by Amy Newmark
Other things I’ve checked off my list include spending a day at the Prado Museum in Madrid, joining friends to cook at Ronald McDonald House for their Meals That Mend program, and planning a multi-generation family vacation.
And, in case that sounds overwhelming, I purposely pick a few simple things such as reading a classic novel — I reread To Kill a Mockingbird — and watching a classic movie, The Wizard of Oz.
I’ve shared this idea with others who are now creating their own annual bucket lists. It’s surprising what you can accomplish if you set your mind to it — and actually write it down. Oh, and developing my list is always the first item I check off — because it feels good to start the year with a “win.”
— Lori Kempf Bosko —
Think Like a Dog
Those who find beauty in all of nature will find themselves at one with the secrets of life itself.
~L. Wolfe Gilbert
I was excited to take my rescue Beagle to the river the other day, as it’s within walking distance of our new home. Having spent her first six years in a cage, Georgie had never seen a body of water, and I wanted to get there before sunset to watch her experience it.
I was growing increasingly impatient about all the stops her little Beagle nose required. She inspected the grass, dirt, and trees, and licked whatever was stuck to the road. These were all new discoveries for her, and she took her time studying them.
When I accepted that it was fruitless to hurry her along, I whipped out my cell phone and began texting. I thought that I needed something to do while Georgie was slowing us down.
Then, for some reason, I heard the cicadas, and I remembered that the sound of cicadas is my favorite sound in the world. That awakened something buried within me that yearned for the simple pleasures that had been replaced by technology.
I made a conscious decision to be present, and to enjoy the journey to the river, just like Georgie. The journey was just as wonderful as the final destination would be, and it took that little Beagle to remind me.
Now, I admired the intricacy of the flowers and the wonder of the winding ivy on our path. I felt the occasional warm raindrop on my skin from a gray sky threatening to burst at any moment. I smelled the asphalt, the grass and the flowers, and the dirt and the air. I treasured each one equally, as if discovering them for the first time. I took note of the colors everywhere that people would claim I exaggerated if I were to paint them on canvas.
I tripped over my feet and stumbled in some holes, and I was damp with sweat and rain. A few mosquitoes circled my head and landed on my sticky arms. As we neared our destination, I realized something even more important: It didn’t matter if we even reached the river. Why must there always be a destination?
Why must there always be a destination?
Georgie had no idea that we had a destination. She was present for the journey, and she savored every bit of that sweet experience. There was no race and no finish line.
Now I’m not sure who rescued whom.
— Lauren Mosher —
What My Children Have Taught Me
Children make you want to start life over.
~Muhammad Ali
I began my foray into motherhood with an ambitious list of things I hoped to teach my kids through my words and actions. I wanted to teach them to live in the present, consider others’ feelings, see humor in life, never say “I can’t,” and always make their best effort.
I also had another list of things I hoped they wouldn’t pick up from me. I didn’t want to teach them to procrastinate, criticize their bodies, underestimate their own abilities, lie to get telemarketers off the phone, run red lights, or lose their temper at inanimate objects. The jury is still out on how well I’ve succeeded at any of the above.
But this morning, watching my seven-year-old daughter Haley strap on Rollerblades for the first time, I was reminded of how much my children have to teach their father and me.
As I watched her progress from inching along with spaghetti legs beside my parked car, to venturing out on her own and falling again and again with complete confidence, I learned more than I’ll ever need to know about determination and tenacity. Here are just a few of the things my children have taught me. Many are lessons I learned as a child but had allowed myself to forget.
• If you don’t know something, ask.
• Believe in the unbelievable.
• Play in the rain and squish your toes in the mud.
• If you like somebody, tell them.
• Dip graham crackers in milk.
• Handmade gifts are the best kind.
• Save your money for something you really want, and when you have enough, get it!
• Sing, dance and laugh a little every day.
• Share your ice cream with the dog.
• Have dreams.
• Have heroes.
• Sign your letters with Xs and Os.
• Mean it.
• Apologize when you’re wrong.
• Smile at lonely people.
• Make wishes.
• Make new friends.
• Make clover chains.
• Circle special occasions on your calendar, and then count down the days.
• Give gladly to those less fortunate.
• Laugh when you’re happy.
• Cry when you’re sad.
• Stop and study the ants.
• Get dressed up on your birthday.
• Never see weeds. See wildflowers.
• Deep in your heart, believe that people are basically the same.
The list continues to grow daily. How much better this world would be if we adults never forgot these important lessons. But somewhere in the process of growing up — in learning to evaluate, intimidate, and impress — we do forget. I, for one, am glad to be sharing my days with little people who remind me continually of the things that really matter in life.
— Mimi Greenwood Knight —
You Are More Than You Know
I don’t want to come all this way, to do this life, and then decide it’s too hard and not show up for it.
~Elizabeth Gilbert
Toward the end of yoga class, the instructor asks, “Is anyone afraid to get into an inverted position?” I scan the rainbow of mats lined up like crayons, expecting to see colorful reactions. Nothing.
Silence.
Complete Zen.
Seriously? Am I the only one who just recently figured out how to touch my toes? Uh… hellooooo! This yoga stuff is interesting, I’ll give you that, but a headstand? Is that even possible?
I think about grabbing my mat and making a run for the door.
“Big breath in,” the instructor calls out. “Now release slowly… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1.” And with each number, my fear dissipates.
I inch my mat closer to the wall, as instructed.
“You won’t be able to see the wall, but I want you to feel its energy, its presence,” she explains. “We’re not going to use it. Just knowing it’s there is enough.”
Maylo, the instructor, wants me to believe in something I can’t see, and find comfort in knowing it’s there if I should need it. She’s asking me to have a little faith, both in the wall and in myself.
With baby steps, we inch toward a headstand. Each small move seems reasonable, so I follow along. Before I know it, I have one foot off the ground, and the other foot just kind of tags along as if it doesn’t have a choice, like some sort of anti-gravity.
Each small move seems reasonable, so I follow along.
I can feel a powerful inner strength kick in and take hold. I can sense that my core, like the world, isn’t flat. And it isn’t just about abs, muffin-topped or otherwise. To keep me from caving into my neck and creating too much pressure on my head, it requires a whole inner barrel of muscle work. For the first time, I can actually feel the muscles engage around the entire hub of my body, working together like a well-rehearsed orchestra. I’m surprised at my o
wn strength and stability.
“I did it! I’m doing it!” I blurt out loud.
“You can do more than you know,” Maylo smiles. “You are more than you know.”
Slowly, I breathe in her words.
Lately, I’ve been asking the Universe to help define me — to disclose my worth, my innate value. This request isn’t coming from an enlightened Dalai Lama place. It’s more of a, “Please, help me. I’m pretty sure I’m doing it wrong,” sort of thing.
Finding my value through a man’s eyes for most of my life turned out to be a bad move. It nearly took me down. Now I’m looking for something more reliable.
And there it is: “I am more than I know.”
That’s not exactly a high-end price tag hanging from my elbow, but it clearly shuts down the idea of giving myself away. And I like how it leaves a little room for interpretation. It’s almost like an invitation to get better acquainted with myself, so I can discover my true value piece by piece, like a scavenger hunt.
It isn’t that I think I’m a bad person. Not at all. I’m kind-hearted. I’ll bring you soup when you’re sick and celebrate your birthday in style. But the truth is… I spent the better part of my forties trying to please my partner without even noticing that I was edgy, drained and sad most days. I was walking through my life on a tightrope. To keep the peace, I gave up pieces of myself. I’m no therapist, but I would guess that someone truly in touch with her own worth would have walked away after a few weeks, maybe a few months. She certainly would not have limped away eight years later.
So I graciously accept the gift my yoga practice has given me this evening. I can still feel the powerful force deep inside that’s strong enough to support me in whatever position I find myself. I’m starting to see that I don’t need to look outside myself for that. And that makes me feel powerful and steadfast, qualities I probably wouldn’t have used to describe myself before tonight.
Perhaps that’s why I make time for yoga even on my busiest days. Sure, I like seeing my body become more flexible, but the gains are so much bigger than that. It’s as if the most valuable parts of me are right there inside my yoga practice, just waiting for me to reclaim them. All I have to do is unroll my mat. Again and again.
— Mindi Ellis —
What I Wouldn’t Give…
Give every day the chance to become the most beautiful day of your life.
~Mark Twain
I get up between 4:30 and 4:45 every morning throughout the workweek — sometimes a few minutes earlier. As one might imagine, that hour feels more like the middle of the night than it does the early morning. It is still dark out. My husband is still breathing heavily and deeply, comfortably tucked under the covers, where he will stay, sound asleep, for another two and a half hours. The only sounds are the quiet hiss of air through the floor vents, and the whistle and rumble of a distant train beyond the woods. And as my consciousness awakes reluctantly to the fact that I must pry myself out of my soft cocoon of a bed, where the warm body of my snuggling dog is wedged tightly against my stomach, I think, What I wouldn’t give to stay here for even one more hour….
On a recent morning, though, it occurred to me to actually think this through. After all, if I just got up and prepared for work, I could sleep till 6:15, leave my house at 6:45 and still get to work on time.
But here’s what I’d be giving up: I wouldn’t get to read the Bible lesson over breakfast, with my dogs sitting patiently beside me. That would leave me hungry for food and for inspiration. I wouldn’t get to take my morning walk with my two dogs, the fresh air sweet and invigorating, and the sound of the dogs’ tags ringing clear in the pre-dawn quiet. Missing our walk would mean foregoing precious bonding time with them, sacrificing time to mentally prepare myself for the day, and giving up a chance to appreciate the beauty of the outdoors before my daytime obligations become paramount in my consciousness.
Sometimes I wish I could accomplish all these things without having to get up by 4:45, but then I would miss out on some of the other things I love about early morning, too: the intimacy of the early morning hours, the privacy of the darkness, the moonlight, the sunrise, the stars, the kindred spirits I sometimes encounter — neighbors up and out as early as I am. I would miss the chirping of the crickets, and I would miss watching the world wake up. All of these things are as indispensable to my morning routine as is brushing my teeth.
So tomorrow, when I reluctantly throw back the covers and think, What I wouldn’t give to stay in bed another hour, I will try to remember the answer: nothing. The moonlight spilling onto black asphalt through pine needles; the pale blush of pink or peach or gold dusting the bottom of gray clouds; the sound of my dogs’ paws trotting along the sidewalk beside me; the hoot of an owl hidden in the dark of the woods; warm lights blinking on in the upstairs windows of houses lining the street; the occasional shooting star blazing across the purple-black sky; the earliest birdsong of the day — I would give up none of these. Not even for another ninety minutes of sleep.
— Amanda Sue Creasey —
Reboot Your Life
From the Depths to the Heights
When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.
~Viktor Frankl
I was lying in bed in the dark ready for sleep when my fiancée announced that her engagement ring was now in my sock drawer because she “didn’t want it anymore.” It felt like a baseball bat to the stomach and one of the worst nights of my life. It would be months before our actual separation, during which time we saw a counselor — to no avail.
On the day she was to move out, she returned to our apartment in San Francisco to collect the last of her belongings. As if my world wasn’t shaken enough, that was the moment the powerful Loma Prieta earthquake struck. I was amazed our building did not collapse.
In the weeks that followed, paralyzed with depression and grief, I decided to continue seeing the counselor on my own. One day, he gave me a homework assignment: I was to write down a list of one hundred life goals.
It took me two weeks to complete the task. When I finally handed over the list, I expected him to read it, maybe even give me a gold star. He did neither. He didn’t even look at it. He merely instructed me to pick one goal and take two small steps toward it before the following week.
Looking over my list of one hundred goals, I chose, “Fly an airplane.” I bought a flying magazine. That was one step. Then I went to a local airport and arranged with a flight instructor to take a low-cost “Discovery Flight.”
During that first flight, as I took the controls at 3,000 feet, I let out a shriek of excitement. The flight instructor grimaced in pain. I assured him I would never do that again.
And so began my journey to become a pilot, starting from scratch. No knowledge. No experience. When I bought $300 worth of textbooks, I began to question what I’d gotten myself into. Then came the fear that accompanies every new challenge thrown at one while flying.
That’s when I realized I needed to adjust my mental attitude. Somewhere along the way, I had read that people should tell themselves they were the best at whatever they were attempting to do — but keep it to themselves. I took this to heart. Thus, I decided privately that I was a Top Gun pilot suffering from some sort of amnesia. With that well-hidden core of confidence, I was going to seek the help of flight instructors and ground instructors to chip away at the forgetfulness that had apparently overtaken me.
I was now excited to recover all this “lost” knowledge.
Newfound enthusiasm came along with this new attitude. Unlike the school days of my youth, which I privately viewed as a benign prison system, I was now excited to recover all this “lost” knowledge. No way would I ever miss a ground-school class.
Eventually, the time came for my first flight check with the chief instructor, an airline pilot with 11,000 hours. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already, one of my classmates privately confessed to me that he’d recently been thr
ough the same routine. Not only did he fail but he actually cried.
Without my internal Top Gun attitude, I probably would have succumbed to the urge to run away and never go back to the airport. Top Gun pilots, however, don’t run.
On the day of my first in-flight testing, Paul, my regular flight instructor, approached the chief and me as we prepared to get airborne. Pointing to the chief and myself, I asked Paul who he thought was more nervous. “I am,” Paul replied. I was startled by his reaction until I realized that he, too, was going to be evaluated based on my performance that day.
Climbing into the cockpit of a Piper Cherokee Warrior, the chief informed me that he would be giving orders but not answering questions. I’d never flown with him before, but I was beginning to get a sense of why my classmate broke down. This guy was a tough cookie.
Shortly after our wheels left the ground, I rested my right hand on my knee. This led to a facefull of drill sergeant as the chief yelled at me to put my hand on the throttle. The tone had definitely been set. Would my Top Gun mindset hold up under the pressure?
The flight lasted 1.7 hours. It consisted of everything that could go wrong going wrong, on purpose. Toward the end, the chief told me to take him home. We were out over the San Francisco Bay in the late afternoon. Prior to this, I had always flown in the late morning to take advantage of the light winds. Turning west toward the airport meant heading straight into the late-afternoon sun. The Plexiglas windshield, full of minute scratches, refracted the light in such a way as to be nearly blinding.
Somehow or other, I managed to find the airport and put us safely on the ground. Without a word, the chief climbed out of the plane and walked to the office, leaving me alone for the first time to physically push the plane back into its parking spot.