March’s theme at Life in Pencil is Beginnings.

Posted by Elizabeth

Last Friday I finally got around to doing some much-needed pruning in my yard.   I clipped back the sage bush, a tangled mat of crisp vines supported by a thick carpet of decaying leaves.  I tore at shards of dried iris leaves with my bare hands, strips of coarse raffia removed to reveal tiny green shoots of new growth below.  New life was emerging, unseen and untouched until I folded back the blanket of winter.  March is an elusive month, filled with tentative beginnings. Daffodils and crocus – the front-line soldiers sent out before the rest of the troops – hesitantly shoulder their way out of the hard earth, peeking their fresh heads out for a look around, then seeming to retreat.  One moment the cold wind is howling at our doorstep, and the next the sun is peeping through a curtain of grey.  March is an identity crisis, unable to decide whether it’s time to continue hibernating or come out of our holes.

These days, my life seems reflective of this shift of seasons.  Last week spring fever was in full swing, the promise of new beginnings swirling around me like a happy whirlwind.    The energy and excitement of new writing projects, social engagements, an upcoming trip to Europe, and impending motherhood – all emerging on the horizon – was enough to carry me full-throttle into a new season.  I crossed off items on my to-do list, many of which had languished for months, in an inky flourish, cheerily wondering to myself, “Why did it take me so long to get to this?”  I wrote.  I made reservations.  I researched.  I returned phone calls.  I got a lot done, and as I result I felt happy, alive, and energized.

I planned for an equally productive week, enthusiastically sketching an exceedingly long to-do list on Sunday evening.  But yesterday morning I woke up groggy and out-of-sorts, immediately feeling the shift of energy that had taken place overnight.  I scanned my to-do list, the items of which now seemed daunting and unachievable.  I moped around the kitchen for awhile, then killed time checking my email, feeling that familiar sensation creep in around me.  Now what?

Humans are just like the seasons.  There is no clear breaking point between winter and spring, but a number of weeks on either side of March 20th where the seasons “slosh” back and forth, an ongoing arm-wrestling match until spring finally wins out – and such is the case with new beginnings in our own lives.  There is an uncomfortable push-pull that takes place before new life firmly takes root.  We tend to revel in those spring-like moments of action, clarity, purpose, and productivity, but fight those inevitable small slides back into winter, often characterized by inaction, confusion, and low energy; in other words, mental hibernation.  If we endeavor to live our lives in the present moment, though, we need to learn to accept whatever the day (and the season) brings us – even if it’s not what we would have chosen for ourselves.

As I thought about how I’d like my day to unfold, accepting the parameters that had been given to me, I knew I had a decision to make:  I could retreat back into full winter hibernation mode or step tentatively back into spring.  Here’s what I considered:

1. I needed to embrace the “sloshing point.” Year ago, I took a series of classes at an organization in Seattle called Centerpoint, which teaches clients how to better manage their careers and their lives through periods of change.  At Centerpoint I learned to think about my life as seasons of the year, and the inevitable “sloshing” that happens between stages and seasons.  Even though the sun was shining, yesterday felt more like winter than spring:  so be it.
2. I need to realize that activity has to be balanced with periods of non-doing. Last fall I wrote about the importance of plateaus, those inevitable periods of inactivity that pop up in our lives.  While plateaus can last weeks or months, sometimes I think we experience mini-plateaus that last just a day or two.  After a week of total productivity, I needed to give myself permission to take a mini-break.  In fact, this dip in energy was probably just a natural balancing-out.  New beginnings require both activity and non-doing.
3. I need to set small(er) goals for this week. This week isn’t last week, and my metric for what I accomplished yesterday need not dictate my level of productivity today.  Although I’m not ready for full-fledged spring, at times like these it’s easy for me to slide back into full hibernation, which usually leads me to falling even deeper into winter.  Instead, I decided to take a smaller step into spring, setting more manageable goals for where I’m at today.  Will I get as much done as I did last week?  Probably not, but I’ll get something done, and won’t feel like a slug.  At Centerpoint, I learned to ask myself, “What do I have energy for today?”
4. I don’t need to chastise myself for a waning enthusiasm for these new beginnings. We naturally praise ourselves for being active and productive – as products of the Western world, it’s hard-wired into us.  But last week, I didn’t read, or think, or do any of the contemplative activities that make my periods of activity possible.  So rather than berating myself for not moving in a steady “onward and upward” pattern, I will recognizing that every new period of beginning involves a few steps back.

How about you? What do you find helpful when you’re “sloshing” between seasons – especially between the “winter” and “spring” of your life?  How do new beginnings show themselves in your own life?  How do you “stay in the moment” when the excitement of new beginnings is on the horizon but not quite here yet?

Posted by Anne 

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.
-Plato

Do you agree with Plato?  I admit—I struggle with this quote.  As someone who thoroughly enjoys a good gab-fest (preferably accompanied by caffeine), it’s hard to imagine anything as effective as conversation when it comes to connecting with another person.  And yet—this quote has been on my mind lately. 

I heard this little Plato nugget for the first time last week at a large gathering for all the Student Affairs professionals at my university.  (You know, the perky people who work for universities—not as professors—but the “life” educators.)  As a group, we gather about 3 times a year to listen to our Dean or Provost talk about our work, our students, and our goals.  There’s usually coffee.  And discussion.  I like these kinds of meetings.  But this one was different.  After the usual “state of the union” (as I call it) by our Vice Provost, we were divided into 3 different groups, and asked to participate in a series of “healthy” activities aimed at creating more “balance” and “self-care”. This may seem foreign to some of you in the corporate world, but to me?  This actually seemed quite normal.  But there was a hitch.  One of the rotations indicated two different options for some form of play.  That’s right…play.  One was even…juggling.  When I read the schedule, I had three immediate thoughts…

1. Isn’t there some alternative option?  Do I really need to juggle this morning to achieve balance in my life? 
2. If I do participate in the juggling, how on earth am I supposed to hold my coffee?
3. Seriously…there’s got to be some other option.   

As it turns out, there were some alternatives.  One on mindfulness and meditation, and one involving some reflection and quiet contemplation.  They were nice and quiet.  I didn’t have to interact with anyone else.  I was able to hold my coffee.  And you know?  They did nothing for me.  Probably because I already do a boat-load of “reflecting” in my life, these activities actually fell a little flat.  And so I wonder—would I have been better off playing?  And even more distressing…

Am I becoming un-fun?

I’ve been thinking about Plato’s words.  The people I know best in this world are the ones who’ve joined me in side-splitting laughter.  Thought I adore a great conversation with my husband, when was the last time we played a game together?  Why must I always connect with people through my conversation? 

No, I’m not going to take up juggling.  But perhaps there are easier ways to begin?  Just a couple days ago, I opened my email to find (hooray!) an e-vite.  And even better…for a totally random evening of fun.  What’s on the docket?  Games.  I’ll be honest.  I didn’t used to be a big fan of “game” parties.  Why can’t we just sip our wine and chat?  But something has happened.  I’m craving play now.  And so my reaction when I read that evite about the prospect of games and laughter was…utter joy.  A perfect opportunity to begin…to add play back into my oh-so-reflective life. 

Today, my sister (in blogging and real-life) posted a lovely entry about Ash Wednesday, and how she’s adding to her routine rather than giving something up.  I’m going to copy her…Icopied her when we were kids, so why not now?  Her “addition” during Lent is far more noble, but oh well…I will act the part of the younger and less responsible sister today.  Because I’m adding…playtime. It will begin on Friday.  I’m going to change.  I’m going to sacrifice a little reflection, and add a little play.  I’m going to be fun as well as reflective.  And I’ll report back next week…

How often do you “play”?  Is it easier to play when you have kids?  Or are you more of a conversation kind of person?

Posted by Elizabeth

Today I was supposed to lay forth the ground rules for the Technoless Challenge. I say “supposed to” because, to be honest, my heart just isn’t into it.  I realized somewhere in the last week that, when I set my mind to breaking a bad habit, I usually emerge the victor.  Remember the challenge I issued to myself last October, to break through my fitness plateau?  Once I made up my mind that it was a priority, I proceeded to hit my target weight in three months (and then I got pregnant).  And that’s how I break bad habits:  I make it a priority.  This whole Technoless Challenge is really just a reflection of the fact that I’ve never made an earnest effort to reduce my social email and networking site time.  For me, the solution is simple:  I’m going to make an effort by setting some self-imposed time limits while reducing the temptation (laptop sitting on coffee table all day = too tempting).  Period.  So for those of you who were gearing up to take the challenge with me, please accept my deepest apologies.  What can I say?  Things change.

The truth is, after the elation of spreading my good news on Friday, and a sorta disastrous Valentine’s Day, I find myself bathing in the emotional afterglow of a strange weekend.  Unlike Anne’s “Valentine’s-neutral” approach (she is so even-keeled), I have always found myself living life hanging from the highest rafters or dragging through the lowest valleys.  “Equilibrium” has never been my strong suit.  That’s why I was so proud of myself when Maikael and I decided to approach this year’s Valentine’s Day with a “no-big-deal, whatever-happens-happens” attitude.  To clarify, Valentine’s Day is not usually met with a great deal of pomp and circumstance in our household.  We usually exchange cards and go out to a nice dinner, and that’s about it.  However, we’ve been out a lot lately, and we are currently in the throes of a DIY bathroom renovation project that is taking twice as long to complete as we had originally bargained for (why does everyone delude themselves into believing that their project will be different?).  Given these circumstances, this Valentine’s Day would be met with even greater asceticism than usual.  And I was okay with that. At least, I thought was okay with that.

A good start.

On Friday night the UPS man dropped a package at my front doorstep; when I opened it, I was met with an asymmetrical, eggplant heart stuffed with truffles from the very fancy-pants Vosges chocolatier.  The weekend was off to a good start!  On Saturday we enthusiastically picked up the special-order window for our bathroom – the one we’ve been talking about installing for five years – which wasn’t what we’d envisioned.  Then, we cut a gigantic hole through the side of our house, which was higher than we’d thought it would be.  Amidst the sawing and banging I couldn’t take my customary afternoon nap – this pregnancy has left me dead-tired — so I made dinner instead, a Mexican feast, Maikael’s favorite.  The pork and potato tacos, simmering in a fiery red guajillo chile-spiked sauce, smelled delicious.  But apparently this baby does not like spicy food, and I spent the rest of the evening belching like a frat boy and trying to enjoy whatever crap we were watching as we flipped through TV channels.

Pretending to take a "shower" in our new stall. Still smiling at this point.

Sunday wasn’t much better.  After continuing to struggle with the window, we finally installed it.  Twice.  I was looking forward – with unusual enthusiasm – to watching Enchanted on USA at 6:30 that evening, but tuned in to find the credits rolling.  This was after I lost out on an eBay auction for a lamp that I had my heart set on, even though I said I didn’t have my heart set on it, in the final seconds.  And then came the leftover tacos!  Oh, and a dry cupcake for dessert.  By the time we sat down to watch Inglorious Basterds, my stomach was roaring and I wanted nothing more than to go to bed.  Which is why I thought it would be the perfect time to hop on the Internet and purchase our tickets for next weekend’s Taste of Albuquerque!  Let’s just say neither I nor the Junior League of Albuquerque is long on technology, and when you throw these two things together, utter confusion ensues.  And rather than simply hanging it up for the night, I pushed forward out of pure determination, beseeching Maikael for his sage advice as to how to make the website work.  Maikael, clearly exhausted after having spent 48 hours struggling with a bathroom window, may have snapped something about “don’t drag me into your projects.”  And then I may have snapped something about “you’re one to talk, I can’t even take a nap with all that banging.”  And then he may have said something about “spending every weekend on this project so that we can have a nice bathroom.”  And I may have said something about “what, and carrying your unborn child isn’t work?”  Or something like that.  I can’t remember the exact words, but rest assured, it was very dramatic. In any event, Valentine’s Day ended with me retreating to the bedroom and reading a chapter from Lorrie Moore’s A Gate at the Stairs.  Last week’s resolution at The Happiness Project was to “fight fair,” and this week’s is “don’t expect praise or appreciation,” and I’m sorry to say I failed miserably at both.  We never even got a chance to exchange cards.

As I replay these events, it’s obvious that nothing altogether wonderful or awful happened this weekend.  In a funny way, it ended up being the “Valentine-neutral” holiday that Anne described yesterday.  At the end of the day, lost eBay auctions, missed naps, and indigestion are trifles.  So why, in the heat of the moment, did it all feel so doomsday?  Obviously, there was some undercurrent of expectation that I had created for this 48 hour period, whether I was aware of it or not.  If I really examine the mental images I’ve been carrying around, they are stuffed with expectation.  I thought we’d share a lingering dinner at home – one that wasn’t punctuated with low-energy conversation after a day of hard work or capped off with monster digestion problems.   I thought there would be less doing and more talking.  More smiles and less sighs.

We are always creating expectations for ourselves, even when we think we’re not.  We talk a lot about the pitfalls of setting high expectations, but it’s just as easy to create low expectations that are equally impossible to achieve.  Saying we’re trying to keep things “low-key” or “easy-going” is in and of itself an expectation, and given the constraints of our construction project, it was unreasonable to expect that there would be anything “low key” about this weekend.  The fact is, even though I knew the reality of this two-day period going in, even when I said I didn’t have expectations, I did.  We didn’t fail; my expectations did.

Rest assured that Maikael and I mended our fences and eventually exchanged our cards.  The construction project will continue chugging forward next weekend.  And that box of chocolates will be gone before you know it.

Did anyone else have sort of a miserable Valentine’s Day?  Any horror stories to share, from the recent or not-so-recent past?  Do you suffer from setting unreasonable expectations, either too high or too low?  Anybody else out there suffer from spicy food intolerance during pregnancy (a REALLY tough thing living in New Mexico, let me tell you)?

Posted by Elizabeth

From time to time, the Internet connection at my house comes to a sputtering halt.  When that occurs, the following transpires:

1. I madly hit the “Refresh” button on my web browser and frown at the little “!” mark in the bottom right-hand corner of my laptop’s screen.
2. I call Maikael in a panic – sometimes in the other room, sometimes at work – who suggests I reset the router.
3. I nervously pull unmarked cords out of a little black box, not unlike a member of an inept bomb squad.
4. I hold my breath, waiting for the string of little green lights to begin their dance across the router once again, wondering what evil deed I performed in a past live to deserve this.  I begin making bargains with The Man Upstairs.
5. When the lights blink back on moments later I utter a genuine sigh of relief, do a little happy dance, and hop back on Facebook.

This is how it goes nine times of out ten.  But sometimes – sometimes! – the router refuses to reset.  Sometimes I call the cable company and there is no good answer as to what is wrong.  “You’ll just have to wait for it to start working again,” they hopefully offer.  When this happens, I nervously pace the room, wondering if it will be minutes, hours, or, god forbid, DAYS until I’m connected to the virtual world once again.  It’s times like these that I must walk myself off the ledge and remind myself that I didn’t use email until I went off to college.  Somehow I managed to lead a productive life for 18 years without the help of the Internet.  Certainly, I reason with myself, I can go 18 hours without being connected.

I freely admit that the “important” task that a failed Internet connection interrupts typically involves email or a social networking site.  And yet, as unreasonable as it sounds, this temporary failure of technology feels monumental, sending me into a tailspin.  It looks like I’m not the only one who feels this way.  According to a recent article on technological failures, “when gadgets let us down, we feel frustrated, stumped, upset, scared, we feel stupid, like we did something to mess it up, and we feel helpless…Those are all the same feelings you have when you are depressed.”  In other words, when we become dependent upon something that fails us, without any clear answers, our sense of order crumbles.

My theory?  “Technoflubs” remind us of how little control we have over our lives.  Not only do we lack the control to make the technology perform 100% of the time, we usually lack the skills to fix them when something goes wrong.  We are at the mercy of our gadgets:  what could make a person feel more helpless?  Like most things in life, our expectations are inflated.  It’s unreasonable to expect that devices will always work, and yet we become completely despondent when they fail.  Last night I was downloading a song from the iTunes Store and, with five seconds of download time remaining, the connection mysteriously came to an abrupt halt.  I spent the next 30 minutes trying to resume the connection, madly pressing buttons and sighing audibly.  I blamed myself for trying to plug my iPod into the computer during the download process, which had obviously caused some sort of cosmic interference.  (“Isn’t it possible that the iTunes Store is simply down?” asked Maikael.  Impossible.)  Finally, Maikael said, “Why don’t you just go to bed and try again in the morning?”  Even when I realized that I was trying to will something into existence, I literally had to tear myself away from the computer.

Lately, I’ve become acutely aware of not just my overdependence on but addiction to technology.  As you may have gathered, my specific Achilles heel happens to be email and Facebook.  Except when I am sleeping or away from my computer – which isn’t very often – I am constantly connected to both of these virtual worlds.  And I don’t like it.  This addiction has surprised me, because I wouldn’t classify myself as an escapist or a technology fetishist.  Normally I prefer to live my life grounded in reality.  I think, for me, both of these modes of technology represent staying in touch, an especially important task with so much of my support network spread across the globe.  While I can’t see myself eliminating either of these technologies from my life, I could stand to drastically limit my time on the Internet.  After all, I can still stay in touch without being in touch.  I know this.  I’ve made all sorts of sophisticated plans with myself to reduce my usage, and I’m usually good at achieving a goal that I’ve set my mind on.  But with this particular issue?  I haven’t made a lick of progress.

Life in Pencil is all about rewriting your life in the way you’d like it to read, and this is something that I’d really like to change.  Perhaps if I reframe this as a habit rather than an addiction it would be easier to tackle?  They say that habits take 21 days to change, but I know myself better than that.  Although I am not a particularly religious person, I am going to use the starting and ending points of Lent, a symbolic time in which we focus on our temptations, to carry out my plan in earnest.  Lent begins next Wednesday, so that gives me a week to prepare and 46 days to accomplish my goal.  Next Tuesday I’ll bring to you my personal “rules” for the Technoless Challenge.  And, if anyone else is interested in taking the same challenge, leave a comment and let me know.  Or, if you have another “temptation” or bad habit that you’d like to address over the same period, let me know that, too.  I have some ideas brewing…

Here are some interesting blog entries and articles on the effects of technology dependence:

Kristen @ Motherese wrote about real versus virtual connection in Are We Tuning Out By Tuning In?
Nikki @ Generation V wrote about her own technology addiction in This Virtual Life
And of course there’s the article that inspired this post in Why So Much FAIL in the Digital World?

Guess what, folks? Phase One of The Waiting Game is coming to its exciting conclusion!  Tune in FRIDAY for the dramatic – and it is dramatic – reveal.  I promise this is not a shameless ploy.

Posted by Elizabeth

I just finished reading The Happiness Project (book #5 since The Waiting Game started last month!), Gretchen Rubin’s account of one year spent trying to lead a happier life.  What struck me about the book is that, when she begins her experiment, she’s already a fairly happy person.  And yet, there is something wanting in her life.  But rather than starting her life over from scratch through drastic and dramatic measures, she concludes that she’d like to implement change within the context of the life she already leads…which is basically what we here at Life in Pencil espouse!  Given that Rubin’s book is currently ranked #2 on the New York Times’ Hardcover Nonfiction Bestsellers’ List, this tells me that a lot of people feel this way:  their lives are pretty good, although not all they want it to be, but starting over from scratch (if that’s even possible) either isn’t an option or very appealing.

Throughout the book, I was surprised to discover that Rubin persistently mentions bluebirds (even the cover art features a little bluebird winging its way over New York City).  As I’ve mentioned before, bluebirds represent a powerful symbol in my life; in a sense, they’ve been with me all along.  When I was five, my mother registered me for an art class, wherein we created giant masks fashioned from chicken wire and papier mache that slipped over our head.  Where I got the idea to create a bluebird is beyond me, but for years that massive mask, which I slathered with electric blue paint, sat at the top of my closet, gathering dust but unable to be thrown out.  At some point my mother started gifting me bluebird tokens and trinkets – again, why or when that started baffles me – which I’ve continued to be drawn to my entire life.  My Christmas tree is literally filled with bluebirds.  I often see bluebirds in nature – even in places where the birds aren’t known to nest.

Once somebody asked me, “But what do the bluebirds mean?”  I honestly had no idea, but after pondering the question for awhile, I responded, “I’ve always taken it to mean that I’m on the right path.  It’s a symbol of reassurance.  When I see a bluebird, I know that whatever I’m doing in my life at that time is the right thing.  If I’m considering some sort of change and a bluebird wings its way into my life, I feel good moving forward.”  As I was nervously finishing up a writing project last fall, silently wondering to myself where it might lead and if it was worth my time and trouble, I suddenly looked up to see a fat bluebird perched on the wall of my courtyard, staring intently at me.  I took this as a very good sign.

On one hand, Rubin’s use of the bluebird is not surprising.  Bluebirds have long been associated with happiness (we’ve all heard of “The Bluebird of Happiness”).  On the other hand, when Rubin decides to start a collection and chooses bluebirds, I couldn’t help but feel a little spooked out, for I have never met another soul who felt as drawn to bluebirds as I have (they’re not exactly kittens or cows or any of the other ubiquitous animals that people tend to collect).  However, I got the sense that Rubin selected the symbol for its significance more than being genuinely drawn to it.  The thing about “spirit animals” is that you don’t choose them; they choose you. If you pause for a moment, I bet you can think of certain animals that consistently seem to make their way into your life, who you feel an unusual connection to.  These animals – what they symbolize – have something to teach you about yourself, about the choices you’re facing, about the life you’re trying to lead.  Last week, Kristen from Motherese wrote about woodpeckers, making elegant connections between their behaviors and being a writer.  I encouraged her to do some reading on the bird, because I bet there’s something she needs to learn about herself as a writer that’s revealed through them (just as I enjoy diagnosing people with existential crises, so, too, do I like to assign people spirit animals).  Over the past few weeks, usually-timid roadrunners have made a happy home in my yard, literally waiting for me by the front gate (which, coincidentally, is blue); I probably should do some reading on them, too.

I’ve always wondered about the origin of “The Bluebird of Happiness,” and Rubin gratefully answered the question for me.  The earliest mention was in a 1908 play called The Blue Bird, and the plot goes like this:  two kids go in chase of happiness, guided by a bluebird around the globe.  When they return home, they find the bluebird waiting for them.  “We chased you all around the world, and here you are, right where we started!” they exclaim.  “Happiness is right where you are, not something you need to go in search of,” replied the bluebird.   The hairs on the back of my arms stood at attention as I swallowed these words, for if there is one lesson I’ve have spent my life trying to learn, it’s to be content with wherever I am in my life.  Perhaps that is what the bluebirds have been trying to teach me all along.

What animals are you naturally attracted to in your life?  What do you think they are there to teach you?  Do you think making an already happy life happier is a worthy goal; or, do you think we have to start from scratch to enact any meaningful change?

This Sunday’s New York Times Book Review featured a great article on the recent surge in happiness-related books (including one called Bluebird!).  And, if you’re interested in reading more about your “power animal,” or discovering what your power animal might be, I highly recommend Ted Andrews’ Animal Speak.

One final note:  I had no idea what an uproar my Groundhog Day post would cause!  Apparently, I was under the (false) assumption that everyone hated the Bill Murray/Andie McDowell movie as much as I did.  To quell the fire, I am offering this YouTube video from LiP Reader Meghan, featuring her nephew Zach and his eloquent thoughts on Groundhog Day (the holiday, not the movie).  Enjoy!

Posted by Elizabeth

Dreamy, steamy, or creepy?

Confession:  I used to be a major American Idol fan. During the first six seasons, I never missed a single episode – and if you know the amount of hours that show occupies on the airwaves between January and May each year, you know that’s a major time commitment.  In fact, AI (that’s what real fans call it, you know: AI) was one of the first mutual passions/grotesque fascinations/guilty pleasures that Anne and I shared.  Our obsession reached a fever pitch in graduate school, AI providing a balm to our weary souls.  (Anne and I have a theory that the level of seriousness in your television programming has a direct, inverse correlation to the level of stress and anxiety in your daily work life.  Needless to say, graduate school was prime AI territory.)  I would call Anne during commercial breaks, and we’d recap what had just happened in the previous 15-minute segment, ogling Constantine Maroulis’ dreamy hair and hypnotic smile, while laughing hysterically at John Steven’s infamous falsetto version of Crocodile Rock.  When I moved away, our debriefs continued via letter, and we filled pages (yes, I admit, pages) predicting winners and losers and dissecting Kristy Lee Cook’s hoe-down version of Eight Days a Week.

But at some point along the way, we got a life lost interest.  Eventually, AI faded into the background, and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you much about anything that’s transpired the past three seasons.  When I returned from my ‘round-the-world trip last March, smack dab in the middle of season eight, everyone was talking about Adam Lambert, the rumored favorite.  Already feeling like a cultural pariah after eight months off the map, I decided to increase my pop culture IQ by tuning into a few episodes.  True to reports, Lambert was interesting and edgy (or at least as edgy as AI allows you to be), a strong singer and great performer to boot.  And, as is so often the case with the AI franchise, the best contestant doesn’t win, the winner fades into obscurity, and the runner-up shoots to meteoric fame.

Yesterday I was watching Oprah (what else is there to do when you’re playing The Waiting Game?), and the theme of the show was “Big Breaks,” featuring Susan Boyle and Adam Lambert.  To be honest, I wasn’t very interested in either guest, but, like I said, what else is there to do when you’re playing The Waiting Game?  But what followed was a surprisingly interesting interview with Mr. Lambert who, by my estimation, is an articulate young man with a solid head on his shoulders.  What interested me most about his story was how a musical theatre performer had managed to refashion himself as a glam rocker on American Idol without being accused of “selling out” or “not knowing himself” (for those uninitiated, AI judges LOVE to slap those labels on contestants)?

A few years ago, Lambert reported, he wanted to “make something happen” in his life.  He was bored, but unsure exactly how he wanted his life to be different – he didn’t have any specific goals he wanted to achieve or milestones to reach – but he was clear that he wanted it to change.  He began by simply asking The Universe to bring something new into his life.  For awhile he did nothing but think about the change.  In a process that he calls “positive projection,” he would imagine in his head how his life might be different.  “And then I took action,” he said, auditioning for American Idol on a whim, unsure if the show would respond to his “left-of-center” aesthetic and unusual background.  The rest, as they say, is history, but even Lambert concedes that how this dream manifested itself is far bigger than he ever believed it would be.

So what does all of this have to do with living life in pencil?  This is a very roundabout way to get at a very simple point:  big changes often have very humble beginnings.  Sometimes we feel we need something to be different in our life, but we’re unsure what that “something” is.  In our goal-oriented culture, where specific objectives hold more cache than vague urges, I think we often shy away from change unless we have something specific in mind that we want to be different.  When I worked as a career counselor, I sometimes caught myself falling into this pervasive mindset, telling my clients, for example, that it was fruitless to begin a job search until they knew what they were searching for.  But Adam Lambert’s story seems to suggest the contrary.  In his version of change, we need only be specific in our intention that we want things to be different somehow – defining what that change is isn’t part of the equation.  That’s the part we leave up to The Universe.  And isn’t there something liberating in that?  For many of us, we won’t make even the smallest nudge towards change until our goal is 100% clear.  But my fear is that we might get stuck waiting a lifetime.

The other key point of Lambert’s “model” is he met thinking with doing.  Just a few days ago I wrote about “doing something” versus “doing nothing” when you’re faced with an existential crisis – the kind of crisis Lambert faced just over a year ago.  Lambert’s life change came about through equal parts doing and being.  After he’d spent some time thinking about the changes, he knew that nothing would transpire without action on his part.  He didn’t know at the time if American Idol was the answer – it could easily not have been – but taking action kept him moving forward.  Most of us prefer being or doing, but that only brings us halfway there; clearly, Lambert shows us we need both.  But even a combination of being and doing won’t get us to our destination if our intention isn’t clear, pure, and true.  When pure intent meets a clear vision and strong action, The Universe provides in ways that are bigger than we ever could have imagined for ourselves.  All change, no matter how big or how small, begins with an intention, no matter how specific or vague.

Who says that American Idol is worthless – there’s obviously plenty of life lessons to be learned!  What have you learned about change, success, or risk-taking from American Idol, your favorite television programs, or other pop culture outlets?  Are you, or have you ever been, a huge American Idol fan? What do you think of Lambert’s “model” of change?  Don’t be hatin’ on pop culture, y’all!

Posted by Elizabeth

Some days I sit down to write a blog post and I know exactly what I’m going to say.  Other days the well is dry.  But on days like today my head is swimming with topics, and I struggle to pick just the right one.  I could write about Jeannette Walls’ Half Broke Horses, which I finished late last night, offering plenty of lessons and wisdom about living a life in pencil.  I could write about my new friend Evelyn and our unusual bilingual relationship.  I could write about our do-it-yourself bathroom remodel project, or Malcolm Gladwells’ Blink, or the fact that life is trying to teach me a lesson about patience these days.  I think all of these would make fine topics – in fact, you might see some of them in the coming weeks – but what’s really tugging at my attention today is this:

Existential crises.

If you know me, you know I talk a lot about existential crises.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I invented the term – I’m sure it came from someone in the existential school of thought — but I don’t recall where I heard it and I use the phrase a great deal, so I’m claiming it as my own for the purposes of this post.  What is an existential crisis, and how does it differ from your run-of-the-mill crisis?  You know you’re in the midst of an existential crisis when you wake up one day and begin asking yourself Life’s Big Questions.  Who am I?  Why am I here?  What is my purpose?  WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? Unlike your everyday crisis, you probably find that your life looks completely fine from the outside looking in.  Whereas most ordinary crises are propelled from external sources – you lose a job, a house, a relationship – existential crises are purely internal; this is what makes them so hard to pinpoint and easy to dismiss.  Everything looks fine, but nothing feels fine.  But trust me when I say that an existential crisis is just as serious as any other kind.

One of my favorite pastimes is to go around and diagnose my friends with an existential crisis.  Because I have faced my fair share of existential crises, I consider myself uniquely qualified to hand out these proclamations.  Just a few weeks ago, my friend, Emily, admitted that she was casting about aimlessly, wondering what life project she should tackle next.  I told her without hesitation that she was clearly in the midst of an existential crisis.  She reported that the diagnosis made her feel better because “it made my slothy blahs sound more intelligent. “  And that’s just the thing:  it’s easy to mistake an existential crisis for a lack of motivation.  And what’s the answer, at least in our culture, to inertia and uncertainty?  We should do something!

It’s then that we get into the sticky wicket of working ourselves through an existential crisis.  Is the answer to do something or to do nothing?  If we choose the former, how do we go about putting the answers to such monumental questions into action?  If we choose the latter, how do we keep the process moving forward without succumbing to a lifetime of sitting in a wingback chair in a velvet smoking jacket, just thinking? Because we are a culture that tends to value tangible results, productivity, and active doing, I think most of us tackle our existential crises by springing to action.  We immediately formulate a plan, something that will provide a quick answer, and then set about accomplishing it.  But if we haven’t taken the proper time and rest to formulate that plan, to let the existential ground lie fallow for a time, we often find ourselves weeks, months, or even years down the road asking the same questions.

There’s a lot of benefit to doing nothing – at least for awhile – because most of us rarely take the time to do so.  It’s difficult and uncomfortable to sit with our existential problems, waiting for answers to emerge, especially if we’re “doers” by nature.  We might feel as if we’re wasting precious time; we might feel lazy; we might wonder if this “doing nothing” is actually accomplishing anything.  Usually it is, but like the existential crisis itself, the forward movement is often imperceptibly small, invisible to the naked eye, and completely internal.  If we can’t see change happening, we might wonder if anything is really changing.  This approach takes a great deal of trust.  And sometimes it’s not always the answer.  Sometimes, in our effort to do nothing, we end up lying down and never getting back up again.

The answer, I think, is to make doing “nothing” an active process.  By its very definition it’s easy to reduce “doing nothing” to sitting on your duff waiting for life to happen and the answers to emerge.  This brand of “doing nothing” rarely works (unless you are “existentially tired”*, in which case sitting on your duff for a good, long while might be just the cure).  Instead, if we approach the act of doing nothing as an exploratory process, in which we are not manically seeking The Next Plan but inspiration, “doing nothing” can quickly feel like we’re “doing something.”  There are all sorts of ways we can actively explore our world without compulsively searching for plans, answers, and concrete action.  For example, Emily sat down to an inspiring dinner with a new friend, who helped stoke her creative fires without hammering out The Next Big Thing.  Why does this work?  Because the aim of this action is exploratory, rather than producing tangible outcomes, and there’s nothing more exciting that exploration at a time like this.

When you find yourself in the midst of an existential crisis, I am a proponent of doing what you have energy for, what excites you, what piques your curiosity, because I truly believe the answers are contained somewhere within those ideas.  It’s a great time to broaden your social circle, to invite new ideas into your life.  If you have the energy to do so, it’s a great time to say “yes” to things; you never know what new opportunities you never could have predicted are waiting on the horizon.

*Existential crises are often related to being “existentially tired” – a term I’m pretty sure I did invent – wherein you are not physically but emotionally exhausted.

Do you fall more into the “do nothing” or “do something” camp when you find yourself at a cross-roads?  What techniques have you found particularly useful when tackling your own existential crises?

Posted by Anne

It’s that time of year.  It’s the time we pledge to kick bad habits, improve our quality of life, and generally become more productive individuals.  As much as I love lists, I’ve never been particularly great with New Year’s resolutions, and I think I know why.  You see, part of the reason I love making lists is so I can cross them off.  And it seems that the prototypical New Year’s resolutions are almost totally un-cross-off-able. 

For one thing, resolutions always seem to be long term.  “Lose weight in 2010”.  (Great…can’t cross that one off until 2011.)  And there are other problems with New Year’s resolutions.  We make them hard.  And last but not least, we make too many.  Or at least I do.  When you set goals, you should set reachable ones…which I rarely do come January 1^st.  Psychologically speaking (which is how I sometimes speak), we’re motivated by success—not failure.  So when we concoct impossibly challenging resolutions (work out 5 times a week for every week of 2010!), we set ourselves up not just for failure, but for a serious dip in our motivation to continue trying. 

So why do we do this to ourselves?  Set ourselves up with unrealistic resolutions?  We (or at least I) resolve to be not just thinner, but more creative, more graceful, more culinary, more religious, and any number of resolution-worthy qualities.  I’m puzzled by this need to become somehow better than we already are each and every January.  What is it about the New Year that makes me want to feel so totally and utterly together?

There are probably numerous reasons, but let’s start with one rooted in pop culture…in our society’s belief that we need to do, and be, more.  Watching TV the other day, I realized how annoyed I was by a certain series of commercials.  Perhaps you’ve seen them.  Sadly, I have no TVo, and so I’m treated every 10 minutes to the series of Electrolux commercials with Kelly Ripa.  Take a look…enjoy the parade of cultural expectations wrapped into one shiny (and really irritating) commercial. 

Nothing against Kelly Ripa, but this commercial bugs me in a big way.  And I think it’s because it represents (to me) every New Year’s resolution I’ve ever made—wrapped up into a 30 second flurry of domestic activity.  Efficiency.  Really stellar gourmet cooking.  A rockin’ career, and rock-hard biceps.  It says I can be “even more amazing”, if I could just move quicker.  There’s just one problem…

I don’t want to. 

I don’t want to move quicker, or do more.  I don’t want to add more chores to my life.  I want to simplify.  Trim down.  Slow down.  And sometimes, when I’m bombarded with images like that one, I forget this about myself.  I forget that I want to make a New Year’s resolution I can actually meet.  I want to succeed, and I want to set the right resolution for me—one that speaks of living a life I can manage and enjoy. 

So this year, I have one resolution…just one.  And it’s really not so much a goal as a way of living.  Will I cross it off?  Time will tell. 

In 2010, I hereby resolve to be the opposite of that annoying commercial (when time allows).  I resolve to cut down on multitasking, and attend to ONE experience at a time.  Whatever I’m doing, I will try to do it as well—as thoroughly—and as presently as I possibly can. If I stink, so be it.  I will still try.

Happy New Year everyone!  Do you have a resolution?  Or do you skip the resolution business altogether?

Posted by Elizabeth

I am on a plane back to Albuquerque today, left pondering the events of the past week of my Christmas in Mexico.  But the things that stand out to me aren’t events at all.  They are moments – simple moments, that have been forever etched into my mind.

One night we played poker with my mother-in-law, Cecilia’s, poker buddies, a group of women from all corners of the globe who come together to drink tequila, eat good food, and take one another for a few pesos every Thursday.  Cecilia’s friend, Pilar, told me, “Jueves son sagrados.”  Thursdays are sacred.  I had never played poker, nevertheless a game conducted in Spanish, and I was nervous.  Nervous to be out of my comfort zone.  Nervous to be out of control. But I soon learned the names of the different cards, how to pass, how to call, how to raise, and how to begin having fun. Regardless of barriers of age and language, we were soon a well-oiled machine in sync, collectively ooing when the right combination of cards was placed on the table, and sighing in disappointment when they weren’t.  My dad, who speaks very little Spanish, was soon raking in the chips and sharing telling glances with me to help my game along.  I squealed and clapped my hands when I won my first round, and when we settled our bets at the end of the night I came out money ahead, and wondered what I had been so nervous about in the first place.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember how many rounds I won, but I think I’ll remember a night where everyone had an equally good time.

A few nights later, Cecilia and I took over the kitchen to prepare classic American dishes for a very Mexican Christmas.  Cooking has never been an activity that we’ve shared, and we’d never spent so many hours in the kitchen together.  But we successfully bobbed and weaved our way through her tiny kitchen, finding ourselves clueless in the middle of making marshmallows, furiously spreading the quickly-cooling confection on a greasy cookie sheet, while strings of white sugar spun around us.  Halfway through our cooking extravaganza, when Maikael and my dad went out to run an errand, she paused and took out a bottle of Bailey’s from the pantry.  “You want some?” she asked.  I’d never had Bailey’s, but I found myself quickly accepting.  With the heavy, milky liquid swimming around the ice cubes, we silently clinked our glasses together and shared a quiet moment, pausing just for a moment in the eye of the storm.  Years from now, I’m not sure that I’ll remember what we made that night, but I think I’ll remember the sound the ice cubes made as they swirled around the glass.

Maikael and my dad, Senor Fogonero

On Christmas Eve we made our way over to Pilar’s house, where we were amongst the first guests to arrive.  Someone was trying – unsuccessfully – to get a fire started, and before he knew it, my dad was suckered into keeping the fire going all night.  He hopped up every so often to tend to the fire, poking gingerly at the simmering logs and politely declining the suggestions to use candles and canola oil to keep it going.  By the end of the night, he was officially known as Senor Fogonero, the man who shovels coal into a steam-powered locomotive.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember who was at that party, but I think I’ll remember that, for a brief moment in time, my dad was The King of the Fire.

Later that evening we made our way downstairs to Pilar’s driveway, where a Nativity scene draped in psychedelic flashing lights stood.  The party gathered in a semicircle around the manger, our coats gathered tightly around us, nimbly holding oversized candles.  Pilar’s granddaughters each held a side of a scarf, where baby Jesus was carefully placed between the two corners.  Then, they began gently rocking him as the group started singing Las Posadas. We didn’t know the words, but we peered at the lyrics over someone’s shoulder, humming along, the soft glow of the candlelight illuminating our faces.  Before he was placed in the manger, Pilar passed around the figurine of baby Jesus, and we each kissed him.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember the words to the song, but I think I’ll remember huddling in the cold and, for a fleeting moment, truly experiencing the spirit of the holidays.

Senora Claus

We went upstairs for dinner at 11 pm, a multicourse affair with a steaming terrine of potato leek soup, that famous salted cod dish, pork loin dusted with chile powder, pork loin baked with white wine and dried fruits, and a true buffet of desserts, from rum cake to German stolen.  We laughed and ate and talked, covering topics as diverse as bad jokes and the persistent drug problems that plague Mexico.  Just before dinner was served, Pilar’s granddaughter, Natalia, shimmied her way out of the bedroom in a Santa Claus sleeper.  “Senora Claus is here!” someone shouted, before Natalia ate a piece of grasshopper pie and promptly fell asleep on the couch, her red suit peeking out from underneath the blanket.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember everything we ate that night, but I think I’ll remember the feeling of being warmly brought into the fold as a foreigner on Christmas Eve.

Life is a series of moments.  And yet, these moments are alarmingly fleeting:  they are so easy to pass by that we often forget them before we even have a chance to remember.  It’s a bit like lucid dreaming, where we must train ourselves to memorize these moments while they’re happening, without trying so hard that we’re pulled out of the moment altogether.  This is a delicate balance, and our difficulty in achieving this balance might explain why we insist on treating life as a series of events, even when we know that it’s the moments that matter most:  the crash and bang of events is simply easier to inscribe on our memories than the whisper of moments.  But it’s those whispers that have the most to teach about better living a life in pencil: lessons about losing control, being quiet, having a small but special place in the world, shifting our focus away from “things,” and being made to feel a part of something.  Although the lessons are quiet, they resound louder than most events ever will.

What small, but special, moments will you hold near and dear to your heart from this holiday season?

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Anne

Next year for Christmas, I was planning to ask Santa for some elves.  I think they’d be handy.  They could sing carols to keep me energized, and run all manner of unappealing holiday errands.  And if they’re anything like Will Ferrell in Elf, they’d pump me with sugar and make me laugh.  Actually, I think we all need elves—or at least one or two.  Because in case you haven’t noticed, the holidays can produce quite the work-load.  (At least if you celebrate them a certain way, which I do.)

I often feel this way come December 20^th-ish.  This is when my festive holiday spirit begins to wane, and I’m ready for the finish line of the marathon otherwise known as “December”.  I’m just ready to have Christmas. I’m ready for the quiet, the joy, and rockin’ around the Christmas tree, but it’s not here yet.  Instead there are grocery lists, unvacuumed floors, and unmade beds.  This is how I felt this past Saturday afternoon.  There I sat, on our living room floor, surrounded by packages and rolls of wrapping paper.  Generally speaking, I do like to wrap gifts.  But my back hurt, and my tea was cold.  And that’s when my highly relaxed husband—half-asleep on the sofa—asked me, “Isn’t it nice, every so often, to just be sedentary?”  I looked up at him (armed with scissors…and tape) and retorted with an acid, “I wouldn’t know.”

In that moment, I realized how easy it is, especially as a woman, to bear the holiday load.  Or to believe you’re shouldering all the festive burdens.  But in so many ways, I realize how much of this holiday cacophony I create myself.  In my desire to make things beautiful, I make things complicated.  It’s a choice, and it’s a holiday of my own doing.  I wouldn’t change it, but I’m surprised how quickly I forget the roles everyone else plays when I’m focused on my own martyrdom.

Doesn't she look helpful?

You see, I do have an elf.  And it’s the same husband who made that “isn’t lethargy wonderful?” proclamation less than two days ago.  He may not understand my need for a last-minute mission to acquire festive place settings for the holiday meal.  He may not be able to take credit for the decorations.  But he’s an elf.  He tackles the dishes, takes care of his own laundry, and does a nice job with the vacuum.  And perhaps most importantly, he’s the person that asked me to forego our usual weekend workout.  Instead, in the fading daylight of a hectic Saturday, he drove me to a small mountain on the outskirts of town, and hiked with me to the top.  He was an elf, and his gift to me was balance.  And in my flurry of red, gold, and green ribbon—I had taken his role for granted.

Whether or not you celebrate the holidays in the traditional sense, we all have elves.  Maybe it’s a spouse or partner who hangs lights, or does all the shopping.  Maybe it’s a spouse or partner who supports you through the decision to try a different way of celebrating the holidays.  Maybe it’s the sister or best friend who helps you bake cookies.  Maybe it’s the mother who walks you through hosting your first big holiday. The brother who makes you laugh during a lonely holiday season, or an awkward family gathering.

For every Santa there’s a Mrs. Claus.  For every Mrs. Claus there’s an elf.  Thanks to all my elves.  Who’s yours?