Am I so hardened that I would judge ‘creepy’ as I picked up my pace? And is it smart to be less trusting or merely one more brick in a wall that not only protects but isolates? It’s the look on the volunteer’s face, crestfallen with diminishing hope, good intentions unrecognized and a joyful soul unshared. 

And then I cry as the hugging begins.  I cry at the tentativeness, the nudge of emptiness propelling their feet as they warily extend their arms.  I cry because I want to believe, like Anne Frank:

 "It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart."

— Anne Frank (Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl)

I cry for those who need a hug and don’t know it; who need a hug and have no one to grab.  I cry for those whose pain might be lessened with a shoulder to learn on.  I cry for all of us who toil in adulthood, striving for an independence that so often is accompanied by a party of one.  I cry for the elderly couple slowly hobbling over for a stranger’s embrace, seeing my grandparents’ faces as I ache with loss.  I cry for the times when I'm not there to offer hugs, for the moments of loneliness that I can’t fix. 

I cry for the little children hidden within these grown-ups, the sweet innocence that knows hugs cure better than Tylenol. I cry with a longing for human touch, for my own hug account that dips dangerously low at times.  I cry with yearning, glancing out my window just in case there are hug volunteers I can grasp to my chest.  I cry because a hug is so simple, so easy, and yet so crucial for joy.  I cry because a hug is free to give and priceless to receive.  I cry with the awareness that we all carry scabs of hardship and scars of grief, missing puzzle pieces that can only be found in those we meet along the way.  I cry as I ponder my lost pieces, and wonder how many strangers I’ve bypassed who held my answers in their pockets.

I cry while smiling as they run to embrace in the middle of the courtyard.  I cry because I know that feeling…the inability to wait one more second, overflowing with a love that necessitates immediate hugging, powered by months of missing and waiting.

I cry because it is in the simple that I find the holy.  It is in the small gestures that I find faith. 

And I cry as I hug my puppy and dial home…because in the absence of human contact, long-distance hugging will have to do.

Fifteen minutes and counting

Aish.com article: Good Shabbos, Dad

I listened with anthropologist ears, studying the hunger for fame, colored in fantasies with neon lights and leading roles.  I took notes on NBA dreams, inaugural visions at the White House, and goals of hit songs sung to screaming fans.  I didn’t understand the appeal. I catalogued only the lack of privacy, harsh reviews, scandal, and discontentment.  I saw rampant materialism and shallow ethics. I watched the mob of paparazzi swarm A-list celebrities and grew bored at breaking news alerts from friends who glimpsed a Hollywood darling while buying groceries.

I never dreamt of fame, thinking I was more than satisfied with simple blessings and small joys.  I hoped to find meaningful work, fulfilling friendships, and a corner to call my own. I rolled my eyes at fancy cars and designer clothes.  I didn’t want the obligatory social events, as my idea of hell is loosely based on cocktail party small talk.

Until I woke up this morning and saw my name in print. 

Apparently, I am a fair-weathered critic, gladly welcoming fame the moment my invitation arrived. There’s something uniquely thrilling about seeing my article published, my byline at the top of the page. More than anything, it becomes a stamp of approval, a validating ticket into the world of “real writers”.

I know, I know.  I am a writer whether I am paid to write or not.  I am a writer because I write.  Period.  But as a writer, I secretly hope engage readers.  I dream of composing pages that become dog-eared, highlighted, and passed along to friends as words that hint at some truth. My fantasy involves my writing perched on the “New Arrivals” shelf at the library, or hearing from a reader who awakes bleary eyed, having been unable to put the book down before turning out the light.

And so my fifteen minutes begin.

As much as I'm enjoying this moment, there’s a deeper thrill, and it has everything to do with the flurry of messages originating in Paradise Valley.  I have often been the topic of conversations between relatives and family friends. Usually, it is related to crises, wild fire alerts of disaster and sickness. I made a name for myself based on falling, and have squandered my past minutes of fame on misery. I am unaccustomed to this publicity network of joy.  I am illiterate in the verses of pride, the email relays boasting sips of success and the generous replies spilling with praise.  The flutter of being published ranks second to my grin as I savor each email, cherishing being the subject line due to strength rather than heartache.

I don’t write with hopes of fame or fortune. I don’t write because I know all of the answers or have solved universal mysteries. I write to learn. I write to understand my world, to understand myself. I write to pass hours in the day, a self-imposed time out from to-do lists and worrying. I write the craziness so maybe I can find the sane. I write because I can’t cure her no matter how hard I try, and I write to save myself. I write with hopes of finding the answers, and I write to discover the questions that I need to live.

 “A Bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song”

-       Ann Hood, The Red Thread

I write because I am a girl who has a song to sing.

I didn’t go digging for fame, but I am enjoying this small taste. My t-shirt-clad success is locally grown, absent of riches, mobs of adoring fans, or publishing offers stuffed in my mailbox. But for a girl who dreamt no farther than her backyard, today I feel like a queen. 

So I slip on my crown and bask in the moment.  I relish my joy as I smile pretty and wave.  I write to sing my song, and along the way I plan to enjoy these fifteen minutes.

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The Disappearing Magician

With a wave of this magic wand and ‘abra cadabra’, witness my blessings magically disappear.  And as you can see, with nothing up my sleeve, all of the old hurts and insecurities you thought had vanished, been worked through and excised, been analyzed and resolved, as I tap this same magic wand, they mysteriously reappear. 

I am a magician.  My act hasn’t drawn traditional crowds and their gasps of awe have been motivated by fear tinged with anger rather than gleeful wonder. I have built momentum, adding new joys and experiences, achieving new successes and integrating calmness.  I asked for audience participation, leaning on strangers, family, and friends to lend a hand, boost me up; hold my hand while I attempt to avoid the usual trap doors.  I channel my energies and cause heavy objects to float, transform trash into treasure, and utilize darkness to sprinkle twinkling stars.  I step on the stage, determined to mesmerize, to give you your moneys worth, to find my talent and become the person you think I am, you think I could be, you believe I would be if only I could avoid the old scars that I trip over.  I step on the stage and hope that this night will be the night I name the card in your hand, make the bunny reappear, unlock the handcuffs I use to lock myself to the past. And every previous performance has had the same ending.

I have been the disappearing magician.  I wave my wand and cause joy to vanish.  I pull old hurts out of my sleeve and sew anxiety into my cape.  I stuff my black hat with fears and I walk straight towards the trap doors.  Despite having a full house filled with volunteers to assist me, hands raised to help prop me up, tools donated to cure, I have turned my back.  I ignore my fans and begin my solo act of self-destruction.  There have been times of greatness, of hidden gifts uncovered, new happiness and secure contentment.  I start off my show ready to transform, determined to end the show still standing.  And yet, I have been a one-trick magician, unable to learn the magic words needed to bring me back to life, without remembering the trick to catch joys in thin air before they crumble at my feet.  I have waved my wand and lost myself again and again. 

It stops being entertaining, this fading magic. While it takes a sad talent to cause life’s blessings to crash night after night, when the lights come on, all that is left is ebbing hope and powerless pain.  And the magician? I feel the same.  I scan my brain for the words that will raise me up, for the spell that provides the strength to stand.  I trade in my magic wand and buy a new cape, hoping that this time I can spread success and contentment, can take the final bow, can remember the enchanted words that prevent disappearance.

I am a magician.  I step onto my life stage and glance into the audience.  I collect her soft hugs and his pep talks, their supportive eyes and your belief in my potential.  I fill my pockets with steady shoulders and listening ears, with your tools and her nurturance.  I tuck faith up my sleeve, faith that this night I don’t have to vanish to hold your attention. Faith that I am good enough right at this moment, even if I still have my doubts.  I wave my magic wand and convince myself that I deserve the blessings, that falling down isn’t the same as disappearing but can be the slapstick humor used for entertainment.  I allow room for mistakes, keeping in mind that perfection is boring to watch, and mistakes can be rungs of lessons on the ladder I ascend for the finale.

I call on volunteers and step over trap doors.  I draw attention to the small joys, the flower hidden within the cactus needles.  I point out kindness and easy laughter, weaving them into the scenery, trying with all of my might to hold on to this life that I am starting to live. Like me, I know you are holding your breath as the show continues. Know you also remember where I tripped during previous shows, where I vanished in the past.

 I am a magician, and I climb the ladder for my final act, ready to step off the ledge and take the risk, ready to aim for greatness even if I'm scared.  I stand on stage, equally terrified of repeating the same vanishing act while thrilled that, just maybe, tonight will be the night that I hold on to myself and can actually take a bow.  I am a magician, and rather than performing the tired old tricks, disappearing and disappointing, I vow that this night when the curtain closes, I will not be trapped beneath the rubble of my life but will stand steady, applause ringing in my ears.

 I am a magician. Tonight I hope to inspire rather than invoke panic.  I hope to draw you in rather than alienate.  I hope to strengthen rather than debilitate.  I hope to create rather than self-destruct.  I am a magician, and as I wave my magic wand, I gather my blessings around me.  I take the leap of faith and flap my cape, ready to perform new miracles, ready to appear. 

I am a magician with new tricks up my sleeve, holding my breath, praying that this time new joys materialize and that I can shed the title of the Disappearing Magician.

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