Go the Extra Quarter Mile

We’re often encouraged to go the extra mile.  I’m all for that in theory, but in practice, I’m a firm believer that even going an extra quarter mile makes a big difference.

Sometimes a mile is just too daunting a distance to go when I’m already tired and it’s late and I’m demoralized because the strategy that worked for nine frames of Wii bowling totally backfired in the tenth and arguably most important frame, nearly blowing my narrow lead.

A quarter mile is usually manageable.  Granted, guilt may be required to overcome the resistance that rears its undisciplined head even at that, but fortunately once this body gets in motion, it’s more likely to stay in motion.  And then there’s the unexpected joy kickback that comes from simply doing what I say I’m going to do.

That kickback is even greater when I have an actual device that gives me a virtual high five, woo–hoo, or some kind of personal you go, girl!  Of course, this requires going the extra quarter mile to figure out the technology involved in rigging it all up.

Case in point, this Christmas I got a Fitbit Force.  For years I wore a step counter that slid on my belt loop and required tricky maneuvering to keep it from sliding to an unsavory and often watery end.  So I was thrilled to discover the stylish Fitbit clamps on my wrist like a watch or bracelet (it’s a bugger to get on and off) and counts not only steps but calories burned, active minutes, restful sleep, and number of stairs climbed.  It also tells time and serves as a silent alarm clock (stay with me and I'll explain). I can sync all this information with the Fitbit dashboard on my computer and my smart phone and access all kinds information, if I am so inclined.

The feature that simultaneously freaks me out and delights me is the band vibrates when I reach my goal. It's also how the silent alarm clock wakes me without waking the rest of the household.  Even though I usually know when I’m nearing my goal, I’m never prepared for my wrist to writhe involuntarily.  When my wrist goes off, my phone joins in and gives me a little shout out.  This, oddly enough, makes me almost giddy.

So the Fitbit has already earned its keep.  A couple of nights I’ve been within a few hundred steps of my goal.  Had I not been wearing my Fitbit Force, I may have said close enough and called it a night.  But because inanimate objects have a way of making me feel they are animate (especially when they vibrate), taking a few hundred more steps to make the thing on my wrist tremble with joy did not seem like too much to ask.

Like house-training a new puppy or staying up with a sick child, certain situations bring out my inner Rosie the Riveter.  I have no choice but to exclaim, “I can do it!” and indeed I do. 

Of course, most of these situations only require that extra quarter mile.  But add enough of these together, four to be exact, and I’ve got the extra mile thing down.

This same principle applies to the daily 500 words.  Now if I can figure out a way to get the Fitbit to count words.  

Let me sleep on that...

I Would Write 500 Words

Yesterday in a moment of what can only be described as New Year's onset optimism, I did something I never do.  I joined a group, I accepted a challenge, I took on a crusade for creativity and I vowed to write 500 words a day for 31 days.  Let's make it 40 for good measure.

One would think this would be no big deal for a writer.  But it's a very big deal.  

While the final draft may look effortlessly articulate, there are all kinds of cutting and pasting, digressing and regressing, mindless snacking, obsessive dusting, and possibly a nap or dog walk going on before the publish button ever gets pushed.  

In other words, the process isn't pretty and it isn't quick, which sums up why there were so few posts by me in 2013.  Well, that and the audit/dishwasher debacle described in my last post. 

But it is a new year and if ever there was a time to change my ways, it is today!  

The trick to writing 500 words a day is to write fast and to write freely.  The trouble is as soon as ten words come out, five of them change their minds, three want to boss the other ones around, and two think they are a complete sentence.

The truth is I have plenty to say at all times about all things.  The rub is that most of it is repetitive and habitual and often critical and judging instead of fresh, open, curious, or accepting. Of course I can edit out all that ruckus and riff-raff so none of us arrive at that conclusion, but it takes considerable time and effort getting there.

Two years ago I came up with a plan to write down the ideas that had shaped my thinking and then write a short essay to accompany them in a book called A Penny For Your Thoughts. I planned to give the book to my friends and followers on my birthday. 

Coming up with the ideas was a cinch.  Even making a short video introducing them when I had no idea how to make a short video was incredibly energizing.  Making A Penny For Your Thoughts business cards and handing them out all over Alaska and the Yukon was a hoot.

But then something happened.  The birthday passed, the trip was over, and the motivation behind the movement evaporated overnight.  The same old doubt that used to rob me of all meaning surfaced once again.  The notorious battle cry of "Who cares anyway?" kicked in and kicked my butt.  Needless to say, the project stalled.

This doubt took on the physical form of an IRS agent who showed up and declared I was not a writer and could not claim office supplies or trips to writing workshops as a tax deductions.

Now I've lived long enough to know that things are not always what they seem.  Maybe this person was actually a "noble friend" sent to incite an outpouring of revenge writing.  You know, the "I'll show you I can write!" kind of reaction.  

Until we are moved by something ourselves, it's hard to move anyone else.  Although I would have preferred to have been catalyzed by compassion or rocked by a refund, outrage also works. No one is really inspired by someone who hasn't had a trial or two. 

So here's the deal.  For the next 40 days I'm going to write like a banshee. I'm going to introduce you to the ideas behind A Penny For Your Thoughts and attempt to flesh out the essays. The writing will undoubtedly be rough, a little raw, and possibly raunchy since I've been known to swear when I get worked up or write poetry.  

It will be an unprecedented output, so if it's too much information or a shock to your operating system (since you've only received 6 posts in the past year!), I won't be offended if you temporarily or selectively stop reading.  

However, if you stay with me, I guarantee we'll learn a thing or two about each other. 

But for the record, I already think you're swell.

Okay, now for our theme song (because every crusade needs one).  You can change the words, "I would walk 500 miles" to "I would read 500 words" and I'll change them to "I would write 500 words".  

If you have no idea what I'm referring to, click here and listen.  Then sing along.

See you tomorrow. 

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

The older I get the more the days seem to all blend together and the years disappear in the blink of an eye. Last January I made a decision to keep a journal near my bed so I could capture the essence of each day in a one word sentence or, at the very least, a well-chosen word.  

Now that the year is complete I can marvel at what each month offered up: the good, bad, and the ugly. Having just completed a Life Purpose Bootcamp with my favorite meaning maker and creativity coach, Eric Maisel,  I feel compelled to summarize these snippets of my life in order to make sense of the bigger picture and my place in it. 

The Good

As those nearest and dearest to me moved, I recognized that home is where my heart is.  The decision to buy a home a few years ago had me fearing for my freedom-loving life.  But aligning with my Taurus nature grounded me and introduced this Wander Woman to an entirely new kind of adventure.

From landscaping to deck staining to furnishing my bedroom and office with fabulous and functional furniture, the to-do list slowly morphed into the ta-da list.  For me, there’s no place like home.  And there's nothing like sharing my home with friends, my firefighter, and a few canines.

The Bad 

In the bad - or perhaps I should say challenging - category I learned that I can run but I can’t hide.  I’m only as enlightened as I dare to act. Expressing anger in an authentic way doesn’t require a lot of drama, just more courage than I’ve been able to muster most of my life.  

Fierce conversations, difficult decisions, and painful losses are a necessary part of adulthood.  I can consciously confront co-workers, make the devastating decision to put my dog of 17 years down, practice tough love with toxic people and live to tell about it.   

Learning this ultimately shifts these lessons to the good category.  It just doesn’t feel good  going through them.

The Ugly

The ugly category is reserved for IRS audits and really bad customer service experiences.  Part of what makes this area so ugly is the inordinate amount of time that gets wasted on the way.   

It also tempts me to embrace the victim role.  While blaming someone or something else is initially more palatable than owning up to my part of the problem, it gets me nowhere and inevitably the cycle repeats.

The bottom line is despite what an IRS agent tells you, never go into an audit alone.  By their very nature audits are designed to make you feel defensive, insulted, and assaulted on a very personal level.  It's Big Brother in all your business. Send your accountant and save yourself six months of grief. 

Lesson learned? I need to be more accountable for a number of things.  Having Quicken or downloading Mint is different than using it on a regular basis.

I also need to have my own back.  My experience with the accountant who prepared the taxes that triggered the audit was horrific. I told him my taxes were complicated.  He told me they weren't. I conceded to his "expertise" instead of advocating for my own experience. It came back to bite me big time.   
After all was said and done, I sent him a letter explaining what transpired and what I learned.  I figured there was something for him to learn as well.

In regards to questionable customer service, buyer beware:  if you choose a GE dishwasher from Home Depot and have any issues, you're screwed.  Ten months and two replacement dishwashers later I no longer own a GE dishwasher or shop at Home Depot.  Granted, your experience may be better.  I’m just saying mine went from bad to worse and took a year to resolve.  

On a positive note, Sears offered exceptional customer service and some spectacular deals on appliances.

Hope Springs Eternal

And finally there’s this area I’ll call you-just-never-know.  It has something to do with the grace of not getting what you want when you’re absolutely sure you want it.  

It’s (my namesake) pennies from heaven moments when I’m going through hell. 

It’s faith in my Divine Assistance Team (they oversee such things as Divine Order, Divine Timing, finding the perfect parking place, and revealing the right resources) that allows me to relinquish control over all I think I know in order to appreciate what I don’t. 

It’s the synchronicities and signs like the eagle that appeared overhead the instant I pleaded for a little grace to catapult me out of my stinkin’ thinkin’.

Because I can look back and see the gifts of not only the good, but also the bad and ugly, I once again resolve to be all that I can be in the New Year. 

Specifically I'd like to right-size my life. Some areas need a sabbatical. Some need to be reinvented.  Some need to shrink.  Some need to be super-sized.  Some need to retire.  Some need to reassigned.

This idea holds two meanings for me depending on how I choose to spell it... write size  (every year I resolve to write more but this year I have projects that insist on making it out of my head and onto the page) and right size (redefining and living according to the noble truths I hold dear).

What about you?  What were the redeeming good, bad or ugly lessons you learned in 2013?  What will you name and claim in 2014? 

Share if you dare!

Grace Period

Oh, how I love Thanksgiving time.  To me it’s the most wonderful time of the year.  It combines all the elements of a great gathering - the sights, the smells, the tastes, the textures, solitude and space mixed with friends and family – and it has the good grace to last no longer than necessary.

I especially like it because by this time in the academic year, this small break is the grace period that allows students and staff alike to refresh, rejuvenate, and refuel for the final stretch before beginning the whole cycle again in January.  

This year I was fortunate to be able to add on a couple of vacation days to the Thanksgiving break. Ironically I learned the value of structure by allowing myself to operate without it, relationships by seeking solitude, and home by being away for a few days.

A couple of days in Galena served as the perfect get-away.  Because of its proximity to Chicago, the population of this small art town swells on weekends the way Best Buy does on Black Friday.  Consequently, my strategy is to visit during the week when I can have the place pretty much to myself.  

For me the whole world feels different when I’m not rushed or crowded.  Things are much more manageable when I do not feel the need for speed to get through the day, return phone calls or endless emails, or acquiesce to another's agenda .  

I feel much better when I have some breathing space, some room to pause, ponder, play, sleep in, write with exquisite new pens discovered in my favorite stationery store, watch movies, read a book, explore a new town, enjoy an amazing strawberry salad at the Desoto House Hotel, swim laps unobserved, and soak in an over sized tub with a roaring fire in the fireplace.  

Having time to indulge in a few of my favorite things for even a few days makes me a much happier camper at family functions, holiday parties, and when the time comes to return to work.  It’s like following the flight attendant’s instructions and putting my own oxygen mask on first.  Despite my best intentions, I can’t save anyone if I can’t breathe. 

Too often I feel swept along on this frantic journey to “do, do, do” leaving the part of me that wants to “be, be, be” pleading for peace and quiet.  When I was telling my friend Tom about this conundrum, he reminded me that perhaps Sinatra was on to something when he sang, “do-be-do-be-do.” I'm sure there is a  right balance that's unique to each of us.  Knowing this and honoring it when possible makes life less stressful.

So today as I tackle the task of decorating my home for the holidays, I am acutely aware of the gift of being able to move at my own pace.  I realize to others this pace might resemble someone who has  alternately had too much turkey and too much pumpkin pie, which would explain the stops and starts, the nap (tryptophan!), intermittent  internet shopping between blogging breaks, and the competing calls to action.

Tomorrow I will be on another schedule as I head over to Prophetstown for a bustling day (Small Business Saturday) at my sister and sister-in-law’s new shop, Beans and Burlap.   I already know the day will have its way and my schedule may not be entirely my own, so my intention is to let go and flow.  Otherwise, I fear what the magnet I found in one of those great Galena shops states will come to pass.  “Let go or be dragged.”

Times Change

Today is one of those days when times literally change.  Unless you are in Arizona or Hawaii, you've miraculously gained an hour and are probably more discombobulated by this event than traveling across multiple time zones. 

As a child I dreaded this day.  I could not figure out why the light would concede to the dark and allow it to run the show for the next six months. 

This fact fueled my decision to move to the Southwest where I could experience more sunlight in 365 days than I could in two decades of living in the Midwest.

The light is different in the Southwest.  Even if its hours are limited, the sun makes no apologies for rising and shining as impressively and consistently as possible.  During Iowa winters, the sun often seems hung over, as if it were having way too much fun Down Under to make an appearance here.

Despite repeated recitations of the Serenity Prayer, I railed against this perceived solar slight upon returning to the Midwest.  In an attempt to follow the first two suggestions to accept what I cannot change and have the courage to change the things I can, I purchased a Happy Light to combat SAD  by serving as a substitute for the sunlight I was so sadly lacking.

This is when the wisdom to know the difference, the third part of the Serenity Prayer, kicked in.  Or maybe it was that song from The Byrds that played like an earworm every time the seasons changed reminding me for everything (Turn! Turn! Turn!) there is a season (Turn! Turn! Turn!) and a purpose under heaven.

It’s that purpose thing and possibly all that turning that had me befuddled for decades. But the great thing about midlife is what really matters makes itself known, the same way the exact location or precise name of everyday items makes itself an enigma. 

All those u-turns, detours, and other distractions that were not mentioned on the map to Success City are what brought dimension, depth, appreciation, and ultimately illumination to the one I’m destined to follow, which frequently looks like a map to Funkytown.

With age also comes the realization that we can never change a person, place, or thing by loathing it.  Dissing it – whether that be disliking immensely or disrespecting it – binds it to us like superglue.

So at the risk of sounding clique, as the days get shorter and the nights grow longer I'm attempting to embrace the idea that all I need is love... and a super-sized side order of grace.

After all, if these were pleasant people, places, or things, they’d be easy to love or forgive.  The reason I wrestle with them is because they push my buttons.  And not just one button occasionally.  Within a 24-hour time period they can easily get on my last nerve.
 

This is why having a Happy Light – or your own personal equivalent – is essential.  There are situations that require nothing less than a miracle.  Left to my own devices, I'll sit and stew in the dark for ages. 

Even though I know better, I still find myself forgetting to shed a little light on the subject simply by asking for help from my Divine Assistance Team made up of any and all deities, patron saints, good dogs who've gone to heaven, mythological figures, loved ones, and favorite authors. 

My first step is  to no longer blame the light for conceding to the dark.  The sun has a big job to do.  But so does the night sky.   

My work requires a good deal of hunkering down and hibernating before it can ever see the light of day.  So today I fall back, grab my Happy Light, and look forward to harvesting the ideas that germinate as soon as the sun goes down.

 

 

 

Fireworks

I, for one, have had my share of fire. 

At age five I watched our town’s theatre burn. Standing in our yard at 112 Short Street in Prophetstown watching the flames envelope what seemed like my whole world, I couldn’t really understand what was happening.  I only knew something had changed that would forever shape our town’s history. 

This week, decades later, I had the horror of watching it all again, this time on the six o’clock news.  And this time I know full well the devastation that follows and the new world order my home town will have to embrace.

Fire has always lived on the fringes of my awareness.

For many years I lived in the high desert, where forest fires were a constant threat.  Living in the Land of Enchantment had its price.  The real currency there was not cash but cool, clear water.  One lightning bolt or careless camper and the whole forest could catch fire.  Lives, homes, property, wildlife, and ecosystems could be destroyed.

When I left the high and dry lands of New Mexico for the flat and humid lands of Illinois, I was startled awake not once but twice to the terrifying sight of hay bales burning at an alarming rate and firemen rushing to the rescue.  Watching the product of all that labor go up in smoke was enough to make me move closer to water.

So in November of 2007, I took a job in a quiet Iowa farming community, comforted by the fact that a river runs through it.  Within three months of moving to Maquoketa, the downtown was on fire. The smoldering didn’t stop for days. The destruction gaped like an open wound for two years as the clean–up stalled and the downtown lay partially paralyzed.   

I remember standing on the steps of my home a few blocks from downtown that seriously cold Saturday in January when the town was ablaze, feeling just like I did when I was five standing in our front yard in Prophetstown.  I still couldn’t grasp the full significance the fallout of a major fire would have.  I just knew it was bad, I felt terribly sad, and firemen were good.  Very good.

Then came the frantic call on the Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving in 2010.  The building on our farm we thought was fireproof that housed our office,  garage, farming equipment, and every conceivable farm tool burned like it was on a mission to prove us wrong in the shortest time possible.

My dad was devastated, my mom was heartbroken, and my nieces had their version of trauma by fire to tuck away in their nightmares.  Firemen everywhere were elevated to saints in my book.

Watching a fire burn your possessions, your memories, your business, or your livelihood is a surreal experience.  There is a finality to it that is simultaneously sobering and liberating.  The realization that everything is on loan to us for this short ride around the sun suddenly sinks in.  As long as lives are not lost, we can recover, rebuild, reboot.  Like a phoenix, we can rise from the ashes.  However, we might just need a minute.

The grief for what is lost comes in waves.  Many times it’s the $2 plastic sun and moon chair that a friend gave us or the box of photos from our glory days that cause a greater sense of loss than the major appliance we may have temporarily stored in the burning building.

Ultimately we can let a fire define us or allow it to refine us.  We can be the victim of a fire or we can realize how very much we have to be grateful for that cannot be taken from us.  Of course, the jury may be out while the loss is still fresh and the feelings are raw.

It always touches me how a community comes together after a disaster.  I truly believe we are all everyday heroes just waiting for a chance engage our superpowers and do something meaningful, helpful, and caring for another person. 

Whatever your faith or whatever you believe, the prayer ceremony at Eclipse Square in Prophetstown on Wednesday night helped the community heal.  The bricks the firemen handed out gave people something tangible to hold on to.  This is how we move on.  Moment by moment.  Brick by brick.

With that in mind, I’m  also going to politely ask “the powers that be” that we be given a break from the fireworks for now.   Perhaps we could simply be allowed to flex our superpowers in small yet significant ways to those who show up in need of them?

But for good measure, I might just marry a fireman.