Posted by Anne

How do you move past a rough beginning?  Take the following examples…

• The book whose first 50 pages are slow at best, snooze-inducing at worst.
• The first date filled with slight promise, but even more awkwardness.
• The new job that creates anxiety throughout the entire first year.
• A vacation that begins on the wrong foot—with a flight delay, a bad hotel, or a disappointing meal.
• A new town that disappoints you—a town that’s different than you imagined.

How long do we give something—a relationship, a book, a job, a town—before we give up on it?  Do we let these rough (and sometimes disappointing) beginnings taint us before we gather the full story?  And how long do we wait?  How much patience should we allot before making our decision, breaking it off, or packing our bags?

This dilemma has been at the forefront of my mind since moving to a new town—and a new coast—a year and 7 months ago.  I knew moving to the Northwest would be an adjustment, but I was optimistic.  I was ready for a lush green landscape, berry farms, and countless destinations for outdoorsy recreation.  Our town has totally delivered on those expectations.  But culturally, I knew I was in for a change.  And I thought I was ready…excited even.  It’s been harder than I imagined. 

When we first moved here, there were some not-so-pleasant surprises…

• My 2^nd day in town, when someone shattered my car window at a local park (at NOON on a TUESDAY), and stole my purse and computer. (Yeah, I was stupid to leave those in my car…but still…)
• The arrival at our new home—a fine and cute rental, but a street that lacked the kind of Northwest charm I’d envisioned.
• A community that was certainly laid-back and kind, but one that also lacked the outgoing and open friendliness I’d known for my entire life in the Midwest. 

In short, it was a rough beginning.  And after 8 months, I started planning my escape.  Life would be better, I thought, when we moved.  The Douglas Fir trees would be greener, taller, and better in another city. 

But we didn’t move.  The opportunities weren’t there yet, and when push came to shove, we weren’t ready to pick up and start over, or leave the security of jobs we like.  So we stayed.  And people told me, “Give it two years.”  People encouraged me, “It takes awhile to feel at home…the Northwest can be a tough place to break into.”  And they were right.

This August will mark our 2-year anniversary in our new digs.  And since the 8-month mark, our life has changed.  We have friends instead of acquaintances.  And we have more acquaintances that could become friends.  We have a Church, hobbies, favorite restaurants, and favorite neighborhoods.  Those first few months of rough beginnings are still there (and hard to shake), but beginning to fade slightly.  I’m still not convinced this town will be my home forever—I don’t have that sense.  And there are many days I still dream of moving.  But not in the urgent, restless way I did before.  It feels positive to have made it through a rough start, and to make the best of the situation I’ve got.  It feels a little…life in pencil. 

Sometimes a false start can indeed be a sign of things to come.  And our instincts are often correct.  But there’s something gratifying about pushing through the stumbles, and finding something worthwhile on the other end.    

Have you ever experienced a rough start?  When those rough starts occur, do you “put down the book” so to speak, or do you keep plowing through? 

Counting our blessings...

Posted by Anne

Life in Pencil is getting ready to go in a new direction.  We’re not quite yet ready to unveil our new plans, but, beginning this month, we’ll focus on a new topic every month.  Since March is the beginning of spring, a time of new life, this month’s theme will be Beginnings.  How do we live our lives in pencil during that tenuous time when there is new life on the horizon?

Last week, you made me think.  I wrote this post on my life-to-do-list, and several of you admitted similar moments of panic, and asked this question:

What happens when we’ve checked off the items?  What next?

A great question.  A particularly great question when glimmers of spring appear—when daffodils begin peeking through the dirt, and we (or at least I) feel called to begin any one of a jillion different projects. And just as I can generate lists and lists of projects to go along with my new Spring swagger, I can likewise think of about a million (or at least 10) things I’d like to do with my life.  When I truly consider the options for my future, there is no shortage of ideas.  Rather, an overwhelming abundance.  “Beginnings” are everywhere.  I’m sure many of you can relate, and there are probably many reasons I struggle with this unending array of interests.  But there’s one root cause that came to mind last week, after a particularly stimulating counseling session with an adorably enthused student.  As I walked him through the results of his personality assessment, I found myself resonating deeply.  And this is the part where I get all career counselor-y on you, but it’s relevant…I swear.

Remember the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator?  If you weren’t around when I did my previous post on this ubiquitous personality test, then check this out—it’ll provide a little recap.  In that post, I wrote about that pesky part of my personality that’s very addicted to planning.  But last week, as I read your comments and listened to this young student, I realized there’s another part of my “type” (ENFJ to those of you who care) that’s becoming very Life in Pencil relevant these days.  So without further ado…

I’m an Extravert.

Now, pop culture totally screws up the whole “introvert/extravert” dichotomy.  Introverts are not necessarily shy (but sometimes are).  Extraverts are not necessarily loquacious social butterflies (but sometimes are…I’ve definitely got the loquacious part down.)  In actuality, a major difference between the types is where they get their energy.  Warning:  Massive overgeneralization of Myers Briggs Typology coming…Do you feel jazzed and refreshed after a stimulating presentation or conversation?  Extravert.  Do you feel exhausted and crave some major alone-time after you’ve been interacting with others all day?  Introvert.

But there’s another common quality of these types.  Introverts often have fewer interests, and even fewer friends…but really deep ones.  Extraverts?  We like to dabble in many interests, hobbies, and even relationships.  We’re broad.  And sometimes a little more shallow…at least when it comes to how deep we dive into these pursuits.

So…all those multiple interests of mine?  The fact that I can truly see myself pursuing several different options?  The part that’s a fan of beginning new projects?  It’s there—part of my personality.  Of course, maybe it has nothing to do with my personality, but it’s at least a theory.  And in some ways, I like this part of myself.  I believe there’s value in being a “Renaissance Woman”.  But I have to admit…when you’re obsessively calmly trying to craft a new “life-to-do-list”, this trait is also sort of a pain in the ass.  My broad interests regularly collide with the part of myself that’s craving sameness.  My quest for “beginnings” battles my internal need for stability.

I don’t have answers.  But I do have deep thoughts.  Here’s what I’ve realized…

Epiphany #1: This whole “planning your life” thing?  It’s hard when your interests veer in twenty different directions in the course of a single day.

Epiphany #2: Attempting to stick to one vocation is not only uncommon these days, the linear “path” may not fit me as well as I thought it would.

Epiphany #3: When I’m done checking off those massive items on my life to-do-list?  I’m never going to hurt for other options, other hobbies, other interests.  My extraverted personality will see to that.

Epiphany #4: Beginnings are a natural part of our life course, and they appear all the time.  The key is to embrace them, and let them work their magic.

How about you?  Regardless of the introvert/extravert piece of it, are you someone who dabbles in a lot of things?  Or do you maintain a steady few interests/pursuits?  Do you feel overwhelmed by options, or starving for them? Do you get a literal “spring” in your step when March rolls around?

Posted by Elizabeth

I’m planning an April trip to Europe, which will involve two and a half weeks sampling the cuisine of Italy, staying on a family farm in Slovenia, and island-hopping through Croatia.   This trip was rather spur of the moment – when I found out I was pregnant, I insisted we take a final trip as a childless couple, and I knew exactly where I wanted to go.  After cashing in all of the miles we earned on our round-the-world trip last year, netting us two round-trip tickets to Rome, the planning began in earnest.  Soon I found myself doing what I do best:  pouring over Lonely Planet guidebooks, calling friends who had traveled in this part of the world, deciphering Italian train schedules (impossible), comparing ferry routes, checking the weather, and memorizing the food section of the Italian phrasebook.  The irony is that I embarked on all of this planning knowing full well that the best experiences of this trip will be those I never plan.

How do I know this?  First, because I’ve had the good fortune of traveling a fair amount, this is always the case (except, of course, when you show up without reservations in Lovina, Bali, during the Ramadan holiday, where the entire population of Muslim Indonesia is vacationing).  And second, because I agree with a recent article I read on maximizing happy coincidences while traveling, which states that “accidents — good and bad — happen when we’re away. More so, maybe, because there’s a certain randomness about travel — a sense that the unexpected can happen.”  The article argues that it’s easy to focus on the bad accidents – getting fined for not understanding how a foreign toll road works, getting scammed for five Euros, misunderstanding movie schedules, shadowy rodents running through train cars in India (all of which have happened to me, by the way).  But the flip side is that, for every bad accident, there is usually a good one, and these are what make travel – and life itself – fun and interesting.  And it’s this duality that explains the reason I love – and loathe – traveling.  I am an accidental tourist in sheep’s clothing, a planner by nature who loves the idea of traveling spontaneously, but who fights it tooth and nail.  So how can we maximize happy coincidences – both in travel and in everyday life? According to the article there are four ways to do this — and I bet our bright readers can find even more.

The fabulous mansion in Buenos Aires, before it was not-so-fabulous.

First, realize that “sometimes, bad accidents can lead to good things.”  While traveling in Buenos Aires, we had the good fortune of staying in a gorgeous old mansion in the heart of the city, which catered to long-term travelers.  Sure, the accommodations were a little rustic, but we loved the vibe of this place so much that we arranged to stay an extended period after a brief jaunt to Uruguay.  The night before we departed for Uruguay, the owner informed us that he had made a mistake with the reservation, and that our room wouldn’t be available upon our return.  (Insert “not my problem” shoulder shrug here.)  Being the peak of high season, we unsuccessfully scrambled to find other accommodations at the 11^th hour (literally), finally resigning ourselves to dealing with it when we returned.  The problem was, we had just bought a boatload of leather goods hours earlier, which we had planned to stash in the mansion while we were in Uruguay.  Desperate, we called a friend of my mother-in-law, who had told us to call him if we needed help.  Not only did he store my boots and purses while we were away, he also offered us to stay at his gorgeous high-rise apartment in the heart of the swanky Recoleta neighborhood upon our return, where we had access to real air conditioning and a bathtub.  In this case, a bad accident lead to a very good thing.

A very memorable afternoon.

The article also advises to “be open to new experiences.”  This, in my mind, is one of the cardinal rules of travel (and life).  On our trip we traveled into the heart of Portugal’s Duoro Valley, the seat of the country’s port wine production.  We nosed our rental car down dusty lanes in search of the area’s new museum, only to find it closed when we arrived.  Disappointed, we began our long drive back to town when Maikael spotted a car parked outside a neighboring property that hadn’t been there when we arrived.  “I’m going to see if they know anything about the museum,” said Maikael, hopping out the car as I slumped in the front seat.  After a few minutes, I glanced in the rear view mirror to see Maikael standing next to a weathered old man, a silly grin slapped on his face, beckoning me with swooping arm motions.  While the old man – who owned the surrounding vineyard – called his neighbor to open the museum, he invited us to wait with him and his friends.  For the next hour we propped ourselves on ancient farm equipment and shared glasses of syrupy moscatel wine, talking life in our passable Sportugese.  What could have been a forgettable experience was one of the most memorable afternoons of our entire trip…one that never would have transpired had we been unwilling to take the leap out of our car and into a new experience.

Worth the diversion.

Adjust your perspective. Sometimes, the direst situations end up being fortuitous, if we can just look at the world through a different lens.  After hearing horror stories about traveling in India I wasn’t sure I wanted to go anymore, even though we had planned to spend three weeks traversing the northern part of the country.  Looking for alternative plans, we discovered that Bhutan – a country I had recently become enchanted with – was only a short plane ride from Delhi, where our ticket had already routed us (and when in life is Bhutan ever going to be a short plane ride from anywhere?).  After making some last-minute adjustments to our itinerary, we cut our time in India in half and planned a side trip to Bhutan, a highlight of our entire eight-month journey.  Looking back, I can’t imagine that trip without Bhutan, and our willingness to change plans midstream and craft a bad situation into a good one made it possible.

Timing is everything. Is there any greater truism?  One scorching August day, we found ourselves in need of transportation from Pamukkale to Goreme, Turkey, a long, dusty ride that required a few bus transfers and an expensive ticket at the height of tourist season.  As we investigated different bus companies around town, the schedules were quickly filling (or so they told us) and the ticket prices were rising with the mercury outside.   We were getting desperate when we stumbled into a tourist agency that, upon telling them the date and time we were interested in departing, exclaimed, “You’re in luck!  We have a bus that needs to be returned to Goreme that evening.  It will travel direct to the town, no stops, and the tickets are half price.”  It seemed too good to be true, but after discussing our options and gaining some assurances, we bought the tickets.  Sure, this happy coincidence could have easily turned into a bad accident, but as promised, because we were in the right place at the right time – and willing to take a calculated leap of faith – we scored cheap tickets on a direct bus that was roomier than any of the other companies’.

Us and our Croatian friends at Sintra

Of course there are lots of other happy coincidences I could share with you, from the amazing steakhouse we discovered in Buenos Aires vis a vis NPR’s Bob Mondello, to the unforgettable hotel we stumbled upon in Ubud, Bali, because we waited until the last minute and it was the only reservation request that anybody responded to.  But I’ll leave you with a final example of a happy coincidence.  While staying at a hostel in Lisbon, Portugal, we found ourselves in the lobby one evening, trying to decode the mysteries of the Portuguese train schedule that was mounted to the wall.  As our fingers etched the route from Lisbon to Sintra, a nearby historic town, another couple approached from the back, commenting that they were planning on taking the same trip the next morning.  After chatting for a few minutes and sizing one another up, we quickly decided to travel together the next day, and what I remember from that experience is not the gorgeous Moorish town but spending a wonderful day together with a fantastic couple from Croatia.  Anton, the husband, had been to Sintra before and expertly played tour guide.  We laughed and joked and shared stories from our countries over a rustic Portuguese lunch.  And when we go to Croatia in April, we will visit our “happy coincidence” friends on their tiny island of Krk.

Am I going to stop planning? Probably not.  But if I can plan with the expectation that I’ll throw those plans out the moment something better comes along, I’ll be the better for it.

Are you an “accidental tourist” (or not)?  What are some of the happiest coincidences you can recall while traveling?  What are other ways that we can maximize “happy coincidences” – both in travel and in life?

Posted by Anne 

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

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

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

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

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

Am I becoming un-fun?

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

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

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

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

Posted by Elizabeth

Dear You,

How are you?  Can you hear me alright?  I know my voice probably sounds a little muffled, but I have some important words I want to share with you; words that I hope you’ll always remember.

It’s hard to believe that, just mere weeks ago, you were but a glimmer in my consciousness.  But even in that short amount of time you’ve already changed my life.  It’s hard to believe that I was so ambivalent about your existence for nearly 32 years, and that in 12 short weeks you’ve wiped away the slate of doubts.  Before you came along, I wondered what you’d take away from my comfortable life, if the trade off could possibly be worth it.  But I took the plunge, the ultimate leap of faith, reasoning that I had accomplished the big things I wanted to in my life.  I earned my graduate degree, and traveled around the world, and have had plenty of fun and adventure along the way.  It dawned on me one day last fall that you wouldn’t be keeping me from doing anything I couldn’t do with you in tow.  Although having you was never a foregone conclusion — many will undoubtedly be shocked by the news of your arrival — now that it’s happening I can’t imagine it being any other way.  I’ve surprised myself by how quickly I’ve embraced this change, how excited I am for your arrival.  Even though I wasn’t completely sure when I made that great dive down the rabbit hole, I guess I really was ready for you.

Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what you look like, what you are like.  Are you a boy or a girl (we already have a name picked for you if you’re a girl, but if you’re a boy we’ve got some work to do)?  Do you have your dad’s brown eyes or my blue eyes?  Do you have my thin lips or your dad’s full ones?  My little nose or your dad’s proud one?  Do you lean towards math and science, like him, or English and the arts, like me?  Do you hate olives and seafood and pickles as much as I do?  Do you share your dad’s penchant for spicy foods (after eating that roasted pepper pasta dish a few weeks ago, I don’t think so)?  Are you even-keeled and quiet like your dad, or fiery and impatient like me?  Most likely, you are some of these things…and none of these things.  You are your own person.

We have a lot to learn about one another, and before we get too far, here’s what you should know about me and the life you’re about to be born into.  I love change, a good life project, being goofy, and telling stories, so I think you’ll like me when you’re little.  As you climb into your teen years, though, I suspect your dad might be better at this parenting thing.  I’m more of a morning person than your dad, so go easy on him in that department:  I’ll be up at the crack of dawn with you, but if you’re looking for a night owl, he’s your man.  I tend to worry a lot; in fact, I’ve already done my fair share of worrying about you.  I even worry about worrying about you too much.  It’s just that I don’t want you to grow up to be anxious and neurotic like I am.  When you get older, I know you will roll your eyes and tell me to stop worrying so much.  And I’ll try; I really will.  But just know I worry because I love you.

I love to spend time in the kitchen, and already have dreams of us cooking alongside one another, so I hope you like that, too.  Your dad and I both love to read The New York Times on Sunday mornings, but I have a sneaking suspicion that those days are about to come to a close for awhile (although, if you, too, are a fan, let me know and I won’t cancel the subscription).  We enjoy eating out, and if you’re good, I promise we’ll take you out a lot.  Oh, and we love to travel, and plan to take you everywhere with us.  In fact, you’ve already been to Mexico (weren’t those carnitas from the market fabulous?), and before you’re born you’ll add three more stamps to your passport.

I know it won’t always be easy.  I know our life is in for a monumental change, and that you’ll be at the center of the whirlwind.  I know there will be times when you’ll drive me crazy, when I’ll plead with you to stop crying, when I’ll wonder why you did this or didn’t do that.  I know you’ll probably feel equally frustrated with me, too, wondering why I simply can’t understand.  But through it all, I know that we’ll love each other.

When it’s finally time for you to be born, will you make me a promise?  Will you try to work with me?  Know that I’ll be doing my best, but I’ll need your help, too.  In return, I promise that I’ll do my best to help you to grow into the person you were born to be, not the person I’d like you to be.  Because maybe you’ll prefer playing soccer to being my sous chef.  I’d like to believe that I’ll be always be an open and accepting mother, no matter the circumstance, but the reality is that at times this will hard for me.  In fact, it might be the hardest lesson I have yet to learn in life.

Baby, your dad and I can’t wait to meet you on August 31^st (give or take a few days).  We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for you – turns out, you need a lot of stuff – but we’ll be prepared.  Or, at least as prepared as we can be.    Until then, keep growing healthy and strong, and I’ll do my part to make sure you have everything you need to do just that.  Even though we’ve never met, I already love you.

Love,

Your Mom

PS: Thanks for not making me sick.  I really appreciate it.  I’m sure you’ll think of some way that I can repay you in the near future.

Although I hate to insult the intelligence of our bright readership, in the off chance that you didn’t catch on, The Waiting Game is over!  For those of you who suspected this (and I know there are many of you in this category), I am happy to confirm that I am indeed pregnant, due August 31.  Do you know what a hard secret this has been to keep from you all?  I have been busting at the seams to share the good news with you!  While I’ll strive not to bore you with the details, I hope this new life adventure can provide excellent fodder and many life lessons for all of us who are better trying to live our lives “in pencil.”

Oh, and for those of you who are curious, pictured above is my first ultrasound, taken at about 8 weeks.  Apparently, I am giving birth to The Blob.

This post was written as part of Momalom’s Love It Up Challenge, where bloggers are encouraged to write a “love letter” to someone or something.  I thought this was the perfect way to share the news with you all (and, I hope, will be a happy memento for the baby book).

Posted by Elizabeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by Elizabeth

This week I’ve been reading Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, a fantastic memoir by Rhoda Janzen about her experiences growing up in a Mennonite family, leaving the faith, and eventually returning to her roots after tragedy touches her life. Over the course of a truly terribly year, Janzen experiences a botched hysterectomy, her husband leaves her for Bob from Gay.com and, six days later, she’s in a devastating car accident that leaves her with serious injuries.  Where else is there to go but home?

Aside from being a bitterly funny read about Ms. Janzen’s experiences as a 44 year-old woman returning to live at home with her parents, at its heart it’s a book about change.  Namely, what do we do when life throws an onslaught of unwelcome changes in our path?  And can forward movement really be accomplished by going back?  If you want to learn something about resiliency and forgiveness, necessary ingredients in the process of change, read this book, because Janzen is a picture of both.

During her time at home with her parents, Janzen reconnects with a childhood friend, a woman with whom she shares a great deal in common but whose life took a completely different path.  Janzen chose the secular path to academia, while her friend, Eva, becomes a Mennonite scholar.  Janzen leads a cosmopolitan life sans children; sensible Eva is a small-town mother of two.  And yet, at their core they are so similar that each woman sees how her own life could have easily turned out like the other’s.  In the wake of a dinner at Eva’s house, Janzen ponders the following:

I sometimes ask my college students if they think it’s possible for a thirty-plus adult to experience saltatory ideological change.  I tell them that I’m not talking about the kind of gradual mellowing that results from age.  Nor do I mean the kind of abrupt character fissure that opens in the wake of trauma or suffering.  Rather, I want to know what they think about the possibility of a profound, lasting change that emerges from an act of deliberated, conscious self-determination.  I want to know if they think we can change our core assumptions about what we believe.  About how we believe. Yes, say my students. Absolutely!  Of course we can change! And then I marvel at their hope.  My students carry optimism around in their backpacks like bright bottles of designer water.

Saltatory. I admit, I had to look up the word in the dictionary (MS Word didn’t recognize it either, and kept insisting I change the word to “salutatory”).  According to Merriam-Webster, the definition is “proceeding by leaps rather than gradual transitions.”  And this definition made me chuckle a little, because when Anne and I talk about our differing approaches to change, this is often how we couch it:  I make sweeping changes, and Anne makes small adjustments.  In fact, I’m grateful to have a single, concise word that perfectly captures how I face change, and I plan to use it as often as humanely possible.  And although my changes tend to be saltatory, I often find myself posing the same questions that Janzen does.  Is real self-imposed change possible? I know this is a question I’ve posed here before, but I’d like to look at it from a different angle.  From the angle of happiness.

When I was younger, everything seemed possible.  There was nothing so permanent in my life that couldn’t be changed.  All of the structures, the scaffolding, that held my up my little world were precariously temporary.  I liked it that way, because it meant that anything could be torn down and rebuilt at any time.  I had so much faith in saltatory change.  As I’ve matured, while the lure of dramatic change is still there, I find myself less enamored with it.  I find myself working harder to make the most of my circumstances rather than change those circumstances, perhaps because I know, deep down, that the attachments I’ve made mean that my life is more or less fixed in a certain constellation.  By virtue of making certain choices, I’ve eliminated others.  This dawning realization isn’t sad or hopeless or depressing for me.  It just means a new phase of life where happiness doesn’t necessarily equal saltatory change – a stage I couldn’t have predicted when I was a college student in my late teens.  Because as the happiness research says, we’re terrible at predicting what will make us happy in the future because we’re bound by what we think we will make us happy today.  And as a 20-something, the things I thought would have made me happy at 31 are far different than the things that really make me happy.

So is it possible to change our core beliefs at any age?  Sure it is.  But I think, at this stage, we’re more likely to feel the pull of making the most of what our life is – unless life-altering circumstances force us otherwise – because, for most of us, saltatory change isn’t what it once was.

Answer the question that Janzen posed to her college students:  is it possible for a thirty-plus adult to experience saltatory ideological change?  Are we happier accepting our lot in life or struggling against it (or something in between)?

In other news, our friends, Emily and Jennifer, at Mothers of Brothers were nominated as one of the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers by Babble.com.  As they say at the Oscars, it’s an honor just to be nominated, right ladies?  But I’d love to see them win, so if you support their great blog, vote for them here.

Posted by Elizabeth

All of us, more than anything, want to be happy.  When I worked as a career counselor, my first session with a client typically revolved around getting to know a little about the nature of their problems and setting some initial goals.  Usually at some point during the session, the client would sharply sigh, clearly frustrated, and say, “I just want to be happy.”  When pushed to elaborate – what does happiness look like for you? – most clients were vague at best.  The truth of the matter is, most of us want to be happy; we just don’t know exactly what will make us happy.  Even science has confirmed this fact, with study after study confirming that most of us do a terrible job of predicting our own happiness (Stumbling on Happiness by Harvard social psychologist and happiness researcher Daniel Gilbert provides an excellent elaboration on this topic).  In other words, the things we think will make us happy don’t…and vice versa.  So what are we to do?  How are we to move forward on this path towards finding greater happiness in our lives?

Over the past three evenings, I’ve invested six hours of my life trying to move a little closer to the answers.  PBS aired This Emotional Life (hosted, incidentally, by the same Daniel Gilbert who wrote Stumbling on Happiness), providing a fascinating and multifaceted look into the age-old question, “What makes me happy?”  The results, as it turns out, are sometimes unexpected.  Here are the top ten things I learned about happiness:

1. Social connections are a key to happiness.
2. We can change our feelings by changing our thoughts.  According to science, we can think our way to happiness in specific ways.
3. While most of us would love to eliminate the negative emotions that stand in the way of our happiness, it’s important to accept the whole range of our emotional experience.  (Those negative emotions, it turns out, evolved as part of our survival mechanism.)
4. Our future thoughts are shaped by our present thoughts.  Part of why we’re terrible at predicting what will make us happy in the future is because we’re influenced by what we think will make us happy today, leaving no room for the inevitability of change in the equation.
5. We tend to believe that changing our situation will change our level of happiness.  While this is true, it’s not to the extent we’d like to believe.  (A little thing called “hedonic adaption” leads us to believe that what makes us happy for a day will make us happy for a lifetime, which is not typically the case.)
6. Amongst our greatest attributes, we humans find ways to like and be happy with the things in life we’re stuck with.  In other words, a debilitating injury doesn’t usually spell long-term unhappiness.
7. Spending money on having shared experiences with the people you love is typically a good use of your hard-earned dollars.
8. Even though anger may be justified, it doesn’t typically help you feel better, more happy, or extricate you from the situation.
9. Righteousness is a replacement for happiness.  In other words, you can choose to be right or you can choose to be happy.
10. Eliminating the burden of the future helps us to be happier.  When we know our time is limited, we are more likely to slow down and savor our present circumstances.

What strikes me about this list is the sheer volume and variety of things that make us happy:  there is no silver bullet, but a complex constellation of factors that can add to – or detract from – our happiness.    Whether we’d care to admit it or not, I think most of us are searching desperately for that silver bullet, even when we know it doesn’t exist.  And so happiness remains elusive.

I am also struck by the number of paradoxes on this list:  changing your thoughts helps, but changing your circumstances?  Not so much.  In this complicated equation, Change is not always equal.  This is an important distinction for a change-a-holic like me, who often (wrongly) assumes that all change is good, guaranteed to lead to greater happiness.  I’d probably be better off by focusing on making the changes that are proven to bring about happiness.  But if I’m anything like the scientists tell me I am, I will likely ignore their advice and keep making the sweeping changes that I assume will make me happy.

One last paradox:  I noticed a curious thing while watching this program.  In a number of instances, when people were mired in the depths of despair, their turning point towards leading a happier life came when they posed one simple question to themselves and didn’t have the answer:  “Now what?”  Most of us believe that happiness comes knocking at our door when we begin to have the answers, but this beautifully illustrates that perhaps happiness comes when we embrace the full weight and uncertainty of life.  Only then do doors to possibilities begin flying open for us.

What makes you happy?  Do you agree or disagree with the items on the list?  Is happiness something we can quantify through science, or is it all a bunch of bullroar?

Posted by Elizabeth

I was walking with Maikael in our neighborhood park one cold-but-sunny afternoon last week when I spotted a little boy playing happily with his father.  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the little boy began issuing loud, ragged sobs, and I turned to Maikael and said, “Kids sure do cry a lot, don’t they?  It doesn’t take much to upset a kid and set them on a crying jag.”  As we circled the park we talked about the benefits of growing older:  whereas we cry nearly daily as babies, crying – at least for most of us – ceases to be an everyday occurrence as we blossom into adulthood.  As we mature we’re better able to handle the slings and arrows that life hurls our way.  But as we rounded the bend and came upon the son and father, just minutes later, the little boy was giggling and bouncing and playing happily once again.  It might not take much to get a kid crying, but they sure do recover a great deal more quickly than we adults do.

Bouncing back.  Bending in the wind.  Getting back on the horse.  Call it what you will, but resiliency — the ability to get back up when life has knocked you down — might be one of the most important lessons we have to learn about living a Life in Pencil.  We all know people who seem to meet life’s challenges with remarkable grit and determination…and those who are flattened at the first sign of trouble.  Resiliency is a hot topic in the world of psychological research, and in my graduate studies in counseling I learned that the ability to adapt to the changes that life throws our way is one of the most important ingredients to successful living.  So what skills or qualities do resilient people maintain in their reserves?  And, if we weren’t blessed with an innate ability to quickly spring back after misfortune strikes, is it possible to learn to become more resilient?

In The Secrets of Resilient People by Beth Howard (which, incidentally, I read in my mother-in-law’s AARP magazine over Christmas), the author lists the critical ingredients of resilient individuals:  they stay connected, they’re optimistic, they’re spiritual, they’re playful, they give back, they pick their battles, they stay healthy, they actively seek solutions, and they find the silver lining.  What strikes me about this list is that the vast majority of the items imply action. Resiliency is something we must do, that we must practice, which leads me to believe it’s something we can become better at.  Resiliency isn’t simply saying, “This bad thing happened to me, and now I’m going to sit back and roll with it” (although, if you can do that, more power to you).  Resilient individuals do something about their situation.  Sure, some of us might come by resiliency more naturally than others, but resiliency is more of a way of being in the world than simply a blissful state of mind.

The author includes a quiz on resiliency, where readers are asked to rate their levels of proficiency in each area.  Here are the items:

I’m usually upbeat

I can tolerate high levels of ambiguity and uncertainty about situations

I adapt quickly to new developments

I find the humor in rough situations and can laugh at myself

I learn valuable lessons from my experiences and from the experiences of others

I’m good at solving problems

I’m strong and durable

I’ve converted misfortune into good luck and found benefits in bad experiences

As I read this, I thought, “Wow, this is what Life in Pencil is all about!”  These are the very skills we encourage you, our readers, to cultivate on a daily basis.  I’d never considered that when we talk about change we’re often talking resiliency, which I’m beginning to see are two sides of the same coin.  Life is nothing but a series of changes, and it’s not the changes themselves but how we handle and respond to those changes that determine our success and happiness.  This, in a nutshell, is resiliency.  We write a great deal about approaching change as a personal choice:  we can ignore it, embrace it, or tentatively accept it.  We can love it, hate it, or feel indifferent to it.  But the reality is we don’t choose change; change chooses us.  And given that fact, perhaps it would be wiser to focus on how we’ll cope with the inevitability of those changes rather than the choice of change in the first place?

So how do we become better at resiliency?  First, something must go awry for us to be resilient towards.  All of us are forced into this situation at one time or another — we lose a job unexpectedly, a family member dies, we’re diagnosed with a disease.  If we’re lucky, we may not experience these difficult events often enough to get any substantial “practice” at resiliency.  When I worked in the university setting – first as an admissions counselor, and later as a career counselor – I was often witness to young adults, somewhere between the ages of 18 and 22, facing the first real disappointment of their lives.  And how they handled those disappointments often told me a great deal about not only their capacity for resiliency, but what I predicted to be their future success as independent adults.  Some students, upon learning that they’d been denied admission to the university, absolutely crumbled.  Other students, upon learning that they hadn’t landed the first job they applied for, expressed their disappointment, but handled that disappointment with grace.  Perhaps that second group of students had a greater proclivity towards resiliency, but I think the mitigating difference comes down to one of experience. I think that second group of students had faced failure and heartache before, and had some practice at what that felt like.  Some of them may not have chosen the difficult circumstances that taught them their resiliency, while others may have placed themselves in situations that invited disappointment.   Perhaps, then, those most resilient are risk-takers:  they have developed their ability to handle failure through a repeated series of trial and error.  And if that is the case, we could all stand to take more risks, face more failures, and become more resilient in the process.

Would you describe yourself as a resilient person?  What do you think are the key ingredients to resiliency?  Do you think resiliency is an important part of the process of change?

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

Posted by Elizabeth

Old Town, Albuquerque

This past weekend was what I affectionately dubbed “My Crazy Holiday Weekend,” a flurry of activity crammed into the 60 hours between Friday morning and Sunday evening.  There was a Charles Dickens Tea with my friend, Paris, where we munched on Great Expectations Beef Wellington, Tiny Tim’s Stuffed Cherry Tomato, and Little Dorrit’s Sticky Toffee Pudding amid a cozy tearoom bathed in soft light and merry music.  After that was shopping in Old Town, the ancient adobe buildings draped in swags of evergreen and crowed with old-fashioned luminarias, the original New Mexican holiday decoration.  There was dinner with Ignacio and Anna at an old-fashioned hacienda on the outskirts of town, where they serve killer drinks and smoky-hot enchiladas, a final “hurrah” before we leave town for the holidays.  There was a just-because brunch with my friend, Sarah, and the neighborhood holiday party, where we hobnobbed with neighbors we see but once a year.  But amidst all the hustle and bustle, I found a few hours of quiet reflection in the most unlikely of places:  a holiday sing-a-long.

Singing used to be a huge part of the season for me.  For the six years between junior high and high school graduation, the weekends during the month of December were booked solid with a never-ending parade of vocal recitals and Christmas concerts, a multilingual cavalcade of music.  The rhythm of our household danced to the beat of music one month of the year, leaving little time for other holiday revelry.  And that was okay with us.  When I was 12, I remember my first concert with the Seattle Girls’ Choir, our voices filling one of the mammoth downtown churches.  Ask my dad to recall a Christmas memory, and he will tell you about the time my choir sang on the Seattle Waterfront, a string of teenage girls forming a processional into the space, candles casting a soft glow on our faces, as my solo voice rang out acapella over the crowded room…

Veni, veni Emmanuel;
Captivum solve Israel,
Qui gemit in exilio,
Privatus Dei Filio.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
Nascetur pro te, Israel.

He remembers the words to this day.

When I got invited to a holiday sing-a-long at The Jobe’s this Saturday, I was immediately transported back to this time in life when singing was synonymous with the holidays.  I eagerly accepted the invitation, excited to join voices with a group, something I hadn’t done in nearly 13 years.  The house was aglow with twinkly lights, a sweet little Christmas tree, laced with strands of popcorn, perched in the front window.  I stepped into the house, which was filled with the aroma of posole, a Mexican stew studded with giant kernels of hominy and pork that is traditionally served during the holidays.  A felt banner with the 12 Days of Christmas, stitched years ago, lined the mantel, and a Nativity scene, graced with real frankincense, took center stage.  As is always the case at The Jobe’s, I felt as if I had stepped back in time.

LiP Reader ABF and daughter, Madison, nestled together after the sing-a-long.

Mrs. Jobe distributed songbooks, “The Annual Jobe Family Sing-a-Long” scrawled by hand on the front in silvery letters, to our little group, our numbers having dwindled in the hours before the party from 18 to eight, before settling herself at the piano.  For an hour she plunked out familiar songs, and we smiled at one another as we sang Silver Bells and Silent Night. I learned Christmas in Killarney, a Jobe Family favorite that I had never heard before.  When we sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town, I laughed and told the group that I hated the song:   my dad always sang it to me when I was being bad, the lines, “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good” setting me sobbing every time.

At the end, Mr. Jobe called to Mrs. Jobe, “Get me my broom, Mary.”  Recovering from a knee surgery, Mr. Jobe propped himself on the edge of his plush recliner, clutching his weathered broom in one hand, and started to tell a story.

“Back when I was growing up — this is 70 years ago now – I went to a country school.  Every year we had a Christmas party.  We didn’t give much because there wasn’t much to give, but Santa Claus came and all the children got a piece of candy.  There was a Christmas pageant, and at the end, when it was time to go home, a first-grader was selected to give a little speech at the end.  When I was in first grade, I was that boy.  I stood on the stage with a broom, making like a janitor, and said this poem.”

Mr. Jobe recited a poem from memory, “The Janitor’s Ode,” which said, in a nutshell, “the show’s over, get your kids and go on home now.”  And with that, the singing was over and we adjourned to the warmth of the kitchen, where we ladled big bowls of posole and a steaming plate of fresh pinto beans.  Our little party sat around the table, where we caught up, sotto voce, on the last three months since I’d seen them.

As I made my way out to the car as night began to fall, it struck me that the tradition of singing during the holidays wasn’t about the quality of the voices or the repertoire or the music.  It was about coming together for a moment in time, being one united voice, if only for an hour.  It was about a brief respite of solitude cutting through the frenetic energy of the season.  Even though those holidays of my youth, revolving around a busy performance schedule, were action-packed, once we hit the stage, our voices raised in unison, the concerns of the outside world disappeared.  Because when we sing, we can be nowhere other than exactly where we are.

Which holiday activities or rituals transport you to the past while keeping you grounded in the present?  What’s your favorite holiday song?  Does a sing-a-long sound like fun, or your worst nightmare?  Where do you find community this time of year?

In New Mexico, nothing brings a group together quicker than posole, and you won’t find a holiday party without a pot simmering on the stove.  If you’re looking for a taste of New Mexico this December, try my mother-in-law’s recipe, which she makes every year.

Cecilia’s Posole

1 large pork roast, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 espinazo (pork back) – she insists you need the bones to flavor the broth
8 cups water, or enough to keep pork submerged in pot
9 garlic cloves, divided
5 to 10 dried California chiles, washed and deseeded (use gloves!)
1 medium onion, chopped
Pinch of cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
10 to 12 cans of white hominy, drained of any liquid

Add chopped pork roast, espinazo, 5 garlic cloves, water, and salt and pepper to taste in a very large Dutch oven or soup pot.  Simmer until pork is throughly cooked, about an hour.  Meanwhile, simmer chiles with plenty of water, about an hour.  Strain chiles, reserving the cooking water.  Add chiles to blender with onion, a pinch of cumin, 4 garlic cloves, and enough of the reserved cooking water to achieve a proper sauce-like consistency (start small, and add more water as needed — it should be neither too thin or too thick).  Add hominy and chile sauce to the stock, and let it simmer until meat is very tender.  Remove bones from stock.

Serves a LOT.  This is a party stew!