The theme at Life in Pencil this month may be “beginnings”, but lately…it’s all about an ending.  Specifically?  The end of the winter academic term.  Students are coming out of the woodwork, and I’m wrapping up a conference on Friday that I helped organize.  It’s safe to say…I’m a little stressed.  (I actually had to multi-task during LOST two nights ago, and it’s NOT a show that’s conducive to multi-tasking.) 

While it feels good to be crossing items off that Outlook calendar, I don’t care for the harried, frenetic pace of my week.  So I’ve been cutting a certain corner in my household routine.  And it’s a corner I rarely ever cut…cooking dinner.   Not to get all Martha on you, but typically I love cooking every night.  But lately it’s been different.  It’s a chore.  There’s nothing in the fridge.  My creative culinary energy is lacking, but I can’t do take-out, and cereal just feels wrong.  I need an easy recipe—one that I can whip together, and one that will sustain me for days.    

It’s times like these that we need an old stand-by, a never-fail fix, a recipe that serves as a beginning—the raw material for countless easy meals.  In my kitchen, it’s a job for that culinary wonder otherwise known as PESTO. 

My love affair with pesto began at age 8, on a summer vacation to visit my aunt and uncle in Southern California.  It felt totally exotic.  There were palm trees!  And Walt Disney!   Our first night there, my aunt served dinner al fresco on their little Orange County patio, surrounded by bright potted plants and a tidy little fence.  This, too, felt very different from our sprawling Midwestern backyard with its messy plum tree and swing-set.  That night, I ate pesto pasta with chicken.  And I was enamored. 

To this day, pesto is what I make when I want a fresh beginning.  It reminds me of the start of spring.  And even better—one big batch is a “beginning” of its own—it paves the way for pastas, sandwiches, pizza, and appetizers.  And it’s adaptable.  I’d go so far as to call it a life in pencil food.  Don’t have pine nuts?  Walnuts work great.  Don’t want to spend the $ on fresh basil?  Grab the slightly past-its-prime bag of spinach from the fridge.  It all works.   

Everyone needs an easy recipe—one you can produce in a pinch.  We need a simple beginning that reaps many tasty results.  Mine is pesto.  What’s yours?

*Basic Basil Pesto

2 cups packed fresh basil leaves (SUB:  Spinach, arugula)
¼ cup toasted pine nuts (SUB:  walnuts)
1 garlic clove
½ tsp salt, plus more to taste
¼ tsp black pepper, plus more to taste
about 2/3 cup olive oil (give or take…depending on the consistency you want)
½ cup parmesan cheese

Whiz everything but the oil together in a food processor or blender.  Drizzle in the oil until you get the consistency you want.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Enjoy. 

*Recipe courtesy of….Italy.
(Okay, actually I got this recipe from Giada DeLaurentis—her Everyday Italian cookbook, but really…I’m going to stick with “Italy” as the author on this one.) 

Stuff I Make With Pesto (that requires minimal effort):

1. Pasta.  Duh.  But it’s always a classic, and works hot or cold 

2. The turkey pesto sandwich—replace your mayo and mustard with pesto

3. Crackers with roma tomato slices and pesto smeared on top

4.  Cherry tomatoes and mozzarella chunks tossed with pesto

5.  Salmon filets or chicken breasts with a dollop of pesto on top

Bon appétit!

Posted by Elizabeth

Last week, Maikael and I broke down and bought a new printer.  For the past 10 years we’ve struggled through life with an HP Inkjet, which never worked properly from day one.  It’s HP’s version of a picky eater who suffers from terrible indigestion:  it can only handle being fed a few pieces of paper at a time, and when its system becomes overloaded it belches out page upon page of gibberish.  The printer is senile and easily confused; Lord help you if you decide you want to cancel a print job once it’s been sent to the queue.  It is loud and slow and, quite frankly, we both hate it.

Now that we are having a baby, we have all sorts of excuses to buy new things.  Because our second bedroom is in the process of being converted from an office to a baby’s room, there is a major consolidation of space taking place in our household.  The writing desk nestled in the corner of our bedroom will now serve as the new “office,” and because it is in our bedroom I insisted it be a neat, orderly space whose every item plays double duty.  Therefore, I decided it was high time to ditch our antiquated printer and scanner and spring for a compact printer that also copies, faxes, and scans.

After conducting hours of research via Consumer Reports, Maikael selected a Canon for the job.  When it arrived in the mail, Maikael quickly installed the printer with little effort, and we marveled at its petite frame, digital display, quiet hum, WiFi capabilities, and its God-given ability to print on BOTH sides of the paper.   What did this little bundle of joy cost?  What did we have to sacrifice for such happiness?  $100.

As I giddily printed our tax return, Maikael asked, “Why do we wait so long to change?” It was an excellent question.  It’s one thing when it comes to big changes that require major investments in time, money, and emotional energy.  But what Maikael was really asking was, “Why do we wait so long to change something that’s so easy to change?”  For the cost of a nice dinner out, we could have had a printer years ago that would have made a little corner of our life better.  Instead, we suffered through 10 years of inconvenience – not enough to call it a crisis, but enough to be highly irritating a few times a week.  I’m not saying that material items buy us happiness, but there are certain small pleasures in life that seem worth the cost.  I happen to do a lot of scanning and printing, and I know this modest purchase will improve the flow of my life.  Anne recently shared with me that a $90 meat thermometer changed her life in the kitchen in a similar way.  It would be a silly purchase if you rarely cooked meat at home, but for someone like Anne who uses this tool at least weekly it has added enjoyment and taken stress out of her sacred time in the kitchen.

This printer seemed emblematic of how we often cope with starting something new in our lives. We struggle or make do in situations that are easily changed for far too long.  Why?  My guess is that, while these situations are not ideal, they function.  They don’t command our immediate attention, so it’s easy to pawn off dealing with them until a future date, when they can be ignored no longer.  We put off these small changes, forgetting that they can have a huge impact in the day to day flow of our lives.  In other words, it’s easy to focus on the big, boisterous beginnings at the exclusion of the small ones that just whisper to us.  Whether it’s investing in a better printer or getting rid of an old meat thermometer that sort-of-works, reducing these everyday annoyances have something significant to offer us as we endeavor to live our lives in the now.

What small beginnings are calling to you in your life right now? Is it a modest purchase?  A simple change of routine?  A new spin on something old?

What situations, items, routines, or relationships are you currently “making do” with? What things in your life are okay, but ultimately disrupt the flow of your everyday existence? 

What do you need to do to enact some of these small beginnings?  What’s standing in your way? Is it a matter of needing more time or more money (I find the roadblocks in my life are usually thrown up by one of these two culprits)?  Is it as simple as setting aside a few dollars every month in a savings fund for that modest purchase?  Or perhaps it’s simply taking the time to do the research and figure out what you really need?  Maybe it’s as easy as deciding to make it a priority this month?

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 Elizabeth

As I’ve mentioned before, Anne and I share a deep and abiding love of movies and books, not only for their entertainment value but for their teaching value.  There is nothing more satisfying than a story that captures the human experience and helps me to better understand myself and the world around me.  In fact, as Anne aptly pointed out a few months ago, sometimes fiction does an even better job than nonfiction in relaying the slings and arrows of personhood.   I have been dying to see Alice in Wonderland since I learned that Johnny Depp and Tim Burton were once again joining twisted forces, if nothing else than for what promised to be a stunning visual panorama.  What I didn’t expect was the variety of life in pencil lessons that Linda Woolverton’s excellent script offered up.

Life is a process of learning to become yourself

The film begins with a fanciful and unsure 19 year-old Alice about to become married off to a stodgy aristocrat.  After falling down the rabbit hole at her engagement party and landing in Wonderland, it soon becomes clear that her arrival is much-anticipated:  she’s been brought here to sleigh the Jabberwocky and end the Red Queen’s villainous rule.  But first, there is some question as to whether she’s the “right” Alice for the job.  To clear up any confusion, she’s brought to the wise and Buddha-like Blue Caterpillar.

Blue Caterpillar: Who are you?
Alice: I’m Alice.
Blue Caterpillar: You’re hardly Alice

As the film progresses, Alice – who at first is confident she’s not the “right” Alice – slowly becomes convinced that perhaps she is the right Alice.  When she meets the caterpillar again towards the end of the film, the Caterpillar asks her once again:

Blue Caterpillar: Who are you?
Alice: I’m not sure.
Blue Caterpillar: How can I help you, silly girl, if you don’t even know who you are?
Alice: You yourself said I’m hardly Alice.
Blue Caterpillar: I said you were ‘hardly Alice.’  You’re much more like Alice than you used to be.

The film is, at its heart, Alice’s journey of becoming Alice.  Through drinking potions and eating cakes she continually grows bigger and smaller until she finds just the right size for her, literally growing into her own skin.  The tentative Alice we meet at the beginning of the film slowly fades away as she gains confidence in herself and her unconventional choices, fully becoming the Alice that everyone in Wonderland has been waiting for.  I think each of us is on a similar journey, as we are faced daily with choices and decisions that bring us further away or into closer contact with our true selves.  Alice does what “feels right” – even if it defies logic – and it’s these decisions that help her to grow into who she is.  We face the same crossroads each day, and in moments of uncertainty and indecision – both big and small – perhaps the question we should ask ourselves is, “Is this bringing closer or further from the person I was born to be?”

Each of us is creating our own path.

As much as there is a person we were born to be, each of us has free agency to create the path towards becoming that person.  Although the role Alice is to play in Wonderland has been prophesied, she creates her own way of going about the journey.  Helping her to deviate from the plan, the watchdog Bayard worriedly remarks to Alice, “I’ve ruined your destined path.”  “No you haven’t,” Alice confidently responds.  “I’m making my path.”    As we begin our journeys, it’s important to remember that there are many roads up the mountain, and we should choose the one that resonates most with us.  As the White Queen reminds Alice, “You can’t spend your life pleasing others.”

The life we’re meant to lead is waiting for us…when the time is right

We’ve all heard the quote “stop living the life you think you should lead and start living the life you were meant to lead” (or something like that).  I’ve always struggled with this credo, perhaps because I find it difficult to believe that it’s as simple as that.  Through the film, we discover that Wonderland has, quite literally, been waiting for Alice her entire life – she even went once, as a girl – but she hadn’t yet grown into herself enough to be able to live that life.  While our lives might be waiting for us, timing is everything.  As someone who is eager to begin new things, I often have to remind myself that perhaps I have some growing to do.  While I wait for new beginnings, I can make small steps towards preparing myself for the starting line, or simply focus on living the best life I have right now.

There are no beginnings and endings, only transformations

Towards the end of the film Alice observes the Blue Caterpillar weaving himself into a silky cocoon.  “You’re dying,” Alice says.  “No I’m not,” responds the Blue Caterpillar.  “I’m transforming.”  Each of us has the opportunity to transform every day, becoming more fully who we are.  We end each day a different person than we began, and each morning offers a chance for a new beginning.  But if life is nothing but a series of transformations, how do we embrace this inevitable series of changes while staying focused in the now?  Don’t the two seem contradictory?  Maybe, but I think some of life’s greatest transformations happen through living in the present.  Sometimes I think about the person I was at the beginning and end of my eight month round-the-world trip:  essentially the same, but different in so many ways.  Never have I lived more in the present moment, and in no period of my life have I transformed more.  Change means becoming a different person; transformation suggests morphing from one version of ourselves slowly over time.  We all have the opportunity to be Blue Caterpillars if we attend mindfully to the stuff of our everyday life.

We live in the now by attending to our real lives

At the end of the film, Alice is faced with the choice to stay in Wonderland or return home to London.  She states with confidence that she must return home, where there are “questions to be answered.”  For years Alice had lived in a suspended dream-state, enchanted with the dream of Wonderland which distracts her from fully living her life in the present.  While her adventures in Wonderland provide a welcome diversion, her real life is calling.

How many of us transport ourselves to other words through TV, internet, cell phones, and Blackberries, thus distracting us from the real lives right before our eyes?  Alternate worlds – be they video games or vacations – are fun for awhile.  But we’re avoiding the inevitable difficulties of our everyday lives that command our attention.  The only way out of Wonderland is through Wonderland, just like the only way out of our difficulties is by trudging through them.  I bet it’s not as daunting as sleighing the Jabberwocky.

Did you see Alice in Wonderland this weekend?  If so, what lessons did you take away from it?  Do you agree or disagree with the “lessons” I’ve cited?

This woman seems to have an even bigger problem than I do.

What is it about spring?  This perfect season—nascent and cheerful—is upon us.  It makes me want to open the windows, let in the fresh air, make pesto and hot cross buns, and…

Spend Money.You see, something happens to me with the promise of spring.  And apparently, that “something” is greed.  Or perhaps it’s the softer form of greed—good old fashioned materialism.  I hope I’m not alone on this, but I’m outing myself regardless. 

This troubling bout with materialism occurs every year…right around March 1^st.  I’m not sure why I can’t hold off until at least April, except that late February/early March is about the time the “early spring” catalogues begin arriving in the mail—depicting earthy and fresh blond J Crew models posed on the edges of sailboats—wearing shorts and darling cableknit sweaters.  (Digression:  Would someone like to tell me when that combo ever works?  Or is living in Maine a prerequisite?) 

I wish I could identify the origins of my deep desire for a “spring spending splurge”.  But I’m at a loss.  All I know is that it’s like some invisible alarm that begins ringing in my psyche.  My need for a “fresh start” materializes (get it?  Materializes?!) in the form of multiple visits to the Anthropologie website and that time-waster of all time-wasters…Craigslist.  And since I can’t really afford much of a shopping spree, I appease myself by exiting that virtual Anthropologie store with random (and inexpensive) items like…oh, maybe a pastel-hued egg cup.  Or that new door pull I just had to have.  Trust me people…it’s a problem.

Normally, our checkbook makes it through my spring fever relatively unscathed.  In addition to the egg cup and door pull, I usually treat myself to one new outfit, which I shamelessly claim is my “Easter Outfit” (as though I’m still 8 years old and need an “Easter dress”). 

But I really do wonder—why does this season of beginnings cause me to search for reasons to spend?  A few theories…

Oh-so-tempting...

1.  The US retail industry wants me to spend and expects me to spend.  Thus, it’s a national phenomenon.  A little springtime manipulation, if you will.

2.  I’m a greedy person. 

And last but not least, I give you the most likely contender…

3.  When we’re looking for a “fresh start”, we seek to find one by changing the external as well as the internal. And these external changes (in my view) often boost us internally.  Of course, there’s a limit.  You can’t just spend, spend, spend. 

So, if #3 is at the root of my need for new clothes, new furniture, and new kitchenware, I have to believe there are other ways to satisfy this desire for a “fresh” look or novel environment.  Some possible solutions…

Spring cleaning.  I recently learned this is a global phenomenon.  In Iran, there’s a word for it that means something akin to “shaking the house”.  Even though I like my clutter, I could stand to make my environment a little more orderly. 

Change something minor.  A new throw pillow perhaps?  A springy-looking mug for my coffee?  I could buy something that creates a permanent visual novelty, but doesn’t break the bank.

Plant a garden.  This would be so perfect if I owned a home, or didn’t kill plants.  I do, however, generally pot some herbs each spring…pretty AND edible.  Can’t lose. 

Focus on a different kind of “external”.  Instead of buying a new wardrobe, maybe I could stand to do my hair more often…instead of the perpetual ponytail.  Or maybe I could pump some iron—build strength from the outside in. 

There you go.  Four external solutions to an internal problem.  I think I’ll start this weekend…when my fingers reach for the newest Williams-Sonoma catalog, I’ll take them right over to our disastrous hall closet—a great place to start an external makeover. 

Am I alone in this one?  Anyone else love some good old “spring shopping”?  Or do you have other springtime rituals that satisfy your need for fresh beginnings…that DON’T cost money?  Or if you totally indulge, what’s your favorite springtime indulgence?

Posted by Elizabeth

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense. “   — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about ruminating.  In fact, I guess you could say I’ve been ruminating about ruminating.  So what, exactly, is rumination?  According to Depression’s Upside, a recent article in The New York Times Magazine by Jonah Lehrer, rumination is derived from the Latin word for “chewed over,” describing the act of digestion and regurgitation that cows go through.  While it’s kind of a gross image, it’s really effective in describing the mental process that we go through when we process and then reprocess information over and over (and over) again in our tired brains.  In its exaggerated state it’s the thought process that underlies depression, as rumination tends to “lead people to fixate on their flaws and problems, thus extending their negative moods.”  Some of us are more prone to rumination than others – I happen to be an ace ruminator – but I think all of us ruminate from time to time.  So how does rumination both help us and hurt us in our quest to live our lives in the now and make fresh starts?

Rumination is generally unproductive. I am planning a trip to Italy next month.  After spending a number of days researching different lodging options, my heart leapt when I discovered a boutique hotel that looked like something out of Roman Holiday.  After happily confirming our reservation, I spent the next two days rehashing the options, even adding new properties into the mix, finally convincing myself that I had made a poor initial choice.  After much prodding from Maikael, I eventually accepted the decision I made and moved on with my life.  But those intervening days?  A complete waste of my time.  According to Lehrer’s article, “rumination hijacks the stream of consciousness, and we become fixated on the perceived problem.”  Research has continually shown that “rumination is a useless kind of pessimism, a perfect waste of mental energy.”  So why do we do it?

Sometimes rumination is a good thing. Lehrer’s article explores the notion that rumination might actually have utility in our lives.  While rumination is undeniably unpleasant, it’s often exhibited in response to a real problem, such as the loss of a job or end of a relationship (I admit: my lodging dilemma was not a real problem, even though I perceived it to be at the time).  Some prevailing science suggests that rumination might help us to learn from our past or prepare for our future.  Before meeting with the perinatologist a few weeks ago, I was in a major ruminative cycle, projecting all sort of worse case scenarios onto my mental screen.  Had something been wrong, perhaps I would have been a little better prepared to deal with the fallout.  According to Lehrer, rumination underlies the ability to stay intensely focused on a problem for long periods of time and analytically break down those problems into small parts.  When I face a complex life problem, turning it over and over again in my head, studying it from every angle possible before deciding on a path forward, rumination can be my friend.

Rumination is the opposite of living in the now. While the scientific jury is still out as to the function of ruminating, when it comes to living life in pencil, rumination seems to do more harm than good.  The problem with rumination is that we spend our time replaying the past or projecting our worries into the future, rather than living in the present.  When we ruminate, each moment becomes a reenactment of the past or a dress rehearsal for the (unknown) future, robbing us of our opportunity to start anew.  So how do we ruminate less and live more?  I think there’s a lot of wisdom contained in that Emerson quote.

“Finish each day and be done with it.” I have a tendency to let the problems of the day leak over into the next.  Sometimes my dreams are plagued with bits and pieces of my ruminations, spilling forth the vestiges of my unfinished business and loose ends.  When I was little, my mom bought me a set of Guatemalan Worry Dolls, tiny woven figurines that nestled snugly in a little oval box.  The idea was to “assign” a specific worry to each doll before bedtime, letting them “hold” the worry until the morning.  Although I don’t use my worry dolls anymore, I sleep best when I truly get ready for bed (we’re not just talking teeth brushing here, people).  Taking my time to review the day on paper – be it through an email to a friend, a note in my journal, or simply scanning my day planner – helps me to put the day to rest and prepare for the next one.  (Anne’s gratitude journal could also come in handy here.)  I also benefit from make a conscious choice as to what problems are worth picking up tomorrow, and which ones I can let die with the day.  What doesn’t help is talking about my worries from the day as I lay in bed readying myself for sleep; for me, it lacks the “containment” of the other methods.

“Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely.” I don’t do a great job of easing myself into the day, and mornings are a hectic time for most of us.  Within the first five minutes of rising I turn on my cell phone, dash to my day planner to see what’s on the agenda for the day, and snap on the computer to check my email to see what crises have materialized or interesting news has transpired in the past eight hours.  It recently struck me that this is a particularly ugly way to prepare myself for a new day.  Those first moments of the day are precious, before the outside world has encroached.  Instead of throwing myself into activity, I could have a cup of tea, jot down creative ideas that have emerged overnight, do a few yoga stretches, talk with Maikael, or even make the bed.  Choosing just one of these activities that lasted no more than 10 minutes would be better than how I currently start my day, serving to help me ease into things rather than pick up right where I left off.  And maybe then I’d worry a little less about the problems of yesterday.

Do you tend to ruminate or not?  Do you have particular things that you ruminate about?  Do you agree or disagree that rumination has utility?  What strategies have you found helpful in allowing you to leave one day behind and start a new one afresh?

Sometimes, I can share successful life in pencil moments.  The moments when I’m able to say I achieved my goal of stepping back, setting aside my plans, and allowing a moment to unfold naturally. 

Nope, this is not one of those posts.  This is a post about failure, and starting over.

Over the weekend, I traveled to the Midwest for a whirlwind weekend to visit family, and celebrate my grandfather’s birthday.  With only 3 days to make it from the Northwest to the Midwest, I knew this weekend wasn’t about rest and relaxation—more about capitalizing on family bonding time. 

I was convinced, and I mean convinced my flight left at 5:00pm.  Imagine my surprise, if you will, when I stopped off in my parent’s study around 11:30 to print my boarding pass and stumbled upon the following statement:  Flight departs at 1:01pm.  Woops. 

After some quick calculations and a reality check, I knew I wouldn’t miss the flight.  That wasn’t the issue.  The issue was this:  I hadn’t planned the afternoon to go like this.  You see, I don’t get to see my family as often as I’d like, and every moment is precious. I’d planned an afternoon.  And my plans were shot.  Cue the meltdown.

The reason my reaction was such a failure?  It should have been an opportunity to meet some life in pencil goals, which I failed to meet.  Here’s a play-by-play of possibly appropriate life in pencil reactions, and MY reaction.

Situation #1:  Plane departs in an hour and a half, and I haven’t packed. 

Appropriate reaction:  “Yikes!  It’s a good thing I checked that flight time when I did!   Hey Mom and Sis—Think you could give me a hand packing while I finish printing my boarding pass??” 

My reaction:  Burst into tears and watch mom and sister swirl around my room packing my things in a super-human feat of tidy and swift folding. 

Situation #2:  I realize I will not have time to accompany my sister on our planned lunchtime outing to one of our favorite childhood greasy spoons. 

Appropriate reaction:  “Bummer!  If that restaurant has been around since I was 5, I’m pretty sure it’ll be there next time I’m in town.”

My reaction:  Pout, and purchase some very dry pretzels at the airport that have zero hope of cheering me up.    

Situation #3:  I must forego my plans to kiss and hug my adorable nephew about 10 times before boarding my plane because he’s taking a necessary nap.

Appropriate reaction:  Okay, this one could have deserved a tear or two.  And then I could have allowed everyone to remind me that I’ll see him again in 3 WEEKS. 

MY reaction:  Inconsolable weeping, as though I’d never see the child again. 

Situation #4:  I had planned to say a leisurely goodbye to my parents, instead of a frantic one.    

Appropriate reaction:  Stick with the plan.  I TOTALLY had time to say goodbye to everyone in a non-dramatic, non-frenetic, eminently normal manner. 

MY reaction:  Not so normal.  Pouty hugs and feeble smiles. 

Situation #5:  Sitting at my gate (with time to spare), I realize I’d been a total drama-queen and failed to act in a normal (and “life in pencil”) manner. 

Appropriate reaction:  I could have simply said to myself, “Wow, this is not how I’d like to react in future situations.  I’m not going to waste more tears judging myself and feeling embarrassed.  I’ll simply reaction different next time, and hey…it’s bloggable.” 

My reaction:  Eventually I did find this reaction within myself…but not until I reached the Denver airport.  I allowed myself to spend the first leg of my flight feeling guilty and childish. 

You see?  FAILURE.  And all because I had to reconfigure 4 hours of my life.  I’m not happy with my reaction, but this is why Beginnings are so important.  I can’t erase that afternoon, and I can’t erase my reaction.  But I can start over.  React differently next time.  Redeem myself.  Here is my new beginning…my vow to myself:

Next time I encounter a hitch in my plans—I will:

1. Ask myself if I want to act rationally, or dramatically.

2. Pay attention to what’s going right instead of what’s going wrong. 

3. Act flexible, even when I don’t feel flexible.

4. Spare others from the drama of my rigid planning.

5. Acknowledge my anxiety and frustration without judging it.

How are you at going with the flow?  Have you ever unreasonably freaked out, and had to start over?  When your plans change and you have to change your vision of your day, how do you react?  How about when life takes an unexpected turn? 

Posted by Elizabeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Yesterday Anne wrote about her comfortable clutter, and what satisfaction it brings to her life.  I, on the other hand, lead a rather cutter-free existence, undoubtedly the result of growing up in a house that was stacked to the rafters with back issues of National Geographic and sagging boxes of stuff.  There was a hospital bed that my dad bought at an auction that took up permanent residence in our garage.  We even had a spare bedroom we affectionately referred to as “The Junk Room,” a space crammed to the gills with old bed frames, discarded furniture, defunct appliances, unloved art work, and enough clothing to outfit a Salvation Army.  If you were looking for a missing object, a Halloween costume, or considering buying something new, my mother would often ask, “Have you looked in The Junk Room yet?”

Because of these experiences, I have all but banished clutter from my household (thank god I didn’t marry a pack rat), and nothing gives me greater delight than my regular pilgrimages to Goodwill.  When Gretchen Rubin admonished me to go clean out my closet, I had to all but restrain myself from making a trip to The Container Store.  Being surrounded by clutter, I feel that typical sense of chaos and disarray, not the warm, cozy feeling that Anne reports.  It dawned on me that everybody’s idea of peace, tranquility, and being in the present looks different. And yet, our ideas of what bring us peace are so culturally prescribed that we might not even be aware of it.  Earth tones.  Spa-like bathrooms.  Those plug-in fountains that people like to put in their offices.  Bamboo.  Asian symbols.  Flowers.  Massages.  Reading a book by the fire.  Taking a quiet walk in nature.  Yoga.  Meditation.  Clean lines.  The ocean.

I could go on, but my point is, as you read this list, there were undoubtedly some words that evoked peaceful images, and others that sounded downright awful.  I know plenty of people who find massages utterly stressful experiences, and others who feel complete tranquility living amongst a bright, bold color palette.  My friend, Emily, recently wrote about the meditative powers of completing a jigsaw puzzle, which she finds to be a particularly peaceful experience.  My mother-in-law finds a great deal of peace in being thrown in amongst a frenetic crowd of shoppers.  Who, along the way, deigned what a peaceful experience is supposed to look like?

On Wednesday night, as Maikael and I discussed our day at the dinner table, he said he wanted more time “to just think.”  What I really think he was saying is that he’s looking for more peace in his life.  “But what does that look like to you?” I asked.  “Is that sitting in a room by yourself, alone with your thoughts, or spending Sunday morning reading The New York Times?”  After thinking (quietly, I might add) for a few moments, he concluded that he does his best thinking when he’s hiking in nature, or in the midst of our disastrous delightful DIY bathroom remodel project.  “Nobody bothers me when I’m doing either of those things,” he said with finality.  In other words, in Maikael’s world, peace = a lack of people.

All of this got me to thinking about what brings me peace.  When are the moments when my mind quiets and wanders, when I feel simultaneously relaxed and alive?  (This is my definition of peace, but I recognize it might not be yours.)  Baking.  Cooking something complicated.  Any type of spa service except for a body wrap.  Swimming in the ocean.  Engaging in a stimulating conversation with a friend.  Going to tea.  My bi-weekly Zumba class.  Browsing through second-hand stores.  Wandering through farmer’s markets.  Looking at folk art.  Learning something new.  Enjoying a truly great meal.  Vibrant colors.  Listening to my iPod while on gym equipment.  Reading a book when I have an embarrassment of time.  Trying new foods in different cultures.  Writing to help, to teach, to enlighten, to educate others.  Taking a bath.

Clearly, very few of these match any sort of traditional definition about peace and tranquility.  In fact, as I studied this list, I noticed that many of these activities are not solitary but social, as energizing as they are relaxing.  But when you are engaged in an activity which feels peaceful to you, you cannot help but be engaged in the present moment.

How do you find peace in this chaotic world?  If you’re not sure, here are some hints to get you started:

1. Define your definition of peace. What does peace “look like” to you?  Do you associate being “at peace” with being alone or being in the company of others?  Is it energizing or relaxing?
2. Discover what brings YOU peace.   What sorts of activities help you feel connected to your definition of peace?  Are they active or passive?
3. Embrace your clutter.  Don’t let home design shows or popular culture tell you what peace and tranquility should look like.  What feels peaceful in your physical environment?  In what ways, big or small, can you work to recreate your unique aesthetic in your home?
4. Make peace affordable. I love massages, but I can’t afford one every week.  While it’s important to indulge in a particularly peaceful activity every so often, it’s more important to find inexpensive or free pockets of peace in your everyday life.
5. Make peace a priority. Once you’ve determined what feels peaceful, determine how you can add more peaceful activities to your life.  Weekend getaways and vacations are great, but how can you add small doses of peace to your daily routine?  Peaceful activities needn’t be splashy, and you’re likely to find that these daily doses will make a more lasting impact than those occasional retreats.