Once inside we stood in another long line that formed a serpentine around the perimeter of the packed room, waiting for espresso, and my black mood dug in even deeper.  Standing outside of myself it was clear that I was casting a pall over what was supposed to be an uplifting outing.  As I watched myself, simultaneously observing and chastising my behavior, I felt as if I was witnessing a runaway train that I couldn’t stop.  Ensnared in a net of my own making, I struggled desperately to escape this swift downward emotional spiral.  But like a helpless bug caught in a spider’s silken web the more I struggled the more entangled I became, inflated expectation having gotten the best of me once again.

My eyes swept over the cavernous space, which looked as if it had been outfitted from an obliging thrift store.  The rafters were strung with twinkly Christmas lights, old globes bobbed from the ceiling, and frilly lampshades were slung over antique lamps, casting pockets of warmth around the space.  The room buzzed with life:  the strains of the musicians tuning their instruments, the whoosh of the espresso machine, a timpani of chattering voices.  White light seeped through a stained glass window.  Suddenly I look to my left and notice a small vintage nightlight.  A little ceramic dog tugs at the coattails of a little ceramic boy, and the words “Let Go” are lit up at the bottom.  I point this out to Maikael, laughing, and immediately begin to feel a small shift inside myself.

It was a unique setting to listen to Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring, not a grand concert hall but a spare space.  When the conductor introduced the piece he noted that, while it has been famously arranged for large symphony orchestras, the original work was created for a small 14-instrument group like the one assembled before us.  As the opening strains of the music floated through the air, soft and slow, I heard someone cough.  I heard a violinist turn the page of her music in a papery rustle.  As the music built I heard the conductor grunt for emphasis, his fist punching the air.  I even heard the silence.  It was easy to notice these details in such an intimate setting, and by the time we reached the piece’s most iconic movement in a deep crescendo, the Shaker tune Simple Gifts, any darkness I felt that morning had been suffused with light.

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight

After listening to a local poet we hear a two-person concerto, also by Copeland.  Coming quick on the heels of Appalachian Spring, the clarinetist remarks how that work always reminds him that less is more.  “As much as we like to think that things like iPhones are making our lives cleaner and simpler, they’re not,” he says, a wave of knowing chuckles rippling through the audience, causing the man seated next to me to actually put down his iPhone.  “Copeland always reminds me that all we really need are a few well-chosen connections and activities to make a life.”  These words settle deep into me, a sentiment I have heard a thousand times in different configurations, but which pierce me differently this particular morning.  When the clarinetist introduces the concerto, he notes that while a symphony is like a city and what we’ve just listened to is a village, this concerto is like being at home.  He is right.  It is quiet and intimate; I can hear each gasping breath he takes.  As he sways lyrically to the simple tune I think of the days when people gathered at home and listened to one another play music as evening settled in around them.  I have a dawning awareness that what I was searching for when I came here today was life like a concerto, a drawing in close filled with soft, humble ritual and simple rhythms.  And while this morning has offered the place of easy repose that I was hoping for, I realize that I need not have left home to access it.  The real “letting go” is learning to take a piece of this experience with me and carry it forward into my everyday life, where the concerns of the spirit are bound by nothing more than the modest walls of home.

I have always been obsessed by life’s deepest mysteries, the ones that religion delves deeply into, grapples furiously with, and dances a madcap tango to.  I reside in the vagaries of the soul, wrestle constantly with The Big Questions, and strive to feel a connection to that ephemeral something that is just beyond our grasp.  My studies in theatre and counseling were propelled by a compulsion to zip myself inside the skin of someone else in order to understand the human condition, and had the foundation of my life not been formed on a spiritual fault line, I have no doubt I would have found great satisfaction in studying theology and entering the clergy.

When Abra was born, we didn’t struggle much with what part religion would play in her young life.  “Let her choose for herself when she’s old enough to decide,” seemed to be our collective decision.  And yet my eight year-old self, the one who created ceremony out of stuffed animals and folk songs to feel connected to something bigger than herself, wondered what Abra might be missing out on.  So when my mother-in-law asked if we would consider baptizing her during our recent trip to Mexico at an historic Catholic church, my hesitation was, I admit, perfunctory.

We nose the aging Toyota 4Runner down the cobbled road leading up to Santuario de Atotonilco, kicking up plumes of dust in our wake.  We step inside the dark office where Abra’s birth certificate will be registered in the church records, and after some minor confusion about the difference between “Mexico” and “New Mexico,” we are guided towards the church across the way.  I carry Abra in the crook of my arm, her frilly white dress fluttering in the breeze as she squints against the harsh sun pouring down.  Inside the cool cathedral, surrounded by peeling frescoes, it quickly becomes apparent that we are the smallest group with the most modestly-dressed baby.   One girl, surrounded by a clutch of friends and relatives, is as pretty as a wedding cake, her long gown trailing a cascade of frothy fabric.  A little boy looks positively regal in an oyster-colored cape, the scepter the only thing missing from his royal costume.

We take a seat in one of the small chapels just off the main altar, whispering to one another as I quietly nurse Abra, who is rattled by the unfamiliar surroundings, which soothes both of us.  A wrought-iron table supporting a simple porcelain pitcher stands at the ready (the chapel with the large stone baptismal font is, unfortunately, undergoing renovation).  The small room quickly fills with people as the priest, draped in a long, white robe, steps to the front.  He begins speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, a rat-a-tat-tat that I quickly lose track of but wish desperately that I could understand.

Prayers and benedictions are spoken in unison by rote, as if everyone has walked down this well-worn path a thousand times before, and I murmur along as best I can, lagging a step behind.  Although the other three babies being baptized look alert and ready to begin their journey into the Catholic church, Abra alternates between crying and sleeping, a pendulum of energy swinging back and forth.  But each time the priest approaches her – to anoint her chest with a smudge of sticky oil, to sprinkle a shower of holy water on her tiny forehead – she stares intently into his eyes, a wave of calm washing over her in a way that causes a wave of chills to crash over me.

When the moment of her baptism comes, we approach the rickety table and the priest leans over and whispers, “Donde esta la concha?” My mother-in-law turns to me searchingly, her eyes translating, “Where is the shell?”  Lost in the script of the day, I had no idea that we were already to the part where the dainty scallop, used to trickle water over her head, was to play its part.  In its absence, Abra receives a steady cascade of water from that obliging pitcher, matting the fuzzy tuft of hair to her head and causing her to issue a cry that reverberates through the stony chapel.  But she is calmed once again when her baptismal candle is lit, casting a soft glow across her face and transfixing her gaze.  She reaches repeatedly for the flickering flame, as if she is reaching out to touch tradition itself.

At the end of the ceremony we make our way to the small altar to have our picture taken with the priest, as if we are posing for a photo op with a head of state.  Unsure whether to smile or look stoic, I awkwardly hold up Abra’s baptismal certificate for display, as if I have just won a major award.  I have fumbled my way through this experience, utterly in the dark, unsure what was coming around the bend.  I am once again that skinny eight year-old girl clutching her makeshift hymnal, standing at the fringes of something bigger than herself, wanting desperately to be a part of the ritual and ceremony but not quite knowing the steps.  But I am closer than I’ve ever been because, whether we are willing to admit it or not, our children are the unwitting vessels of the lost pieces of ourselves.

When I ask Maikael later to translate the priest’s opening words, he says, “Being baptized is just the beginning of the journey.”  Who knows what choices my daughter will ultimately make in her spiritual life; that’s for her to decide.  But I hope she’ll always know that she is connected to a force greater than herself; that she feel a little less lost on the journey than I have; that, like a flickering flame, spirit and faith be so palpable that she need only reach out and touch it with her fingertips.

I’m back!  And I’ve missed you.  Sorry it’s taken me so long to get my act together after our epic journey to Mexico.  Abra barely slept for two weeks and, well, it’s taken me twice as long as that to get back on track.  But I’m here.  Thanks for waiting.

The Bucolic Plague chronicles the (mis)adventures of two city slickers who buy a mansion — and its accompanying farm — in the snug rural enclave of Sharon Springs, New York, and try to make a go of it.  Hilarity ensues.  But my favorite part of the book is decidedly un-funny, a scene in which Josh and his partner host a community home tour at their mansion.  It’s been an exceedingly long summer as they try to transform the Beekman Mansion from a weekend getaway into a profitable endeavor, and after overhearing some snarky comments about their efforts from their neighbors during the tour they retreat to the garden.

A woman wanders through the perfectly manicured plots, commenting how much she admires what they’ve done with the property and compares it to her own “Wabi Sabi” garden, a Japanese aesthetic that defines beauty as “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.”  I’d never heard the term before, but after reading more about it and becoming slightly obsessed with the idea over the past week, I’ve come to learn that Wabi Sabi embraces the concept that nothing lasts forever; everything in life is always in the process of becoming something else.  It finds beauty in the simple, growth in imperfection, uniqueness in the imperfect.  I was struck by how “life in pencil” the whole thing sounded.

The woman in the garden says:

When you two bought the Beekman, you began using it.  And with use, comes decay.  And with decay comes work.  And with work comes dedication.  And with dedication comes creativity.  And on and on.  You two will never be finished with the Beekman, it will never be perfect, and it will always be falling to pieces around you.

My life has never felt more Wabi Sabi.  Before Abra arrived on the scene, it was easy to keep things in check.  I slashed lines through the to-do list, cleaned the bathroom, promptly returned phone calls, and aimed the blow dryer at my hair from time to time.  When things invariably fell apart during the week, I always had the weekend to bring order and structure back to the fold.  Now my life feels as if it’s falling apart day in and day out, and there is no reprieve.  I am on an infinite loop of chaos, and I struggle daily to accept this new Wabi Sabi reality I am living.

Growing up, there was a family whose daughter I played with from time to time.  Their house was immaculate.  They were forever replacing the alabaster carpet.  There were no sloppy piles on the kitchen counter.  I doubt there was a junk drawer to be had in the whole place.  There was nothing Wabi Sabi about it.  But what I remember most was how uneasy it made me feel to walk through its immaculate rooms.  While there was the obvious nervousness about breaking a dish or spilling something on the spotless floor, there was a deeper disquietude that took hold inside those pristine walls. It’s easy to keep a house – and a life – in order when it isn’t being used.

Does my life feel like a train wreck most days?  Yes.  Do I wish I could feel more in control of a situation that seems to be utterly uncontrollable?  Most certainly.  But what I realize is that my life before Abra was held at arm’s length, never being fully used. Although many days drift by in a boring haze, I can say with confidence that every ounce of life is squeezed from them.  I begin the morning as a sopping wet washcloth, and by the time my head hits the pillow I am rung dry, every fiber of my being having been fully engaged and occupied in the everyday business of living and loving and raising another human being.  In what is becoming a nagging theme, I am once again reminded that my life is not a passing phase to be weathered.  There is no end point, except for the ultimate one.  For someone who has always carefully portioned her life into neat sections with easily quantifiable goals and milestones, a series of gentle starts and stops, the idea that I will never be finished with my life – that my life will never be finished with me – is nearly unfathomable.  There is only this life – my Wabi Sabi life – and it’s my job to ring it dry every day, no matter how imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.

Please join me on Thursday. February 10, at 1 pm EST for what promises to be a rich discussion on Mindful Mothering: Parenting in the Here and Now at TheMotherhood. Registration is quick and easy!

A poem by Marianne Williamson

Spiritual growth is like childbirth.  You dilate, then you contract.
You dilate, then you contract again.
As painful as it all feels, it’s the necessary rhythm for reaching the ultimate goal of total openness.
The pain of childbirth is more bearable as we realize where it’s leading.
Giving birth to ourselves, our new selves, our real selves, whether we are men or women,
Is a lot like giving birth to a child.
It’s an idea that is conceived, then incubates.
Childbirth is difficult, but holding the child makes the pain worthwhile.
And so it is when we finally have a glimpse of our own completion as human beings – regardless of our husband or lack of one, our boyfriend or lack of one, our job or lack of one, our money or lack of it, our children or lack of any, or whatever else we think we need in order to thrive and be happy.
When we finally have touched on a spiritual high that is real and enduring, then we know that the pain of getting there was worth it, and the years ahead will never be as lonely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up, Sundays were special.  It wasn’t because we went to church, because we didn’t, but my family observed the Sabbath in our own way.  Sunday was the only day of the week that my mother didn’t work, so, desperate for a rest, the activity of the seventh day usually orbited around home and hearth.  Although it didn’t happen like clockwork, more times than not my mother made a special dinner, whipping up a dish that required the kind of tending that only hours at home could provide.   Pot roast would cozy us next to rustic apple crisp, steaming up the kitchen windows on a cold winter’s day.  Cool slices of banana cream pie – my dad’s favorite – would be dished up in the warm summer months.  These were not fancy, complicated meals served on our best, chipped china; rather, they were an everyday centerpiece to our small family of three being in one place, at one time, one day of the week.

As my thoughts turn towards my own soon-to-be family of three, I’ve become interested in resurrecting this particular version of the Sabbath; one that has not religious meaning but a personally spiritual one.  And it seems as if I’m not the only one concerned with rewriting what it means to take a day of rest.  Over the last year, I’ve noticed the publication of books like Judith Shulevitz’s The Sabbath World and Dani Shapiro’s spiritual memoir Devotion. I’ve dipped in and out of the blog A Year (or More) of Shabbats, tracing one family’s journey to share Friday night Shabbat dinners with friends.  Just last week, The New York Times featured an article (also by Shulevitz), Creating Sabbath Peace Amid the Noise, which highlights the different ways in which people are adapting ancient Sabbath rituals for modern times, from eating a special meal to forgoing shopping and disconnecting from technology.  Taken as a whole, I can’t help but think that, as a culture, we are itching to bring more quiet, more meaning, and more connection into our everyday lives.

Sometimes I let my mind run wild with visions of the small Sabbath feasts that I will make tradition in my expanding family.  Home-cooked meals will be served on the delicate Noritake china that my mother-in-law gifted me.  We will toast to the clink of the Waterford crystal goblets that were passed down from my parents.  We will sit around the stately cherry dining room table that was my grandparents’, swallowed whole by candlelight.  And this will happen every Sunday, without fail.  But just as soon as I create this gauzy vision it is withered by reality.  Once again, my imagination has set me up to fail, and I’ve missed the point completely.  As I think about rewriting my relationship to Sunday, I’d be smart to pay attention to two pieces of wisdom from Shulevitz’s article:
1.  “Sometimes doing things halfway is exactly what we need to do.”
2.  “The second you write down the rules, it doesn’t work.”

In other words, like living Life in Pencil itself, we’d be wise to create our own version of the Sabbath in a way that works for us, and to keep rewriting it as our lives change.  Traditions are wonderful, but we’re more likely to maintain them if we take a flexible approach.  As I reflect on the Sabbaths of my childhood, the shards of memories that glimmer from the corners of my mind are those of good food, quiet, and togetherness; you don’t need any elaborate ritual to do that.

Are you as enamored as I am with this idea of the modern day Sabbath? Do you have a Sabbath day ritual, secular or non-secular?  What ideas do you have for creating or maintaining a day of rest?  I encourage you to read Shulevitz’s New York Times article; it is short, but instructive.

“It’s time you started swimming,” said my massage therapist, a declaration more than a suggestion.  Citing the health benefits to my ever-stretching abdominal muscles, as well as keeping my body temperature cool during these sweltering desert summers, I couldn’t argue.  As the mercury threatens to dip into the triple digits – a rarity in June – I find myself parked squarely under the ceiling fan, dress pooling around my knees, slurping on popsicles.  I don’t have energy for much these days; it took me all morning to gather the strength to make a quick run to the library, a decision I immediately regretted as soon as the sun began blazing through my windshield.  If the refrigerator wasn’t bare, I’m not sure I would have made it to the grocery store this week.  The result of this heat wave has been days that creep by in a hazy mirage, perfectly matching my internal pace.

Although it’s been years since I’ve taken to the pool on a regular basis, I used to be a waterbaby.  My parents made sure I knew how to swim from a young age, and once I was initiated I immediately took to the water.  Growing up in Seattle, a city cradled by waterways, life on the water was second nature; that there are people in this world who can’t swim is unfathomable to me.  I remember wading in shallow backyard pools as fondly as I remember summertime trips to the beach, where I emerged from the icy waters of Puget Sound layered with a thin crust of salt.  I splashed in rivers and streams, dodged fish that skimmed my scrawny legs in bottle green lakes, and crashed through waves on flimsy inflatables tethered to the backs of boats.  I did not wear goggles or sunscreen or swimming caps; the part of my hair was perpetually stained an angry crimson and coated with a fine layer of sand.

When I was in elementary school, my family was lucky enough to join our neighborhood swim club.  I pedaled myself to the club each morning on a pink My Fair Lady Schwinn, my long, stringy hair, streaked with sun and chlorine, flying behind me in a mad tangle as the first rays of sun filtered through the day.  I swam as part of the club’s swim team, a group I joined not because I was interested in the sport of swimming but because it afforded me more time in the water.  I was never very good at swimming competitively.  A bit like Ferdinand the Bull, who was content sniffing the flowers all day, I much preferred the times when I returned in the cool evenings with my dad, where I cannonballed off the slippery edges, leapt from the sandpaper diving board, and raced my dad to the end of the pool.

It’s been 20 years since I swam laps, and those repeated experiences of always coming in last at swim meets are with me as I take my first cool steps into the water.  I swim early in the morning when the pool is quiet and all but empty, having just crawled out of bed 10 minutes earlier.  At first my limbs are clumsy, my strokes uneven, my mind still foggy from sleep, but I push on.  I swim towards the soft shafts of light that filter through the water, casting shadows that dance like a twirling kaleidoscope at the edge of the pool, a beacon that helps relax my mind.  Soon my body slices through the water, gaining confidence, strength, and fluidity with every sure stroke, my legs scissoring back and forth as I cut a neat line down the center of the pool.

But I don’t move quickly.

Although I’ve never been interested in competitive sports, exercise has become the thing I do to keep the scales from tipping too precipitously in one direction, and I realize that it’s with a certain amount of intensity that I’ve learned to approach physical activity over the years.  During the course of my pregnancy, I have embarked on a gradual process of trading down, swapping upbeat dance classes and sweat-inducing strength training with walking, yoga and, finally, swimming.  Now that I struggle to do anything quickly, I have no choice but to surrender to the will of my body, which gently corkscrews through the water, my arms creating slow swooping arches overhead.  I don’t slap the water with my hand, an aggressive move I learned on that swim team to help propel myself forward, but cup the water with my hands, sending tiny trails of effervescent bubbles in my wake.  When I breaststroke I don’t bob in and out of the water, shallow and quick, gasping for breath at the surface, like I was trained to do.  Instead, I submerge myself deep, clearing the water in front of me in long, slow loops, as if I’m pushing a heavy curtain aside.

As I fall into a slow and steady rhythm, I find myself concentrating less on the movements of my body and more on the motions of my mind.  I am no longer counting the laps or the minutes, or focusing on the gait of my stroke.  I lose myself in my thoughts as the water washes my worries smooth and clean.  I’ve forgotten how good it feels to submit to the water:  when I am swimming, there is no resistance.  It is the only time during the day that my body and mind aren’t straining and pushing against an invisible force.  Everything is effortless and easy, a feeling I desperately wish I could transport to my landlubbing life.  It occurs to me that my mind has finally caught up with my body:  neither allows me to move quickly.

Day by day I am transforming my relationship to how I move through the world.  Although my circumstances have forced me into a slower tempo, I discover that I’m happily embracing this new pace.  My weekly yoga class, which months ago I found tedious, boring, and physically unchallenging, has taken on a new dimension.  I move through the poses like molasses, stretching like pulled taffy, with no other goal than to feel good.  Normally one to grow weary and impatient of “relaxation exercises,” I find myself easily slipping into savasana.  My mind, a steel trap that eagerly clamps onto the never-ending parade of thoughts that march rigidly through my brain, is blessedly still.  Like my body in the swimming pool, my thoughts drift and float as I dip in and out of awareness.  Afterwards, I join the circle of women sporting half-moon bellies, cupping spicy mugs of strong chai, in no rush to get home to dinner.  If our goal is to slow down our lives – and who doesn’t seem to have that fervent wish these days? — perhaps we should focus not just on eliminating activity but slowing down the pace of our existing activities?

When I emerge from the water, slick as a seal, I am refreshed, body, mind, and spirit.  I have shaken off sleep and oiled rusty joints.  My mind is alert, crackling with life, ready to greet the day.  With each bubbly breath I have renewed my spirit.  This feeling – that wonderfully mysterious mix of being at once relaxed and energized – is what I want to hold onto always.  Somewhere on the other side of this stage of my life I’ll emerge with a desire to whip myself back into shape after pregnancy has taken its toll and done what it will with my body.  I’ll run, jump, lunge, shimmy, squat, sculpt, and lift myself back into my old clothes against a soundtrack of noisy “you can do it!” music.  I’ll rejoin the personal training studio that brought me so much pain.  Somehow, I’ll find a way to squeeze in all this frenzied activity.

But I hope that I remember what it felt like to move my body in a way that brought me pleasure, that felt relaxing and good.  I hope I remember that our bodies are not to be used against ourselves solely as an instrument of strain and sacrifice.  I hope I remember that, depending on how we choose to use them, our bodies can help us soothe our minds and connect us to our deeper selves.  If I have learned anything from being forced to slow down, it’s that the pace of our bodies matches the state of our minds.  I understand, more than ever, that, amidst all that high-energy activity, I will still need time to move slowly.  Only then can I think slow; only then can I be slow.

In what ways do you slow down your body?  Do you agree that the pace of our minds and bodies tend to match one another?  Do you think slowing down our bodies can slow down our lives?

This weekend, I conducted a highly scientific experiment.  I attempted to avoid all discussion of my future (or planning for my future) for 48 hours.  Here’s the context…

My husband and I skipped town for the weekend, and indulged in a much needed getaway.  Our destination was the intersection of the Columbia River and the Pacific Ocean—the little town of Astoria, Oregon.  The last time we visited Astoria, it was both a success and a disaster.  We loved the bizarre town—with its filming locales from The Goonies, its funky storefronts, misty skies, and maritime vibe.  But the last time we visited, I nearly ruined the final day of the trip with my obsessive planning and freakish need to know the future.  I wrote about it here.  It wasn’t pretty. 

This time, I decided to approach the weekend with a different attitude, and I’d like to offer the following report on the results of my weekend experiment. 

The Purpose:  To test my ability to spend 48 hours with my husband (including a couple of long car rides) without forcing us into a conversation wherein I attempt to plan the next 5 years of our lives. 

Hypothesis:  By focusing on the present rather than the future, I will enjoy myself more on our weekend away, thereby affirming my dedication and commitment to this Life in Pencil.

Null Hypothesis:  I will see no difference whatsoever, and be forced to conclude that Life in Pencil is a load of hooey. 

Methods/Procedures/Strategy: 
Before leaving, I set these rules…

1. For the duration of the trip, I am forbidden from introducing any subject that requires looking beyond 2 to 3 hours into the future. 

2. I will refrain from purposely steering our conversation towards the future.

3. When tempted to ask obnoxious, unanswerable questions about our future life together, I will look for a way to comment on the landscape, the weather, or The Goonies. 

4. If completely unable to comment on the present, I will ask about our plans for the next meal.  (This is generally a safe bet for me.  I’m easily distracted by food.)

Caffeine, children's literature, and time to write. I was armed with many strategies to distract myself from the future.

Results:
It was hard for me.  Nothing shocking there.  The surprising part was that my little experiment worked…just not in the way I suspected. You see, we still talked about the future.  But in a very different way.  I can only describe it as….natural.  Most of the time, we attended to the fun we were having.  We commented on the locals, the breeze, the food, and ships cutting through the water.  When our future arose in our conversations, we didn’t set timelines.  We wondered instead of planned.  And it was fun.  It was fun because I didn’t allow myself to become agitated.  I wasn’t fixated on finding answers to my questions about the future, and so I learned that daydreaming about the future with a loved one is a truly entertaining and emotionally intimate way to pass the time.   

Discussion: 
Avoiding all discussion of my future apparently isn’t the answer.  Attending to the present doesn’t always mean ignoring what’s to come.  The difference was in letting those conversations arise without effort—without forcing them.  And when the answers don’t come, and our future can’t be predicted…it’s time to let the conversation go.  It’s time to move back to pleasure of NOW.  

Final Note:  Feel free to attempt a replication of this study, if you suffer from the same “planning addict issues” I do.  If it doesn’t work for you, well, I don’t know what to tell you. This was an iron-clad study with highly scientific findings.  

Oh, and Life in Pencil is NOT, as it turns out, a load of hooey.

Okay, it's not this bad...

This week, we’ve been discussing to-do lists.  Life to-do lists.  Cosmic to-do lists.  But one astute reader reminded me that sometimes those little items on our lists can be just as satisfying to cross off—once the bigger items have been achieved.  And as Elizabeth captured yesterday, having some concrete, achievable goals can motivate us—keep us moving forward.

This leaves me wondering…are there current goals?  Goals I can achieve in the more immediate sense, that will also bring me peace?  That will help me feel settled?  (Always that need for “settled”…it deserves its own post, I tell you.)  If I were to follow the guidance of The Happiness Project, (which accompanies me on my commute to work these days), I would start with something like…clearing my clutter. This is easy, right?  And very satisfying. Maybe I should set this goal today!  And cross it off next week!  But I have a secret…

I kinda like clutter.

Not everyone knows this about me.  I tend to hide this dirty little secret, shoving piles into drawers and preventing anyone from seeing the twisted mess of unfolded sweaters in my closet.  And it may come as a surprise to some of you readers, as I’ve frequently declared myself a lover of all things list-like.  But I have news for you.  “Planners” are not always tidy.  I can prove it.  Currently, on or around my desk, are the following items:

1.  A bright green post-it bearing a hastily written chocolate chip cookie recipe that has proven to be the Holy Grail in my ongoing quest for the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe.  (Because I’m nice, I will share.)

2.  A phone number.  No clue whose or what.  Maybe I should call it and find out.  But I won’t.

3.  A souvenir golf ball from a course I played 7 MONTHS ago.  It sits inside a cute little box that holds notecards, which means I have to remove it every time I want to snag a notecard.

Now, before you are totally grossed out and stop reading this post, I should clarify.  I am clean.  And relatively orderly.  For example, my kitchen rarely goes without cleaning, and is actually very organized.  But the stuff in my kitchen?  It’s everywhere.  Pitchers, utensils, and bottles of olive oil.  My immaculately clean kitchen is still…cluttered.

A card I once bought. Ironically, I just found it the other day...amidst the clutter.

For some of you, just reading this declaration of clutter would be enough to drive you bonkers.  But I have to admit…none of it really bothers me.  I like my clutter.  To me, there is warmth in my clutter.  My piles—albeit relatively organized piles—create a sense of lived-in comfort.  There’s just something about seeing my stuff—being surrounded by books, pictures, notes, or balsamic vinegar—that makes me feel simply…at home.

But there is another reason I remained relatively cluttered.  It’s just not a priority.  Frequently, when I come home in the evening, I buzz around—rarely sitting—fixing my lunch for the next day, cooking dinner, and prepping my coffee for the next morning.  I can’t even count the number of times my husband has called me in from the kitchen to pat the blank space next to him on the couch and say, “Why don’t you just sit for a minute?” He’s asking me to be present. To stop bothering with the little things.

Would I feel more present–more “in the moment”–if I led a clutter-less life?  Should I add it to my -to-do list right now?  I have a very dear friend whom I visited a couple weeks ago in Seattle, and I’m always astounded by her lack of clutter.  And not only that, but I find her home soothing, relaxing, and not frenetic. Her space is homey, but free of all the junk.  But still…I can’t shake the feeling that if I truly decluttered, I’d miss the reminders, and the elements of my personality that are scattered and strewn all over our home.

So here’s my conclusion on these self-improvement lists—and “projects” that we seek to check off:  There are no easy solutions, and what works for one person (Gretchen Rubin) may not work for me.  My list must be my own.  My life to-do-list does need items more easily checked off than “have a family” and “buy a house”.  But these items will be my own priorities.  I will hold onto a reasonable degree of clutter, and live in my swirl of stuff—my cluttered, but stimulating stuff.

Am I alone on this one? Does anyone else like a lot of stuff around their house?  Or does clutter make you antsy?  What are some check-off-able things we can do to be more peaceful, and more present?

I’ll never forget the year I graduated from college, when well-meaning people began peppering me with the inevitable question that strikes fear in the heart of every senior.  “What are you going to do when you graduate?”  The fact was, other than a vague notion that I might move to New York and try to be an actor – with no concrete plan as to how to achieve that goal — I was clueless.  Much like Anne, my life had always fallen along neat timelines, and while my peers would have undoubtedly described me as “goal-oriented” — a phrase I’ve always despised — the fact was that, other than an ability to put one foot in front of the other, I didn’t have any goals.  I suddenly realized that the only item on life’s to-do list was “graduate from college,” which I was about to cross off.  Now what?

Since that uncertain spring ten years ago, my life has taken me down roads I never could have imagined for myself.  I owe part of the adventure to the fact that I’ve never clutched the traditional to-do list, with predetermined milestones to meet at specified times.  In fact, I don’t know if I ever had a life’s to-do list so much as a life’s to-don’t list. I was never interested in setting goals to get married, have children, buy a house, and establish a successful career. (While most of these things have inadvertently happened to me – isn’t that always the way? – they certainly didn’t fall along any self-imposed timelines or according to a plan, perhaps because you’re supposed to place your intention on what you do want rather than what you don’t want, lest the universe get confused and mix the whole thing up.)  While I was comfortable expressing what I didn’t want for my life, I struggled to place any goals on that to-do list.  Looking back, though, it’s clear that I was living my life according to a to-do list; in fact, it happens to be a version of the same one I clutch in my hands today.  It looks something like this:

1. Find spiritual enlightenment
2. Solidify my identity
3. Lead an interesting and exciting life full of mystery and adventure
4. Pursue a career that is the deepest reflection of my soul
5. Figure out my purpose on this earth

Yesterday, Anne and many of you readers expressed frustration at not knowing what to do or how to proceed now that you’ve checked off the major items on your to-do list.  But what do you do when you will never experience the satisfaction of crossing any of the items off your to-do list?  It took me a lot of years to understand that I did have goals – they just happened to be lifelong projects that are so esoteric and abstract that I will never have a chance to complete any of them.  If I could boil down this list into one goal, it would read, “Learn to be human.”  Because each of these goals is some version of learning to be a fuller, more complete being, a task that won’t be completed until the day I die.  Fantastic, huh?

Although Anne and I maintain different sorts of lists, I, too, struggle with the same feeling of foolishly waiting to arrive at “that place;” the location where the puzzle pieces finally fall perfectly into position and I am fully transformed.  I read somewhere once that you should only set goals that are achievable, attainable, and quantifiable; that large goals should be broken down into smaller “action items.”  While this isn’t really my style, I concede that having such mammoth, nebulous items on my life to-do list isn’t really helping me towards my ultimate goal of learning to live contentedly in the now as a fuller human being.  In other words, to live my life in pencil.

Over the coming weeks, I’m going to take a closer look at what’s on my list, examine how these items got there in the first place, and determine if they even belong there.  Along the way I hope to change my relationship to the list, and maybe rewrite it all together.  If nothing else, I plan on making these five items a little more tangible and understandable – not just for me, but for you, dear reader.  It may seem a little silly – even antithetical — to create a list for something as tenuous as living in the now.  But we’ve got to start somewhere on our journey, right?  My hope is that we can teach each other not just the why but the how of living in the now (wow, that could be the slogan:  “The How of the Now”).

Do you maintain a to-do or a to-don’t list?  Are you interested in reexamining or rewriting your life’s to do (or to-don’t) list?  If so, in what way?  What ideas do you have for me as I set about creating more specific goals to live my life in the now?  What topics are YOU interested in surrounding this idea of living in the now?

In other news, my meeting with the specialist went great!  Thank you all for your encouraging words and concern.  As of now (and is there anything beyond what we have right now?), everything looks to be developing normally and healthy with The Blob.  Although, it looks much less like The Blob now.  Check out this latest sonogram!