Posted by:  Anne and Elizabeth

What a difference a year makes!  We can hardly believe it, but we’re about to celebrate the 1-year-anniversary of Life in Pencil.  It would have been a lonely journey without you, our readers, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts for joining us. 

Both of us have changed and grown, as has this blog.  We’ve given our time, words, and energy, and it’s given back to us too.  In celebration, we’ve chosen our favorite posts for one another, and also shared the “top 5 lessons” we’ve learned from our year of living (or attempting to live) our lives in pencil. 

Elizabeth’s favorite post of Anne’s:  An Early Artifact
Anne’s favorite post of Elizabeth’s:  Skittles and Stationery

Anne in Pencil:

1.  “It” can wait.  “It” could be anything.  Loading the dishwasher.  Folding my laundry.  Even exercising.  And “it” is always something that appears on my daily to-do list.  I believe this blog has increased my awareness of how often I’m constantly moving, and how deeply relieved I feel when I let “it” go, and slow down. 

2.  Risk is good.  Writing words for the public to read.  Owning my dream of writing a novel.  These have felt like risks…in a really good way.  Whether I achieve my fantasies or fail miserably, I love that I’ve dared to indulge a dream.

3.  Learn to wait.  Actually, I think this little nugget of wisdom came from my grandfather, years and years ago.  But after a year of wondering when I’ll finally feel “settled”, I’m learning to cherish the stability I do have, and the life I’m living right now. 

4.  There’s joy in surprises.  New friendships, new hobbies, and new goals.  When life hands you something that never appeared on a to-do-list, the surprise makes them all the sweeter.

5.  I have more courage than I thought.  As I reflect on my year, I see an adventurous person.  I see someone who traveled to another continent, created a niche for myself in a brand new community, and found new energy in her professional life.  Massive changes?  No.  But a “change-phobe” as I originally thought?  I don’t think so.  I’ll always want to know what comes next, but while I’m waiting…my life will be rich and full. 

Elizabeth in Pencil:

1.  Rewriting relationships.  I’ve had to modify and rewrite the terms of some of difficult relationships, and let others go altogether.  On the other hand, I’ve had some wonderful opportunities to renew or expand existing relationships.  Life in Pencil has taught me that every eraser mark is met with a new pencil stroke.

2.  Accepting parenthood.  I began the year with ambivalence about the prospect of becoming a mother, and am ending the year close to delivering my first baby, having completely and unexpectedly immersed myself in the experience.  Life in Pencil has taught me that there are no sure things in life, that we never know how we’ll feel about something until we’re in the situation, and that motherhood is the ultimate expression of, as I once said, “uncertainty incarnate.” 

3.  Being present.  The journey isn’t over yet, but new activities such as gardening; eating and living seasonally; and taking up yoga and swimming have moved me closer down the path of living in the now.   Life in Pencil has taught me that life’s best gifts come when we are fully engaged in whatever we are doing. 

4.  Accepting both the conventional and unconventional aspects of my life.  The greatest demon I’ve tackled this year is realizing that I don’t need to try to be “special” to be different.  By accepting that some aspects of my life are conventional, and others very unconventional, Life in Pencil has taught me that none of us are one dimensional, none of our lives are either/or, and all of us are capable of rewriting our identities at any time. 

5.  Being extraordinarily ordinary.  My greatest moments of happiness this year have come in the form of the most ordinary experiences.  True grace comes when we can rewrite our expectations and metrics of success, and realize that “the good life” isn’t something we have to wait around for:  it’s ours for the taking right now.  Life in Pencil has taught me that I don’t need to do more or be more to have a truly wonderful life. 

Now, how about you?  In what ways has the blog helped YOU to better live your Life in Pencil over the past year?  What Life in Pencil lessons have you learned about yourself as a result?  Do you have a favorite post from the past year?

Posted by Anne

When I was 14 years old, I had no desire to be a teenager.  I was in denial of my own adolescence, preferring to spend my angst-filled energy separating myself from the

Quite possibly my favorite teen movie of all time. And one of my favorite movies ever.

quintessential image of the American teenager.  I read Austen instead of Cosmo.  I shopped at Laura Ashley instead of…well…anything trendy.  And a funny thing happened…

I turned 19.  And I became fascinated by teenagers the second I was no longer a teenager.  The identity I denied for so long became an identity for which I felt nostalgia…even fondness.  It started harmless enough.  Clueless. The Princess Diaries.  But by the time I reached graduate school, I was looking for ways to weave adolescent psychology into my research, and sneaking episodes of Lizzie Maguire in between dense journal articles. 

I’ve been asked many times about my fascination with teenagers.  And for the longest time, even I didn’t understand it.  The adolescent years can be a wasteland of insecurity, pain, and poor fashion decisions.  Why revisit that particular slice of the past?

...and my favorite "coming of age" novel. Read it.

Plain and simple, I have a soft spot for teens.  For their drama, their insecurity, and most of all…for their bourgeoning sense of self.  (Note:  I’m pretty sure I would have despised the word “bourgeoning” in reference to myself at age 15 or 16—my hips were bourgeoning far too much for my taste.)  I love the drama that rises to the surface when adult issues collide with childhood insecurities.  It’s intense.  It’s melodramatic.  And it’s the stuff of darn good storytelling.  It rests comfortably within my favorite film and literary genre of all time.  Coming of Age. 

What defines a coming of age experience?  In my favorite films and books, I can point to a climax or an inciting event that shoves the character into the grey ambiguity of adulthood.  But in my own life, I often feel as though I’m wading in and out of a constant string of coming-of-age experiences.  Though I’ve long since run the gauntlet of adolescence, I never really feel that I’ve “arrived”.   And in a sense, Life in Pencil honors this very adult process of rewriting our goals, our lifestyles, our plans, and sometimes even our sense of self.  These are rich stories, to be sure.  And these are the stories most pertinent to my current reality.  So why not stay immersed in these present challenges, instead of backtracking to a phase of life I’ve left behind?

I’m not sure, but there’s something about those adolescent experiences—both my own and others’—that piques my interest and beckons me back to the YA section of my local Borders.  The Life in Pencil stories there are different.  Teens aren’t rewriting their lives so much as tentatively sketching an initial version of themselves—erasing, rewriting, erasing, rewriting—almost spastically, until they come into their own.  Until some semblance of the person they’ll become starts to take shape.  It’s exciting—this uber-intense version of Life in Pencil.    

Almost a year ago, I wrote post called Letter to Myself at 13. In it, I spoke to my adolescent self, and reflected on the myriad ways I’ve changed and developed…and how I’ve come of age.  And so my question is this:  Someday, will I write to myself at age 30?  What events will weave their way into my life, causing me to come of age all over again?  And will this era of my life ever hold the same fascination for me as the drama of adolescence?  Maybe, but somehow I doubt it.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I must add Glee to my Netflix queue.   

When do people come of age?  Do you find teenage books, movies, music, or television interesting?  Or do you prefer to avoid revisiting adolescence?  What’s your favorite “Coming of Age” book or movie?

Posted by Anne

The patch of flowers at the corner of Carl's yard.

We met Carl the day we moved into our home.  Carl is our next-door neighbor, and in a world where it’s becoming less and less common to truly know your neighbor, I love that Carl was—other than our landlady—the first soul we met in our town.  A few things you should know about Carl…

1. He loves his yard.  It always looks meticulous. 
2. He tends his flowers religiously—even though there aren’t very many. 
3. He always has visitors.  My guess is that they are usually family, but I can’t be sure.    

And one final note on Carl—and a significant one in my eyes.  Carl is old.  Now, it’s not uncommon to see people more than twice our age in our neighborhood.  We live in one of those neighborhoods—developed in the 1960’s—that’s chock full of ranch style houses and people who have lived here since the homes were built.  Most of our neighbors are retired—and we hardly see them. 

But Carl is different.  In the two years we’ve lived here, I’ve seen Carl frequently, and never without an oxygen tank strapped to his back.  It looks like one of those Camel-Back packs people wear on hikes and bike-rides.  When we stop to talk to Carl, I hardly notice anymore; it’s just normal to see that oxygen tube attached to his nose, and a smile on his face.  He does everything with that oxygen.  He stands, slightly hunched, and he weeds, waters, and prunes.  He never allows his constant need for, well, air to interfere with his routine. 

When I see him outside with his flowers, I like to imagine all kinds of lives for Carl—before I moved here, and well before the oxygen.  In one daydream, he’s a highly decorated and retired hero from the Navy, and met his wife in a whirlwind WWII-era romance.  In another scenario he was a daredevil outdoorsman, drawn to the Northwest for the rugged Cascade mountain range and the wild rivers.  I imagine these lives for him because I assume his persistence—his refusal to let that dang oxygen tank keep him from his flowers—must mean he’s always been active…a “doer”.  I assume he made hay while the sun shined.  But that is my assumption.  And this past weekend, I considered a different story for Carl. 

On Saturday morning, as I turned the corner to my street after a brief but energizing run, I saw Carl.  Not alone, but with a young boy…maybe 6 or 7.  Pretty typical—like I said, Carl always has visitors.  Carl sauntered along (oxygen in tow), pointing out plants and flowers to the little boy, who trailed along behind holding a stick and playfully waving it back and forth like a sword. They had nowhere to be, except with one another.  They had nothing to observe, except the springtime blooms.

And this very ordinary scene caused me to construct one more scenario for Carl’s life.  Maybe his life has been the picture of ordinary.  Maybe he worked hard at the same job for 40 years.  Maybe he read bedtime stories to his children, and the Sunday paper over coffee with his wife.  Maybe he makes great pancakes, and loves folk music.  There is beauty in a life like that, and importance too.  Maybe “making the most out of life” isn’t dependent on daring feats or distant journeys.  Maybe it’s just being there for the ones you love, and living life gracefully.

At Life in Pencil, we often talk about rewriting your life, and living it with openness to reinvention and change.  But that doesn’t require massive reinvention, big stories, or rewriting your life in any dramatic fashion.  All it takes is an attention to the things that matter to you, regardless of your place in life.  I like to believe Carl lived his life in pencil.  And if he didn’t before, he sure looks to be doing it now…with his flowers and his family, and with that oxygen strapped to his back.   

Do you know someone older than you who refuses to let their age hold them back?  Can anyone think of another exciting life for Carl?  How do you think you’ll handle your own aging process someday…in pencil? 

Don’t forget to email us your “Life in Pencil Moment of the Week” by Thursday!

Posted by Anne

“Did you know _______ is pregnant again?”

“I didn’t realize they were trying.”

“Yeah, me neither.  And apparently they’re looking to move to a new house.”

“Didn’t they just buy that house a couple years ago?  That seems like a weird financial decision..they’re obviously going to lose money on it.”

“Yeah, I thought so too, but maybe it’s been longer. We’re struggling just to come up with a down payment right now, you know?”

“Yeah, I just can’t imagine throwing that much money into a house right now.  We have so many other priorities.”

“Well, you guys don’t have kids yet.  You’ve got plenty of time for that.  By the way, when do you think you will start a family?”

I can’t say whether or not I’ve had this exact conversation.  But pieces of it?  Snippets?  I regret to say…probably.  No matter how hard we try to show openness to women—to our friends even—we compare.  Sometimes, we even judge.  As we move through college, graduate school, first marriages, and first children—our lives diverge from the friends of our youth.  The points of departure may be minor, but they’re there nonetheless—someone’s taste in furniture and someone else’s marriage choice.

We’re generally curious about the paths our fellow women take, and often times we show them support and love.  But in the corners of our minds rest those nagging comparisons; it’s the part of us that wants to know the choices we’re making are the right ones.  We keep track, because how else will we compare ourselves to those ubiquitous Jones’s?  Unfortunately, Miss (or Mrs.) Jones just might be our dearest friend.

These comparisons—this “measuring up” to our friends and acquaintances—has been on my mind since finishing the novel Commencement, by J. Courtney Sullivan. It’s a (highly entertaining) case study of the unavoidable ways women’s lives diverge—no matter how strong the ties or deep the affection.  In the novel, four young women find themselves rooming next to one another during their first year at Smith.  They forge a four-way friendship of deep passion and brutal honesty—the kind of friendship that springs from shared rooms, shared junk food, shared dreams, and romantic drama.  They continue to criss-cross paths long after graduation, each one marveling at the choices made by the other three, and wondering how they could have changed so much. I loved the book, which captured so many of the emotions of my mid-twenties.  At one point, one of the young women stares at her high school (ex) sweetheart and thinks,

“There are so many ways to be twenty-six years old.”

Read it. Especially if you happened to graduate from college in 2002 and experienced your feminist awakening during your college years:)

This short but poignant sentence stopped me.  I marked it, dog-eared the page, and read it again.  There are so many ways to be 26. Indeed.  There are so many ways to be 16, 26, 30, 36, and on and on. There are as many different ways to be 26 as there are women in this world.  But how often do we give ourselves permission to make unique decisions?  When I talk to someone whose life is moving a different direction than my own, why do I feel the need to silently explain my choices…assure myself I’m headed the right way?  And what on earth is “right”?

Over the past few months, I’ve had ample opportunity for comparison.  I’ve visited my sister, a dear friend from grad school, a dear friend from college, and three of my oldest childhood friends.  These five women—foundational friendships of my childhood, teen, and adult years—have quietly, steadily inched along different paths.  And they all lead lovely, beautiful lives.  I’ve made some choices in common with them, and some unique to myself.  When I’m around these women who share so much of my past—whom I love so much—mostly I feel grateful that they’ve found a way in this world that works for them.  I appreciate their choices, and recognize their uniqueness.

Shouldn’t I feel that—react that way—to all women?

This evening, I’ll don a dress, and attend my final Junior League meeting before the Fall.  I’ll eat catered food and make polite conversation with other women I’m still getting to know.  And what will we do?  We’ll look for common ground.  And most likely?  I’ll compare myself to them…wondering if I’m where I should be.  And I wish I wouldn’t.

There are many different ways to be 30.  My way is just one way of navigating adulthood, and needs no explanation.  Nor does anyone else’s.

Do you compare yourself to other women your age?  Do you ever silently (or not so silently) justify the choices you make?

Posted by Anne

“Am I in the right place?” I ask.

“Well, are you a writer?” she replies.  The instructor is perky and petite, with bright eyes and a blond bob.

“Uh, well, I don’t know.  Not really.  Maybe?  We’ll see,” I respond, already making an ass of myself.

This is how my weekend writing workshop began.  On this blog, I tell my stories, and the stories of my Life in Pencil triumphs and failures.  But I crave the opportunity to tell other stories too—fictional stories.  And more specifically, the stories that involve people ages 14 to 19.  And so I signed up for a 2-day workshop focused on Young Adult fiction, when I’ve never written much more than a few (highly autobiographical) short stories.   Yet there I was, fanatically taking notes on a craft I want to call my own.

In typical fashion, I was the first to arrive, which gave me time to watch my fellow workshop attendees file into the room.  We met at a small, funky manufactured home on the outskirts of the city, with coffee and an impressive array of fattening muffins for our consumption. A balding man in his 60’s(?) asked to borrow a pen.  A couple of people talked about health issues—weight loss, cancer, and ailing spouses.  Another woman began joking about her inability to operate her cell phone.  It didn’t take long to realize I would be the only 30-year-old at this workshop.  As is so often the case in my life, I was the youngest in the room.

It didn’t surprise me.  I’m accustomed to being the youngest person in a room.  I often joke about ending up in these situations—all of which are of my own choosing.  My women’s fly-fishing club.  Community cooking classes.  Church retreats.  Where, exactly, are the women my age?  It’s always been a mystery to me.

Nevertheless, I settled into my chair, and carefully penciled Young Adult Workshop, Day 1 at the top of my legal pad.  And I listened as the folks around me introduced themselves, stating their reason for attendance.  They ALL described fairly active writing lives, and I immediately felt inadequate.  I stared at the blank lines of my legal pad, wondering how on earth to describe my purpose there.  Well, you see, I love to write and have always dreamed of writing fiction, and have an age-inappropriate affection for teenage books and films.  So here I am. I imagined this off-beat group of writers staring right back at me, perplexed by my lack of focus.

But, as is often the case, first impressions aren’t everything.  Sure, some of the participants had written entire books—but some had not.  And nobody seemed quite as passionate about writing for teenagers as I did. Few (if any?) of them said they wrote for a living. None seemed to have majored in creative writing, journalism, or communications in college.   But they were there—engaged and enthusiastic, calling themselves “writers”, and showing me great kindness.  I munched my banana nut muffin and recited the clichéd phrase in my head, “It’s never too late to pursue a passion.”   And then I scanned the room again and decided…But I don’t want to wait THAT long.

On a recent telephone conversation with my sister, I bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t pursued my love of writing much earlier in life.  And she, so wise and so blessedly blunt, said, “Anne—you’re 30.  It’s not like your ship has sailed.  You can still write.”   The truth of this statement came charging back at me during that two-day workshop.  Something gave those people in my workshop the courage to call themselves writers.  A sister, a mentor, or simply the growing need to rewrite a part of their own lives.  That realization may have hit them 5 years ago, or 5 months ago.  It didn’t matter.  They were writing.

Whatever our reason for being there, it was endearing to see all of us—age 30 or age 60—spending 2 days discussing how to reach 15-year-olds through our writing.  We talked character, voice, and plot.  We scribbled novel premises, chugged coffee, and tried to unravel the secret to Twilight’s success.  And very soon, my age was irrelevant.  I may have been the youngest in the room, but my goals were no different.

My ship hasn’t sailed, and neither has theirs.

Do you run into this experience in your extra-curricular activities?  Are you the youngest?  If you write, when is it okay to call yourself a writer?

Posted by Anne

It’s a tough job, this “getting inspired” all the time to live Life in Pencil. All too often, the day-to-day minutiae of my life becomes commonplace, and I fail to notice the tiny moments of inspiration that crop up in the most ordinary of places.  Those Life in Pencil moments slip into the background, and I’m back to my old tricks—planning my life and denying myself the opportunity to rewrite it, revise it, and live it.

And so, I need a little help.  I need people and events outside of me to demonstrate a Life in Pencil.  Thank goodness for the media.  If you haven’t noticed yet, there’s a new section to peruse at our blog these days.  The “Get Inspired” section is Elizabeth’s and my attempt to share the multitude of media we read or watch that captures the true meaning of Life in Pencil. These are the articles, the books, the films, and the blogs that give us a glimpse of the people, places, and events that exemplify a Life in Pencil. These are the stories of people who rewrite their lives in big and small ways, or people who simply show they understand.  This is our inspiration.  In this new section, you’ll find…

Articles: Elizabeth is the article queen.  A faithful reader of the New York Times, she’s the only person I know besides my mother who sends me newspaper clips in the mail…and I love it.  Take a look at the articles that have inspired our “deep thoughts” about Life in Pencil.

Books: Fiction or non-fiction, classic or fluff, we can all learn something about Life in Pencil from books.  We’ve highlighted books chock full of characters and stories that remind us what it means to rewrite life…for the better.

Movies: Film is what does it for me.  A lifelong movie nut, I discover worlds and lives I want to emulate through the visual escape of film.  And these stories are rife with dilemmas, conflicts, and soul-searching characters.

Blogs: Oh, the inspiration we find through each other.  Elizabeth and I are constantly impressed and amazed by the unintentional Life in Pencil posts that we stumble across in the blogging world.

Now…we need your help.  While Elizabeth and I are bookworms and film buffs, we haven’t seen or read it all.  Do you have a favorite book or film that you believe captures Life in Pencil?  Did you read an article just the other day that you need to share?  Share the link!  Leave a comment here or e-mail us and we’ll add your ideas to our Get Inspired library.  Let’s learn from each other.  Again, there’s only so much we can do on our own.

No, I’m serious.  Go to the Get Inspired section and tell us what we’re missing!

Posted by Anne

Don’t forget to send us your “Life in Pencil Moment of the Week” before Friday!

Last night was a big night.  Some of you know why.  If you don’t, I’ll enlighten you.  It was the final installment of a very brilliant, very confusing, very addictive television show.  I’m talking about LOST. 

If you’re not a LOST fan, fear not.  This post is not intended to be a geektastic ode to one of my favorite shows of all time.  (I’ll take care of that on my own, in the ridiculous chunks of time I’ll now spend reading convoluted LOST debriefs, recaps, and in-depth analysis…feel free to mock me.)  No, this post is about what the series finale meant to me on a very different level.  Because LOST will forever be:  the show I obsessed over in my late 20’s.  

I’m fascinated by this phenomenon:  how a pop culture experience—be it a show, film, or band—can whisk us back to a season of our life.  And often, it’s a part of our life that we’ve since rewritten, revised, and left behind. To this day, my Dad grows nostalgic when he hears the theme song for Bonanza.  My Mom smiles and sings along to the theme from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  And as a lifelong glutton for pop culture, I can connect the dots of my life through television and film—embarrassing as that may be. 

There was grade school. Thank goodness for Kevin Arnold and the entire cast (and writers) of The Wonder Years for bringing humor to adolescent awkwardness, and for providing me with my first major celebrity crush.  Oh, Fred Savage…what happened to you?

There were the brainless late afternoons I spent avoiding my calculus homework, immersed instead in the drama over at Bayside High, and those fellow high school students in Saved by the Bell. 

College = television wasteland.  Sorority houses are not conducive to television viewing. 

There was my early 20’s, and nights spent in my very first apartment, watching Sex and the City.  And once I caught up, there were the nights spent huddled on sofas with my girlfriends, glued to the television to learn the fate of Carrie et al—all the while struggling to untangle our own messy (or nonexistent) love lives.  

And then there was LOST.  I started watching the bizarre drama when my now-husband and I started dating.  You have to watch this show, he said.  And you have to start from the beginning.  And so, in the very nascent stages of our relationship, we curled up on my sofa night after night, catching up on the dynamics between castaways, mystical island entities, and something called the “Dharma Initiative”.  The show’s seasons accompanied me through my seasons—the seasons of my late 20’s. It followed me through the through marriage, moves, first trips to visit inlaws, and a lonely year by myself in North Carolina without cable.  And now…the end of the show…the end of an era for me, and the end of an era for a pop culture phenomenon. 

I wonder—what will the next show be?  What will be the show, the films, the soundtrack to my 30’s?  I’ll rewrite my television schedule, just as I continue to rewrite my life, television season after television season.   

So, can you think of a show from yesteryear that you associate with a certain time in your life?  Friends? 90210?  And, if you’re a LOST fan and watched last night, what did you think? 

Posted by Anne

Guess what?  We need you!

Guess why!  We’re compiling your greatest hits of the week—your Life in Pencil hits, that is.  Let me explain…

We are constantly rewriting our lives, in big ways and small.  Sometimes it’s easy to focus on the big revisions and forget about the little ones, which are often far more important than the life-altering ones.  Whether you changed a routine or changed the world, we want to read about your “Life in Pencil Moment of the Week.” We want to know how you erased and revised a piece of your life during the past seven days.  And more importantly, we want to know how you managed and regrouped.  Were you grace under pressure, or the opposite?  Were you able to erase your existing plans, or did you clutch your pen (or Blackberry), hoping you could stick to life’s schedule?

Email us and we’ll compile the greatest hits to share with you—our readers—next Friday the 28th.  In so doing, we’ll learn from each other, and perhaps feel slightly more normal at the end of our weeks.  No moment is too small or too big, and there are no right answers or winners.  Just you.

As a bonus, here are THREE from my past week. (Fear not…you only need submit one…and they can be short, people…I’m wordy.)

Moment # 1:
Husband acquires either a) a 24-hour flu bug, or b) some really nasty food poisoning.  He is thoroughly worthless, and can’t peel himself off the bathroom floor, much less make it half a mile down the road to procure some Gatorade.  So, in spite of a packed schedule, I stay home to nurse him back to health.  It feels totally lame to miss work because you’re caring for a sick husband, but…I do it anyway.   It screws with my day.  It screws with my week.  I miss an important meeting at work.  And I LOVE our day together.  I feed him toast and saltines, and top off his Gatorade.  I tuck him under blankets, and he totally eats up the attention.  It was a sweet day.  Good thing, because I got sick two days later.

Moment #2:
Sunday morning, and I’m not feeling Church-y.  I’m not in a contemplative worship-like spirit.  I feel like doing rather than thinking, which is highly unusual for me.  (I spend an inordinate amount of time in my head.)  And that’s when I remember the e-mail sitting in my inbox from a Church friend who’s organizing a project.  A project that’s supposed to take place that very day.  She and her adorable daughters are making utility tarps for Haiti out of plastic grocery bags.  At the last minute, I decide to chuck the regular Church service and iron together plastic grocery bags instead. In case you’re wondering, it’s an incredibly satisfying task…if a little stinky with all the melting plastic.

Moment #3:
(Note:  Moment #3 is here to remind you that these “moments of the week” need not be cosmic or substantial.  No major life lessons need to be learned.  Rewriting your day in tiny ways is legit.)
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m convinced our shih-tzu ATE a pair of my underwear.  It wreaks havoc on my morning, and on my husband’s day.  There is no upside to the suspicion that your 14 lb dog may have eaten a thong.  All you can do is take him to the vet, rework your day, and laugh later.  Which is exactly what we did.  (And no, turns out he didn’t eat it.)

Okay, now it’s your turn!  Throughout the next week, keep track of those Life in Pencil moments, and send them on over!  Tune in Friday the 28^th for a recap of the greatest hits.

Posted by Anne

When was the last time you were able to totally, unequivocally, say “yes”? When was the last time someone asked you a genuine yes/no question about the state of your life or the state of your day and you could say, in a confident, affirmative tone…“Why, Yes!” I don’t know if I’m imagining things, but in my adult world, it feels like an unambiguous “yes” is veering on extinction.  As I write this, it’s all I can do to not break into song—into one of my favorite old songs from the 1940’s…

You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with “Mr. In-Between”

Honestly, I’d just love to latch onto the affirmative.  “Mr. In-Between” is not my favorite dude.  When people ask me questions—about life, about the future, about weekend plans—often all I can muster is a series of wishy-washy phrases like…

-Sure
-I’m not sure
-I think so
-Probably
-Not that I know of
-Depending on my schedule
-Yeah, why don’t I e-mail you?
-We don’t know yet

But…I wonder if this phenomenon is, to some extent, my own doing?  If you follow this blog, you know that a personal goal of mine is to plan and structure less, and live more flexibly.  So in a way, I’m proud of this new-found ability to admit it when “Mr. In-Between” comes to visit, allowing him the latitude to disrupt my “affirmative” plans.

And at the same time, I miss the affirmative.  I miss that ability to act as though I know the answers, even when I don’t.  You know what I think?  I miss the sense of control.  I miss latching onto the affirmative, even when that sense of control is a false sense.  So here’s the question…

How do you answer or commit to something wholeheartedly—say YES!—without becoming disappointed when the results are rewritten without your control, and pan out differently than you imagined?  How do you find the balance between flexibility and commitment?  How do you latch onto the affirmative, and still leave the door open for Mr. In-Between?

Perhaps a start would be to revise my perception of control, and answering in the affirmative.  Perhaps I could simply latch onto what I know, instead of focusing on what I don’t know.  Because truly, there are some things that I can answer in the affirmative.  Is it a beautiful Sunday morning as I write this blog? YES.  Am I looking forward to going out to breakfast with my husband?  YES.  Am I going to a chick flick this afternoon with a dear friend?  YES.  And while those affirmatives don’t help me control my life, they help me approach my day with a resounding, affirmative YES.

In conjunction with Momalom’s “Five for Ten”, the theme of today’s post is Yes. Check out the other “Yes” posts at Momalom!

Posted by Anne

In conjunction with Momalom’s “Five for Ten,” today’s perennially-popular theme is Memory.

Do you think his memory is selective too?

Ever heard someone regale you with the story of when they met their significant other?  Their first date?  Often, if their relationship has been a success, you’ll hear them utter something approximating the phrase, “I just knew.”   But when things go awry?  When promising jobs don’t pan out, or a relationship fizzles?  We look back on the interview or the first date and say, “Well, looking back I could just feel something was off.”  Our memories act like sneaky little researchers or journalists, eager to selectively point to the data that proves we weren’t misguided, and the evidence that our existing relationship was the result of kismet, rather than work.  Yep, I’m talking about selective memory, and we’re all culprits. 

Maybe you disagree.  Maybe even I disagree.  But I’m often struck by the way we reflect back on situations with tinted glasses, ready to highlight the positive or the negative—depending on our current state of affairs.  Our memories are clouded with images and experiences we cherish forever, and others we’d love to forget.  And so we do.  We rewrite history by rewriting our memories, conveniently forgetting the fight on the way to dinner a few nights ago, recalling the great food instead. 

Why do we do this?  Because we’re all too busy to remember things accurately?  Because we’re liars?  (Note:  If any of you readers out there happen to be cognitive psychologists, do share!  What up with our memory fabrications?)  Since I’m the touchy-feely counselor-y kind of psychologist, and not the kind that studies brain and memory, I have nothing to offer but my own measly theories.  So here’s what I think…

Our memories are protective.  They constantly morph, helping us make sense of our lives and experiences, and quietly shielding us from the pain of mistakes.  When our memories make sense, our lives make sense. 

I know what you’re thinking.  We all have bad memories too.  Sad memories.  And I think we need them.  Often it’s the very tough experiences that are the hardest to forget.  But if we’re lucky, we can integrate those memories into our self-concept as well, letting the painful fading images weave themselves into our psyche, and make us the people we are.  And when we can’t handle the hard memories?  Our little brains work overtime to emphasize the good, and suppress the bad. 

I for one am grateful for my selective memory.  It’s what keeps me from harping on life’s stressors, and reliving the experiences that have brought me joy.  And when the sad memories spill over?  Well, I’ll learn from them, and then keep moving—rewriting that memory to parcel out the good. 

My brain takes care of me.  It’s selective and protective. 

When you recall past events, do you emphasize the positive or the negative? Do you have a perfect memory, or is it selective like mine? 

Now check at the other “memory” posts at Momalom!