Since I first knew what New Year’s resolutions were, I have diligently written down a long list of items that I’ve wanted to accomplish in the promise of a new year. Goals that I hadn’t voiced aloud in the previous year were written down on paper with a hope that the momentum of a fresh, blank page could make them materialize easier.
Amazingly, each year I’ve managed to accomplish several goals on my list. With satisfaction, I ticked these items off one by one, only to move on to the next item. But the next new year brings a fresh list of goals, and some that are carried over because time slipped by and they fell away with the passing months.
In a year that has brought many changes, for the first time since I was a teenager, writing down my resolutions has been difficult. I find myself disillusioned with unending goals; goals that only give me a moment of gratification before I move onto that next mountain I must climb. The happiness and satisfaction of an accomplishment has escaped me. This year I search not for accomplishment but for happiness, and the goals are obviously not bringing that elusive emotion to me.
So this year I’m doing things differently. A few months ago I began compiling a list of things I wanted to try that I’ve never allowed myself for various reasons to attempt. The final result is a list of thirty three experiences, one for each year of my life, which I want to discover a little bit of happiness from. Not too long ago I read that happiness comes by living in the moment, and that’s what I want. Thirty-three moments of authentic happiness to remind myself that a happy life exists in stringing together these moments, and not by dwelling on what could have been done differently.
Of course, I will write about each of these experiences as the year progresses, so I think I’ll keep the list a surprise for as the year unfolds. Can you think of an experience you’d want to have during this wonderful and promising year?
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Lessons in Loss
When I was young, we spent most of my childhood up north at my Great-Grandmother’s house. My parents visited often, driving the five hours sometimes every other weekend. She was a tiny woman, who’d be waiting on the front porch of her gray house as we’d drive up. For some reason, I was the grandchild always allowed to sleep with her. Her room was the smallest bedroom in the house, and she had a full size bed piled with quilts that she’d made herself. It was the warmest and most comfortable spot in the house.
Every morning she’d wake at 4:30 to make a homemade breakfast for everyone. I’d crawl out of bed with her and peer over the counter as she mixed the flour, the Crisco, and milk to make homemade biscuits each morning. She’d put them in the oven and the smell would waft through the house until others would begin to rise at the warm smell of fresh biscuits.
But in the time that it took for her to mix and scoop out the biscuits I had her to myself, and I felt special, as if I was different from the others who’d sleep late.
When I was in second grade, she died. It shouldn’t have been surprising since she was ninety-one, but at seven I didn’t expect to lose anyone or fathom what that would mean.
In a town where you have to drive an hour to get to a grocery store, the wake is held inside the home. I was curious and wanted to see her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go near the casket. It didn’t seem right that she was in the corner of the living room, when I’d always seen her puttering around the kitchen or rocking in her rocker by the window near the fireplace. I escaped outside eventually with some cousins.
Seven was a long time ago, but I can remember standing on the cement walkway looking up at my cousin Christy, who was only a year younger than me. I’d come outside unable to watch anymore tears of the family that had been so close to her.
My cousin Christy’s eyes had scrunched up as she had a way of doing and exclaimed in her six year old screech, “You’re not going to cry, too.”
I swallowed my tears, feeling them fall on the inside instead. My great-grandmother was the first person who I was close to that had died, and I felt as if crying was wrong.
We continued to go up North to her house, visiting less frequently, but still returning often. The rooms would be filled with cousins and aunts and uncles, a house full. My parents slept in her room, and I never returned to that bed.
The house would wake to the smell of breakfast now made by my mom and aunts. I’d lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to make sure everyone else was awake. Sometimes I’d wait until someone was sent to wake me up before crawling out of bed.
The little woman who always had a smile wasn’t there when I’d make my way into the kitchen after nine. Waking up early had lost its magical quality, and I never did it willingly again.
It’s funny how loss changes us in small ways. In ways we are unable to understand at an young age, but a change that lasts a lifetime. I still don’t cry easily, not wanting anyone to see my tears. Words spoken by a six year old unintentionally changed how I handle grief. I still don’t wake up early, and the smell of biscuits still brings me back to that kitchen, peering over the counter watching the seamless motions of my great-grandmother working on her dough, putting her love for her family into each biscuit.
Every morning she’d wake at 4:30 to make a homemade breakfast for everyone. I’d crawl out of bed with her and peer over the counter as she mixed the flour, the Crisco, and milk to make homemade biscuits each morning. She’d put them in the oven and the smell would waft through the house until others would begin to rise at the warm smell of fresh biscuits.
But in the time that it took for her to mix and scoop out the biscuits I had her to myself, and I felt special, as if I was different from the others who’d sleep late.
When I was in second grade, she died. It shouldn’t have been surprising since she was ninety-one, but at seven I didn’t expect to lose anyone or fathom what that would mean.
In a town where you have to drive an hour to get to a grocery store, the wake is held inside the home. I was curious and wanted to see her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go near the casket. It didn’t seem right that she was in the corner of the living room, when I’d always seen her puttering around the kitchen or rocking in her rocker by the window near the fireplace. I escaped outside eventually with some cousins.
Seven was a long time ago, but I can remember standing on the cement walkway looking up at my cousin Christy, who was only a year younger than me. I’d come outside unable to watch anymore tears of the family that had been so close to her.
My cousin Christy’s eyes had scrunched up as she had a way of doing and exclaimed in her six year old screech, “You’re not going to cry, too.”
I swallowed my tears, feeling them fall on the inside instead. My great-grandmother was the first person who I was close to that had died, and I felt as if crying was wrong.
We continued to go up North to her house, visiting less frequently, but still returning often. The rooms would be filled with cousins and aunts and uncles, a house full. My parents slept in her room, and I never returned to that bed.
The house would wake to the smell of breakfast now made by my mom and aunts. I’d lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to make sure everyone else was awake. Sometimes I’d wait until someone was sent to wake me up before crawling out of bed.
The little woman who always had a smile wasn’t there when I’d make my way into the kitchen after nine. Waking up early had lost its magical quality, and I never did it willingly again.
It’s funny how loss changes us in small ways. In ways we are unable to understand at an young age, but a change that lasts a lifetime. I still don’t cry easily, not wanting anyone to see my tears. Words spoken by a six year old unintentionally changed how I handle grief. I still don’t wake up early, and the smell of biscuits still brings me back to that kitchen, peering over the counter watching the seamless motions of my great-grandmother working on her dough, putting her love for her family into each biscuit.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
What it Means to be Alone
When I was nine, my parents would argue, and to escape, my mom would put us in the car and drive around for hours. It wasn’t strictly a nine year old thing, but an awareness hit me at nine, and when I close my eyes, I remember myself as that girl, bangs in my face, hair down my back, and a face that hid my secrets. My sister would sometimes fall asleep in the back seat, but I would be wide awake on the passenger side, gazing out the window, trying to remain still, to go unnoticed.
During daylight, the drive was just another drive; the same sights, the sun making it seem almost normal to drive the same highways and roads over and over. But at night, I’d feel hope hidden in the darkness, a magic quality of what if things could change this night. What if this was the night that altered everything.
Sometimes my mom would reminisce about her life before she’d met my dad. At those times, I’d hear happiness in her tone that I’d never heard at any other time. It was a version of my mother that I could imagine as happy instead of the worn out, defeated one in the car.
At other times, the stillness in the car was like a person sitting between the bucket seats, and I’d stare out the window wondering what she was thinking. The sadness at those times weighed heavily in the car causing my chest to hurt.
I always thought that what she needed to hear was that it would be okay, but the nine-year-old girl in the passenger seat could never muster the courage to assure her that it would be okay if her parents weren’t together, that they should find a way to be happy.
Even though the drives went on for years until eventually we were teenagers, I never found a way to tell her. Eventually she began to disappear alone, leaving us behind, and I didn’t have to sit in the passenger seat and wonder. I sat at home and wondered if she would come home this time, or would this be the time she found what she was looking for in the darkness.
Tonight, I found myself in my own car. I needed to get out the house, and with really no reason to, I spontaneously decided to go get something to eat, though I wasn’t hungry. It was dark, with only the pin pricks of headlights and street lamps. I was brought back to those drives, and I understood for the first time why she’d get into the car and drive. Hope still existed in the darkness somewhere, and if I could drive long enough, and maybe get out of the car before it disappeared, I could catch it.
Now I know what my mother was thinking because I’m now in the driver’s seat. I no longer sit in the passenger seat, but the little girl who sat there all those years still exists inside of me. Glancing over at the passenger seat, I thought of that little girl, expecting to see her.
It was fear of being alone that always drove my mom back home. She weighed her choices, and fear of being alone always won out; it always led us back, parked in that driveway. She’d stare at the house for minutes, unable to leave, but not wanting to stay. She could never find the hope in the stillness of the night.
The girl never told her it was okay to be alone.
A few days ago, someone told me that it takes courage to leave the comfortableness of your life. During those car rides, my mom taught me that it takes more courage to stay gone than to leave, because eventually, loneliness swallows you. It’s at those times you have to maintain hope that it won’t be this way forever. I always saw the hope in the darkness as I stared out the window at the stars, blurring my eyes with the headlights so that the night could sparkle with the magic of hope.
During daylight, the drive was just another drive; the same sights, the sun making it seem almost normal to drive the same highways and roads over and over. But at night, I’d feel hope hidden in the darkness, a magic quality of what if things could change this night. What if this was the night that altered everything.
Sometimes my mom would reminisce about her life before she’d met my dad. At those times, I’d hear happiness in her tone that I’d never heard at any other time. It was a version of my mother that I could imagine as happy instead of the worn out, defeated one in the car.
At other times, the stillness in the car was like a person sitting between the bucket seats, and I’d stare out the window wondering what she was thinking. The sadness at those times weighed heavily in the car causing my chest to hurt.
I always thought that what she needed to hear was that it would be okay, but the nine-year-old girl in the passenger seat could never muster the courage to assure her that it would be okay if her parents weren’t together, that they should find a way to be happy.
Even though the drives went on for years until eventually we were teenagers, I never found a way to tell her. Eventually she began to disappear alone, leaving us behind, and I didn’t have to sit in the passenger seat and wonder. I sat at home and wondered if she would come home this time, or would this be the time she found what she was looking for in the darkness.
Tonight, I found myself in my own car. I needed to get out the house, and with really no reason to, I spontaneously decided to go get something to eat, though I wasn’t hungry. It was dark, with only the pin pricks of headlights and street lamps. I was brought back to those drives, and I understood for the first time why she’d get into the car and drive. Hope still existed in the darkness somewhere, and if I could drive long enough, and maybe get out of the car before it disappeared, I could catch it.
Now I know what my mother was thinking because I’m now in the driver’s seat. I no longer sit in the passenger seat, but the little girl who sat there all those years still exists inside of me. Glancing over at the passenger seat, I thought of that little girl, expecting to see her.
It was fear of being alone that always drove my mom back home. She weighed her choices, and fear of being alone always won out; it always led us back, parked in that driveway. She’d stare at the house for minutes, unable to leave, but not wanting to stay. She could never find the hope in the stillness of the night.
The girl never told her it was okay to be alone.
A few days ago, someone told me that it takes courage to leave the comfortableness of your life. During those car rides, my mom taught me that it takes more courage to stay gone than to leave, because eventually, loneliness swallows you. It’s at those times you have to maintain hope that it won’t be this way forever. I always saw the hope in the darkness as I stared out the window at the stars, blurring my eyes with the headlights so that the night could sparkle with the magic of hope.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Consulting the Stars
I must confess that I believe in horoscopes. I never really gave it much thought before because I’ve read them since I was a teenager. I didn’t go around confessing it to people though, and apparently for most people who know me, the actual belief is a cause for alarm. Since I have little faith in most things that I can’t logically explain with facts and reason, many friends have been surprised by me giving them credence.
Like most people, I used to read them for pure entertainment, but then something happened that made me reconsider their purely entertainment value.
One morning about a year and a half ago, my horoscope said to look around my house because some appliance would be going out. I paid little attention to it as I did most days with my horoscope. I didn’t inspect each appliance in my house because it would be silly to do it when a horoscope told you to. (I was imagining someone interrupting the inspection, and I’d never hear the end of that one.) However, my blaring freezer alarm warning that the ice cream had defrosted and dripped into the crevices of every other package would not be denied. I ended up with a brand new freezer and a new found respect and fascination with horoscopes. I’ve read them daily since then, waiting to see if another one would be as accurate.
Recently, someone pointed out that they are so general that of course it would seem that they would come true, but many things we put faith in are broad. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told that everything happens for a reason when something bad happens. Does it really have a reason though? Or do we put faith in the idea that it does, so we are bound to find a reason for it happening. We all want to believe that the major cataclysmic events in our lives aren’t random.
I’ve also encountered the argument recently that if we believe in something, we make it happen. That could be said for most of the outcomes of our choices. Our ability to achieve is mostly determined by what we are willing to do and how hard we’re willing to work to make something possible. If I want my horoscope to come true, then the stars should align and Venus should move into my house of sun. (Warning: It sounds good but I have no idea what they mean when they talk about those things in the horoscopes.)
So for me, a horoscope is a way to consider what I want for that day. It’s not an absolute. I don’t stay in bed if it’s a bad day according to my horoscope. I look in anticipation to what could be, and I guess if that makes me a contradiction in faith, then I’ll consult my horoscope about it…
Like most people, I used to read them for pure entertainment, but then something happened that made me reconsider their purely entertainment value.
One morning about a year and a half ago, my horoscope said to look around my house because some appliance would be going out. I paid little attention to it as I did most days with my horoscope. I didn’t inspect each appliance in my house because it would be silly to do it when a horoscope told you to. (I was imagining someone interrupting the inspection, and I’d never hear the end of that one.) However, my blaring freezer alarm warning that the ice cream had defrosted and dripped into the crevices of every other package would not be denied. I ended up with a brand new freezer and a new found respect and fascination with horoscopes. I’ve read them daily since then, waiting to see if another one would be as accurate.
Recently, someone pointed out that they are so general that of course it would seem that they would come true, but many things we put faith in are broad. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told that everything happens for a reason when something bad happens. Does it really have a reason though? Or do we put faith in the idea that it does, so we are bound to find a reason for it happening. We all want to believe that the major cataclysmic events in our lives aren’t random.
I’ve also encountered the argument recently that if we believe in something, we make it happen. That could be said for most of the outcomes of our choices. Our ability to achieve is mostly determined by what we are willing to do and how hard we’re willing to work to make something possible. If I want my horoscope to come true, then the stars should align and Venus should move into my house of sun. (Warning: It sounds good but I have no idea what they mean when they talk about those things in the horoscopes.)
So for me, a horoscope is a way to consider what I want for that day. It’s not an absolute. I don’t stay in bed if it’s a bad day according to my horoscope. I look in anticipation to what could be, and I guess if that makes me a contradiction in faith, then I’ll consult my horoscope about it…
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