Last week I wrote about how sometimes we just have to surrender in order for things to move forward; that “the moment we stop trying so hard things just happen, exceeding our wildest expectations.”  Thanks to the generous introduction of a mutual friend, I had an opportunity to meet the publisher of Edible Santa Fe, a local magazine that is part the broader, national Edible communities, that I have long admired and pined to write for.  I happened to meet her on the day the fall issue was going to press, a day in which she unexpectedly found herself with a blank page to fill in said issue.  I happened to have the impulse to send her a few pieces of my food-related writing, and she happened to like one of them enough to occupy that blank page.

I relate this story in detail because it’s a perfect example of “life in pencil” at work; sometimes I have a hard time explaining what “life in pencil” is, and it’s often best to illustrate its inner-workings through real-life examples.  I’ve always been fond of the quote, “Luck favors the prepared.”  There were a lot of mysterious, serendipitous circumstances at work in my favor.  But I was ready for this opportunity to come by way, and although I didn’t know it, I’d been preparing for this moment for years.  Still, I can’t deny that there is a touch of divinity at work, the never-ending dance of the rational and the magical that is so often my life.

Yesterday, after receiving word that the magazine had hit newsstands, I spent all morning running around town trying to procure a copy, to no avail.  Finally I dashed over to the editor’s house, where a tower of white cardboard boxes sat stacked in the carport.  I used my car key to slash through the tape, a tingle of nervousness and excitement coursing through me.  After reading and re-reading the article approximately a million times, I had Maikael take this photo, which I love.

I am holding a manifest dream in each hand, cradling my present and my future.  It’s a reminder that I can go after two things at the same time, that I need not put my dreams on hold, that there is no “right way” to go about accomplishing goals.  Just after Maikael snapped this photo we noticed a brilliant rainbow dissolving out of the blackberry storm clouds, as if I had literally discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Today I am reveling in a feeling we don’t often get to celebrate in life:  that of a dream come true.  I’m particularly proud that my first piece of published writing revolves around my mother.  Although writing has always been an important part of my life, it was shortly after she died that I began writing in earnest.  The fact that this story concerns Thanksgiving, the day she died, feels like coming full circle.  My mom always believed in my abilities, and because of her life and her death, she is the reason I’m on this journey today.

If you are local to Central New Mexico, you can pick up a printed copy of the magazine at one of these locations.  If you live outside of the area, you can read an online copy of the article here (“flip” to page 50/51).

I lean into the mirror, carefully studying the half-moon of my eyelid.  A tract of mottled skin rides the inner crease, rising up like a jagged mountain range.  It is red and puffy, stinging like nettles each time I touch it, probably from too much rubbing.  It’s been nearly two years since this last happened; that time is lingered for weeks.  Finally, Maikael suggested I talk to our next door neighbor, a dermatologist, who explained that my eye makeup was the culprit.  “Sometimes, for reasons we don’t know, our bodies suddenly reject what was fine for months, even years,” he said.  “Change your eye makeup,” was his simple advice, but I couldn’t help but see the poetry of change contained in his words.  How many of us function in this fashion, limping along for years in one sad state, before suddenly giving out?  Most of us will continue our worn patterns, no matter how dysfunctional, until they cease to work one day, the pistons of our internal combustion system seizing in midair.  My body seemed to be spurning my way of moving through the world, as if to say, “What you’re doing isn’t working anymore.”  It was compelling me to change.

Our bodies reveal a secret language, and the fact that I was afflicted in the eyes, the proverbial mirrors to the soul, seemed significant.  Two years prior, when that same dry patch, like a crust of day-old bread, arrived as suddenly and unannounced as an unwelcome visitor, it was a week before returning to the country after eight months abroad.  That I had managed to avoid the host of illnesses the developing world taunted and teased me with for months on end, only to find myself hunched into a mirror in a palatial tiled bathroom in Quito, Ecuador, just before returning to my comfortable life in the States struck me as ironic.  I expected a dramatic change to occur, an intense shedding of skins, going into the experience, not coming out of it.  I had spent much of the past eight months wanting to go home, and now that reality was literally striking me in the face, my body seemed to be saying otherwise.

Standing in front of another mirror, a world away and two years apart, I am faced with the same sobering thought:  what part of your life isn’t working anymore?  And, perhaps even more troubling, did the last two years teach you nothing?

When my friend, Kristen, suggested we attend Dani Shapiro’s memoir writing workshop at Kripalu, a yoga retreat center in the Berkshires of New England, my mind screamed yes! and no! in equal measure.  I read Dani’s book Devotion just before Abra was born, a memoir that affected me deeply, and in which Kripalu appears as almost a character in the book.  The idea of one day visiting enchanted me; I immediately sent away for their quarterly catalog of offerings, and when Dani’s workshop appeared on Kripalu’s roster for September, it felt like kismet.  For months I’ve been paralyzed about how best to move forward with my writing, completely at a loss for how to harness my scattered energies.  A vague idea for a memoir has been brewing at the back of my mind for over a year, but the idea of actually sitting down to write one seemed impossible.  The thought of investing the time and money required to attend a workshop on writing a book that I’m not even exactly sure what it’s about, on the other side of the country, for 64 hours, seemed frivolous, if not ridiculous.  I think I secretly hoped that over the course of the weekend my fears would be confirmed, and that I could finally put the idea to rest before moving onto more modest writing projects.

“Writing a memoir is like running a marathon,” said Dani on the first day, which stopped me in my tracks.  As I have written before I am no marathon runner, preferring to sprint my way through life, even though I recognize that life itself is the greatest marathon of them all.  Despite the fact that I shouldered my way through college and graduate school I tend to lose steam when it comes to almost any slow-and-steady task.  And while, at the outset of the workshop, I stated my modest goal of simply “getting an inkling as to the next steps in my writing life,” a vision for a memoir quickly started to tiptoe out of my peripheral vision.  Something shook loose for me, and though I was terrified to realize it, by the end of the weekend the urgency to write this memoir was parading in front of me.

As my plane soared toward the flaming orange horizon on Sunday night, I read Melissa Coleman’s new memoir, This Life is in Your Hands, about her experiences growing up off-the-grid with back-to-the-land parents.  “It’s no life for dabblers.  You’ve got to dig in wholeheartedly, for if you don’t, you just simply won’t be happy nor successful at what you do.”  I continued to read, and as I absentmindedly touched the crease of my eyelid I noticed it was perfectly smooth.

This post was inspired by this post at Lindsey’s site, A Design So Vast.

Last Friday I spent a lovely afternoon with a woman I met through one of the five (yes, five) mama/baby groups I am a part of.  When we recently discovered a mutual interest in writing we decided to get together to talk about our dreams and ambitions.  As I drove up to her house, I noticed a colorful banner fluttering in the breeze in her front yard.  “Enjoy life,” it said, which immediately put a smile on my face.  She has a lovely, airy home, full of charm and character, and I longingly admired the expansive backyard that is brimming with vegetables, for her passion is gardening.  My backyard is a mess of river rock, save for the postage-stamp-square of dirt where I attempted to plant a garden two summers ago, the only remaining evidence three spindly tomato cages, encircling desiccated vines, that now serves as a perch for songbirds.

We sat cross-legged around the blonde wood coffee table, where my friend placed a heaping bowl of scarlet cherries and a homemade hazelnut cake, draped in a tea towel.  Using a manual, European style espresso maker, she brewed good, strong coffee from the local coffeehouse that I frequent, which she poured into beautiful blue, wafer-thin cups.  It may sound silly, but this little spread, laid forth with obvious care and attention, brought me a little burst of joy.  These things matter – or at least they do to me, and it’s not often that encounter someone who shares my same sensibilities in this arena.  My immediate impulse was to run out and buy that espresso maker, make that cake, and figure out where I could procure similar cups.

When we finally got down to talking about writing, we discovered that we both struggle with a nagging doubt that we have anything new to add to our respective genres that are already rich with so many talented voices.  When she shared with me her desire to write about gardening in a way that weaves together personal anecdotes, family history, and practical advice, I thought it sounded marvelously distinctive, and I wondered why we have such difficulty recognizing our own uniqueness when others can see it so clearly.  It brought me back, as so many things do these days, to the retreat.  One night when we were deep in conversation, Sarah, a talented photographer and social psychologist, said she often needed to remind herself that, “The universe has room for all of us.”  The truth and beauty of those words struck me like a bolt of lightning and keep crackling in my conscious weeks later.

Included here just because I love this shot (photo credit: Darlene Kreutzer Paetz)

I’ve seen my lack of faith in this basic principle manifest itself in my life in a variety of ways.  Often times, when I see others engaged in some endeavor that they are enthusiastic about, I begin to plot ways in which I could implement it in my own life.  (In fact, I wrote a whole post on this subject some years ago, and my struggle obviously persists to this day.)  Although I don’t enjoy gardening, seeing someone else’s beautiful garden that obviously brings them so much joy and pleasure suddenly makes me want to want to enjoy gardening.  Before I know it I am plotting how to transform my own backyard into a similar oasis, despite the fact that I can barely maintain a sad patch of land for which experience has proven that I will quickly lose interest.  We do this all this time – with jobs, partners, clothing styles, hobbies – but it goes against the fundamental truth that the universe has room for all of our unique ways of being in the world.

Because I do not fully trust in this basic truth, I often rush to “beat others to the punch” when I feel my sharehold is being threatened.  Before I left for the retreat, I was riddled daily with anxiety that I was “falling behind” with my writing, despite the fact that I was rudderless (how can you fall behind when you don’t know where you’re going?).  I felt as if there was some shadowy figure just beyond my reach that was going to “cut ahead” of me in the cosmic lunch line, and therefore I better get moving.  I am currently reading Tina Fey’s very funny memoir Bossypants, and in it she discusses “The Myth of Not Enough,” which is essentially her way of describing the fear that grips us when we doubt that the universe has enough to provide for all of us.  She argues that in the world of improvisational acting, where you are creating something out of nothing, there is always enough to go around because you’re creating it. It is impossible to run out of something of our own limitless invention.  What an empowering thought!

Photo credit: Celina Wyss

At the crux of my mistrust in the universe’s ability to provide lies a fundamental doubt of my own uniqueness.  In a sea of 10,000 voices – people writing memoir about change, about living in the moment, about what it means to be human – I wonder how mine can ever be heard above the din.  I struggle to trust in the universe’s ability to expand to hold all of our voices and stories. During our visit, my friend shared with me one of her favorite quotes about the craft of writing from Anne Morrow Lindbergh.  “Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.”  Reading those words typed onto a small slip of paper, a little something shifted into place for me.  I can’t quite articulate my unique voice in the infinite ocean of words, but I know that I write to think and to figure out what I know (and don’t know).  I write to explore my inner world and memorialize the small moments in the outer one:  the ruby cherries and the tiny cups and the banners flapping in the breeze.  I write to become conscious of the life I am living.  I’m not sure that I can say it better than the multitude of talented writers out there, but I hope I say it a little differently, a tangible show of faith that the universe can, indeed, provide for us all.

I arrived at the grey house on the beach spiritually, emotionally, and physically depleted, having quickly handed Abra off to her father at the airport with a swift motion and a hasty goodbye.  We had already spent four ragged days in Portland, during which time Abra was unnerved by the rhythm of the city.  Each of our attempts to do the things we enjoy – visits to nice restaurants, hip clothing stores and coffee shops humming with life – were met with deep resistance on her part and resentment on ours.  Her sleep was fitful and truncated, resulting in early morning walks through Portland’s damp, deserted streets, the only sign of life the city’s swelling homeless population.  After being trapped in a 400 square-foot hotel room with a teary infant for four nights I couldn’t escape the airport’s parking garage quickly enough, where my chariot waited in the form of a gunmetal minivan to whisk me away from my troubles.

Our house

Although I wasn’t sure what to expect from this group of almost-strangers, I came prepared to make some decisions about my creative pursuits.  Most days I harbor nagging thoughts about the writing I should be doing, and I was ready to put those thoughts to rest by moving into action mode (a regular posting schedule, a visual redesign, an online marketing plan), and I thought our conversations would revolve around the online world.  What unfolded over the next four days was anything but virtual.

After an exploratory walk down the sandy spit of beach that lined the front of our house, where tentative getting-to-know-you conversations transpired in small circles, we retreated to the cozy living room and crowded on the Tiffany-blue couch and sprawled ourselves amongst a collection of wicker chairs.  I crouched on a stout leather ottoman springing like a mushroom from the carpet.  An uncomfortable hush fell over the group as we settled into that middle place between perfect strangers and kindred spirits, and it was clear that we were collectively thinking the same thought:  now what?

First steps

Meghan, our group’s de factor organizer, who has an innate gift for connecting people, began the “opening ceremonies” with a poem by David Whyte.  As her throaty voice intoned the opening lines, I felt a small space open inside of me:

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don’t want to take.

Meghan reading (photo credit: Celina Wyss)

By the time Meghan reached the closing lines, hot tears were running down my cheeks in a fat stream, and something had shifted in the room.  Over the course of the weekend that small crack was pried wide open, flooding the space with the light and energy of this collection of women who, while disparate on the surface, proved to be true sisters in spirit.  We shared glittering pieces of our souls that had been crouching in dark corners over sunrise walks on the beach, twilight runs, communal meals, art projects, book discussions, shopping trips, photo sessions both goofy and serious, and too much red wine.  There was midday laughter and midnight tears, bedtime whispers and afternoon roars.  Our group solidified not in tentative steps but giant leaps, and the weekend unfurled in a beautiful string of days where time played tricks on us.  Being so far north so close to the solstice, the nine o’clock light often felt like late afternoon, such that we found ourselves in that rare, delicious place in life where time slips through our fingers.

Snapshots of togetherness (photo credit: Celina Wyss)

As the weekend progressed it became clear that, in each of our own ways, we were all struggling with starting “close in.”  Whether the poem set the tone for our time together or was simply the perfect message for our collective struggle I can’t say.  But what I do know is that, as we tried to create our personal “mission statements” late one evening, attaching tangible words to our faltering attempts to start close in, many of us broke wide open.  As the starry night blanketed the house I curled up in a chaise lounge in a dark corner and strained to make the words fits, arranging and rearranging them as if trying to make the pieces of a puzzle fit together.   I tried desperately to cram “writing” into the cracks, jagged edges running headlong into smooth corners.  Exhausted by my efforts, I finally gave up and collapsed into bed.  But after my second full night of sleep in nine months and a clarifying morning conversation with Darlene, the pieces began to fall into place.

Connecting (photo credit: Celina Wyss)

I thought I had come to this house by the sea to plot my path to a successful writing career.  But what I quickly discovered, wrapped in the warm embrace of this group of like-minded souls, is that I had come here to plot my path back to myself.  It wasn’t until I had stripped the worn patterns of a tired life, if only for a few days, that I could see how desperately I needed to rediscover my joy before I could do anything else.

That is starting close in.

We all have different first steps to take.  After just four short days there is already talk of leaving jobs and dusting off abandoned book proposals, resuming blogs and shedding unwanted commitments, moving houses and improving relationships.  There is talk of new creative projects and new ways of being in the world.  Someone’s mosaic tile, which we spent painstaking hours creating around the sturdy kitchen table, split clear down the middle on the trip home, an apt metaphor for how most of us left this weekend feeling.  My “close in” is more modest, but equally important.  Before I meet this group of women again next June, my work involves manifesting a new reality and realigning with my spirit, and sharing those understandings with you, dear readers, as I have time and energy.

Manifesting a new reality (photo credit: Celina Wyss)

This rejuvenating weekend was the first small step in reconnecting with my spirit and remembering what it feels like to be in sync with one’s self.  I had forgotten how much I love the water, the feel of sand in my toes, and wide swaths of green.  I had forgotten how important it is to feel deeply connected to kindred spirits.  I had forgotten my love of frilly pants, breezy shifts and hula hooping.  I had forgotten how to sing, dance, laugh and wear tiaras in public.  I had forgotten how much I love creating with my hands and appreciating beauty.  I had forgotten how much I love peanut butter and chocolate ice cream and sleep.  I had forgotten how to have fun.

One of my long-forgotten talents (photo credit: Celina Wyss)

One of the highlights of our trip to Portland was a quiet, unexpected day spent outdoors.  The skies cleared, making way for white, puffy clouds, and rather than spend another day in the frenetic pace of the city we huffed our way up to Washington Park to escape the constant thrum.  Here Abra crawled around on the dewy emerald grass at the Rose Garden, completely delighted.  We pushed our way further uphill, passing under the lush canopy of the Japanese Gardens, a cloak of silence falling over us as we entered the space.  We gazed upon sun-dappled maple trees that shone scarlet, moss-covered pagodas, murmuring streams, and narrow stone paths.  It’s not the kind of thing we would have done without Abra, our quiet soul, but for once we weren’t clinging to the past but creating a new way of being as a family in our present reality.  We were all, for once, happy.

Words cannot express how grateful I am to have been a part of this transformative weekend; it’s a testament to the power of connecting a group of like-minded women, and it’s impossible to fit all the insights and stories into a single blog post.  Over the next few weeks, I plan on expanding upon what I took away from my time with The Tribe, and how I am starting “close in” now that I’m back at home.  Thank you to my soul sisters Meghan, Sarah, Emily, Melissa, Celina, Darlene, Sophia, Rebecca, and, in absentia, Stefanie and Lindsey.

The Tribe (photo credit: Rebecca Murphy)

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

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 Elizabeth

“Deep within my body, the past is still alive.  Everything that has ever happened keeps happening.” Devotion by Dani Shapiro

In order to rewrite our lives, we have to possess a deep understanding of how they were written in the first place.  Inspired by this post at A Design So Vast, which was adapted from this writing exercise, I bring to you my version of “Where I’m From.”

I am from the seafoam house stuffed to the gills with stuff, from towering stacks of aging National Geographic magazines and a junk drawer whose crusty bottom never saw the light of day.

I am from the place with an impossibly steep staircase lined with fuzzy gold shag, and chipped linoleum in the kitchen perfect for an indoor roller rink.

I am from the fuchsia rhododendrons peeking over the front window, delicate trilliums on the backyard “nature trail” that dad carved out one year.

I am from Friday Night Party Night, crouched in front of a tiny black and white screen, gobbling Hershey’s Miniatures and watching Sha-Na-Na.

I am from a long line of women – strong, risk-taking, and independent – each a mirror image of the other, from our squinty eyes to the crinkly bridge of our nose to our laugh with reckless abandon.

I am from thrift and practicality:  always buy a white car!

From “be careful what you wish for” and “follow your bliss.”

I am from faith without churches, spirit without God, an eclectic smorgasbord of beliefs from all around the globe.

I’m from the deep, cool shade of evergreen forests, from warm tartans and a feathery headdress, from dessert after every meal and silver shrimp forks.

From watery camping trips on the shores of Puget Sound with floating tents, and aquatic creatures who spent even the chilliest of Pacific Northwest summers caked with sand and salt.

I am from a musty warehouse sheltering decaying boxes of fading photographs.  There is no family home, no communal gathering place.  But the memories I treasure most I carry with me, right where they belong, making my home wherever I go.

Where are you from?

Posted by Anne

“Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then everything happens.”

In 2004, a very good friend sent me a card with the quote above printed in yellow letters on its burgundy front.  We were 24, and our lives had been routines, schedules, and coursework for the previous several years.  Nothing happens and nothing happens. We were ready for an adventure—so we jumped on a plane together, and traveled for 6 blissful weeks oversees—the epitome of 20-something adventure.  And all of a sudden, we made life much more exciting.

And then everything happens. I adore this quote.  It reminds me that life can change on a dime, throwing adventure and excitement into an otherwise static existence.  I need to believe this, because lately I feel as though I’m trapped in the nothing happens and nothing happens phase of life.  When people ask me how I’m doing these days, I always respond the same, with a touch of disappointment in my voice:  “Status quo.”  In other words, nothing happens.

But I wonder—what’s so wrong with status quo?  Isn’t this what I’ve wanted for so long?  Well yes…but only if I’m satisfied with all the elements of my life that remain the same.  And right now, I’m a little antsy.  Not unhappy.  Antsy.   There are some pieces to my life that I want to see develop in new directions—personal things, professional things, creative things.

I was talking to my sister yesterday, taking her on an intimate tour of the inner-workings of my existentially tangled brain, and she said, “I can’t believe you feel like nothing is going on.  A lot is going on.  You’re so close.”  And she’s right.  I feel at the cusp of something.  I just don’t know what.

And it struck me.  Things rarely “just happen”.  I make them happen.  When I was 24, I made that trip happen.  I have some—though not all—control over the moment when everything happens. But where do I start?  I can…

-Talk to people who understand my vision.

-Get feedback from others.

-Dare to join a new organization, take a new class, or meet a new person.

-Reach out.

-Tell people what I want.

Yes, ultimately, it’s my job to make sure everything happens. To start unraveling my tangled aspirations, and put them into action.

Have you ever felt like your life was “status quo”?  Is that a good thing or a bad thing to you?  How have you changed an otherwise static period of your life?

Posted by Elizabeth

I’ll never forget the day I finished graduate school.  There was a great deal of pomp and circumstance, my tiny family having flown in from all corners of the country to watch me march across a massive stage, my neck proudly ringed by a turquoise sash; it was a day filled with boundless hope and promise as the future unfurled before me.  During a post-graduation brunch at a professor’s house, we sat quietly discussing my thesis.  Out of the blue, my professor said, “You shouldn’t have studied career counseling.  You should have been a writer.”  He may have even said, “I think you missed your calling.”  Although memory has rendered the exact words blurry, I clearly remember two thoughts running through my mind, each on a parallel track:

This is not what I want to hear minutes after finishing two years of study.
I think he may be right.

After years of trying to “make it work” in the profession in which I worked so hard to gain entry, that second voice – which, at the time, was really more of a timid whisper – eventually won out, and here I am five years later, trying my best to be a writer.  I know I’m not alone in this type of journey.  How many of us start down one path, convinced that we’ve found our true “calling,” only to discover years later that maybe we weren’t right after all?  According to a recent article in The New York Times, “The True Calling That Wasn’t,” it’s a more common story than you might think.  We choose careers too early, we get on tracks that we think we can’t get off, or our jobs simply don’t match who we are and what we value.  We feel like imposters.  In the best case scenario, it becomes clear that there is perhaps not a “true calling” but a “better calling,” and we make steps to manifest that new path.

But more often than not, things aren’t so clear.  We know we’re not on the right path, but we don’t know what the right path is. We wonder if an interest we have could be our calling, or nothing more than a personal passion.  Once we’ve waded into these murky waters, how do we begin to discern the right path forward?  Unfortunately, there are no easy answers.  In my own experience the answers haven’t come until I’ve walked down the path a bit, and even then they aren’t wholly clear.  When we think of callings, we conjure up images of trumpets and horns, big, brassy voices cutting through the din.  But more often than not callings begin quietly, a gentle tinkling of a bell that can barely be heard through the din.  We have a hard time trusting our callings because they first present as background noise, but callings are persistent, and if you choose to tune into the static, eventually that little jingle will become a booming timpani.

I recently had a very vivid dream.  In it, I was asked to deliver a sermon at a church.  But rather than delivering it standing at the pulpit, I was seated at a large, round table amongst the congregation.  In my sermon – which was more of a personal essay than anything – I said, “We connect with our spirit through paying attention to the minute details of our life.”  I woke up with a vague, yet strong, impression that this dream was the beginning of a calling.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that it spoke to the type of writing that I’ll be doing in the future:  spiritual in nature; concerned with the experiences of everyday living; and, while reaching a small audience, collaborative and community-building.  I haven’t walked down the road far enough to know much more than that, but the fact that I’ve spent days turning this dream over and over in my mind, that it’s taken hold and won’t let go, means that the timpani is readying itself.

Do you believe in the concept of a calling — true, better, or otherwise?  Do you think you’ve found your calling, or are you still working to find it?  Have you ever had a dream that felt prophetic?

Posted by Anne

Is there any season that lends itself to Life in Pencil as well as summertime?  Methinks not.  The long days, brilliant sunshine, and lazy spirit of the season seem ripe for Life in Pencil moments.  For example…

Lazy rivers, and resting on the bank:

Al Fresco, all the time:

Incredible ingredients make for minimal culinary planning:

And tiny tastings to wash it all down:

Camping trips with lazy puppies:

Sitting on the back patio with not-so-lazy hydrangeas:

And on vacation…one very slow sunset that made me forget anything and everything on my schedule. 

Happy Friday, all.  And Happy Summer.

What images would appear in your summer photo album?