Trusty

Trusty Vacumn Cleaner

It's an old-fashioned word: Trusty. As in, my trusty horse, or your trusty sidekick. Really, it couldn't be a less cool, more lame word. But I like it. It's a recession thing. These days, I really appreciate trusty things: appliances that keep working, sweaters that don't go out of style. Trusty things usually aren't sleek, fine, or high tech. They're workhorses, functional first, and I hope the trusty things in my life keep going for a while. After all, who wants to spend money these days on the latest vacumn cleaner? Not me.

Trusty Dishwasher-Scratched Glass

So, here's to my trusty hair dryer and my trusty broom. I'm cheering on my trusty refrigerator and trusty iron. I know I can count on my trusty Little Black Dress.


Trusty Kitchen Utensils in Trusty '70's Pitcher

Eventually these trusty things will wear out, but for now, I'm glad they're here to help. 


 





Thank You, Nicolas Cage



Pick Up Sticks in Motion



So, life is going along pretty well. I have a roof over my head, amazing friends, and a great family. I have a nice haircut. Most nights, I sleep well. I have time to exercise, although I don't always. I often feel productive but not too stressed. There are things that could be better, sure. There are things, significant things, missing from this picture, it's true. But should I upset the apple cart?

Um, yes. Regrettably, yes.

I don't want to change things...except that I do. It's time, because I think I've moved from being grateful for my circumstances to guarding them too much. It's one thing to hold things dear, and another thing to build a wall around them. It's the difference between wearing a beautiful necklace and feeling more beautiful because of it, and wearing a beautiful necklace and constantly checking the clasp to make sure it's secure.

While I'm aware things need to change, I'm not sure what happens next. I know it involves taking chances. And I know taking chances means possibly making a huge mess of my life and regretting my choices.

At times like these, I need courage. I need to sustain a sense of urgency and direction long enough start something new. Maybe vintage Springsteen will inspire. Or, perhaps the following words of wisdom will get me started:

"Many people die with their music still in them. Too often it is because they are getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out." --Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live." --Nicholas de Chamfort

Great ideas. Good reminders. But what I really find myself thinking about are these immortal words uttered by Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck:

"We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die."

That makes me laugh, and that makes the idea of taking chances much less holy (and therefore less scary). So, thank you Nicolas Cage. (Actually, thank you Moonstruck writer, John Patrick Shanley.) Thanks for reminding me that screwing up is The Way. It's human. And that's enough to get me started.

Taking It Down a Notch

Subtraction. It can be a good thing. Less color. Less intensity. Fewer words. Fewer distractions. If you take things down a notch, original thoughts and real connections actually have a chance.

It's easy to scan bright, sharp-focus images and heavily punctuated, in-your-face text. You can understand them if you're five. You can understand them if you're driving by them at 80 miles an hour. It's nice to scan what sometimes seems like the whole world, and easily understand it. It feels safe and satisfying. It's entertaining, too.

But something subtle requires more of you. It requests that you move closer to it. It invites you to fill in what it is not telling you. It requires you to come up with the rest of the story, if you want to.

Maybe you don't want to. Maybe you just want to view or read or listen to something quiet, something subtle, so that you can remember there is more to the world than what you see when you're driving by at 80 miles an hour.

Hearts and Flowers

"A bit of fragrance always clings to the hand that gives roses." --Chinese proverb

This week I was generously reminded of how lucky I am to have compassionate, wise, loving people around me. Thank you, and I learn from you.

Perhaps nothing in life matters more than this exchange of compassion.

The Dalai Lama said it beautifully: "If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion."

Focal Length



The Grand Long Distance View

Sometimes it's surprising where we find inspiration and direction. I was reminded of this recently. It was maybe 35 hours before the end of 2011, and my head was brimming with everything I hoped to accomplish in 2012. It's good to have a noggin full of dreams and plans, but mine was about to burst. The new year felt unmanageable before it even got started.

The cure, I thought, was to go to the beach and stare at the horizon until calm and focus returned. It was an uncharacteristically sunny winter day, so I leashed the dog and off we went.

Apparently, everyone else had the same idea. The beach was chaotic. People were off school and work, and when the sun came out, so did they. Families played in the sand, kids yelled at the tops of their lungs, and earnest runners and walkers got a jump start on their 2012 fitness goals.

My dog yanked the leash, and rolled in foul smelling stuff, and attempted to jump on people. My hands hurt from her playful romping. Since dogs aren't allowed directly on this beach, she stayed on leash and we stayed on the cement path that runs parallel to the shore.

Once in a while, I caught a glimpse of the horizon.

It wasn't doing the trick.

My head was still overflowing, and the noisy surroundings and jerky pet weren't helping.

Then, ahead of me and to my right, I heard it. Someone was playing the sax. It sounded amazingly clear and it cut through the chaos. I knew exactly where it was coming from. There's a foot-traffic tunnel near the beach that runs under train tracks, and the sax player was taking advantage of the great acoustics in this underpass. I walked toward the music, but not too close. I saw the player's silhouette, back lit in the tunnel, and settled myself on a low cement wall to listen. I was about half way between the shore and the sax player.


The Humble Underpass with Great Acoustics

His playing was smooth and a touch moody. It was both calming and engaging. But it wasn't only that. Many of my dreams and plans are about making art, and it was encouraging to hear this man practice his craft out in the open.

I turned my back on the beautiful and distant horizon, and turned toward the unknown musician. The dog was no longer tugging at the leash. She was digging madly in a bed of sand near my feet. She was wild and happy, then exhausted.

I looked over at a man and woman on a bench not far from me. They were sketching! I felt linked to these people making art. A few minutes after I spotted them, they gathered their belongings to leave. The woman slid her notebook into a small paper bag, then gave it a little kiss.

By settling into the present time and place, not by looking into the distance, I found focus and calm. Ironically, that made me feel optimistic about reaching my dreams for the future.