I have a difficult time saying no. 

I googled people pleaser the other day and found this... the 52 traits of a chronic people pleaser. 

It was an eye opener for sure, and I read through the fifty two traits, my subconscious saying, check.  check.  check. 

And although I have known this about myself forever, I've never allowed myself to wonder... why.

Is it as number forty suggests, I trying to control everything?  Or, number 32, would I rather be nice than real?  What about three - am I constantly afraid to hurt other people's feelings?  Or number forty-seven, do I feel guilty when I cannot accomplish everything or make everyone happy?

Well, yes. 

Yes. 

To all of it.

And how ridiculous, really. 

Because I find that the more I say yes, the less I am actually accomplishing.  Nothing gets done... properly.  I procrastinate, I feel taken advantage of, even though it was me that made the promise in the first place, and the work that eventually is produced never quite measures up to level that I expect of myself.

Saying yes when I really need to say no is unfair.  To me, but even more so to the person or people that I am saying yes to in the first place. 

So, I would like you to know, I've been practicing. 

Yes, I have been practicing... saying no. 

And it is harder than it sounds. 

Way harder.

Because some of the things I have said no to, I have really wanted.  Or I could have been really good at.  But rather than rushing headlong into yes, I am trying to take a step back.  Analyzing my why.  Analyzing my ability.  Analyzing my time availability.  And in the process, realizing historically that my want to dos have always outweighed my should be doings.

When I was little, my father was in the Air Force and we traveled quite a bit.  We moved to places like Japan and Korea, New Mexico, Wyoming and Greece.  It was mostly exciting, the packing and moving, living someplace new.

Some of the places we lived had housing on base that was provided for families.  Some places did not and we got the opportunity to live on the economy (not on base).  In those cases, the Air Force would generally put us up in a hotel until my parents were able to find us a place to live.

When we moved to Greece, we lived in a hotel for quite awhile.  My sisters and I were small at the time, and my parents weren't comfortable letting us roam around, so we entertained ourselves by learning new things from the other kids staying at the hotel.

I learned how to french braid my own hair.  I learned how to curse your entire family without saying a word and how to say just about every bad word in Greek that there is.  I learned all the hotel's hiding places and how to play ding dong ditch.

I also learned to play blackjack.

And believe it or not, of all the things I learned, blackjack is the only thing I have passed along to my own littles.

Blackjack taught them to add.
Blackjack taught them about rules.
Blackjack taught them that you don't always win.
Blackjack taught them that winning isn't always everything.
Blackjack taught them that even if when you don't win, you can still have fun playing the game.
If you follow the rules.  And you're smart about your strategy. 

Today, I'm taking my littles to the Del Mar Racetrack.  Let's see what life lessons we can come up with there.

Back in April, a woman from my gym mentioned she was doing a hundred day burpee challenge.

I know you already know what's coming, but humor me.  I didn't just jump right on the bandwagon without getting some details.  I asked if I they had to be done consecutively and whether I could bank them, and if they were in a WOD, did they count.

Then, I committed. 

I even talked a few friends into doing them with me, and in order to keep everyone accountable, I created a facebook group from which I email daily reminders to my burpee peeps.  Although, as most resolutions do, after a few weeks - most of the members of our group... quit doing burpees. 

Except of course, yours truly and my friend, Joey.  Because Joey is just about as twisted as I am when it comes to a challenge. 

And by challenge, I mean challenge.  In case you haven't already, let's do the math, shall we?

Day one = one burpee
Day two = two burpees
By day fifty, we had done cumulatively, 1275 burpees
By day seventy-one, 2525

Today is day eighty-nine and after today, with ten days left, there are still 1045 burpees yet to do.

My friends, believe me when I say... that is a shit ton of burpees.

Many people have asked why I am still torturing myself.  Even my coach at CF480 thinks the challenge is ridiculous.  Perhaps it is.  The only thing I can say for myself is that once I commit to something, I rarely quit. 

Which can actually be both a good and a bad thing.  Although in a time when quitting is fairly commonplace, perhaps that's enough for now.  And if nothing else, I am really, really good at burpees now.  Like, really good.  And I guess that is something, too.

I have heard it said that God gives us what we need.

I think about that statement... often.  God gives us what we need. 

It wasn't until I was past the thirty week point that I learned that Frankie was going to be a girl.  I love my boy with all my heart, but something deep down was hoping, hoping for a girl and when I heard the news, the tears I cried were of joy.


I spent hours dreaming up things we would do together, me and my sweet little girl.  My mind awhirl imagining tea parties and ballet recitals and anything, everything sweet.  I decorated her room in pink.  With roses.  I bought dress after dress after dress and the frilliest bows I could find for her hair.  She would never talk back.  She'd love only me.

God gives us what we need. 

God must have laughed a bit when he heard my wants because in His infinite wisdom, he gave me, instead, exactly what I needed. 


A baby girl who opened her mouth to be heard on the day she was born and has refused to close it since - in song, in laughter, in love.  A baby girl who refused to wear dresses or bows, or anything pink for that matter.   A baby girl who speaks her thoughts, who knows what she wants, who is not afraid to work.

A baby girl who is self-confident and strong beyond measure.  Who is kindness to her core.  Who remains so unaware of the gifts she possesses, of the genuine beauty that lies within her, that it is often breathtaking to behold.

God gave me Frankie.

To learn from.  To listen to.  To have and to hold when she lets me.  To laugh with.  To love, with all my heart up to the sky and back again, to infinity and beyond. 


God gave me her, and today, on the day I celebrate her birth, I realize just how much she is exactly what I needed.

At home, I mostly see the same people when I run - the die hard runners who forgo sleep in the early mornings to do what we love to do.

But one of the many incredible benefits of living by the beach in the summertime for me is that I can run at any time of day.  I can run at six am if I like.  Or noon.  Or six pm.  I'm not limited to the pre-dawn hours, racing to get out and get the miles done before the heat of the day sets in.

This lets me see so many new and different people as I run, from the Navy boys without their shirts, to the triathletes with their tri-kits and fuel belts, to the weekend warriors and the mommas like myself.

But every year, there has been one staple.  One little tanned raisin of a runner that I have always been able to set my watch by.  A man I have christened the running man, and every year for ten years or more, I look for him. 

There he is!  The running man!

A few years back, the littles began looking for him, too. 

momo, he lives our block!  There he goes - the running man!

This year, however, no matter how much we have looked, we have yet to see him.  Did he move?  Is he injured in some way?  Did he stop running?  And although I don't want to go there, could he be... sick?

After so many years, he is like an old friend and I cannot help but wonder about him, worry about him.  My eyes scan the runners, hoping for a glimpse, hoping he is safe, sending prayers to man I have never met but whose impact on me will last my lifetime.

This morning begun as most begin in California.  The tour on the television, the coffee brewing and me, in my comfy chair, checking my work e-mail and preparing to start my day. 

Is the tide low?  Should I run or crossfit?  Should I go at ten?  Bradley Wiggins is so tall and thin - he just might win this thing.  I want to be a stage girl when I grow up.  I can't believe I missed the whole broadcast this morning, maybe I'll watch the news a bit...

My computer on my lap, I lent half an ear to Matt Lauer as he spoke about Aurora, about a midnight showing of Batman and about a shooting. 

Again, Colorado?  Oh my gosh, how incredibly sad, I couldn't imagine.  That is so far away.

Suddenly my attention was riveted to Lauer as he interviewed a seventeen year old boy who had been in the theater.  And just like that, the magnitude of the tragedy hit home.

That could have been my littles, there, at the midnight showing.  They love Batman.  They always.  That could have been Johnny, leading his friends, his friend's brother, out of the theater, to safety.  Who tripped on blood, who'll forever have nightmares.  That could have been any of our children who will never graduate high school or have families of their own, whose lives were cut short in that instant.

I don't often let myself go to that place, that what-if place.  It fills me with anxiety that does me no good.  But something about the boy, his strength, his vulnerability, it hit home. 

That could have been my son. 

I can't erase the image from my mind and my heart breaks for the mothers, the families, who must find some way to survive in the aftermath.

What if?

Hold them close today, my friends.

You might think that it would be a little lonely over here in California, away from home and from the routine of my daily life for such an extended period of time.  But, it is not.  And while I really do miss my friends and I miss my gym and I miss having an office that has a door that closes out the noise, the truth is, there is something about this place that just makes me happy. 

Maybe it is the weather and how it's always so lovely and mild.  Maybe it is the ocean and how it's just out the backdoor.  Maybe it is the bar that is always open or the food that is always made in mass. 

Whatever it happens to be, I find that this place seems to make other people happy, too, because unlike at home, people come here.  To visit.  To enjoy with us what we are blessed enough to be able to share.

Big J's friends, my friends, the littles' besties and family we love and adore.   It is a very rare day when there is a bedroom free, and if I am completely honest, that is just exactly the way I like it.  Summer has become about relaxing, about reconnecting.  About slowing down for awhile.  About simply soaking in the moments and spending happy times with those we care about. 

Sometimes our visitors overlap.  Sometimes my people overlap with the littles' people.  Sometimes Big J's with mine.  I love when this happens because I love our friends and family to meet one another.  To interact with each other.  To share their interests.  To connect.

These experiences can be incredible opportunities for seemingly opposite worlds to intersect, combine.  Opportunities for truly beautiful music to be made.  Last night was no exception. 

Enjoy.

These are my hands. 

In my CrossFit world, these callouses are commonplace.  Before I began this particular fitness journey I am on, my hands were soft, they were gentle.  But as the months have passed and as I have learned to pull-up and kip, to power clean, dead lift and snatch, the skin on my hands has toughened, become hardened, in order to protect the fragile skin beneath from tear, from injury. 

Periodically, I will try to file them down, to make them a little less rough and a little more... ladylike.  Although it seems that no matter how much or often I file or buff or pumice them, the callouses never seem to completely go away. 

But that is a good thing, you see, because these hands must be able to withstand what I am asking of them.  They must be tough to make it through.

I find that our hearts are a lot like my hands.  When we are young, they are soft and open and full of childish joy and wonder.  They are inexperienced in the ways of the world and yet, so anxious to learn, to develop, to grow.

Then we begin to age.  We build and break off relationships, we experience the happiness of love and the despair of a broken heart.  Slowly, we begin to understand that love is not a universal language, that loving is not always easy or fair or kind, and instinctively, our hearts begin to develop their own callouses in response.

They toughen, they harden, preparing and protecting themselves from what can only be eventual pain, inevitable hurt.  And just like my hands, it often seems that no matter what soothing methods we attempt, no matter what softening salves we apply, the callouses never seem to go completely away. 

This morning I was watching a show that featured a member of the band called As I Lay Dying.  And while the topic of the show really interested me, it was the band's name that caught my attention.

The band is called As I Lay Dying.

Immediately, the wheels in my head began to churn.  Not so much because I was interested in As I Lay Dying's music, they are more of a metal band and we all know that I tend to like music that I can sing to.  No, I was interested in As I Lay Dying, literally.  The combination of those four little words and the intended meaning behind the expression

If the end of my life just so happened to come today, as I lay dying, what would I be thinking?

As I lay dying... would I have regrets about the way I had lived?  The choices I had made? 
As I lay dying... would I be unable to count my loved ones on just my fingers and toes?
As I lay dying... would I have seen and done all that I had dreamed of?
As I lay dying... would I look at my life and be confident I had been the best I could have been?
As I lay dying... would I be leaving the world a better place?
As I lay dying... when I am asked to give an accounting of the difference I have made, would the evidence be sufficient to convict me?

I wonder these things. 

And as I do, I realize that the difference between today and as I lay dying is that there is still time. 

Still time to choose. 
Still time to love, to act, to hope, to dream and to grow. 
Still time.

I should make the most of it.

Every morning in July, I wake, head downstairs, turn on the coffee and tv and settle in to watch the Tour de France.  Over the past years, anyone who visits that rises as early as I do, is subjected to watching with me.  Many are friends who aren't familiar at all with cycling, and I get the chance to teach them about something I love.

Little J knows much about cycling, but generally, he is not one of the people spending time with me at six am.  Like most teenage boys, Little J loves to sleep and there is something about the beach and the cool air and the dark of his bedroom here that has him sleeping like there is no tomorrow.

Until this morning.  No, this morning, as I headed downstairs, Little J was right beside me. 

Aren't you still tired?

No, I'm all good.

So, we turned on the Tour.  We talked cycling a bit.  He lit the fire for me and got me a throw.  He explained to me how the retina in your eye works and had me laughing about some one thing or another.

Oh, how I love this child.

The time I have with him is short now.  I've said it for awhile, but suddenly, it is here.  He's a senior and with all the preparations, the school year will fly in a haze of busyness.  Before I am ready, graduation will be upon us and he will take his first steps into adulthood.   As it is, he has become so independent already, it is almost scary.

I need to be still in these moments, with him.  To listen. To watch.  To appreciate them to their fullest, so that I can recall them at times when I am missing him the very most.

Remember when you got your first car, and then somehow it seemed that everywhere you drove, every single person was driving the very same car as you?

That didn't actually happen to me since my first car was a number of years old and had no air conditioning and I lived in Arizona and there is no person in their right mind that would buy a car without air conditioning in Arizona except apparently my dad, but I digress...

What I mean is that it seems when there is something you love or something you have or something you want, the world displays it for you in all its glory.  Everywhere.

Two years ago was a bit turning point for me, emotionally.  In the aftermath, I posted a note to my blog that I titled metamorphosis where I compared the growth and change in my life to that of a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.  The process has not always been pleasant and I have not always been accepting of the stages I find myself in.  But, somewhere deep inside, I do realize that while I may never get fully there, I am slowly moving forward.  Slowly making progress on me.  On my way to becoming the butterfly that I was meant to be.

It's a process.  And yet, the importance of that process is made easier daily by the fact that everywhere I look now, I see them.  Butterflies. 

In real life.  At the mall.  In magazines, photos and film. 


In fact, the visual was so incredibly significant to me, so important to remember, that I chose to forgo the pencil and penned them in ink, for keeps.  Everytime I look - they'll be there. 

Continue on...  If you help a butterfly out of its cocoon, it will never fly.

Where did the day go?  Do you ever feel like that? 

I sat down at my computer to work this morning and before I knew it - the day was almost gone and I hadn't really accomplished much.  Well, with the exception of work that its.  I did get quite a bit of work done.  Although, as you've probably gathered by now, I'm somewhat ambivalent about work lately.

Yesterday, I had a conference call with the agency that will be replacing me.  I was asked to meet with them to review a piece of software that I use daily for which they will now assume responsibility.

One hour to show them what I have done six or seven hours a day for almost twelve years. 

This was one of those situations where there is so much I wanted to say and yet the most professional thing, the right thing, was just to simply hold my tongue and do what was being asked of me.

I'm generally fairly agreeable.  I realize that life is change and that we must adapt.  I am going to be just fine.  In fact, I had an interesting job offer today that I just might seriously consider.

I guess what gets me most was the presentation.

Oh, by the way... 

After twelve years. 

Just, oh - by the way...

What a sad commentary on the human race if this is how we treat each other. 

We had a relationship.  It didn't work out.  I get it.  I'm a big girl.  No need to hold my hand, no need to pretend to care more than you do.

But, the very least you could do is say, I'm sorry.

Be kind.  Be gentle.  Treat others as you would want to be treated.

Just how difficult is that, exactly?

In a strange and unexpected fashion, two of my worlds collided today.

Let me explain.

Seven years ago to the day, I raced in my first triathlon at Camp Pendleton in California.  It was Olympic distance and I was scared out of my wits as I got ready to start.  Looking back, I find the whole experience to be somewhat surreal.  The weather was overcast, I'd never before done an ocean open water swim and I simply had no idea what to expect.



But I survived and the experience catapulted me headfirst into Ironman and blogging and brought me friendships that I will forever cherish.



The CrossFit Games, which are being held this weekend in Carson, are touted as the world’s premier test to find the Fittest on Earth.  Previous years' events have included tests of fitness and strength that, let's be honest, would annihilate the average athlete.

These competitors are strong.  They are beyond fit.  They run and row and lift circles around you and me each and every day.

But this year?  This year, in a surprise announcement, after requiring that each competitor provide video proof of their ability to swim 25 meters, The CrossFit Games introduced a new first day of competition. 

A triathlon - 700m ocean swim, 8k mountain bike on sand, and an 11.3k hill run with 500 feet of elevation gain. 

Where?  You guessed it, Camp Pendleton.

CrossFit meet triathlon.

Be still my heart.

When we first started visiting California in the summertime, the littles were, well, little, and I worked for a company that allowed me a few weeks vacation time each year.  The years passed, and as they grew, I took a position with Four Seasons that allowed me to spend time with them by working from home.

Basically, anywhere my computer and phone happen to be.

Johnny, however, needs to be in the office, so a compromise was made.  I remain in California with the littles and he commutes, Monday through Thursday, back to Arizona. 

Over the years, we've developed traditions around this process of leave and return.  On the evenings that Johnny returns to California, the littles and I pick him up at the airport and we go to the Fish Market.  For ten years or more, Juan has worked behind the bar and every visit we enjoy his incredible cooking.

The littles and I also have a dinner tradition.  Monday afternoons, we look at each other laugh...  Yummy Sushi.  Why we started going there, I cannot say.  We simply always have.  Last night being no exception.

No one even orders sushi, and each time we leave, one will remark... that wasn't really good.  The rest agree, and yet we keep going.

Last night, as I watched both pick at their meals, I'd had enough...  Why do we come here if you don't like it? 

And their reply?

Because, its tradition.

Ah, yes, tradition.  Tradition is good, I will be the first to admit.  We can count on tradition.  Tradition causes no surprise.  But, tradition for the sake of tradition?  Um, no.  I don't think so.

How about we try some place different next week?  Perhaps its time to change it up a bit.

Their reply?

Oh, please!  Can we??

I wonder quite often just what it is that draws us, particularly women, to one another.  What qualities we look for, what characteristics must the other possess.  What circumstances must align for friendships to bloom.

I imagine this changes as we age.  Our childhood friends at two or three are the ones our parents choose for us.  Our teenage besties the ones who generally live closest to us.  In college and beyond, they become the women whose interests we share at that particular point in our lives.  Women who have children when we have children.   Women who do what we do, share our interests, our goals, our habits. 

Over the years, my life has been blessed by a few women that I would call best.  Although most are more recent friends, women I have met and connected with in my later years.  Women who, for the most part, see me as I am now - mostly grown, somewhat together, moving forward.

Often I think what a gift it would be to have more friends who knew me then.  Who have watched me change.  Who have shared in writing my story.

Like these two.



 They know when to speak and when, although it kills them to do so, when to refrain.
 




They simply connect in a language that is all their own.  A language that we, as adults, seem to somehow have forgotten. 

My one and only birthday wish for you today, sweet girls, is you would not forget, because your  friendship is truly a special gift. 

Happy Birthday, Alex!

My littles and I share one iTunes account.  Initially, when they were actually little, they listened to the kind of music that I purchased.  The bubble-gum pop, top 40, sing it in the shower type stuff that I usually like. 

Now, as they've gotten older, I periodically find little piles of change by my desk with post-it notes telling me they downloaded a song on their own.  Just so we are clear, the change never does quite cover the full cost of their music, but I generally do not complain too loudly.  My thought being that since we share an account, any music they download comes to my iTunes as well - keeping me abreast with what they listen to. 

My own little window into their worlds.

I ran the beach this morning and putting my iPod on shuffle, headed toward the shore.  Some songs I'd never heard before, some I could sing every lyric, and some make me realize there's a lot to learn about teenagers.

This morning's playlist... courtesy of my littles.  Enjoy.

John Butler Trio - Ocean
Taylor Swift - Speak Now
Hoodie Allen - No Interruption
Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back
Mac Miller - Party on Fifth
Outasight - Tonight is the Night
Keith Urban - Long Hot Summer
Christina Aguilera - Bionic
Linkin Park - Powerless
Kelly Clarkson - Stronger
Tears for Fears - Everybody Wants to Rule the World
Rob Thomas - Streetcar Symphony
TV On the Radio - Wolflike
Kanye West - Stronger
Outkast - Hey Ya!
Metallica - Memory Remains
As I Lay Dying - Separation
Awolnation - Sail
Demi Lovato - Unbroken
James Aldean - She's Country
Stone Sour - Through the Glass
Trapt - Echo
Green Day - 21 Guns
Emimem - Cinderella Man
Missy Elliott - We Run This

Over the last few months, I have talked sex more frequently than I have talked sex the entire length of my forty three year old life. 

I've talked sex with Big J. With my girlfriends.  With my stepmother and surprisingly, with my father.  With my friends at the gym.  With a woman sitting next to me on a plane.  Actually, the last few months, I've talked sex with just about anyone I can find to strike up a conversation with, if I'm completely honest.

in hindsight, it is almost laughable how out of character this is for me.  Sex has always been personal.  Private.  A topic off limits, especially in mixed company.  We did it, we just didn't talk about it.  And while I have had the talk with my littles on more than one occasion, we are all good there, you can rest assured that my girlfriends never expected me to invite them over for a cup of coffee and a slice of sex chatter.

Oh, that was so then.

The impetus for this one eighty is due largely in part to the fact that last month, I finally broke down and read 50 Shades of Grey.  I loaded it onto my kindle while we were traveling and although whenever anyone would come anywhere to me, I would slam the cover shut - pink cheeked, palms sweating - I could not put it down.  And while I found the writing to be mediocre at best, the story line was utterly fascinating to me.

As was the scene in the Red Room of Pain.
While Spem in Alium by Tallis is on the iPod. 
For nine minutes. 
Nine whole minutes!

So fascinating in fact, that I needed to know what others thought.  And I'd never know unless I asked, hm?

I mentioned to my family that this three hundred words a day thing is very difficult for me.  Not because I don't have enough to say.  I would guess you all know me well enough by now to know that that could never be the case.

I mean, honestly - I can wax poetic for pages about just about anything that is of interest to me.  My littles.  The things I love.  My momma.  Running.  What I had for breakfast this morning.  The sand on the beach.

No, for me, the single most difficult part of this challenge is only using three hundred words.

Which, in case you hadn't realized, was exactly the point.

I stopped writing regularly because I believe that every story worth reading has a beginning, a middle and an end.  Most of my stories do.  I will rarely leave you hanging, wondering why you bothered to stay, just what exactly is the point?

Truthfully, most of my stories go into oftentimes excessive detail when it comes to the beginning and the middle.  I want to paint the entire picture for you.  I want you to see through my eyes, to feel what I feel, so that I can then take you with me where I am going.  Toward the end.

Frankie, sweet child that she is, said that in my writing, I use a lot of filler words.  I think, I believe, truth is, fairly, very, unbelievably, overly, however, although.

Why, yes, I do believe I do.  Fairly frequently.  Rather often.

The challenge then becomes trusting myself, believing that I can take you beginning to end in exactly three hundred words.  Am I able to show you everything I need you to see?  All without losing my voice?  All without losing me.

You tell me.

I headed to the beach to run for the first time since arriving in California.  I love running on the beach but sadly, I do not go very often.  Rather, I wait, patiently until the tide is the lowest upon awaking, before giving myself that gift. 

The post fourth beach was deserted as I turned southward toward the pier.  Slowly, my body found its rhythm and as it did, my mind began to wander as my feet carried me ever further along the shoreline.

I noticed after awhile that unconsciously, I had found and begun following a set of footprints in the sand.  A runner that had gone before me.  I matched my stride to my unknown guide, footprint to footprint.  We neared the water's edge, we veered slightly away.  As if on autopilot, I followed his lead, no questions asked, no choices made, as silently, we traveled a path down the beach. 

I turned at the halfway point, and new prints appeared.  The gait was longer than that of my previous guide.  I struggled to keep up.  Half a mile, I labored until without warning, my leader stopped, reversed course, turned for home.

Alone now, I continued on, setting my path, plotting my own course.  I gazed behind me and realized sadly, I left no footprints of my own.  No path for another to follow, my impression too faint. 

I have lived my life like this run on the beach.  Trusting in those who have gone before to know the way, to chart the course. Blindly, I've follow their lead.

Wisdom tells me it is time to plot my own journey.  To trust my feet to carry me onward toward what my future holds.  To leave an imprint my littles can follow.  I think I might almost be ready.

Today we celebrate the 4th of July.  We remember the forbearance of our country's founding fathers when on July 4th, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed.  The Declaration of Independence which justified the colonies pulling away from England and becoming an independent nation.

But more than the celebration of the anniversary, the holiday reminds us to honor the values on which our country was founded, that each and every person has inherent rights, self-evident truths.

We hold these truths to be self-evident;  That all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

The wisdom of the fathers who came before us, who created the framework on which our country hangs, thought it important enough to remind us that they signed it in ink, that it is our right, our unalienable right, as Americans, as human beings, to pursue life, liberty and, don't miss it my friends, happiness.

Pursue happiness.

Whatever happiness might mean to you.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about what it means to me.  What shape happiness takes for me, personally, today.

My interests change now and then. Likes become dislikes, ebbing and flowing like the tide.  And yet what I am amazed to realize, and yet maybe not so, is that though activities make me happy, they do not bring me happiness.  It is not the action that brings me joy.

No, for me, true happiness is found in the intangible.  In expressing emotion.  In human connection.  In love.  In faith and hope and laughter.  And in the belief that we have been put here to make a difference and that it is my unalienable right to find every way to do so.

Pursue happiness.  Celebrate!

I absolutely love the new Keifer Sutherland show, Touch.  I recorded the series and just recently watched the episodes in succession, a few at a time, over the span of a couple of weeks. The young boy at the center of the series narrates the opening scenes, alluding to the theme of that particular episode.

One day as I was watching, a seemingly simple statement the boy made stuck with me. 

Human beings crave connection.

Think about it for a moment.  Such a simple statement.  Such a huge truth. 

Human beings crave connection.  With families, friends and loved ones, with the stranger whose path we cross in our daily commute.  We need to touch, to be touched.  We need to speak, to be heard.

We crave... connection. 

Why is that, I wonder?  Perhaps it is self preservation, we crave it because our bodies require it.  Like they require air to breathe.  We crave it because our minds need it, the stimulation, the interaction in order to learn, to expand, to grow.  And our hearts?  Oh, our hearts need it.  Maybe even most of all.

And yet, how often do we withhold creating those connections with others?  How often do we glance down as we pass a person on the street?  How often do forget, neglect, to interact with the very ones we say we love?  How often do we bypass the hug, the touch, the physical - too busy, not right, no need?

As our world has become virtual, technological, and our interactions computerized, impersonal, it has become increasingly difficult to create those connections we need most.  Working from home, isolated from others daily, I live this truth more than I care to admit.  But we must seek them out.  I must seek them out. 

We crave... I crave... connection.

I frequently tell my littles that they are lucky to have me as their mother.

To be honest, the exact words are more along the lines of... with grades like yours, you are lucky you got me for a mother.

Not that I am not concerned with their grades.  Not that I do not encourage them to do well.  Not that I do not begin each and every day entreating them to be the best that they can be. 

It just seems to me as if there is some sort of disconnect between my hopes for my littles' and their own hopes for the future.

Which is entirely normal, I am finally, humbly, learning to accept.

What we want for our children is oftentimes what they want the least and the more I push them, the harder they push back.  For awhile, when they were small and I was bigger, they were mine.  But time has passed and now they are big and I am the small one.  Now they have voices.  Now they have opinions. 

And more often than not, I am finding those opinions to be profound.  And grounded.  Not in the expectations I have created for them, but in the freedom I have given them to make decisions on their own.

And as suddenly as that, the tables turned.  Instead of them learning from me, I find myself being the one that is listening, learning from the certain wisdom that only the young possess. 

I remain hopeful about their grades.  I am their mother, after all.  I remind them.  I encourage them.  I do what I know that I should.  That will never change.

But somewhere, deep down, I realize I've been mistaken. 

Deep down, I realize that it is actually me who is the lucky one.

I love the summertime.

As I drive over the bridge that leads to town for the first time each summer, my body begins to relax as if on cue.  My lungs expand, I can breathe.  The tension I carry around with me, day in and day out at home, mysteriously evaporates into the cool, ocean air.  The physical changes are palpable. 

And eventually, my stubborn mind follows suit.

This is my happy place.  It is good.
At times I wonder if the spell would be broken should the fates make it possible for us to live here year round.  Would this place become just like any other place to me?  Would it lose its magic?

It is the peace that all is right when my feet are in the sand and the sun is on my face and my gaze is on the horizon.  It is the catch in my throat, the hope in our future, as our country’s flag flies high overhead.  It is the joy on the faces of my littles dancing on Sundays in the park.  It is the strength that awes me as I watch those who serve do what they do for me, for us.  It is the history I have with this Island.  It is the smiles that come more freely, the words that are spoken more gently, the laughter that bubbles out of me.

Yes, my heart will forever belong to this place, whether summertime or spring, wintertime or fall.