Posted by Anne

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”—Henry David Thoreau, Walden

When Elizabeth and I began this blog over a year ago, I called myself a “change-phobe”. I believe I was mistaken.  Because here I am now, on the cusp of great change to my life. And while I feel affected by the changes—nervous even—I don’t dread or fear them.

And yet, there’s one forthcoming change that scares me.  For weeks, I feared making the wrong decision. I dragged my heels.  But now I feel more sure (and less phobic) about this change.  Here it is:  I’m ending my regular contributions to Life in Pencil. This decision has weighed on me for quite some time, and for what it’s worth, I’d like to share a few of my reasons for taking a step back.

This blog enhanced my desire to continue writing and possibly contribute to the published world. But if I’m being honest, these blog posts—reflective in nature and sometimes vulnerable—no longer represent the writing I feel pulled or called to write. I have so much to say—about change, decisions, career, relationships.  Inspiration isn’t the issue. But this autobiographical forum for sharing my thoughts is a stretch for me.

I see myself as an observer, and someone who wants and even needs to comment on the richness of life I see around me.  I love characters, and I believe it was my interest in the great characters and stories in literature and film that led me to my career in psychology.  But what I enjoy significantly less is sharing my own story. And so, Life in Pencil, as much as I’ve loved it, no longer feels like the right fit for telling the stories I want to tell.   So where do I go from here?

I hope to write fiction, case studies, biographies of other individuals, and/or psychological literature geared toward the lay-reader.  In short, I want to take my interest in people and my passion for human development and weave it into stories that focus on the lives of others—real or imagined.

There’s also the issue of time, so precious to us all. It’s hard to let go of something like this blog, but I believe I can’t make time for both Life in Pencil and my budding writing interests. My life is marvelously rich with work, volunteer activities, an active social life, and of course—a baby on the way. I’d do a disservice to both Life in Pencil and my other writing dreams if I were to continue attempting to juggle more than is realistic.

And so, here I am…approaching my writing life very much in pencil.  Though I plan to “guest-post” here at Life in Pencil, I’ll take a break from the blogging world, which has meant so much to me these past many months.  I’m extremely grateful to Elizabeth for this co-blogging partnership, and I look forward to seeing the direction she takes this cherished project.  This blog will likewise continue to develop in pencil…just as it should.

And finally, I can’t begin to express enough thanks to every one of you who have read my words, commented, not commented, and encouraged my writing in your own way.  My hope is that you’ll read my words again.  Wherever that is, time will tell.

Posted by Anne

It’s not that I’m not thankful for little boys too.  I have two nephews (and a husband, and a father for that matter) for whom I’m wildly thankful.  But today, the day after my 18-week ultrasound, I’m thankful for little girls, and one in particular.  My little girl.

This April, I’ll give birth to a daughter.  It’s hard to describe that moment I knew “it” was a girl—a she—except to say it felt like meeting her. Like being introduced.  I would have felt the same way had I been meeting a son, but now it’s all about our daughter. My brain is swimming in details, and in motherhood questions for which I have no answers.  But one thing I know—this Thanksgiving week, I’m feeling very, very grateful for little girls.

I’m grateful for…

-Tiny giggles and giant belly laughs.

-Ponytails and ribbons, braids and bows.

-Unselfconscious, unencumbered, affectionate friendships—those girlhood “best friends”.

-The color of our new nursery, which was magically already green and buttery yellow…just waiting for splashes of pink.

-Anne Shirley, Jo March, Caddie Woodlawn, and Elizabeth Bennett—for teaching girls to have a voice the way nobody else can.

-Fairytales and adventures, and girly make-believe.

-The girls’ clothing section.  (Or will I grow to hate this someday?)

-The women (and men) who’ve dedicated their lives to giving my little girl choices beyond her imagination.

-My sister—the first little girl I ever knew.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Posted by Anne

I’m moving.  Not away from the town where I live, or away from my community.  Just a new home.  I’m ready for more space.  I’m ready for two bathrooms.  I’m ready for a heating system that doesn’t leave me cold.  Literally.  All I think about these days is the fact that I haven’t started packing, and how I’ll arrange our furniture in the new place.  However…

For the first time this morning, I woke up to pangs of sadness.  The house I’m leaving is the first place I lived with my husband. Our address will no longer be the one listed on the back of our wedding programs.  Our house will no longer be the one where we built our first home—our life—together.  We’ll no longer live within the walls that are crammed with memories of firsts…

The first pet we raised together.
Our first argument over the budget.
Our first major purchases.
Our first Christmas.
The first time I made Christmas dinner for my inlaws.
The first anniversary.
The first visits from my nephews and niece.
The first time my family visited me in the Northwest.

When we started this blog, I described myself as a change-phobe. And I’m beginning to wonder how accurate that is.  Because nestled between these wistful moments of sadness for the end of one phase comes joyful anticipation for another…

For new décor, new colors, and new places to curl up with a book.
For a new neighborhood, and new houses to pass on our evening walks.
For a different side of town with new restaurants to explore, and shops to discover.
For the first Saturday morning I light a fire in our new fireplace.

I don’t believe I avoid change; I’m just affected by it—by both the positive and negative.  You see, I’m leaving a house and a home.  I can only hope this new house will become a home too—one with its own set of firsts.

When did you leave your first home?  Did you feel sad?  Excited?  Both? And how do you make your house your home?

Posted by Anne

Every so often, for his work, my husband is “on call”.  At any moment his cell phone could ring, calling him into the office for an unspecified length of time.  On weekdays, when our evenings are too short to begin with, I’m not a fan of call.  Holidays are even worse.  But on plain old weekends?  It’s another story.  For his sake, I should totally hate weekends on call.  And yet, I’m embarrassed to say…it can be kinda nice.  Last weekend was one of those weekends.  Here’s what I loved:

1.  We don’t make plans.  Usually, weekends are a time when we catch up doing.  That 8-mile hike we’ve always meant to do.  That restaurant we wanted to try.  Visits to relatives.  But since my husband can’t be counted on to remain available, we don’t plan anything that we wouldn’t want interrupted.  Hence, a weekend of rented videos, simple meals at home or a burger at the plain old pub.  I’m prevented from overscheduling my generally overscheduled life. 

2.  The day follows no apparent structure.  We literally have to take the day as it comes.  I have to play everything by ear.  Remember when you were a kid, and weekends were full of, well, not much?  You might do homework, you might have a t-ball game, but otherwise you just sorta hung out?  Those are “on-call weekends” for me, and they’re sadly very rare. 

3.  We’re less productive.  We don’t tackle big projects.  In the moments when poor hubby isn’t working his tail off, the last thing he wants to do is something like help me clean the garage.  So projects are put off, and being idle is savored. 

4.  Girl Night.  Husband on call?  A great time to go to that ballet with the girls.  Or see that romantic comedy.  He’s grateful to get out of it. 

5.  We cherish the little moments.  Because we never know when our weekend activities will get interrupted, I’m much better at sitting and just being.  When he walks in the door after a long stretch at the office, it’s so easy to drop whatever I’m doing, fix him a snack, and snuggle up on the sofa.  And just be together.

I have to say…I feel a little guilty about all this.  When Monday rolled around, my husband looked at me and said, “Wow, I’m glad I’m not on call.”  And yes, I am too.  So here’s the challenge—why can’t I have these weekends without the imposed structure of “call”?  Next weekend, is it back to tackling projects and schedules?  I hope not.  For his sake and my own, perhaps I could replicate one of these weekends without, you know, my husband having to work through it.  Just a thought. 

Do you spend your weekends idly, or productively?  Or do you achieve that perfect balance? 

Posted by: Anne

How often do we harbor goals that go unvoiced?  Whether it’s learning to play the piano at age 50, or becoming a chef at age 18, we often choose to keep our fantasies tight within our own daydreams, never uttering them for fear of ridicule or someone simply saying, “Why?”  We think this provides safety, but by keeping these goals private, we do ourselves a great disservice. 

Currently, I’m teaching a class for college freshmen about the unpredictable nature of career development.  We’re examining the career paths of famous modern figures—from JK Rowling to Steve Jobs—and seeking sources of their success.  It’s probably no surprise that these successful figures had no clue where they’d be at age 18, and achieved their success via circuitous routes.  But I’m learning that one thing is certain—it’s important to tell people what you want. 

As we traced JK Rowling’s path to authorship, I was struck by the fact that she rarely spoke of her work.  Not even her mother knew of the story brewing within her.  In case you haven’t heard, she still went on to achieve fame and fortune and to achieve her lifelong goal of becoming a published author.  But she did it quietly—privately.  I wonder if she’d spoken her dream out loud, if there might have been more people to cheer her on and perhaps even connect her to other budding authors, or perhaps more importantly, editors.

You see, often we assume people will laugh at our goals when actually…those very people could provide a crucial link to new mentors or new opportunities.  The more vocal we are about our goals and ambitions, the more likely we are to have an opportunity fall in our lap.  As I often tell my students—it’s kind of like dating.  Nobody can set you up if they don’t know you’re available. 

So, the next time you’re itching to tell someone about that secret desire to make a short film, or dance the tango, how about just telling them.  They quite possibly know someone who knows someone who can take you out of your head, and into reality.  Success involves risks of all kinds, the first being simply saying your dreams out loud. 

Have you ever told someone about a dream or goal, only to have them connect you with someone else?  Or am I totally off and it’s backfired on someone?

Posted by Anne

Hello folks.  It’s good to be back.  Very soon, I’ll tell you all about the “Life in Pencil” lessons I learned from my life over the past 30+ days.  But not today.  On this sunny fall day, drinking my passion tea lemonade, I want to write about other women.  The women that have formed the basis of the only writing I completed over the past month.   

I didn’t need a new writing project.  But I couldn’t resist.  The idea took shape at happy hour with a journalist friend of mine.  In between bites of my caesar salad, I described a very special group in my social life—my women’s fly-fishing club. It will come as no shock that I’m at least a couple decades shy of most of the women in this group.  And I love them.  They teach me better casting technique, they give me rides to the river, they share whatever fly the fish are biting, and they tell stories.  Men, as it turns out, are NOT the only ones with great fishing stories.  (Women’s are just more truthful…most of the time.)

My friend listened patiently while I talked fondly of these women—many in their 60s and 70’s— and said, “Now that sounds like something you should be writing about.  There’s an incredible oral history there, and you ought to capture it before it’s too late.”  And I instantly knew she was right.  One by one, I’ll interview them all, and write profiles highlighting their unique stories. 

I’ve interviewed two of these women so far…both among the club’s founding members.  When we meet, I flip on my cheap tape recorder, and ask them why they started fishing.  What the club means to them.  Why fishing with women is unique.  And so far?  They’re open books—ready and willing to share the intersection of life and hobby with a young woman at the cusp of the kind of life they’ve already lived. 

As I listen to their stories, I’m struck by many things.  Like the fact that they care about the experience of fishing more then they care about catching some trophy trout.  But most of all, I can’t help but notice the life in pencil nature of their lives.  From their stories, I can hear the twists and turns, and the fact that their lives are different than they would have ever imagined at my age.  They’ve lost marriages to death and divorce, seen relationships come and go, and endured endless accounts of patronizing men on the river.  And in many cases, it was life’s detours that led them to the meditative peace of flyfishing.  

And the club itself?  Like one of those overexposed novels about knitting clubs or sisterly societies, these women have supported each other through the simple (??) act of flyfishing—through their love of the outdoors, their commitment to preserving the Northwest wilderness, and their love of great laughs and friendship on the river.    

I wonder—if someone were to interview me when I’m 65, what hobby will I have discovered?  What will it mean to me?  How will I discover it?  And what crazy turns will my life have taken?  Part of me hopes none, and part of me hopes…many.

Posted by Anne and Elizabeth

Happy Friday, readers.  If you follow this blog, you’re probably aware that life is about to change in momentous and special ways for our Elizabeth during the month of September.  We decided it only appropriate to take a blogging “maternity leave” of sorts for the next 4 weeks.  We’ll miss your comments, your insight, and your responses.  But rest assured, we’ll be back in October with new stories, new observations, and new Life in Pencil moments.   And if you’re curious, here’s what we’ll be up to…

Elizabeth:

“While I won’t be writing about life in pencil during the next four weeks, I will be intensely focused on living life in pencil. As the website slumbers I will be learning how to take on the challenges of motherhood, one day at a time. Not only will I be learning the logistics of my new life, from mastering midnight feedings to gaining competency in the art of diaper changing (it’s true: I’ve never changed a diaper), I will be learning the less tangible aspects of stepping into a new role.  Cultivating a new identity takes time and energy, and I want to give my full attention to the important work of mothering that lies ahead. I want to savor these early days as I get to know my daughter, to fully absorb the lessons that she has to teach me. When I return in October, I hope to share my insights – hopefully deepened – about what it means to live life in pencil. Until then, I wish all of our dear readers a month filled with their own growth and development, no matter how big or how small.”

Anne:

“It probably goes without saying, but my September will look quite a bit different than Elizabeth’s.  Nonetheless, it feels an important time for me to take a step back, and channel my energy into some new experiences, and exciting challenges.  September marks the start of the school year—a time I move at full throttle.  Students return.  I train my staff.  There are ‘welcome picnics’, and a welcome coolness in the air.  And this year—for the first time in a few years—I’ll add teaching back to my professional life.  This is an experience I’ve been wanting, and for which I’m now discovering some pent-up nerves.  I’ll attempt to wade through those nerves, and all the feelings of incompetence.  And I’ll ride the rush of excitement I find when standing in front of a classroom, hoping to connect with college minds.  Wish me luck.”

See you in October!

Posted by Anne

I have trust issues.  Not issues with trusting people, mind you.  I’m easily trusting of people—maybe even too trusting.  I consider myself fairly trusty as well.  But trusting a process?  Trusting that life or my heart’s desire will work itself out?  I’m a big giant skeptic…hence my difficulty with life in pencil. Despite a very good life, I tend to question whether the future will give me what I want.   I doubt my future.  Stress over it.  So it’s a good thing other people believe in me.  People like…my sister, Gale.

Without the constant reality check of people like Gale, life would be one big old anxiety-fest.  When I want someone to confirm that my doubts and insecurities are unfounded and exaggerated, she’s happy to oblige.  She knocks the optimism back into me.

This was never truer than on a leisurely, sisterly afternoon in my mid-to-late 20’s.  I was single and convinced I would never find someone.  Never marry.  Never be in love…or at least requited love. (Yeah, I was totally dramatic about it.)  We were shopping together, and Gale wanted to hop inside the jewelry store to get her ring cleaned.  “Let’s play!” she said.  We tried on rings “for fun.”  This was not fun for me.  And after a few, I started to lose it.  I would never have one of these, so why on earth were we there?  We left the store, and poor Gale was left to interpret my drama-rama reaction through my flood of tears.  I don’t even remember what she said that day to comfort me.  All I remember was what she did a few months later.

She’d been out of town on business.  Not long after her return, she stopped by my apartment.  “I have a present for you,” she said.  “But it’s conditional.”  She went on.  “This is to remind you that you never need a man to give you jewelry.  If you want jewelry, you can have it.”  And she handed me a small, silk pouch.  Choked up, I loosened the drawstring, and emptied the contents of the pouch into my open palm.  A perfect string of pearls.

She wasn’t saying, “You’d better get used to buying your own jewelry.”  And she wasn’t saying, “Suck it up.”  In reality, she never doubted for a moment that I’d find someone to love.  But to her, there was no reason to go putting my own pleasure on hold until that day came.  The sensible thing is to just live and to live well.  The rest will come.

Hopeful and pragmatic.  Optimistic and grounded.  That is my sister.  Comforting to have someone who believes my life will work out just fine…despite my doubts, despite my fears.

Do you have someone in your life who can convince you things will work out even when your self-doubt is overwhelming?

Posted by Anne

There are many reasons I love my husband.  He makes the Costco trips for starters.  I hate Costco.  But believe it or not, he does something even more important.  He keeps me moving.  And by keeping me moving, he keeps me grounded.

When life’s inherent ambiguity wears on me, I have the tendency to over-think our plans, and overplan our life.  And even overplan our plans?  It’s not helpful.  But that’s when the husband, like a superhero of mindfulness, intervenes.

He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.  It’s just that he can’t see the point in sitting around pondering when we could be doing. And just like that, he whisks me off to activities that force me to be mindful, present, and free of hyper-analysis.   And yes, we do sit still too, but there’s something about activity that magically frees my mind.  Since moving to the Northwest, a quick rundown of some of my favorite mindful moments, all at the suggestion of my fella…

Concerts…

Snowshoeing…

Getting a puppy…

New landscapes…

Fishing trips…

And hikes, upon hikes, upon hikes…

I think I’ll keep him.

Posted by Anne

Before August, 2007, I’d never tasted a coconut macaroon.  Or if I had, it was a puny effort—a light and airy breed of macaroon no bigger than an inch or two in diameter.  Pathetic.  In 2007, I discovered a real macaroon.  That was the year I moved to Durham, North Carolina to complete the final year of my graduate degree in psychology…easily one of the most enriching and tough years of my life.

The work I was doing that year was rewarding, important, and challenging.  But it also made me anxious as hell.  Was I actually helping people?  Was I irritating my supervisors with my endless questions and consultation?  Added to my daily dose of anxiety was the fact that I seriously missed my brand new fiancé, our family suffered a crushing loss, and I had the travel budget of a pauper.  

As I loved living in North Carolina, it didn’t take long for me to feel homesick.  I began combing my temporary city for a place where I could surround myself with people—where I could feel at home without knowing a soul.  Yes, long before this blog, I was looking for a way to feel settled amidst a life that felt endlessly ambiguous and ever-so-slightly scary. 

Enter:  The Coconut Macaroon

The coconut macaroon gave me solace in that lonely, ambiguous year.  It can be found at Foster’s Market in Durham, North Carolina, and if you’ve never been there, I’m sorry.  You really should go.  Like…now.  Foster’s Market is a café/deli/specialty food store/coffee shop/old-time candy counter.  Take the Barefoot Contessa, strip it of the Hamptons accoutrements, add enamel dishes, throw in some (tastefully) funky mismatched furniture and top it off with ancient picnic tables and a cozy front porch.  You have Foster’s Market.

The first time I walked in, I sighed.  It was so ME—manifested in everything from the décor to the menu to the dishes.  And make no mistake—that place is strategically homey.  It’s not accidental…but it worked.  For the next 12 months, I went to Foster’s Market almost once a week.  On my measly budget, I could feed my body and my sad little emotional state with a bowl of soup, crackers, a cup of coffee, and…the best coconut macaroon on the planet.

These macaroons defy description.  First off, they’re chewy.  Not light…chewy.  Coconut-y.  Gooey.  And they taste like they should have about a pound of butter in them…except they don’t. 

After that first surprising bite, I couldn’t stop.  It became a sort of obsession—come Friday afternoon, I’d swoop into the market and blissfully carry away that macaroon in a brown paper bag like it was a fifth of vodka.  I’m telling you…that cookie had healing properties.

After 11 coconut-filled months, I was able to say I survived and graduated, leaving the macaroons behind.  Strangely, I’ve had the recipe for 2 years, and never made them.  I have no idea why.  Maybe because I thought they’d never be the same.  I’m no longer lonely, and I’ve been known to screw up a batch of cookies.  They needed to stay preserved in my culinary memory—I didn’t want them reinvented. 

But after 2 years of macaroon withdrawal, I gave in.  This week, I hauled out the forgotten cookbook, stared at the recipe, and told myself: “You know, even if they stink, it’s okay.  You don’t need this macaroon for emotional healing anymore.  Just the sugar.”

I made them.  And they rocked.  They took me back to that long year in the South, to my talented fellow interns with their encouraging hugs, to my patient supervisors, and my simple little apartment.  Those chewy, gooey concoctions remind me that I made it through a year of ambiguity, and I can always make it through another. 

What treat helps you through rough patches?

My finished product...