I look up from my work and smile. She has taken over the yoga mat and sleeps peacefully in the sunbeam, as if the ray of light and warmth was created only for her.

She is never far. She spends her days dutifully following me from space to space. She greats me each morning as if she hadn’t just snuggled with me all night, yipping and wiggling with delight that I’m finally awake and our day together is ready to begin.

I marvel at what I’ve done to deserve her constant, steady adoration. I’m a good fur mama, I keep her warm and fed and clean and loved. But she loves me so far beyond that.

We play, but not as much as we should. We adventure, but not as much as we could. An yet, she loves me anyway.

I get busy with my days, working from home, cleaning, reading, forgetting sometimes that she is even there, quietly near, always just a few steps away.

She is at once the least intrusive and yet most loyal dog I’ve ever had. She is not a big one on cuddles, she is not demanding of attention or invasive in my space. She never forces herself upon me. What brings her peace, it seems, is simply to be close, and for me to know she’s there.

Her only goal in life is to love me and watch over me. To be present. Period.

I am in awe of her silent, steady, unwavering dedication to loving me. Unconditional companionship. Here when I’m ready.

It’s the unconditional presence that is so heart-stretching for me. Even on my busiest, most chaotic, cranky or ignoring days, there she is, just loving me.

I realize I strive to be more Bess-like in my life, and in my relationships with those I love. I think especially about my children, now busy adults, and how they don’t need me yipping at their heels demanding attention, but rather need to know that I am always right here, available when they need me or just want a hug.

I think of my soul friends and the time we spend together. I hope I can be like Bess, steady and attentive without imposing unasked-for opinions on the happenings of their lives.

I endeavor to be Bess-like for my husband, fully mindful of our life together, unconditionally accepting, always, always loving.

I aim to be present without pressure, for those I love to feel they can be exactly who they are, at any given moment. Fully themselves, fully embraced.

I am struck with wonder that Bess is like God, always nearby whether I are tuned-in or not. Ready. Waiting. Loving.

I reach my hand down from the chair, and she scoots over to rest under it. She has is satisfied that she has completed her mission today….that I know I am loved.

I wish to be like Bess.

I

As one who is always looking for a good reason to celebrate, it comes as a shock to my friends and family that I hate Valentine’s Day.  Well, ok, hate is a bit strong, but I really don’t like it.  It seems incongruent to them that someone who lives her life to love others has a strong distaste for the “day of love” set aside each year.

And yet that is exactly the reason that I don’t like it.  It’s the “set aside” part that rubs me wrong. 

Why, oh why, would we ever choose to live a life where we need to set aside a reminder to love our people?

I believe love is the ultimate act of self-expression, creativity, and spiritual practice.  That’s far more than can be contained in a single day or through a bouquet of red roses. 

If we’re doing it right, love is in all we do. How we tend our homes, do our jobs, check in with friends, care for a sick child….all of it, all of it is love.

Imagine if we lived our lives as if Love was the central theme of every day. 

Classrooms would stay full of hearts and reminders that friendship and kindness make the world better.

We would have candlelit dinners with our partners, hanging on every word intentionally, feeling connected, even if it’s a regular old Wednesday and we’re eating frozen pizza.

We would leave little love notes for our kids, just because.  Not because they made straight As, not because they cleaned their rooms when asked, but simply because they are the greatest little loves of which we could have ever dreamed.

We would celebrate Galentines with our girlfriends often and fully and raucously, recognizing that our friendships are a true act of artistry and connection.

I, for one, want to do these things every dang day. 

Every. 

Dang. 

Day.

A few years ago my sister-in-law and I were cleaning out my childhood home after the passing of my mom and her husband. We were stopped in our tracks by the number of love notes that were scattered around their home.  Hidden in underwear drawers, in the pages of books, in a jewelry box, even the kitchen cabinet…where ever we looked we found little sticky notes of love from one to the other. 

It was clearly a kind of “hide and seek” game they played, a way of reminding each other in the midst of a normal day that love anchored it all.

It was playful. It was creative. It was captivatingly gorgeous.

As a child of the 70’s I grew up with a series of comics called, “Love is….”.  It featured two cherubic figures in a circle with hearts, declaring that day’s expression of love.  The story goes that this wildly popular cartoon began as a series of love notes from the artist to her future husband.   She would hide the doodles around the home when they were away from one another, a perpetual, playful reminder of their bond. 

My husband is a stealth romantic.  His friends and family, and even our kids, have no idea what a softy he is.  He will text me in the middle of the day from work when one of our favorite songs comes on his iPod.  He brings home a bottle of champagne just because we need to remember life is short and we should love it all the way.   He never lets a day go by without letting me feel his amazement at the life we have created together.

I have been blessed with magnificent friends, who love me spectacularly through laughter, remembrances, heart-to-hearts and ceaseless spirits of adventure. 

I shudder at the thought that we can get so caught up in the humdrum of life that we forget to love our people well.  I wince at the thought that a day set aside each February seems to level out the forgetfulness, carelessness and absentmindedness from the rest of the year. 

As I grow older, my desire to “make my way in the world” ebbs away and what flows into that space is my desire to “love my way in the world”. 

My greatest desire at this stage of the game is to love fully, creatively and deeply on a daily basis, whether it’s through words, actions, or prayers. 

And there’s just no way I can fit that into one day a year. 

I’m not even sure 365 are enough. 

But I’ll give it my best shot.

On a warm, misty morning several years ago, following the first recurrence of my best friend’s cancer, we sat in our jammies, opposite sides of the sofa with toes touching under a blanket, holding steaming cups of coffee, and pondering what lay ahead.

“ I don’t know what’s coming this time, “ she said, “but I’m so glad we’ll be futuring together.”  We giggled at a word that so aptly described who we are to one another.  Whatever was to come would come to the both of us.  We were, and will always remain, a spectacular team.

As this memory popped up a few days ago, I googled the word “futuring” to see if it was a real word.  It is, indeed.  It means carefully using forethought to plan and direct actions.

Then I REALLY giggled.  You see, my sister-friend was one of the least “plan-ahead” people on the face of the Earth. Futuring was more my role.  I was the more “grounded”, strategic one of the pair.

Which brought me to the true word that defines Terri…..Adventuring.

She and I, best of friends since the age of 16, spent over 40 years of friendship living adventures on a daily basis.  Terri had an indominable sense of spontaneity, fun, and whimsy.  There was no conversation, including some of the most intense ones of our lives, that we couldn’t end with belly-busting laughter. 

Our sisterhood was formed and grew on the shared belief in the goodness of the world, and that adventures were always waiting to be had.

If one of us said, “We need an adventure,” it meant a trip needed to be planned ASAP and shenanigans were on the way.

We would end phone calls by saying, “And what adventures are you going to have today?” to remind us to have a sense of joy in all we did.

Our adventures could be a trip to TJ Maxx or a trip to see a broadway play.  It didn’t matter what the event was, what mattered was the intention of joy and excitement in all.

In true yin/yang fashion, she would light the spark, and I would make the plans.

There were times when my “futuring” mind would drive her nuts.  “Why are you always THINKING so much?”

And there were times when I wished her adventures could be a bit more thought-out (her tardiness was the stuff of legends). 

And the balance, the magical marriage of our friendship, worked.  For over 4 decades, it worked. 

One night, as she lay in hospice, I began the daunting task of going through her personal belongings.  The futuring part of my soul was frustrated, almost angry. 

After a 4 year journey with cancer, the end was not a surprise.  Despite the constant belief in miracles and magic, the end did not sneak up on us. 

How had she not prepared?  How had she not even begun the task of setting precious items aside for her boys?  Starting with her jewelry, I set things aside into separate piles.  I would see a ring she loved, and imagine it being given to a future daughter-in-law.  I held her grandmother’s engagement ring, and could envision one of the boys giving it to his daughter one day.  I sorted and itemized, and honestly, stewed a bit.  Why was I the one doing this job?  Couldn’t she have “futured” just a little bit more?

The following morning I brought in several items for her to look at and guide me on how to preserve.  She laughed and said, “Oh, you figure it out, you’re good at that planning ahead stuff.”  Well, we knew each other’s strengths, that’s for sure!

Two days later, slowly slipping further away,  we were obviously beginning the phase of her becoming in and out of “consciousness”. 

I greeted her with a hug, and as always, asked, “What adventures should we have today?”  She grinned and giggled as she slipped into sleep.

What followed for the next several hours was perhaps the greatest adventure of our lives together.  I wish I could have been inside her head, her spirit that day, but all I know is that every time she woke up, she existed in some aspect of her past.  Once she woke up enough to ask me if I had bottles made for the baby (her boys are adults).  Another time she asked me if I could get her favorite stuffed animal from childhood. I was reminded to feed her first dog. She drifted in and out of “sleep” all day, and with each awakening she existed in different time frame of her life.  Her previous house.  The dorm at college.  Had I picked up my maid-of-honor shoes yet (and, honestly, were they ugly? In case you’re wondering, they were hideous).  It went on all day.  We relived all of the major moments of her life, one chapter at a time. I drifted in and out of each time and place with her, speaking to her from the reference point of where she was at that moment, grateful I’d been a part of it all, and could be fully present with her.

I can’t imagine a greater adventure, to relive one’s life with them one last time, because you’d had the honor of being in it all along. 

And then she was gone.

As with any good partnership, it is the conglomeration of strengths that builds the whole. We “wore off” on each other through the years, sharing our spirit and perspectives. Between the two of us we had it all covered. The planner and the dreamer.

 That was us.

 The one who remembered to future, and the one who ceaselessly adventured.

 The one who grounded, and the one who flew free. 

The one who remains, and the one who is having the greatest adventure of all.

We are all a little bit of each, futurer and adventurer. The true magic of life is in the balance…the knowing when to plan, and the knowing when to throw the plans out the window. The steady and the saucy, the centered and the whirling romantic.

 May we each find and admire the perfect balances in the ones we love, as well as in ourselves.

Here’s to planning great adventures.

Any parent with more than one child knows the “Gotcha” game. The kids are strapped safely into the back seat, and Child A begins poking Child B, Child B screams about the unfairness of it while poking back at Child A, poking turns into swatting, and swatting turns into hitting and ……yeah, it’s a mess. Each child is equally outraged by the indignity of the poke while also doing the exact same thing.

This week has felt like a massive game of Gotcha in pretty much every area of my life.

It certainly occurred on a national scale, as the horror show at the nation’s Capitol played out. While flipping through news stations with every possible political bent (in a desperate search for unbiased reporting), I kept hearing the same message, “Well….THEY started it! THEY poked first!” You can insert “they” with the name of any opposing political party.

The Gotcha game dominated my Facebook threads this week. People I love and care about were using the cover of seemingly kind and strong stances to also take an underhanded jab at a family member or colleague with differing views. While most would scroll past after a quick click on the little heart or thumbs up icon, those with just a smidge of backstory know it was meant to poke a chosen one (or few). The post was a Trojan Horse of hurt. Gotcha.

A parent and child I work closely with, working on communicating without arguing, quickly escalated a missing homework assignment discussion into cuts and wounds so deep they hopefully will be forgiven, but never forgotten.

“Did you mean to slice your mom wide open with that?” I asked. The teen looked at me, horrified, and said, “NO! I would never want to hurt her like that”. Well, you did. You got her, and you got her good. Gotcha.

The Gotcha game’s greatest power lies in it’s ability to pull people away from real issues. It becomes more about being “right”, being vindicated, getting the last word, the last jab, than it is about any form of true resolution.

Passive-aggressiveness is not a pretty look on any of us. When we write a social media post that is benign to most but will cut to the quick for a certain intended reader, we’re putting on a passive-aggressive cloak and strutting around proudly, thinking we are so clever and subtle, and yet we march around like the Emperor’s New Clothes. Not a good look, indeed.

When the intention of our words are to poke another, we are so caught up in the Gotcha game that our words become weapons. We need to be careful that we don’t think we are part of any possible form of solution when we, too, are wrecklessly weilding weapons.

The Gotcha game’s danger is it delays us from focusing on justice and resolution. If we are poking, we are not healing. If we are poking, we are living in the past and not solution-oriented. If we are Hell-bent on one last jab, getting the last word, we are not moving forward.

We need to use our words. We MUST stand up against injustices whether they occur in a zoom session, the kitchen table, or the seat of world democracy. When we dress them up in thinly-veiled hostility, we dishonor the very principles we are trying to defend or represent.

We should be bold and confident enough in what we believe that we don’t need to play games with it. It dishonors the very things we say we represent.

I want my “weapon” to be peace, compassion, and responsible social impact. I want my words to be used to unite, not to divide. I want my words to be used to resolve conflicts, not keep them flamed. The Gotcha game stops when one person decides to not poke back, and use principled action instead.

Years ago, my husband and I completed a huge jigsaw puzzle entitled “Doors of the World”. It was a collage of doorways of different sizes, shapes and colors. I was drawn in by the colors, as color tend to be what always calls my name first. Yet as we tediously worked piece by piece, I found myself drawn in in another way.

As the puzzle slowly began to take form and the doors were coming into clearer view, I found myself wondering about what was on the other side. All of the photos were a street view….but what would the puzzle look like if all the doors were opened? Would we be able to glimpse into the homes, the offices, the secret world of what lies on the other side? What would we find? How much did the outside appearance of the door match the interior? What did each doorway connect?

Thresholds.

Look up from reading this, look around your room, and find a doorway. So much more than just a frame that supports a door, a threshold is a space between. Not quite here, not quite there, but rather a point of transition. A brink. An edge.

Physical thresholds have long been included in rituals and rites of passage. Imagine a strapping young groom carrying his bride across the threshold of their new home, symbolizing leaving behind single life and crossing over into the life of a new family. Many homes of Jewish inhabitants have a mezuzah placed on the threshold of the front door, believed to be a constant reminder that God lives there, and to leave the troubles of the outside world as you enter a holy space. You’d be hard-pressed to find a Southern home without a welcoming wreath decorating a front door, whether the home be modest or mammoth. Welcome, come on in, make yourself at home! Leave your worries on the porch.

Each example signifies the transitioning of time and space, the leaving of one form of existence and mindset into the entering of another. All of them represent that when we cross that doorway, that threshold, something new awaits. We will be in a new space, both physically and emotionally. A leaving behind, a moving towards.

And so, as I turn my calendar to 2021 and try to train my brain to write the correct year on correspondences, I find myself at yet another, though metaphorical, threshold.

We leave one space. We enter another. And if we are awake, alert, mindful of the brink we find ourselves on, if we take a moment for an intentional pause as we rush into our busy work-weeks and the stress of getting that post-holiday “back to normal”, we realize that as we step into a new year, we have the ability to leave behind and/or bring forward what we choose.

What will you leave on the 2020 side of the doorway? Hurt feelings? A lost love? A goal that went unaccomplished? What purging will you do to make your travels to the other side of the door lighter and more inviting?

And what will you bring with you as you step solidly into 2021? Hope? Optimism? Determination? What intentional soul-packings do you bring with you as you settle into the newness, the freshness of the otherside of the doorway?

May we savor the threshold moments this week, not rushing wildly from one frame of mind to another, from one space to the next. May we recognize the space between, the pause, the brink, and be conscious about what we carry forth with us into each and every moment.

One of my favorite times of the whole year is the week between Christmas and New Year. With most of the bustle of Christmas is behind us, there is an almost mystical lull. It seems to be in these liminal days I become both reflective, sentimental, hopeful and forward-thinking all mixed together.

It’s probably the teacher in me, but I try to live my life in lessons. I try to make sure I can squeeze every possible message, every possible take-away from both the good and the not-so-good. So it seems natural that as I reflect on the year that is closing, I think in terms of what I’ve learned. And it’s been an astronomical amount.

1.) Death is life. My 2020 began on January 2 with an 8 hour drive to Ohio to spend the next month with my life-long best/sister/soul friend in hospice. Her 3.5 year journey with ovarian cancer was coming to a close. That month was most definitely the hardest, and most beautiful, of my life. To be with a loved one as she slips away, slowly, into a different form of existence can’t help but form a life vision that is forever changed.

Death is life. It is natural. It is guarunteed. It can be peaceful and beautiful. And it does not end a love, a friendship, a life together, but rather only changes it’s form.

2) Time is life. Of course, the losing of a loved one way too early in life can’t help but reframe one’s general world view. I now often find myself thinking in terms of “legacy”, of the gifts I want to leave behind. And for me, it all comes down to time. With whom do we spend our time? What are we creating with our time? How are we helping the world, or our family, a stray animal with our time? It’s really all we have. And when it’s gone, it’s gone. There are no do-overs.

We get one block of time to use purposefully and meaningfully. Prioritize it. Use it wisely. Make sure how you use your time is in integrity with what you hold most dear. It is our legacy, both while we live and long after.

3.) God is life. And He’s ginormous. As in HUGE! As in I simply don’t have words to describe how huge. I’ve always believed in a big God, but this year my relationship with this powerful source of all that is has expanded into the universe. It seems funny to me that for a year I’ve spent largely at home I now see God in the whole wide world in ways I never have before. I love this so very much. I will always remember 2020 as the year I untied God from the neat little “Sunday School” image in which I had confined him, and he burst into his full existence in my soul.

4.) Celebration is life. My guess is that 10 years from now when I look back on 2020, it will be a blur. I find that even now, in the midst of it, I can’t nail down if something happened in March or July. My mile markers are gone. I realize now that I anchor the passage of time by celebrations. This happened near a son’s birthday, that happened close to Mother’s Day, and so on. With a year when there were so few celebrations, at least in person and the way we’re used to, my sense of time seemed to collapse. It kind of feels like it imploded into one black hole of a year.

Celebrations are the fuel of life. They anchor us in community, purpose and joy. Celebrations are how we mark major life events, how we welcome new seasons, how we say goodbye. When they are minimized or neglected, even for reasons such as Covid, we lose our bearings, we miss the meaning-making moments that make our lives together so precious. We MUST celebrate. And often. And with love and joy. And hope. Always hope.

5.) Hope is life. There is magical power in hope. It is what keeps us grounded, it is what keeps us uplifted, it is what keeps us balanced. For so many this was a year of despair. Deep, gut-wrenching despair. Loss of jobs, loss of loved ones, social unrest, unknown personal, national and global futures. It brought me to my knees more than once, most certainly.

But it was always hope that made me get back up on my feet. The hope that we can take the lessons we learn, and pay them forward. The hope that love will truly trump all else. The hope that our loved ones, our communities, our world can be healed and healthy one day very soon.

It is hope that makes me rise each day. It is the hope that I can love my people well. It is the hope that I can do a little bit of good in my corner of the world. It is the hope that my words and my work can touch one heart. It is the hope that if we all have hope, we will all be ok.

My hope for you, sweet friend, as we move into a new calendar year, is that you will find the lessons meant for you, the ones that will help shape 2021 into a year of love and grace.

I believe we were born to create.

I didn’t always believe that.  Just a few years ago, if you’d asked me if I was a creative person, I would laughed heartily while emphatically shaking my head  no. 

The “no” came quickly and adamantly because while I can spend hours mesmerized in a museum I cannot draw a stick figure, though I love nothing more than singing along in the car I can’t carry a tune, and I haven’t engaged in theater or acting since playing a mouse in elementary school. My great American novel remains unwritten.

To me, creativity meant being an artist of music, theater or medium. The Fine Arts. The stuff of the gifted few.

So no, I’m not creative, I thought.  I never painted beautiful murals in my baby’s nursery, sang in the church choir, quilted an heirloom blanket, or even decorated my home with flair.  So,  no, I was not creative.

But one of the things I love about getting on in years is the ability to call bull on old thought patterns.  Dropping my narrow perspective of creativity has led to an exhilarating new, expansive view: We were all BORN to create.

Think of this:  We were created by the ultimate creator, in His image, which means we were created to create.

Follow me?

Regardless of your religious or spiritual beliefs, or even completely non-spiritual beliefs if that applies, you have to admit you were, indeed, created.

And I believe a large part of our soul’s journey is to return to it’s purest form. 

Thus, that which has been created was created to create.

One of the first ways I acknowledged my newfound view of creativity was to broaden what I considered “creative”. I blew up that old, limited perspective and a sense of limitlessness took it’s place.

Certainly the fine arts are creativity in it’s most recognized form, but we can go so much deeper than that.

Anything that is original to you, comes from you and is stamped with the beautiful, divine individuality of your soul is creative. 

Anything that did not exist before you brought it forth into existence is creative.

Anything you imagine, bring into original thought, word or action is creative. 

Anything.

Problem solving. Expression of opinions and thoughts. Matching emotions with words to try to capture them. How you play with your puppy.

Anything.

I began to realize the way I taught my students employed creative and on-the spot thinking.  Parenting is the monumental act of creativity from conception to lullabies, to discipline and passing on lessons learned.  How we decorate our homes, cook our meals, play with children, laugh with friends, even the jewelry we wear and how we apply make-up are expressions of our uniqueness in the world, our statements of personal flair and .  The way we solve problems, the way we piece together ideas, the manner in which we connect meaning from multiple sources….yep, all acts of great creativity.

Every time you help your neighbor, you are creating an atmosphere of friendship, community, a sense of compassion and peace.

Each quick quip you make, each pun or joke, creates joy and laugher where none existed before.

Each act of temperance and patience, each angry word held on to rather than spoken, each time we put someone else first, we create space and openness for kindness to take hold.

Creation isn’t only positive though.  We also have within us the ability to create discord, animosity, stress and anger.  With great power comes great responsibility.

So, if we move forth on the premise that every soul is, indeed, a creative soul, it shines a floodlight on the immensity of creative opportunities.

Just as our fingerprints one of a kind, our creativity is also a source of individuality within the world.  Our creative way of engaging with Life, with the world at large, with our faith and fellow journeyers, are a huge part of our Soulprints.

There are things to be done that only you can do. There are ways of loving that only you can show humanity. There are ways of creating our lives to benefit the world. Without the active creation of a purposeful, unique life, you can unknowingly withhold your one-of-a-kind imprint.

I began a morning ritual this past year which includes prayer, journaling, reading, and a mindful meditation practice which ends each day in the question:  What world do I want to create today?

This isn’t a question about fantasy or wishes or imaginations.  This is a humble reminder, a sacred recognition, that with each thought, each action, each word we speak, each act of love, we change the world. We quite literally participate in the creation of the world of which we dream.

What kind of world do YOU want to create today?

It’s the perfect Saturday morning. I have a hot pot of coffee by my side, a book in my hand, and I’m sitting on my deck, the steamy August air ripe with the anticipation of Fall.

Thunk. Thud. Thwack.

Amidst the sounds of cars in the distance and birds squawking above the pasture, there are heavy, hefty plops behind me.

The corner of the deck best for reading is sheltered by a scrappy old pear tree. Scraggly and lopsided, it shades the corner from sun and provides a cozy sense of privacy. The spring brings blossoms and fragrance, the summer bearing old branches heavy with fruit, feeding birds, squirrels and bees.

And as autumn approaches, unable to hold the weight of this year’s growth any more, the old tree drops the pears, one after another.

Thunk. Thud. Thwack.

Today seems to be a day of major releasing for the old girl. One at a time, the pears crackle loose, rustle through the leaves, and topple to the ground below. I watch, probably longer than such an event warrants. And I marvel.

Nature never ceases to inspire and teach me, always a lesson unfolding to those who slow enough to learn.

Today, I ponder the act of letting go. Nature knows so fully that letting go, releasing, yielding, is both freeing and necessary for future growth. I think about how transformative it would be if I, too, could easily and intuitively sense when something (a task, a relationship, a grudge, a worry) had reached it’s fullness and would benefit from release.

I watch as the old tree seemingly “knows” that the weight is now too much to carry, and in order to preserve order, strength and room for fresh growth, release is the only way.

I think about the things that I am carrying, many way past their prime and ready to be released, and yet I cling. And not only do I hold on to these, I gather more.

Hurts. Resentments. Grudges. Sorrows. Ideas and emotions no longer bearing fruit.

I close my eyes, listening to the plopping of pears, imagining the tree sensing relief with the release of each one too heavy to carry any more. I visualize my self dropping away worries, one by one, feeling liberation and spaciousness as each one breaks away and falls. I scan my mind, searching for the things that need to go, that have reached ripeness and are only doomed to rot if hung on to any longer.

One by one, I drop them. One by one, they thunk, just like the pears.

Release.

Relief.

Lighter, crisper, freer I feel. One by one I let go…. thunk, thud, thwack.

Gravity can be a beautiful thing.

When we think of a the word “ceremony”, the first thing that pops into most people’s mind is a wedding.  The white dress, flowers, elated bride and groom, tossing of rice or rose petals.   Actually, if you Google the word “ceremony”, the first several entries are, in fact, about wedding ceremonies.

But thinking just of weddings does a huge disservice to the purpose and importance of ceremonies in our lives.  Ceremonies are ANYTHING that intentionally mark a transition in life ( wedding, funeral, baptism), a special occasion (a birthday or anniversary), or a remembrance (think 911 Memorial Service).

Ceremonies have a unique and crucial role in our lives.  They mark the momentous as different from the ordinary.  They allow us to step outside of the everyday monotony and have a common focus. They are signs of respect for an effort, an accomplishment, a choice or a person.   And ceremonies allow us to connect and share an experience with others we love.

I have always loved ceremonies…parties, celebrations, weddings, etc.  But it is only through my ongoing training as a life-cycle celebrant that I am learning the role they play in the human race.  If we do not mark parts of our life as special, important, critical, we risk moving through life without a sense of growth or change. 

Perhaps it’s never been as obvious to many of us as it has been these past several months with Covid in our midst.  Everything from weddings, graduations (high school, college, and even preschool), even funerals have been cancelled or minimized.  Family reunions, vacations, annual girls’ trips are all ceremonies of sorts, in that they separate an event out as extraordinary and different and special. 

I have seen some of the most creative and fun alternatives to traditional ceremonies these past few months, but what concerns me are the people who have ignored the need to celebrate or pay tribute, simply because it cannot be done in the “normal” way.  Graduation is a rite of passage for us today, not too unlike the walkabouts of other cultures.  Memorial services allow us to show our love for one who has died, to be a support to the family, and is often a crucial ritual in the path towards healing.  Without acknowledging these important transitions in life, we risk thwarting our ability to move through the change with a clear vision and purpose.

We don’t know how long this different life of ours will remain different. 

What we do know is this…ceremonies are created by individuals, not by institutions. 

If we are unable to do something the way it has always been done in the past, it does not mean we don’t still need to do it.  We must challenge ourselves to find unique, creative and alternative ways to mark the days of meaning for ourselves and others.  Now more than ever, we need to separate the special from the mundane, the extraordinary from the common.  Starting with our families, those closest to us, we can begin by making time for unique accomplishments to be recognized, for commemorating the little things (that once celebrated, become less little in our hearts).  

When we don’t recognize the remarkable, the uncommon, we risk living without the magic that is life.

There is so much in life to celebrate, so much about life that is far from mundane or boring.  Celebrate life by observing the extraordinary…it’s all around us, and we’ll all be the better for it.

My husband can fall asleep within seconds.  There have been times when he has literally fallen asleep in the midst of saying , “Good night”.  It makes me crazy!!!!  Truly, it makes me envious.

Sleep is often elusive for me these days.  It can sometimes take me an hour or more to fall into a sound sleep, in spite of observing recommended bedtime routines like no caffeine, no snacking, and limiting technology (although, I am absolutely guilty of a final Facebook scroll).

Laying still, in the dark, cozied up with the husband and the pups,  all seem to be the ingredients necessary for my brain to become fully awake and engaged with Life.  It’s the time when the stories begin.

These are not sweet, sleepy, lullaby-like stories of childhood. These are the stories of adult life. 

I wish I’d accomplished more today. 

I hope I don’t forget to do that chore tomorrow. 

Why did I respond to this work email with a “ok” instead of saying I was loaded up right now?

These bedtime stories are almost always centered around productivity, shortcomings, and frustration with myself.

We are all storytellers for ourselves.  We tell ourselves stories constantly throughout the day.  Stories about anticipating a day that will be too full (my husband, who sleeps so peacefully, is terrible about predicting how hard tomorrow will be….and yet he sleeps!), stories of how we didn’t produce enough, how we came up just a little short.

We tell ourselves stories of who we think we are, and our stories, honestly, are not always kind.

If I close my eyes for a second, I can conjure up the memories of my precious boys as babies and toddlers, snuggled close, the scents baby shampoo and toddler goodness filling the quiet night air. They are cozied up in the crook of my arm as we read one last book for the night.  It is always a slow book, a sleepy book, a book about how much they are loved and how perfect and just right they are. 

I always  wanted my babies to fall asleep knowing they were loved.

What if, just for a few nights, we could cuddle up with our deepest selves, the self that shows up when the house is still and the lights are off, and tell ourselves a good-night story of love and acceptance and gratitude?  A story of how who we are and what we do is exactly who we are meant to be and precisely what was meant to be done?  Stories of gratefulness for full lives and limitless opportunity for growth? 

What if, our bedtime story went something like this: 

I am exactly who I am meant to be. 

I am perfect in the present. 

I am not what I accomplish…those are things I do, but now who I am.  And I have done well today. 

I am precious, and loved, and sacred and full.   

 I am grateful for this day that I’ve had the privilege to journey through, and I am excited about tomorrow. 

I am grateful for being me.

Nite Nite, Self.  I love you.

Sweet dreams.