Posted by Elizabeth

On Fridays at Life in Pencil, Anne and I like to highlight the different ways that other people are living their lives in pencil.  This week I’d like to introduce you to Annie Lambla, AKA “The Yogurt Pedaler.” Annie and I met nearly two years ago in Goreme, Turkey, a small town nestled in the heart of the country’s Cappadocia region, where otherworldly rock formations twist skyward to create a dreamy moonscape.  Maikael and I arrived, dusty and exhausted, at The Fairy Chimney Inn just as the sun was peeking over the craggy hills, our bones having been rattled within an inch of their life after a long overnight bus trip.  Annie, a fresh-faced recent college graduate, arrived that same morning, eager to start a part-time volunteer job at the Inn, having fallen in love with Cappadocia on a trip earlier that year.  She loved Turkey so much, in fact, that she moved to Istanbul just after college graduation to teach English, and was capping off her year of adventure with a serving stint.

Ten years her senior, I remember being struck by how comfortable she seemed in her own skin, how she jumped head first into breakfast service moments after her arrival, confidently balancing plates on her palm while taking orders for eggs.  Annie, Maikael, and I spent a memorable day together during our all-too-brief stay, hitchhiking (her idea) to nearby Avanos, where Annie assuredly translated to the driver of the Mercedes who eventually picked us up and wanted to spend the rest of afternoon with us.  “I told him we had friends to meet in Avanos,” she said simply, having effortlessly managed what could have been an awkward interaction at best (or a crazed killer at worst).  And although she’d never been to the town, Annie acted as our cultural tour guide, snaking us through pottery shops where we threw misshapen bowls, ducking into an ancient ice cream parlor, and breezing through the local market.

As we got to know Annie during the course of stay, usually over long afternoon talks in the inn’s sunny courtyard, I was impressed by what she had accomplished as a young adult just beginning to make her first tentative steps into the big bad world.  She had studied abroad in France and was planning on a return visit after her time in Turkey to intern with a dairy farm.  She was just as interested in anthropology as she was in architecture.  She had published academic papers and was considering graduate school.  I couldn’t help but think back to myself at 22, nervously navigating my way through life, second guessing every decision I made, wondering what I was interested in and where I belonged.  Needless to say, I was impressed by how Annie was truly embracing life, and couldn’t help but lament how I had frittered my 20s away.  Whereas I had been intent on furiously etching my half-baked plans in pen, Annie was happily making tentative pencil strokes and confidently wielding her eraser.  Although we were acquainted with each other only briefly, I knew in my soul that she was going to be a success, because she was already demonstrating the necessary skills to live a life in pencil:  curious, willing to forge her own path, unafraid to take risks, and able to move forward without a plan penned in permanent marker.

Since we parted paths, I’ve kept in touch with Annie through the magic of Facebook and email, and am always eager to learn what adventure she’s currently on.  In the intervening years there have been internships and jobs in Chicago, art exhibitions in Istanbul (she’s a terrific photographer), and plenty of foreign travel.  She has rewritten her life many, many times over the past two years, but her current undertaking intrigues me the most.

As The Yogurt Pedaler, Annie is launching a grassroots effort to connect yogurt-making to local dairy farms and their communities, getting people together on the street and in their kitchens.  Peddling through Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio by bicycle this August and September, Annie will pull a cart behind her bicycle, where she will meet with local dairy farmers, take their milk to nearby towns, schools, and summer camps, and teach people how to make yogurt.  As a self-described “urban anthropologist,” Annie says that The Yogurt Pedaler combines her “passion for bikes, hand-made food, and street life.”  Maybe it’s my love of local food culture (no pun intended), but this seems like such an exciting and innovative project, one I never would have had the guts to attempt in my early 20s.

If you’d like to read more about Annie and The Yogurt Pedaler project, I encourage you to visit her website.  She has a month to raise $1,800 to get her endeavor off the ground, so if you are a fellow yogurt enthusiast – or just someone who wants to help a bright, interesting, and interested young woman live out her dream (in pencil) – consider donating via the link on her website.  Nothing inspires me to live my life in pencil more than helping something else do the same.

Thanks, Annie, for being a great Life in Pencil Role Model, and good luck in your new job as The Yogurt Pedaler!

Life in Pencil has made a few appearances lately amongst our supportive blog community.  Gale at Ten Dollar Thoughts wrote a great piece about vacationing “in pencil,” and Lindsey at A Design So Fast reprised a post about her own birthing experience after reading my recent piece about Birth Plans, Life Plans.  Thanks, ladies!

Don’t forget to e-mail us your Life in Pencil “moment of the week” by Thursday!

Posted by Anne

Sex and the City 2 is lush, over-the-top, and fairly ridiculous.  And I thoroughly enjoyed it.  Mostly because nestled amidst the absurdity are some really lovely scenes.  My favorite:  Miranda and Charlotte sit side-by-side at their hotel suite bar, sipping cocktails in unbelievably posh travel-wear, as is their custom.  They are two smart, fashionable, capable women.  They are also two mothers.  Charlotte, a character who longed for a family for 6 seasons of the television show, is simply overwhelmed by life with a fussy infant and an energetic toddler, but won’t admit it.  No, she wanted children for too long.  She shouldn’t complain.  Cajoled by Miranda and bolstered by alcohol, she comes clean, and fesses up.  It’s hard.  She’s tired.  She loves her family more than anything, but she’s flat worn out.  It’s relieving to her to let it out, and it’s relieving to us as viewers.  Nobody needs to be alone in this.  But her reluctance to air the truth makes me wonder…

Why is it that we, as women, have such trouble admitting to each other that life is occasionally short of perfect?  Why can’t we simply fess up?  We’d probably all feel more validated and more normal if we had these real conversations, instead of peppering our dialogue with only the socially acceptable grievances.  What would it look like if we were honest?

Honest Friend #1:  “How are you doing this week?”

Honest Friend #2:  “Oh, you know.  Basically really good.  But I’m feeling down this morning because husband and I had argument over something really stupid.  And I can’t find a sitter for Friday, and I need to get out of the house more.” 

What’s wrong with that?  Sure, if we had this conversation with everyone we met in the course of a day, we’d become annoying.  There are social graces we adopt in this world, and I happen to be a fairly big fan of social graces.  Not to mention we’d actually probably feel even worse if we solely reported on our struggles.  But when we’re amongst valued friends?  It can be a relief to tell it like it is.  But before we can make that leap, here’s what we must be willing to do…

Admit when the life of our dreams looks a little different than we envisioned. 

Rewriting your expectations of the perfect marriage and the perfect family is one difficult psychological task.  But what’s the upside?  What’s the advantage of sharing the reality with our fellow wo-man?  Support, validation, and authenticity.  Marriage takes work.  Kids are tiring.  Babies cry.  These are not failures, simply facts.  As women, we’d do well to fess up—and if we promise not to judge one another, I believe we’d all benefit from a boost in authenticity. 

Do you feel like you can be “real” with your friends?  Or do you ever feel guilty admitting when life is harder than you envisioned?

Posted by Elizabeth

My grandfather, Gordon Wood Grant, died over Memorial Day weekend at the ripe age of 92.  Following the small but dignified service that he was entitled to as a Veteran of Foreign Wars, I had a chance last Friday to share my memories of Grandpa Gordon amongst my little circle of family.  I hope you enjoy the words I spoke to them, about rewriting a relationship, and how death rewrites life itself:

Gordon Grant didn’t like talking on the phone, and neither did I.  Most of our phone conversations were exceedingly brief, punctuated by short jags of small talk and ragged bits of silence, reaching its awkward crescendo just minutes later.  Perhaps it was because of our shared preference for outmoded forms of communication, as well as the distance between us – both in age and geography – that we struck up an old-fashioned correspondence.  I don’t remember how or why it started, but the earliest letter, part of a modest stack that I keep carefully bound by a thick band of white satin ribbon in a box in my closet, dates December 21, 2004, a year after I had moved to the middle-of-nowhere Missouri to complete my graduate studies.  It was the first time that I had lived so far from home and wouldn’t be in Seattle for Christmas, so he sent a letter in response to a Christmas card I had mailed his way a few weeks earlier:

Thanks for your nice card and voluminous update on your activities et cetera.  A veritable tome.  You’ve been a busy young lady, worthy of commendation.  I hereby comply.  Your Mom would be proud as punch; I hope you know we all are.

And so it began.  Like most of the letters that followed over the next four years, there was no earth-shattering news to report.  Instead, the pages – not fancy stationery but simple lined notebook paper – were filled with the details of his life, which he penned in graceful, yet straightforward, prose that seemed borne of an earlier time.  The letters were always rife with apologies for not having more to report and amazement at my own busy life (“limited horizons, limited content,” he said), but I always looked forward to tearing open the envelope and reading about his accounts of an extraordinarily ordinary life.

A perennially favorite topic was his garden, a modest plot that he scratched out of the hard earth on the hillside behind his home.  It was a far cry from the spread he maintained at his longtime residence in Burien, Washington, sprawling with proud stands of fruit trees, tangles of Concord grapevines, and flowers so big their heads lolled to one side in the afternoon sun.  But judging from the way he wrote about it, you’d guess he lived squarely in the Garden of Eden.

Mother Nature is usually kind.  The plants keep producing every year, the posies favor us with their elegance, the early bloomers are giving way after a good show.

What mattered most was that he had a place where he would dig his hands into the ground and nurture new life, one of the things he loved most.

He wrote often of his penchant for PBS; a “real treat” for him was settling down in the evening to listen to Andre Rien and his Dublin Orchestra.  In the beginning there were reports of afternoon jaunts to the bowling alley and morning computer classes (“a lost cause,” in his words).  He marveled at technology, maintaining a tenuous love/hate relationship with progress.  He was glad for the digital photographs of my world travels that my dad would share with him, but once included a list of “You Know You Are Living in 2005 When…” jokes, of which modern technology was the eternal butt.

I know email and cellphones keep you quite well comprised of things here and about; still, I’d like to add my 25 cents worth.

And I was grateful that he did, because nobody wrote more eloquently about the simple pleasures of life than he.

Chris and I made a trip to ‘Pill Hill’ this AM…Now we’re home, looking at the last rays of sun, bathing our hillside of Scotch broom and evergreens, that are looking up at an azure blue sky.  How’s that for a January weather report?

These are the moments – the thousands of sunrises and sunsets of our life – that pass most of us by.  These are not details fit for the fast-paced age of digital communication; he knew that there were some things that only the slow act of letter writing could capture.  Each letter always included an atmospheric update, not, I think, in an effort to make idle chit chat, but to connect me in the most tactile way to the world I was missing in Seattle, to paint a picture of the one he still inhabited.

Years ago, relatives seemed more important.  With news from all over, and transportation convenient, I ‘spose we’re normally attracted to the ‘rainbow.’  C’est la vie.

Only now, with retrospect on my side, can I see that he might have been saying, in his own way, “Come visit more often.  Why do your travels always have to take you so far from home?”

Without his letters, I never would have known how much he enjoyed a good meal.  He would often spend half the letter discussing how and what he was eating, the success of a day hinging on what sustenance had been provided.

Today, Dave and Nancy came from Gig Harbor.  We picked up Edell and went to Shari’s (Dave’s treat).  He asked Edell what she’d like best, and can you believe, she said, ‘A good breakfast!’  So the five of us, in one car, headed to the restaurant.  Each of us had something different.  Edell had pancakes with strawberries and cream on the side – coffee, too.  It was a treat to see how she enjoyed her meal.

It was clear that he savored these small acts of kindness, which fed not just his body, but his soul.  He especially delighted in home-cooked fare, and forever looked forward to family gatherings in which handmade meals were served.  The details of fleshy Easter hams and smoky Fourth of July barbecue danced across the page.  Living halfway across the country, the best I could manage was sending a jar of gooseberry jam and homemade oatmeal cookies – amongst his favorite foods – along with a letter, every now and then.

A lifelong penny-pincher, he was notorious for sending letters in unused return envelopes.  One letter arrived in the remittance envelope for Farmer’s Insurance, the “Have you moved lately?” box scratched out and, in its place, a note about the week’s average temperature (85 degrees).  And yet, he would often enclose a check or a crisp $20 bill, encouraging me to buy “a plant, or whatever.”  The real gifts, though, were the kernels of wisdom nestled in his words:

Do what you think is right, and you’ll probably be not far wrong.

We usually do a good job at something we enjoy.

Stay healthy.

‘A change is as good as a rest.’

He was quick to make keen observations about my temperament (“like your mom, you seem to thrive on excess”), and I think he worried that life might pass me by without me having taken it all in, for every letter closed with some version of the following phrase:  “Keep doing good and try to enjoy it.”  He knew as well as anyone the impermanence of life.  As the years ticked by, his reports of the computer classes and bowling league were slowly replaced by a never-ending parade of doctor’s appointments, tests, x-rays, procedures, and surgeries, a dizzying carousel ride that seemed unlikely to stop spinning anytime soon.

I’m starting another round of doctor’s visits.  Never knew how lucky I’ve been, wouldn’t mind some more of it.  We’ll take ‘er as she comes, and hope to tell you all about it.

He candidly apprised me of both the successes and the failures with his treatments, and told me bluntly in one letter, “Everything wears out.”

It was with great sadness that I watched his handwriting deteriorate alongside his body.  After a terrible fall that left him with equilibrium problems, letters would often take days to compose, which frustrated him to no end.  “Getting dingy in the head is one thing; realizing it is demoralizing.”  Although the letters stopped when he was no longer able to easily wield a pen, I kept writing.  He was forever apologizing for not returning the favor in kind – the first rule of a successful correspondence – but I certainly wasn’t keeping tabs.  I wrote letters because I wanted to.  I wrote letters because I knew that, halfway across the country, someone was excited to see an Albuquerque postmark.  Someone studied the carefully chosen stamp and saved the envelope.  Someone was reading my words with care.

I may have given you the impression that our correspondence filled volumes.  The truth is, the letters didn’t come very often, and they weren’t very long.  In flipping through the thin stack, I was surprised to discover that they only total half a dozen, because although our letter writing campaign was waged during the waning years of his life, I came to know my grandpa through those six letters more completely than the previous 26 years combined.  It was here that he revealed his thoughts and feelings about the things that mattered most to him:  his beloved garden; his pleasure with a good meal; his wife, Edell, who he doted on; the family members who cared for him, each in their own way, in body, mind and spirit.  In one of his final letters, as he realized that his broken-down body was getting the best of him, he said, “Cry me no tears.  For 89 years – almost to the day – I was one lucky dog, in more ways than one.”  That we should all be fortunate enough to feel the same way at the end of our lives.

The last time I talked to my grandpa was shortly after New Year’s, when he called to thank me for a batch of oatmeal cookies – and a letter – that I had sent his way.  I was surprised to hear his voice on the other end of the line; most of our conversations were a result of my dad passing him the phone at the end of one of our talks, but he had called of his own accord.  Unable to write, he expressed his appreciation by describing in great detail the attributes of a perfect oatmeal cookie:  thick, chewy, and filled with ample raisins.  Mine, he said, fit the bill, and he happily reported that he’d already eaten two of them.  We talked for a few minutes, and then said goodbye.  There wasn’t anything awkward about it.

We will feature our next Life in Pencil Moments of the Week next Friday, July 2.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, we’re compiling our readers’ contributions of moments, both big and small, in which you find yourself living life “in pencil.”  Please email Anne or Elizabeth your submissions by Thursday, July 1.

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?

Life in Pencil is delighted and honored to feature author Aidan Donnelley Rowley as part of our ongoing project to highlight people we believe exemplify a Life in Pencil.  We were introduced to Aidan’s blog, Ivy League Insecurities, nearly a year ago, and have since enjoyed her honest, clever, and heartfelt writing.  We’ve followed her journey to the publication of her debut novel, Life After Yes—a novel with rich characters whose lives are full of choices and uncertainty, as well as joy.  A novel that speaks to Life in Pencil, just as Aidan does.  Enjoy our Q&A, and be sure to check out Aidan Donnelley Rowley’s work—on the shelves, and on the web. 

1.  Our blog, Life in Pencil, is interested in exploring how we “rewrite” life one day at time.  In what ways has your life turned out like you expected, and how has it surprised you?

First of all, I love – and believe in – the idea of living a Life in Pencil. What is existence but an ever-changing draft of our story? I also love the very concept of rewriting when it comes to life and literature; I spend far more time editing my words than I do writing them. Now, for your question! In important ways, my life has turned out how I expected. I always assumed I would marry and have children. And I have done both. Beyond this family aspect, I never once predicted that I would be spending my days in jeans squinting at a bright screen between birthday parties and soccer classes. I never thought I would have a book published. Alas, there have been some exquisite surprises so far.

2.  What are some of the small ways in which you rewrite your life on a daily basis?

For better or worse (and it’s likely for worse), I am a major perfectionist. I am prone to doubt and self-criticism, so every day I tend to go through a litany of things I would like to change about myself, my work, and my life. Essentially, it is as if I am sitting down with a stack of life’s pages with that proverbial red pen. This can be problematic, yes. But often it is a good thing because I am constantly finding ways to tweak the story I am attempting to live.

3.  As career counselors, we’re very interested in the process of how people choose their career paths, especially when their paths are nontraditional. Has your career path emerged according to your plan or in spite of a plan?

This is a very good question and I am not sure I can answer it. Because I don’t really know. Was there some grand plan for me, for where I’d end up? Perhaps. Was it my plan or my parents’ plan or society’s plan? I’m not sure. Probably all of the above. Leaving the corporate law firm at which I practiced briefly was certainly a big risk. The first real risk I’ve ever taken. At the time, the move felt sudden and spicy. But looking back now, with the cool benefit of hindsight, I wonder if I knew all along that I would jump? Maybe the jump was part of the plan? (Told you I can’t answer this one, but I do love trying.)

4.  Life in pencil is all about living our life in the now.  In your own life, do you spend more time thinking about your past, living your present, or planning your future?

I split the vast majority of my time thinking about the past and the future. And I’m not proud of this, but at the moment, I’m not sure how to avoid it. As a writer, I find that I’m constantly mining my past experiences for material and imagining what will happen in the future to me and the other characters in my life. As a mother, I find that I frequently reminisce about my own childhood, using it as a roadmap in my own mothering. I also can’t help but daydream about what’s to come; what kind of people will my girls be? I wish that I were able to focus more intently and organically on the present. Intellectually, I know that Now is everything. Practically, I don’t know how to stay there too long. I would like to work on this.

 5.  What’s something you do that gets in way of living your life in pencil?

Click the image to order your copy!

Should. This word creeps into my head and heart and home way too often. I fashion unruly expectations for myself – as a writer and mother and wife and person – and I do this all the time. These are expectations which are not possible to meet and when I do not meet them, I feel bad. I waste time beating myself up. I so often think of how many wonderful things I could be doing instead of chiding myself for what boils down to being human.

6.  Are there times in your life that it’s been easier to live your life in pencil than others?

Of course. We’ve all heard of Writer’s Block and I think there’s something akin to that when it comes to simply living. Life Block. There are soggier times when – often for no good reason – I feel stuck in the metaphorical mud. Times when the air feels damp and ominous and uncertain. Times when I feel like I have little control over life’s pen. But, oddly, I treasure these times even though they can be miserable while I am experiencing them. I treasure them because they are fleeting and because they are raw reminders for me of the texture of existence, of the hard questions, of the rough edges. Without these things, life’s story would lack depth.

7.  How are you striving to live your life in pencil right now?

This is an interesting and surreal time for me. My first novel was just released and I am riding those profound post-publication waves. I am seeing just why so many people compare publication to birth because, in so many ways, I do feel sleep-deprived and like I am at the mercy of raging hormones. At this point, I am very contemplative and am thinking about how I want the pages of my life going forward to read. Do I want to keep going full-steam with the blogging and booking? Do I want to refocus my creative energy on my girls for a while? I’m not sure. But the mere asking, the mere possibility of rewriting Now is critically important to me. Maybe just maybe, there are important and quiet times before that pencil is put to that paper, before those words and worries are crossed out or corrected, that matter more than we think and know?

We hope this Q&A tells you something of the thoughtful writing you’ll find in Aidan’s debut novel, Life After Yes.  Click HERE, and treat yourself to your own copy today.    

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? 

Posted by:  YOU!

It’s back!  We love hearing how the rest of you challenge yourselves to live Life in Pencil.  It gives us ideas, and gives us inspiration.  Thanks to this week’s contributors.  And a couple bonus tidbits from Elizabeth and me; we’re here to show you no moment is too small.  Happy Friday…live your weekend in pencil.

From Anne S: On Saturday one of our neighbors asked us to go to a party with her.  She had run into an old high school classmate who invited her to the party, and she didn’t want to go alone.  The party was a block from our house, so we said why not.  We didn’t have any plans, but spur of the moment parties are not the norm for us.

Our neighbor came over and we drank some wine before heading down the street to a party that was a complete mystery to all three of us.  The host was an engineer in his mid-twenties who has turned his house into a fraternity brother’s dream!  The living room was completely filled by a pool table and bar, and the kitchen had a second refrigerator that had been turned into a keg with taps on the outside door.  We ended up having a great time getting to know the engineers, and our neighbor.  It could have ended up a disaster in many ways, but we took a chance and ended up having a fantastic Saturday night.

From Gale:

I found out a couple of months ago that I would be required to travel to Las Vegas for work this week.  Business travel used to be a very regular part of my life.  In my previous marketing job I traveled at least once a month with a few international trips each year.  When I was in sales I traveled every single week for two years.  There were things I loved about it, and things that were tiresome, but for the most part I found it invigorating.

When my son was born a year and a half ago I was blessed to take a new job that didn’t require me to travel.  My life had changed and I placed an increased premium on time spent at home, wrapped up in the daily adventures of first-time motherhood.  And so I had mixed emotions about this trip.  I’ve had two previous successful trips away from my son, which were encouraging to me.  But leaving him at the back door staring at my car pulling out of the driveway has an extra twinge when I know I won’t be back at the end of the day.

But I thought back on my previous life as a traveling, childless adult and decided to focus on the things that I love about it.  I got to the airport in time to pick up my favorite BBQ chicken salad for lunch.  I boarded the plane and promptly fell asleep for a full hour.  I woke up with two hours left to read my book and magazines, and listen to music on my fancy-pants noise-canceling headphones.

Since I arrived here on Wednesday afternoon I’ve enjoyed lots of adult conversation, a few glasses of red wine, sleeping past 6am, and a terrific workout in my hotel’s killer gym.  Perhaps surprisingly (or perhaps not) I’m finding myself invigorated and refreshed by this trip, even though it’s not what I would have planned for myself if the decision had been mine.

From Elizabeth:

Normally, I never buy hardback books, unless I feel confident I’m going to keep it.  This week, I bought a hardback book for the sheer reason that I’ve been dying to read it, I know it will bring me pleasure, and I don’t want to wait months for it to come out in paperback.  The odds are poor that I’ll hang onto it and will receive terrible buyback value at my local used bookstore, but sometimes you have to do things that don’t make logical sense but feed the soul.

From Anne:

Ice cream.  Lots of ice cream.  Maybe it’s because I want it to feel like summer so badly, and the weather remains glum and grey.  Maybe it’s because cooking tilapia with capers just begs for a sweet finish.  But I don’t think it’s either of those.  I think there’s just something “Life in Pencil” about looking at my husband after a long day and a quick dinner, and asking, “Wanna get ice cream honey?”  In truth, it’s becoming predictable.  But to me?  It still carries the sweetness of spontaneity, and the joy of a lazy early summer night.

Did you think of one?  Comment with your moments of mindfulness, flexibility, and joy.

We were excited to be approached to host New York Times best-selling author Allison Winn Scotch at Life in Pencil today, whose third novel, The One That I Want, was recently published.  Telling the story of 32 year-old Tilly, a woman who, at a crossroads in her life, is convinced that external circumstances will provide the missing puzzle piece, we knew this book would be up our readers’ alley.  Ms. Winn Scotch’s writing, though fiction, grapples with many “life in pencil” themes, including letting go of carefully mapped plans, questioning life choices, and entertaining the possibility of alternative paths.  The One That I Want even features a fortune teller – and how many times have Anne and I written of our search for answers amongst Magic 8 Balls and astrologers?  Enjoy this interview with Allison Winn Scotch!

Our blog, Life in Pencil, is interested in exploring how we “rewrite” life one day at time.  The One That I Want is very much in keeping with this theme.  In what ways has your life turned out like you expected, and how has it surprised you?

Wow, what a great question! I think the big surprise for me, to be honest, is that I earn my keep as a writer. As a kid and a young adult, I always hoped to do something in the creative field, but to be honest, writing just seemed…outrageous, unattainable. So that I genuinely earn my living this way is a wonderful, wonderful surprise. I also don’t think I ever anticipated living in NYC for as long as I have and do, though I’d like to leave at some point in the future. In terms of the rest of it, I, of course, always hoped to have a happy home life, and I’m fortunate that I do. One thing that I think I’ve always done that has helped steer me toward what I wanted out of life is that I’ve always been fairly clear on what I would and wouldn’t compromise on. When I didn’t like the “real” job I got out of college, I reassessed and quit. When relationships weren’t what I anticipated, I found a way to untangle myself. Whatever the circumstances, I’ve always been pretty bullheaded about staying true to myself (not, you know, to sound like an American Idol contestant or anything!), and I think that’s certainly helped me shape my overall picture.

Living life “in pencil” often means taking a leap into the unknown and not being able to plan your path.  Did you know how the novel was going to end when you started writing it?

No…I wish I did, that would probably make the process a lot easier! But I write where my characters take me, which sounds kind of silly, I know, but it’s true. As the author, I do throw obstacles and whatnot in their way, but mostly, I feel like I just let them lead…I have an understanding of who they are, and then they make organic choices that suit the situations I’ve put them in. I think if I knew how everything was going to end, their journeys would likely be pretty different over the course of the book, and, I think, likely less honest.

How you approach the writing process – letting things flow naturally, making organic choices in response to circumstances – sounds like good advice for living life.  In what ways do you feel you are living your life “in pencil” right now?

I feel like I’m always sort of in a constant state of tweaking. Like, if my husband and I aren’t doing as well at, say, communicating, as I’d like us to be, I sort of place myself as a bystander to our situation and assess how we could improve. I think temperature checks are important because, to be honest, I also think it’s really easy for life to go completely off the rails if you don’t make these little tweaks. They help realign everything. So definitely, life is a moving, breathing form that is always being adjusted – it’s part action, part reaction. I’m also a mother to a 5 year old and 3 year old, and I think most parents will tell you that you have no other choice than to “parent in pencil!” It’s very learn-on-the-job! And what worked a year ago might not work now. So, again, reassessing, checking in, tweaking and moving forward.

In your books you take on life choices as a theme, the what-if questions that are fun to ask and answer, but would be far more challenging to actually have to live with the consequences in real life. How do you come up with these questions?

Great question. To be honest, I start with a mundane idea: what if a woman thinks her life is wonderful but, in fact, it’s anything but? Or what if a woman had the chance to have a redo on her life? Those are everyday, normal, human questions that I think we’ve all wrestled with to a certain extent at some point. I also just think about what is going on in my own life, as well as homing in on what’s happening with my friends: what we’re talking about at our girls’ dinners, our complaints, our joys, our frustrations. I do fairly frequent temperature checks with myself and try to make little adjustments so I don’t get thrown totally off track. So I guess these questions come from the place of where I might be if I didn’t do these check-ins. It’s pretty easy to really go off the rails if you don’t pay attention. And from there, I add in the more fantastical elements. They just heighten the stakes, but if I do my job well, the books are still pretty grounded and about my characters’ humanity, not the supernatural elements involved.

As professionally trained career counselors and aspiring writers ourselves, we’re very interested in the process of how people choose their careers, especially when their paths are nontraditional. When did you know that you wanted to be a writer?

I think I always wanted to be a writer but realistically didn’t think – or realize – that it was possible until my mid-20s. I’d grown up writing, in journals, for my school paper, and later in college, a fairly prestigious op-ed column in the campus paper, but…I mean..really? Getting paid for it? It just seemed outlandish even though a lot of people suggested I pursue it! I wasn’t until I was, I think, 26, and was starting to take on freelance PR clients that I realized it might be feasible – I started doing a lot of web copy and eventually magazine articles, and one thing led to another and I tried my hand at fiction. Three books later, I sincerely still can’t believe how fortunate I am.

The One That I Want is about looking forward in time as opposed to backward (as with your previous novel, Time of My Life). In your own life, do you spend more time thinking about your past, living your present, or planning your future?

Hmmm, I suppose that the optimal answer is that I spend the most time living in the present, and I think for the most part, I do. I’m pretty aware of how fortunate I am to be living the life I am – I sincerely appreciate it almost every single day. But that said, I’m certainly one to pull out photos of my college years or whenever and wax nostalgic. I just had my college reunion, and I think a lot of us felt that way! As far as looking to the future, that’s probably the one I do the least. I guess I do so in terms of goal-setting, but mostly, I’m content with the idea that if I work hard in the moment and the here and now, the future will take care of itself.

Are you a planner by nature, or more spontaneous?

I’m both! I’m pretty anal about things that have to do with my career…at least as far as what I can control, which, to be honest, isn’t that much in this industry. But when it comes to everything outside of work, I’m pretty flexible and spontaneous. I grew up in Seattle, where I think it was just understood that you had to be mellow and laid-back! So overall, I’d say I’m spontaneous but there are some things that you do have to assert control over, and my career is really the biggie for me.

Most of your books question the paths that your characters have taken in their lives and explore alternate paths. Have you pondered that for yourself?

Yes and no. I do feel like I do pretty consistent temperature checks with myself, along the lines of, “Okay, are you satisfied with XYZ and if not, what can you do to increase your satisfaction,” and part of that is undoubtedly considering the road not taken. But I don’t really have any lingering “what ifs,” in my life. Sure, I might think about them from time to time, but I really am the type of person who takes her current reality and tries to improve upon it. I think this is definitely one of the underlying themes in my books: if you’re not living the life you want, then what?

Why do your books tackle the “what if?”

Asking those big, life-changing questions allows me to take the heroine’s journeys and up the stakes, just as those questions do the same thing in real life. What if you’re not living the life you want? Then what?

What’s the biggest “what if” in your own life?

Such a great question! I met my husband almost by fluke – I’d taken a gamble and given up an acting career in LA to move back to NYC to pursue an internet opportunity with a college friend. I found an apartment and got settled and joined a gym…where, a few months later, I met my husband. (Yes, really.) So I do wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t moved into that neighborhood or if I’d joined a different gym OR, if I hadn’t made a point to introduce myself to him. (What can I say? I thought he was cute.) And, going back a little further, what if I hadn’t taken that leap and abandoned my hopes of becoming an actress and leaving LA? So hard to imagine, and I’m one of those people who usually believes that life plays out how it’s supposed to (though I don’t believe this in all circumstances), so I don’t weigh myself down with this questions too often. Sometimes though, for sure!

For a full synopsis of this great “life in pencil” read, click here, and if you’re interested in ordering a copy of Ms. Winn Scotch’s book, click here.  Her website has lots of great information (her second novel, Time of My Life, is being made into a movie!), and you can follow her on Facebook and Twitter.  Further, today is the LAST DAY to enter a contest that Ms. Winn Scotch is hosting, which includes such fabulous prizes as a one-year subscription to Entertainment Weekly (Anne is already salivating).  Click here for more details.  You must buy a copy of the book by TODAY to be eligible.

Posted by Elizabeth

“The cases in which friends disappoint are the easy ones: either you discuss, forgive and forget, or you strike a line through the relationship. The calculus–when to let go, when to work through it–is complicated and fraught.” – Dominique Browning, Slow Love Life

My best friend, Heidi, and I have never ascribed to traditional rules of gift-giving.  In keeping with our personalities, my gifts usually come too early, and Heidi’s tend to arrive late.  I’ve received a birthday gift at the height of summer, or a Christmas package, wrapped in pastel paper, as the first flowers of spring shouldered their way out of the crusty earth.  I recently sent Heidi a psychedelic llama fashioned from baked marzipan, a souvenir from Ecuador that I’d been hanging onto for just the right occasion (which never came).  But more often than not we don’t hold onto gifts until the time is right, setting it free as soon as it’s in our clutches.

Our uneven style of gift giving has remained one of the only constants throughout a 16-year friendship that has been defined by transformation, marked by periods of intense togetherness, long periods of separation, and finally, today, balanced connection.  Heidi and I met each other the first week of school, both transfer students thrown into a pulsing student body midway through our high school career.  After auditioning for the student play, we lingered by our battered cars parked alongside the tennis courts, getting to know each other as the crisp autumn evening settled in around us.

Within weeks we were inseparable, “kindred spirits” a la Anne Shirley and Diana Barry.  We starred in grainy home videos together, dressed in thrift store finds from our regular scavenger hunts, and made pilgrimages to local ice cream parlors (Heidi has always been an ice cream fiend).  We holed up in our bedrooms and talked long into the night on the telephone; on more than one occasion I picked up the phone to call Heidi, only to find her on the other end of the line, calling me before the phone had a chance to ring.  Our friendship was sealed when she defended my honor in the face of a couple of Mean Girls, pledging her fidelity before she even had a chance to know if I was worth the risk.

After high school, our life paths rocketed in different directions.  I made my way to college and Heidi married quickly and young.  Within a year she lost both her marriage and the baby girl, Mary, she gave birth to ten months after her wedding.  We drifted apart for a number of years, two small boats bobbing uneasily on the choppy seas of friendship.  As a 20 year-old college student whose greatest concern was acing her final exams, the dual losses Heidi experienced made me intensely uncomfortable, and I naively –and selfishly – hoped that things could simply go back to the way they were.  Visits and phone calls grew farther apart until they vanished altogether, a sad disappearing act.  We were specters in each other’s lives, the ghosts of friendship past.

Four years after Mary’s death, wondering where in the world Heidi was, I sent a stinging email in response to a message she had sent me months earlier, like jabbing a sharp stick at a papery hornet’s nest.  I was surprise when I opened my inbox a few days later to reveal an impassioned message from Heidi, detailing the struggles she had faced in the intervening years.  I was done, I told her, but she wanted to talk.

In 2002, our friendship was nothing but a shred of string dangling precariously between two wounded souls.  Where I was ready to clip the ragged thread and move forward with my life, Heidi saw something that could be rewoven.  Dominique Browning says, “Some friendships evolve as your life changes; others hit the wall. It is a painful rupture, not entered into lightly. It doesn’t mean the friendship was wrong to begin with–it means it has reached an impasse, or died.”  If it had been up to me, Heidi would be just another friend on the discard pile, but where I saw dead, she saw merely stuck.  She knitted her way back into my life through small but sure motions.  Although we were living in different states by now, making reconnection all the more challenging, she called regularly when she promised she would, even when our first conversations were smattered with awkward small talk and long pauses, not unlike a chat with a distant relative.  But we pushed through our mutual wariness, and when things got difficult we fell back into soft, easy memories, swimming in the details of better days.

By the time my mom died suddenly a few months later, we had reestablished enough of a connection that she was the first person I called, in a calm state of shock, on that rain-streaked Thanksgiving night.  I understood why she had come back into my life when she had:  she was intimately acquainted with loss and grief in a way that most 26 year-olds could never know.  Although I had vilified her unreliability over the years, I suddenly understood that, in the wake of her own losses, I had been the absent one, unable to provide the kind of support she would come to give me.

Even though our external lives have continued on different trajectories – Heidi is remarried with three more blue-eyed beauties — our souls have continued to grow and flourish right alongside one another over the past eight years.  We have successfully hit the “reset” button on our friendship and created new memories on the backs of the old ones, but not without constant nurturing and care on each of our parts.  We send emails daily, talk on the phone weekly, and visit one another yearly.  Through our friendship I have learned that the most important things in life require our small, but sustained, devotion.  But even that is not a talisman against things falling apart from time to time.  It is only through the concerted effort of both parties, and a willingness to slog through the muck and not skim the silky surface, that something new is reborn from the smoldering ashes.   How fitting it was, then, when Heidi and I sought spiritual guidance during our annual “retreat” in Sedona last May from a woman named Phoenix.  Nothing worthwhile can be rebuilt overnight, but everything worthwhile must be rewritten.

On Monday I smiled when I received a belated birthday package from Heidi.  Stuffed inside was a treasure trove of maternity clothes, hand-scribbled pictures from her children, and a cream-colored teddy bear with doleful eyes and a pink bowtie.  Inside the birthday card – appropriately inscribed with the words “Wing It!” – was the explanation for the gift:

I agonized a little over what to give you.  In the end I want to give you this little bear.  When I found out I was pregnant with Mary this was the first baby item I bought.  It is a special bear to me and I have pictures with each of my kids with it. All my feelings as a mother are summed up in this bear – and now, you are a mother, too.

With tears sliding down my face I placed the bear in the rocking chair in what is slowly developing into a nursery.  Over the years I have benefited from the fact that Heidi’s always been a step ahead of me in life.  She guided me through the tidal wave of grief that crashed over my life following my mother’s untimely death.  She ferried me through my wedding day, recognizing the complicated constellation of joy and sadness that accompanied this important life passage.  She’s been with me through every step of my pregnancy, and will be there when my baby takes her first shrill cries.  Heidi’s gifts may be belated, but the real gifts she’s bestowed upon me – those of unconditional love, support, and wisdom – have always arrived right on time, when I needed them most.

We are changing our format!  With a desire to bring you more substantive pieces, we will only be posting three days a week.  Elizabeth will be featured on Mondays, Anne will contribute on Wednesdays, and Fridays will bring a rotating series of topics, including reader contributions, media reviews, tips, and other Life in Pencil-related topics.  (For example, this Friday will feature a Q&A with New York Times best-selling author Allison Winn Scotch!)  Each day will continue to revolve around our central theme of “rewriting life one day at a time,” and we hope this change will bring deeper thought and reflection to the everyday moments that help us to better live our lives in pencil.

We love our readers!  Every day, you all add the most interesting and thoughtful comments that totally enhance the points we try to make, and the issues we choose to highlight in our posts.  We just knew there was more where that came from.  So last week, Elizabeth and I asked for your moments—your Life in Pencil moments of the past week.  And—no surprises here—you gave us some fabulous fodder for the blog.  Thanks for taking the time to contribute, so that we can all learn from one another. 

Without further ado, here are your Life in Pencil moments of the week:

From Monique:
Yard Sale.  Moving in a few weeks has motivated me to re-evaluate what I have, what I want, and more importantly, what I want to keep. So I decided two weeks ago that I was going to have a yard sale. Nothing has been more “life in pencil” this week than having to sell my possessions. As I gathered the items throughout the house, from a scarf that will no longer be needed in sunny California, to a pair of chairs that were my first post-college foray into combining function AND decor, I reminisced. And then I decided they had to go!

People arrived promptly at 7am to forage, peruse, or completely disregard all the items that had been a solid part of my life (some for more than a few years). As each item was sold (or more likely, bargained for), I realized that these things were rewriting what “mine” meant. No longer were those 4-year-old boots “mine”. Those cute flower pots from Pier 1 aren’t “mine” anymore. Remembering that I’m not a 3-year-old, I realized that these possessions signified moments and they are moments I get to keep, while the possessions move on with someone else. After all was said and done, I was left with  fewer possessions and a few more dollars, I’m taking the first steps to rewriting the next phase of my life, wondering what possessions will mean more to me later than they do now and deciding which ones will be in the next Yard Sale. But the moments are MINE!

From Amy:
Getting to goal at Weight Watchers on Tuesday was awesome, but nothing compared to coming home to my husband and kids singing, “Congratulations to you, congratulations to you! Congratulations, SKINNY MOMMY . . .” They had cards, signs and an I Love Lucy marathon planned in my honor. My kids are always supportive of Mommy meeting goals, as most kids are. But this day was orchestrated by my husband. This was a big moment for me because I have known people who are resentful of their spouses moving forward in life, people whose marriages couldn’t handle someone making more money, having more professional or spiritual growth. Sometimes it’s easier to love someone when they’re down and out than when they “pass you up.” It made me think about all the times in my chubier days when I rolled my eyes at people running on Sunday mornings or people who gave up white flour. I talked about how I was enjoying life and they were shallow. I wasn’t the kind of person my husband is. It’s honoring and humbling at the same time . . .

From Meghan:
I was in NYC last week. I had my Wednesday all planned out: breakfast pastry and coffee at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon Bakery, walk across Central Park to the Met to see the American Woman and Picasso exhibits, walk back across the park for a burger at Shake Shack, then to the Theatre District for my 3pm matinee, then off to meet a friend from college for dinner. Well…my almond raspberry croissant at Bouchon was incredible and I was merrily walking “directly east” through the park from the West side to the East side to go to the Met, when I discovered 45 minutes later that I arrive on Central Park SOUTH!! I DID walk east, but I also walked south the whole time and ended up 30 streets south of where I wanted to be Rather than freak out because there was NO way I would have enough time to get the the Met, see the 2 exhibits, get lunch, AND make it on time to my matinee, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was in a city I adore and that I had a lovely walk across beautiful Central Park. And, I could maybe see if I could get to the Met on Friday to see the exhibits. And for once, my re-frame worked!

From Eva:
This year Huband and I finally took the plunge and bought season tickets to the Minnesota Twins – because it’s the inaugural season in Target Field, our beautiful new outdoor stadium…With the 90-degree temps and high humidity, we knew there was a chance of thunderstorms. Sure enough, it started sprinkling in about the 2^nd inning. Our seats are under the overhang, so we enjoyed the game while watching other fans file to the protected concourses. The temps dropped, a breeze picked up, and it felt so nice.

At the top of the sixth, with heavier rain, thunder, and lightning, the game was suspended. We took pictures with our friends of our first rain delay. (Nerdy, yes.) We watched the ground crew. Then we went inside to one of the bars. We stood around a high-top, drinking beers and chatting and laughing. We were actually able to talk and connect more than if we were in our seats, all in a row. The atmosphere was electric, everyone in the stadium was giddy and a little goofy from the rain. We were all in this together, and what a fun – but unplanned – diversion.

I’m afraid if it was entirely up to me, if it was only Husband and I at the game without our friends, or if I wasn’t thinking more lately about living my life in pencil, I would have thrown in the towel and gone home early. But I just went with the flow, enjoying the evening for what it was. And I’m so glad I did. Even though the game was eventually called – the last four innings to be played the next afternoon – it was fun to stay out late and catch up with old friends. And to say we were at the first Twins rainout since 1981!

From Nicki:
My Life in Pencil moment has not yet occurred so will be rewritten many times between now and Saturday, I believe. I have plans to get away Saturday. One day without kids (mine are almost all adults now so, no, I am not deserting children) can be a huge refresher. I had the day all planned out. Now I am replanning. I am thinking of blowing off the CD release party as it is so late and I don’t want to be driving really late. I do want to get to another location to meet a friend’s friend who is visiting. So, for right now, one change in my penciled life has come. Question is – how many more will take place?

Our next Life in Pencil Moment of the Week, featuring reader submissions, will be Friday, June 11.  So start rewriting your life in big ways and small and then tell us about it!  Send us your submissions by email by Thursday, June 10.