I was sitting outside on a bench smack dab in the middle of campus on an uncharacteristically warm fall day. Students were milling about, chatting with friends, or having a quick snack before their next class. There was a melodic hum of voices mixed with the singing birds and the rustling leaves. School was back in session, and students and teachers embraced the change of season and schedule.
Then he boogied by me.
I first noticed the large pair of headphones that encompassed his ears. Then I saw that he was not walking like the other students. No, this young man was dancing his way across campus. It was a delight to see. The smile on his face could have lit an entire theater.
He started me thinking that if more of us moved to the soundtrack in our ears (literally or figuratively), we would be an overall happier society. So I took an imaginary walk through my day, picturing the responses of others as I danced into the coffee shop for my morning decaf, followed by a sidestep shuffle with a pirouette down the grocery store aisle, grabbing items mid-turn, ending with a slide (think Tom Cruise in his underwear) down on the line at the post office. Even the thought of it makes me smile.
Would people question my sanity or, like me, see my creativity as a breath of fresh air?
Unfortunately, as I watched my young man move, I noticed the strange looks and the wide berth many gave him. It almost felt like his happiness was a disease they were afraid to catch. Perhaps they were too stuck in the box of conformity to see that being different can be refreshingly exhilarating. Maybe these students were afraid to show any appreciation for the student dance for fear they, too, would be ostracized or rejected as other or weird—guilt by association.
What would you have done? Be honest.

​If you were to ask the average American the age-old question of coffee vs. tea, you might be surprised by the response. With a coffee shop appearing on almost every corner in the city and almost every town having at least 1 name-brand chain, you would probably say that coffee is the drink of choice. But, shockingly, 62% drink coffee while a whopping 159 million people choose tea.
I will admit that I love a good cup of Joe, but there is nothing like settling in with a steaming cup of tea and a good book. The part of tea that I really enjoy is the variety. Depending on your mood, you can choose a green, matcha, black, oolong, asam, purerh; the options are endless. All teas are not the same, and the benefits of each blend vary greatly.
You can change up the country of origin for a coffee or choose to embellish it as a flat white, a latte, black or sweet, but the underlying flavor stays the same. With tea, your choice greatly alters the flavor.
You might wonder why this sudden need to reintroduce tea. Well, I am knee-deep in the novel The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See. In the book, she talks about the history of the Chinese teas. I am loving how I learned about old-tree tea vs. young-tree tea. I did not know that there is a difference between fermented naturally and fermented chemically (of course, there would be a taste difference). I kinda want to run to the store and start experimenting.
I often tell people that a book is noteworthy if the messages stay with you or resonate with something in your life. This book is like a journey to China- exploring one of the things I love.  I don’t often recommend books because everyone’s taste is so different, but I will say that if you have every had a wonderful cup of tea, you should pick up this book, brew yourself a cuppa and enjoy.
 
 

in
I have recently become a fan of flying. Well, not the flight exactly, but the ease with which planes allow us to travel across this beautiful country in three hours to see my family in the Midwest. I have calculated the number of flights per day and the number of airports and decided that “Yes”, it really is the safest, quickest way to travel.
I have also mastered the carry-on only for a weekend that easily slips into the overhead compartment allowing me to grab it and go- straight to my destination. I love efficiency and have been able to streamline the process giving me more time and energy at my chosen destination. I am a planner, an organizer, and an on-time person. Flying works for me.
So with the bag rolling at my side, I happily anticipated the wonderful time I was sure I was about to have when I boarded a plane at noon on a Friday. Although the trip would only be four days,  I planned to live the hell out of those days and come home lighter, happier, and soul-filled.
Aside from a few bumps along the way, my flight was uneventful, and my sense of elation grew with every mile. The pilot announced we would land about fifteen minutes early as I settled in for our descent. When suddenly,
“Attention passengers, there is a microburst (a strong wind storm) in Denver, and they are shutting down the airport.”
I felt a little air leave my lungs, and my smile dropped a little as I projected that I would have to wait a bit longer wait to get the hug that awaited me. But what is a few moments longer?
“We were going to circle for 30 minutes until either the airport reopened or “we ran out of gas.” I was sure it would only put us back 15 minutes. But, as the 30-minute marker approached,  once again, the captain said, “We are indeed running out of gas. We will quickly stop in Colorado Springs to refuel and then on to Denver.
I liked the words “quick stop.” I could handle waiting a tad bit longer. I even consoled my brain by reminding myself that they both work until 5:30, so this will work out better anyway. I would still be there by dinner.
The audible groans and sighs from the passengers around me suggested that everyone’s plans were changing, and no one was happy about it.
I was determined not to let this unwanted day affect the rest of my trip. I could have been angry. I could have cried, but would any of those emotions change the events?  No. it didn’t matter. So maybe dinner will be a bit late. I still had three days left.
 I arrived, hungry and tired, to a plate of food on the table. Let the weekend festivities begin.
Days later, I was telling a friend about the trip, and I did not even mention the delay, the stress of being stuck, or the time wasted. I recalled the warm dinner, the beautiful hike, the laughing, and the fun.
“Shit happens,” yet it’s what you do with the inconveniences that speak to the person you are.  I probably could have allowed life and altered plans to ruin the whole weekend, but they were just insignificant things that happened. I chose the high road, the happy place, and as Robert Frost so aptly says, “and it made all the difference.”
How many of us have allowed a change of plans or an unexpected turn to ruin the rest of our day or week? What if you tried a new approach? What if you became the calming, reassuring voice that helped others find their breath too?

 

I was recently gifted a small brass statue of the goddess Lakshmi. I am sure many of you have seen her before. She is the woman with four arms sitting in lotus style who appears in many Indian prints, pictures, and images. As a thank you for a successful collaboration, the friend who gave me the gift introduced her as the goddess of wealth, prosperity, and success. He said, “She reminds me so much of you.” Was he saying I was goddess-like? I flippantly asked if I was given a goddess with many hands because I am so good at juggling multiple projects. He smiled, I smiled, and we ended the conversation.
I took her home and read as much as possible to figure out why this person chose this particular give for me. I learned that many refer to her as the goddess of abundance. Yet, when I think of abundance, I see those that have so much it is overflowing. It’s a term saved for the uber-wealthy or super-successful. I am neither of those.
So now she sits on my windowsill in the kitchen, watching me, tempting me to see and understand her purpose. I can feel her presence while I’m making dinner or just simply stopping in the middle of the day to pause and have a cup of tea. She tells me I need to stop, reflect, and seek answers to the questions I didn’t even know I needed to ask.
Perhaps my goddess and I do have something in common. I do have a wealth of love that surrounds me. My “people” love me for the unfiltered version of me that I only show to those near and dear. Even when I spew the truth, though sometimes hard to take, they return and ask for more. I often hear how refreshing it is to be around someone unafraid to speak her mind and rock the boat. My boat is always rocking.
I have recently taken to responding to the question of what I do with the statement, “I try to make people happy.” You can imagine the strange looks I get. But in reality, all the jobs I do, whether teaching, counseling, or writing, serve the same goal. Finally, instead of seeing multiple hands for multiple tasks as a burden, I can see it as a way to touch more people. I hope that my words and help will make someone else’s life a bit better. Is this the abundance that I share?
My gift-giver may not have been so wrong in bestowing on me the first of the goddess, Lakshmi. My mistake was applying too literal or material a definition to the concept of abundance.
My family often teases me and calls me “Princess.” I was the youngest of three girls and maybe a little bit spoiled growing up. But I think I will change that, and from now on I will ask that they refer to me as “Goddess.” If it is good enough for Lakshmi, it is good enough for me.

I start most of my days with a phone call to my mom. I never take for granted that many of my friends have lost their moms, and I am grateful every day when she picks up the phone, singing her “hello”. On this particular day, I knew the answer to my question, “What are you doing today?” Monday was sheets day. Just like the mailman that delivers the mail in rain, snow, sleet, and hail, the sheets get washed on Mondays regardless of illness, season, or mood. But more importantly, it was a beautiful day so she added, “I’m airing out my pillows.” For those of you who have never done this, it requires you to take your bed pillows and lay them outside, particularly in the sun, for a few hours. Just the idea of watching her gather the pillows overflowing in her arms and putting them out brings a huge smile to my face.
As I have aged, I have begun to recognize that there are reasons other than a crisp, clean scent to throw those pillows outside on a warm day.
They are our secret keepers as we tell our deepest fears and desires during “pillow talk” with a loved one. Whispering in the dark room into your pillow is the same as locking these thoughts away in a vault. The pillow also puts your head in the exact position to face a loved one and stare into their eyes. When life gets hard, we can count on your pillow, our stalwart friend, to catch our tears when we quietly express our pain. We know that our trusted pillow, just like a trusted friend, will never betray us.
​So on the first sunshiny day, I grabbed all the pillows in my arms and arranged them on the deck furniture. They seemed a bit unrulily to carry and a little heavier than I expected. I checked on them throughout the afternoon as I would a visiting friend. And each glance outside found them exactly where I left them. But maybe they were different. 

I was an English major in college, and I thought I was so cool. While my friends were solving differential equations or learning international policies, I was relishing the words of the great British poets. I saw their words as my academic conundrum. What did they mean? What did they think when they wrote this or that? These men were my people. I spent many nights curled up with a book of poetry and found myself lost in words. I could read a poem that, for some, appeared to be in Greek (old English) and tell you precisely what the words meant.
   
    I was particularly fond of Shakespeare and loved seeing and hearing the jokes (he was very comical) and watching his characters develop and float in the beauty of his sonnets. But I did not learn in college that the proper understanding of poetry happens when you are ready for it. In college, I was not.
    Yes, I could quote the good stuff, but looking back now, It was my party trick to quote a sonnet and watch as my friends nodded in approval. Could my accountant friends do that?
 
I was living and breathing the masters, but I was faking my understanding and the emotional connection to the words. I looked at the terms and mechanically assigned meaning to them. If the birds were soaring, I could visualize birds taking flight. I thought I understood what the masters were trying to convey. 

I read the Greats, but I never really "read" them.  That's right; I was using my mechanical mind to listen. Youth is definitely wasted on the young.
​
I want to go back and do it all other again. How would it feel to be Jonah in the whale? Was Mr. Darcy a real cad? What loneliness must Heathcliff have experienced brought to a new country? What the heck does that sonnet mean?
What would you want to read again with the benfit of maturity?

The anticipation of a “BIG” storm has electricity buzzing through the air. As I went out, I could smell the snow and feel the dampness descend over me. Snow excites me. I think I am still that little girl excited for the possibility of a snow day, a warm, late breakfast, jumping into our sock-stuffed boots, and donning the pants and jackets that made us walk like bigfoot on the prowl.
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve snow storms. As a matter of fact, I was born in the blizzard of 1967. Although the story has changed as memories do, my dad drove through the blinding snow to the hospital with my mother in tow. She was dropped off at the door, and he was relegated to the waiting room, pacing quietly, waiting for the dr. to burst through the door announcing that his “baby boy” had arrived. I imagine that after two other girls, he was a tad bit disappointed that a boy I was not. Not to worry, though, because that brief moment of feeling was temporary, and he embraced being a girl daddy, dance recitals, cheerleading competitions, and all.
The best part of being born in a storm is that for years, I thought my birthday was a stay-home holiday because every year, a moderate snowfall would cancel school for the day. The worst part was that that same storm prevented my aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins from coming over to my party. Each year, we would plan a “family” party with cornflake chicken, ziti, rolls, cold cuts, and maybe a few meatballs, followed by a bakery cake of vanilla with strawberries. You know, the average 1980s party fare.  Happy birthday would be sung, and presents would be opened. But every year, inevitably, a few hours before the festivities were to commence, the phone calls would begin. They all sounded the same. The message was that, once again, there would be no party. Thank you, Mother Nature. We did reschedule, so I can’t say it was scarring beyond repair; just temporarily disappointed.
It used to make me a bit sad, but how many other kids got off from school on their birthday? I was actually the lucky one.
It was clear from the beginning that I was not going to be like my sisters. My family would often nod and speak in hushed voices as they agreed, “Well, she was born in a snowstorm,” as if that was all that needed to be said to explain my somewhat exuberant personality. I was the black sheep, the trailblazer, the wild child.
Maybe they were correct. Maybe the power of the blizzard did affect the person I have become. I kind of like that I harness the power of my own storm and that  I blow through a room, leaving my mark.
It is funny how the smell and feel of our impending winter blast brought forth such distinct memories. What natural event describes you or reminds you of a wonderful childhood memory?