That's a Wrap, 2014.

This will be the sixth year that I've answered these 38 questions at the years end.  I have been keeping a running tally of these years -  2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013 are linked here.  I'll get right down to it in just a minute, but before I do, let me just say that I can't remember a recent year when I've been more ready to flip the calendar to a fresh, blank slate, brand new year.  2013 was a bang-up year for me.  2014?  Not my favorite.  There were some wonderful, glittery, shining, perfect moments.  And there were, as with anything, I suppose, some really tough and challenging times that felt like they might never go away.  So while I am and remain grateful for each and every day of health and, well, life, I'm ready for the New Year.  

2015, I can't wait to meet you.  

1.)  What did you do in 2o14 that you'd never done before?
Traveled to Montreal and Quebec.
Spent a week out West in Wyoming - Jackson Hole area, Yellowstone, and The Grand Tetons.
Fell in love with that part of the country. 
Woke up one morning in a cabin in Idaho and drove to the nearest gas station with my friend at dawn to get breakfast before our scheduled trail ride.  Came back to our cabin to find the field in front of it filled with over twenty horses that had been let loose from the pen nearby...all of them just grazing as we sipped our coffee and walked past them.  That became an instant favorite memory of mine.
Attended three yoga retreats - one in Vermont, one on Martha's Vineyard, and one in New Hampshire - on my own.  I walked into each of those weekends nervous about knowing no one but my beloved yoga teacher and a few days later walked out with brand new smart, strong yogis as friends. 
Attended my brother's wedding.
Became an (official) Aunt.
Went to Chicago.
Bought myself a MFA membership.
Bought myself a road bike.
Went back for the first time in 20 or so years to the summer camp I'd attended as a child. 
Had breakfast with my Dad, on my last day as a 34 year old, in a road-side greasy spoon in my hometown that neither of us had ever eaten at before. Never mind that NJ has been home for 34 years.  (It was delicious.)

2.  Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Here's what I wrote last year about 2014:   So for 2014 I'd like to continue to honor my notion of listening and trusting my heart as much as I did in 2013.  I think over the past year I did a better job of saying yes to the sorts of things I really wanted to be doing and, in turn, recognizing when I really wanted to say no and then saying it without feeling (too much) guilt. I worked hard to get myself to places I wanted to be and took more calculated risks than I have in the past.  I feel like this past year I lived with intention more than I can recall in the recent past...so again, that's a trend I'd like to continue for 2014.

While my running program has fallen by the wayside (whoops) I have fallen into a pretty regular, solid routine with my yoga which I love and definitely plan to maintain.  As always, the same notion of making more time to read and write are at the top of my resolution list.

And here's one more I'm going to pile into the vast, open pages of the 2014 calendar.  And that's taking more risks in the dating department.  I had some hits and misses in the romance department in 2013, but I'm not always good about getting myself to just take the leap to go out on a date.  Just one date.  I can sometimes get 18 steps ahead of myself before we've even met for a beer.  I need to remember to take the world of dating one single step at a time. 

Okay!  Well.  I definitely stuck with the yoga.  I kept a record this year of how many yoga classes I went to - partially to make sure my monthly membership was worth it and partially just because it was a fun record to have.  In 2014, I made it to 112 yoga classes!  I started with a class on 1/1/14 and just never looked back, I guess.

I didn't make as much time for reading or writing as I probably should have (do we ever?) but I did read 20 books, and I probably wrote more than I have in years, because I joined a writing group last January.  That forced me to work on some pieces to submit to the group and got those creative juices stirring. Of course, this blog, which serves many purposes, including a running narrative of my life and a writing motivator, kept me churning out posts when I could.  

I like to think that I DID take more risks in the dating department too.  Turns out none of them stuck beyond a handful of dates, but that's okay.  I'm meeting a lot of frogs, friends.  A lot of frogs.

I still tried to lead with my heart, with love, but I hit more road blocks than I did in the year prior.  Still, the older I get, the better I get at trusting myself more.  This past year I did a much better job of thinking, as Amy Poehler suggests in her new book, as she discusses some benefits of getting older: whocareswhocareswhocareswhocareswhocares? 

I'd like to continue working on making "Yes." or "No." the complete sentence.  No long winded explanations or excuses.  Just Yes if I can or want to.  No if I can't or don't.

In the interest of yearly Intentions rather than resolutions, I have decided that 2015 will be "the year of confidence."  Being the self-aware person that I am, I have noticed that I often times do not give myself enough credit.  It's in my nature (I'm a Virgo after all) to look before I leap...but at times I can talk myself out of giving something a shot or reaching further, aiming for something just beyond my grasp.  But I can do it. There's a little teeny, tiny, quiet voice telling me that I can.  There is a lot I want to do in this life.  I don't want, when I'm old and gray and reliving my glory days, to think that self-doubt was the thing that held me back.  

Again, I turn to Amy Poehler:
Great people do things before they're ready. They do things before they know they can do it. Doing what you're afraid of, getting out of your comfort zone, taking risks like that- that's what life is. You might be really good. You might find out something about yourself that's really special and if you're not good, who cares? You tried something. Now you know something about yourself.

So.
2015.  Keeping my heart open.  With Confidence. Living my life. Doing my thing. With Confidence. 


3.  Did anyone close to you give birth?  
I'm 35 years old, smack dab in the middle of a heck of a lot of friends having babies left and right.  Sometimes, there are so many little gems being born, I lose track of who arrived, when.  (Is that terrible?  Probably.  I'm sure I've left someone off this list.  Apologies if it was you.)  
Let's see.  My friend Sarah had a little boy - during a blizzard! - last January.  My friend Libby had a baby girl the day after my very own birthday.  My sweet friend, Brynn, had her second little boy this past spring.  A former co-worker and friend, Kimmy, had a baby boy this past fall.  Oh and another Sarah, had a little girl this spring as well.

And of course, my sister in law, gave birth to a handsome and healthy little boy in August making me an official Aunt for the very first time.

4. Did anyone close to you die? 
Thankfully, no.  I am glad and also grateful.
5. What countries did you visit? 
Canada counts, right?*  I had a work trip in Montreal in August and then had two traveling buddies join me when it was over so we could tack on a few fun days in Montreal and Quebec.  

*While we were there, whenever we'd encounter something different from the way we do things in the USA, I'd say "guys!  It's like we're in another country!"  To which my friends would inevitably laugh and reply, "because we ARE in a different country..."

6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014? More time.  Always more time.  Less tension and unnecessary drama.  More visits with family and friends.  Dates that are fun and wonderful and silly and serious and romantic and sweet and lovely.  More princes; less frogs.
7. What dates from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory and why?
My nephew's birthday, August 26th.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 
 Growing my portfolio at work.  Joining - and sticking with! - a writing group.  Helping my parents. Doing an (assisted) handstand in yoga class.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I almost always play the role of peacekeeper or Switzerland among my family and friends.  Sometimes I'm really good at it.  Other times, I'm not.
Losing my patience even when every fiber of me knows that it's not worth it. 

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Thankfully, no.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
I always say plane tickets.  I love to travel.  I'm also pretty psyched I finally plunked down the money for that road bike I've wanted for years.   

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Right before Christmas, an anonymous woman made the news here in Boston for paying off every single person's layaway accounts at a nearby Toys R Us.  How unselfish.  How thoughtful.  How kind.  For every bad story and news piece we hear, I know there are people out there doing good, practicing kindness, fighting the good fight.  We need those people. 

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Isis. 
The incidents surrounding Ferguson, MO and the recent death of Eric Gardner.
The older I get, the more astounded I am when I have to work with/encounter/deal with people who only focus on themselves.  This world won't work if all we care about is ourselves.
 
14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent, Car maintenance, clothes(!), travel, taxes.
 
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
My nephew's birth.
Traveling to Wyoming.
Getting better at yoga.
Spending time with my parents. 

16. What song will always remind you of 2014?
"Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift.  I love that jam.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?
a) sadder (I feel like I need to qualify this statement.  I'm fine.  But like I said above, 2013 was the best and I walked out of that year on cloud 9.  I'm ready for the next odd numbered year is all!)b) thinner. (I know I keep talking about yoga, but seriously. I'm stronger and more fit and like to think more zen about a lot of things too.)
c) richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Reading, Writing, Sleeping soundly, Staying in the present moment.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Worrying over things that don't matter or won't happen or are completely out of my control.
 
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with my Mum in Georgia.  It was the two of us and the best dog in the world, Bailey.  Quiet, but nice.  We went to Christmas Eve service together, I cried through Silent Night (as predicted!) and then we spent Christmas day eating good food, munching on Christmas cookies, sipping mimosas, and opening presents.  It was fun.

21. Did you fall in love in 2014?
Sure.  I met my nephew; a whole new little person to love.  I didn't know it was possible but I love both of my parents more and more every single day.  And my friends.  Oh, man.  I adore them so.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
True Detective I guess.  (That was a 2014 show, right?  The years blur together....)  I still miss Breaking Bad.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No.

24. What was the best book you read?
Rules of Civility by Amor Towles.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Hozier.  Thanks to my girl Amy, we had the chance to catch him before he "broke" with his SNL performance and caught him with about 50 other people at an intimate acoustic show here in Boston last spring.

26. What did you want and get?
Challenges in my job.  More opportunities to travel, specifically to spots I'd never seen before.  A road bike.  Good health.  The chance for lots of yoga.

27. What did you want and not get?
More time with family and friends who live too far away.  More chances to see my cutie nephew. 
 
28. What was your favorite film of this year?
12 Years A Slave.  That film blew me away.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 35 this year and my birthday fell on a Sunday.  I spent Friday night in New Jersey at a good friend's wedding.  Saturday morning I hung out with my Dad before flying back to Boston that night.  Saturday night I went out for cocktails with my urban-dwelling friends and Sunday celebrated with other friends and their cute kiddos.  We went apple picking and they hosted a birthday/last day of summer BBQ at their house.  It was awesome. One of the best birthday weekends ever. 

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Not dealing with assholes. 

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2014?
More of the same from last year for the most part.  Stud earrings more than dangling ones.  Clean lines and structure but not too modern. A-line skirts and dresses.  Boots, both tall and short.  Blue and white stripes forever. 

32. What kept you sane?
Yoga.  My friends.  My parents.  Writing.  Reading.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Still obsessed with Kate Middleton.  Have a full blown crush on JCrew's creative director and president, Jenna Lyons.  I passed Jake Gyllenhaal on the streets of SoHo this fall while in Manhattan.  He is absolutely as cute in person.  It renewed my crush.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
The horrible beheading of James Foley.  It is a tragedy that continues to haunt me. I cannot shake my empathy for his family and think about them on a regular basis.

35. Who did you miss?
My brother.

 
36. Who was the best new person you met?

My nephew, William.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014.
How we treat one another - each and everyone of us in this big ol' planet - matters.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
I was driving home from New Hampshire earlier this fall with my Ipod on shuffle.  Engine to Turn, one of my favorites from singer/songwriter Tift Merritt came on.  I've always loved it's tempo, it's beat.  It's a catchy little song.  But I'd never really listened to and identified with the lyrics until that car ride.  I'm not too proud to tell you I was close to tears as I sang along at the top of my lungs, driving down 93.

Most days I wanna speed up
Seems like I ought to slow down
Maybe the pieces are here
If I just took a good look around
Maybe the world feels like me
Wishing someone would sing it a song
About how there's a lot of good here
About how it's done nothing wrong
I'm just trying to get the engine to turn
I'm just trying to smile through my tears
And I still got so much to learn
But the best I can is what I have got to give
Gonna give it while I'm here

2014 Reads.

With the year coming to a rapid close, it's time for my annual What I Read List to appear.  I love keeping this list, I love sharing this list with the three friends that swap book lists with me every single year.  It's a great tradition - both the swapping notes, comments, and lists with these old college pals of mine - and the simple, sheer act of taking note of what books I tuned into throughout the year. It's a tradition that started without intention of becoming any sort of tradition.  Just like the best ones always are.

20 books in 2014.  That's what I managed this year. Which, maybe is a lot to some, a puny few to others.  Every year I try and try not to get obsessed with the number of books consumed - it's the journey not the destination, etc.- but still, this one felt like an awfully short list, no matter that I usually average in the 20-25 books/annually range.

I stumbled upon some real gems this year.  There were a few that I expected from the get-go to be good (Patchett, Harding) and others that left me pleasantly pleased (Novak, Strayed).  My favorite read came as a complete surprise, when I picked up Rules of Civility in the spring for our book club read.  There were disappointments (Rowell, (I know people love her and Eleanor & Park, but it just didn't do it for me) Glass, Cameron, Sullivan, Lahiri, (Lahiri! A disappointment!) as well.  Par for the course.  But this year I felt like I kept hitting these spells of bad book after bad book and it would take forever to get back into something worth reading/that I really cared about.  One of my aforementioned college friends offered the elixir of jumping to a long neglected classic the next time I get a case of the bad book rut, which will be my plan in the coming year.  Back in the saddle and all that.  Onward, to 2015 and all of THOSE books I can't wait to get my hands on.

But, first!  My list!

Books I read in 2014:

1.  The Lowland – Jhumpa Lahiri
2. This is the Story of a Happy Marriage – Ann Patchett
3. The Orphan Master’s Son – Adam Johnson
4. Almost French – Sarah Trumball
5. A Constellation of Vital Phenomena – Anthony Marra
6. One More Thing (Stories and Other Stories) – B.J. Novak
7. Divergent – Veronica Roth
8. Rules of Civility – Amor Towles
9. The Art of Fielding – Chad Harbach
10. Eleanor and Park – Rainbow Rowell
11. The Bear – Claire Cameron
12. The Whole World Over – Julia Glass
13. Maine – J. Courtney Sullivan
14. Purple Hibiscus – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
15. Sharp Objects – Gillian Flynn
16. It’s Not You: 27 (Wrong) Reasons You’re Single – Sara Eckel
17. Tiny Beautiful Things Advice on love and life from Dear Sugar – Cheryl Strayed
18. Unbroken – Laura Hillenbrand
19. Half-Broke Horses – Jeannette Walls
20. Yes Please – Amy Poehler

With the Dawn of Redeeming Grace

Today was my last day in the office for just over a week.  Despite the fact that I will (sigh) be back in the office between Christmas and New Year's this year to work a few days, this holiday break is feeling - as I sit in my living room staring at my Christmas tree, comfy sweatpants on, a glass of wine and a small piece of chocolate on my left, deliciously and wonderfully long.  Years when Christmas falls on a Thursday always seem like the best years, schedule wise, time off just begging to be used for days both before and after the 25th.

After I finally sent my last email today, set my out of office replies, and shut down my computer, I walked out into the cold, pitch dark for 5pm, night.  There is something I have come to love about the cities I have lived in right before the holidays; particularly on a day like today, the last working day for most.  I like the calm and quiet that comes over the city in a subtle, unannounced way.  It's a hard feeling to put your finger on, and harder still to describe, but I imagine, no matter where you live or where you work or how you spend the majority of your days you know what I'm talking about.  It's the sliver of space in between the bustle of your every day and the hustle of holiday travel and gatherings.  Those last moments we all remember when, as children, we walked down the school hallway waving goodbye to our teachers, en route to the buses that would take us home on this, the last afternoon before winter break.  It's the final well wishes for a Merry Christmas exchanged with colleagues as you stand to turn off the light at your desk and reach for your coat.  It's the walk you decide to take through the park even though it is slightly out of your way, simply because the Christmas lights are all up and the chill in the air is inviting and pleasant rather than the usual temperature of downright frigid.  It's letting yourself pause, no matter that you've got a million errands to run, in front of a beautifully decorated storefront, marveling - just as you might have when you were much younger - at the colors, the festivity, the magic.

'Tis the season.

Lately I've been trying to appreciate those unexpected moments of calm, of peace, that sneak into my days on occasion, particularly around the holidays, throughout the month of December.  They never last long. But perhaps that is what makes them all the more profound.  If you're not careful, they'll fly right past you - just like magic - and you'll never catch your breath or stop to notice just how perfect this one and only moment is, right this one and only second.

I love Christmas Eve church service; I have for as long as I can remember.  Of course, it's really the last five minutes of the service that I cherish, when the entire congregation stands to sing Silent Night by candlelight.  Every year, even though I know exactly what's coming, I cannot help but be moved to tears.  For there we all are, family, friends, and strangers. Yet for the briefest of moments, we are all together. Each and every one of us with our busy, hectic, wonderful, maddening, confusing, heartwarming, heartbreaking, and ordinary lives.  It feels like magic.

Happy Christmas, friends.  

American Girls.

I imagine any woman who is in her early to mid 30's knows about American Girl Dolls.  (As do our mothers and grandmothers, since they most likely had to listen to our obsessions back in the late 1980s and early 1990s.)  Never mind that it was more than 25 years ago,I can still clearly see myself flipping through the very first catalogue for the American Girl company when it arrived in our mailbox.  I was about 8 or 9 years old, and I spent the evenings pouring over the descriptions of the three (the initial, original three!) dolls available, trying to decide which one was my favorite:  Kirsten, Samantha, or Molly.

My grandmother gave me Molly that Christmas; I remember opening the box that cold December morning delighted to see her - my very own American Girl doll! - and oohing and aahing with both my mother and grandmother over her perfect pigtail braids, her argyle sweater and navy blue wool A-line skirt, and falling in love with her perfect wire glasses.  I had a lot of dolls as a kid but Molly became an instant favorite.  While I would eventually be lucky enough to also own (and love) Samantha, Kirsten, and then later, when the company expanded their offerings to include red-headed, Colonial era Felicity, and finally, Addy, I always had an extra special spot in my heart for Molly.  She was the first and therefor the unspoken "leader" of my doll collection.

Eventually, of course, I outgrew my American Girl doll obsession.  I traded their clothes and books and accessories for my own accessories and fashion obsessions and make-up and middle school dances and innocent crushes on boys. My dolls currently sit in my Mom's basement, where they are boxed away in their original outfits, eyes closed shut.  I like to imagine that they are patiently waiting for the day that I dig them out again, dust them off, and lift them out of those crimson colored cardboard boxes, ready to be passed along to another little girl, whoever she may be.

Every year in December, my company pairs up with a local school for a holiday angels program. The program is designed to provide gifts and holiday cheer for students with challenging needs in Boston. We never meet the students; we're simply given the opportunity to sign up for one and told their first name, age, and suggested gift items or wishes the child might have expressed for Christmas.  I've always participated, usually picking a child who had a specific wish like a basketball or Lego's or a paint set rather than just a request for a gift card.  (Because where is the fun in that?)

This year, when the announcement went out about signing up for the program again, I walked upstairs with a co-worker to peruse the wish list.  As soon as I saw the listing for the little girl, aged 9, who requested "anything American Girl related" I knew I'd found my match.  Back down at my desk, I took a look at the American Girl's website.  It had obviously been quite some time since I'd done any price shopping at American Girl and I will admit to a bit of sticker shock upon first glance.  (Turns out even the price of a doll will go up after 20+ years.)  I looked at a few options for my holiday angel, comparing different American Girl book collections about the dolls or various outfit sets.  But I kept coming back to the actual doll.  Sure, it wasn't the cheapest idea, but really? I could swing it simply by cutting back on a few dinners out with friends this month. Easy-peasy.  I just kept thinking of this little, anonymous, 9 year old girl, whose one wish for Christmas was anything related to American Girl dolls.  I remembered how excited I was that Christmas morning so many years ago when I, a child who was fortunate enough to grow up in a safe, loving, upper middle class family who had parents and a grandmother who could afford to give me the doll I wanted, and it nearly broke my heart to imagine a little girl out there, whose own heart was set on her very own American Girl doll, and her family - whatever their circumstances might be - not being able to give her one.

Suddenly, purchasing that doll became the easiest decision I have ever made.

I know there are a thousand other girls out there who covet those dolls just as much as this little nine year old and I wish I knew a way to get one to each and every single one of them this Christmas.  Maybe one day, if I ever strike it rich, I'll be able to do just that.  But until then, I'll think of my anonymous little nine year old in Boston, imagine her being handed that crimson red box wrapped in snowman wrapping paper later this month, and hope she is just as thrilled as I imagine her to be.
This is the season of giving, after all.

Grown Ups.

Here and there, when the time allows, I've been working on a personal essay that maybe someday when it's good and ready I can submit for publication.  There is a piece of it where I talk about those first few moments at the beginning of one's adult life, where you realize with shocking clarity that you are entirely on your own, able to do and choose whatever you please.  My freshman year in college, I remember giving someone my phone number, (this was well before cell phones were commonplace) and realizing, as I watched them write it down that it was MY phone number.  I was the only person at the end of the line, there would be no more messages taken for me by my family if I was out, no more answering questions about who it was that just called, and I could give those digits out to anyone I damn well pleased...or, just as easily, refuse to share them.  The power was all mine.

One of the running jokes my friends and I made often during our early twenties was that one of the markers of true adulthood is allowing yourself to have ice cream for dinner.  Even now, well into my thirties, I am occasionally hit with moments where I think to myself, "no one else in the world knows what I am doing right now."  Of course, if you know me, I tend to have these thoughts while I'm doing something completely innocent like wandering through a used bookstore or skipping out of the office at lunch to squeeze in a yoga class rather than something risque or scandalous.  Still, there's something rather liberating about that feeling, isn't there?  Just last night I was reminiscing about high school with a friend.  As much as I genuinely loved my high school experience, we were commenting on things that would feel so foreign now were we ever to be back inside our high school - asking for permission and getting a hall pass to use the bathroom?  Being forced to only eat during the designated lunch time versus being able to grab a quick snack when and where you're actually hungry?   

Sunday was my first day back in Boston in what felt like weeks after being on the road recently for quite a few various work and pleasure trips.  Desperate to restock my poor bare cupboards, I took myself to Target and Trader Joes (crazy missions on Sundays in December, the both of them).  By the time I got home from Trader Joes and carried load after load of various sundry items up the three flights of stairs from my car, the sun was beginning to set.

Instead of immediately (and responsibly) unloading my groceries, I stopped and opened a bottle of red wine, pouring myself a glass.  Then I grabbed my laptop and opened up Spotify, picking a Christmas tunes playlist.  I rummaged through the grocery bags until I found that treat I'd purchased for myself - a block of Brie cheese.  There.  Priorities.

Being an adult can be kind of a let down at times.  There are bills to pay and jobs to keep and life questions to sort out and responsible decisions around every corner.  But there are also those cold December Sundays when you find yourself dancing around your kitchen at dusk, wearing your fuzziest, warmest, LL Bean slippers, a glass of red wine in hand, a favorite holiday song playing on the radio, and you think to yourself.  You know?  This grown up life you made for yourself is pretty freaking awesome. 

Now pass the Brie. 
 

Leading With Love.

A few weeks ago, as I cradled a paper plate piled high with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and all the trappings of a Thanksgiving meal on my lap, I sat next to one of my best friends on another friend's couch, catching up over our annual "friends-giving."  We were sharing stories, trading updates on what we'd been up to recently and I started to tell her about one of the more frustrating areas of my life as of late.   No matter how I approached this particular issue, I explained, I was met with road blocks.  I'd been empathetic, understanding.  I'd tried getting angry.  I'd tried being sad. I'd pleaded.  I'd even tried to remain ignorant, hoping the problem would go away on its own.  All to no avail.

"I'm just...frustrated." I told my friend.  "I'm stuck here, wanting - trying - to make things change among this group, but I can't make them change.  Leading a horse to water and all that."

And then my friend, my dear, sweet, smart friend, reminded me of what I've known all along.  "So you lead with love, Kelli.  They might not follow and they might not understand but you'll know.  You'll know it's because of love.  All of it comes from love."

But it can be hard sometimes, right? It can be challenging to continue to lead with love when you hit wall after frustrating wall.  There are mean people out there, full of hate and anger and bitterness. The complete opposite of love.  There are times when it seems easier to simply give up, to stop pushing, to shrink.

And yet.

Where would we be if we all just gave up? If those of us that have the capacity to lead with love stopped?

******

One of my most favorite expressions or ideas is that light is the only thing that will drive away darkness.  No matter how small or tiny the light, it is always - it will always be - stronger than the dark.  We may not see it right away, it may flicker and fade, but if it is there, it will win.  For the smallest light shines brighter than the blackest darkness every single time.

There are a lot of things I'm grateful for this year, things I do my best to take a moment and appreciate every single day, not just on the fourth Thursday in November. I'm thankful I can get out of bed without aches or pains, that my body will do what I ask of it in yoga, on bike trails, running errands, living my ordinary life.  I'm lucky I have never once worried about putting food on the table or not having a roof over my head or not owning a coat that will keep me warm each winter.  I'm blessed beyond words with the friends I have found, both near and far, and I wouldn't trade a single one.  A good education opens door after door and I'm grateful that the doors I've encountered professionally have kept opening, both in my career, and in my overall desire to be a life-long learner.  My parents - my dear parents - have never once not had my back, which is the greatest level of security and love I may ever know.  I have been immensely blessed over the past 35 years and I am, simply, thankful.

******

About five years ago, three of my high school friends and I flew down to Washington, D.C. to visit another friend of ours for the weekend.  The history buff of the group, I convinced the girls that we should spend one of our afternoons touring The Holocaust Memorial Museum.  Of course, the entire museum was moving, depressing, sad, and heart wrenching.  Near the end of the exhibit, in the last wing before the exit, footage of survivors was being shown on a large central screen.  They were clips that lasted a minute or two, some of them talking about their time in hiding or in the concentration camps, others talking about their lives after they were liberated. One of the men interviewed said something that has never left me, that I hope never will.  He was walking through a camp one morning when he passed another man who was praying.  He stopped and asked this fellow prisoner what he was praying for.
"I am thanking God." the man answered.
"Thanking God?" the first prisoner asked, incredulous.  "We are trapped in a level of hell here.  People are dying right before our eyes.  Guards are beating us, murdering us.  What on earth could you be thanking God for?"
The man in prayer stopped and looked up at the first man.  "God did not make me like these men, these murderers.  And I am thanking him for that.  I am thankful he did not fill me with evil like so many around us."

******

To our hearts. Our faith.  Our compassion.  Our blessings. To leading with love.

Happy Thanksgiving.

       

Quiet in the Stillness.

Personally, one of the hardest things for me to do at times is to just. stop. being. on. the. go.  I don't really know why I'm so hard-wired this way; but it's the way I've always been, leaping from one activity to another in a dash and a whirl.  I have long joked that the only time I really slow down is when my body absolutely forces me to should I come down with a nasty cold or virus.  My father has always referred to my down times as "recharging my battery" as once I've recovered, I'm always up and off and running around again.  Part of is likely stems from the dreaded FOMS (Fear Of Missing Something) faux disease. I'm sure that the other piece of it is that I genuinely want to do and see it all in this life.  It's as simple and as complicated as that.

This year, as you may recall, I am making a genuine effort to try and embrace the fall season.  While that doesn't necessarily mean I'm skipping through the fallen leaves in my wool sweater with a grande pumpkin spiced latte in hand, I am working to accept (and maybe? on a good day?) even relish the quiet that descends when deep fall arrives.  It gets colder outside, the days grow ever shorter, and we all start to lay the groundwork for our "long winter's nap."

I suppose this post doesn't truly have much of a point beyond the fact that today, after getting myself up and out of bed to make it to my favorite Saturday morning yoga class, I came home after class and successfully did pretty much exactly nothing all afternoon.  Oh, I read a bit, and I straightened up around the house a little.  I took a brief catnap then I read some more.

And you know what?  I enjoyed every single minute of this quiet afternoon, never once feeling the urge to get outside or take any sort of excursion, despite the fact that in actuality I do have a few hundred errands to run.  Of course, I'm going out to dinner with a friend tonight, so I'm not exactly pulling a Thoreau on any of you.  Let's not get too crazy or anything.

My logic on this descent into quiet and hibernation is logical - to my mind at least.  I figure if I slow things down now I'll be primed and ready come winter and the inevitable snow storms that hit this dear city.  After all, when you live in New England, getting through the colder months is a marathon, not a sprint.  I believe I will just consider November my month of training.           

Red Pea Coats.

When I was twenty-two and backpacking through Europe, I took the train from Stockholm, crossing most of Sweden in an afternoon, to Gothenberg.  Not yet ready to retreat back to my quiet little hotel one evening after I had finished my solo dinner, I wandered through a city square down along the water.  People were milling about, chatting and laughing among themselves.  Despite the fact that I literally could not understand a word anyone was saying, I began to mingle among them, taking in the sounds and the sights, entertaining myself with the people watching.  Dusk was just beginning to fall, the sky turning to muted shades of purple and pink, as they do in early spring as the days grow longer.

To my left, I noticed a young man in a red pea coat.  He was singing - loudly, alone, off-key.  As his song progressed he began to dance, awkwardly, in a sort of semi-circle among the cobblestones. This man certainly was not a professional street performer but he wasn't a total crazy either.  (By crazy, I'm talking in the sense of city crazy where your defenses go up and you guard your safety and nearby belongings with a bit more vengeance, giving the person acting out a wide berth.)  He was, as far as I could tell from my vantage point of about about twenty feet away, a simple-minded man who was determined to give his audience a stellar performance.  One that HE thought was outstanding, perfect, fit for an audience.

I can still see myself so clearly in that square watching that young man, as if my trip had occurred yesterday.  I stood there, watching him, amused.  He really did not care what anyone thought of him or recognize that he might be making a fool of himself.  He wanted to sing, damn it, and he was going to sing.

As I stood there pondering all of this, another young man rode past the red pea coat man on a bike. He yelled something as he approached the man and then spit directly on red pea coat man as he road past.  My red pea coat man, who didn't give a hoot about anyone, stopped mid-song.  He wiped his face off and then he started crying.

It broke my heart to watch.  It still breaks my heart to picture the way his face crumbled with this random act of bullying.

Unfortunately, I have seen several cruel gestures and acts in the years before and since that early evening in Sweden.  We all have, I know.  The darkness and anger and cruelty is around us every day and would destroy us if we let it, if we gave in and let that hate swallow us whole.

******

Earlier this week I started another year of volunteering at the local elementary school near my office, the one where I visit a child once a week and read to them in the school's library while they are eating their lunch.  As I went to sleep the night before our first meeting, I ran through a mental list of all the things I needed to get done at work that next day and thought on several occasions how I didn't really have time to go meet this new kid, how I should just cancel my reading sessions for the year.

And then I got a grip.

Of course you have time, Kelli.  I told myself.  Because you make time for the things that matter.  And this is a thing that matters.

I wonder sometimes, why we all seem to be predisposed to opt for the easy way out of things.  It is always easier to skip the gym or avoid the yoga class.  It's an uncomplicated decision to choose the comfortable path, to avoid the push or leap into the great unknown or the walk into the darkness.

And yet, once we are there, standing the dark, I tend to think that is always where we all thrive the most, where we shine the brightest.

******     

This week I finished one of the most beautiful books I have ever read, Cheryl Strayed's Tiny Beautiful Things.  There were a million different lines I loved, a thousand various moments that gave me pause, my heart catching in my throat as I read.  This is one of my favorite parts though -- lines I have already returned to again and again, as I know I will for years to come.  As I read them one morning on the T on my way into work, I thought, once again, of that red pea coated man.  I hope he's still out there, somewhere, singing at the very top of his lungs.

"You will never have my permission to close yourself off to love and give up.  Never.  You must do everything you can to get what you want and need, to find "that type of love."  It's there for you.  I know it's arrogant of me to say so, because what the hell do I know about looking like a monster or a beast?  Not a thing. But I do know that we are here, all of us - beasts and monsters and beauties and wallflowers alike - to do the best we can.  And every last one of us can do better than give up."

Date Night.

Wow.  Gang.  Between this, that, and the other thing, I have had a hell of an October.

My horoscope tells me that Mercury is in retrograde - has been for the past three weeks - and that I can pretty much expect every single aspect of my life to feel unsettled and off-kilter until this cycle ends.  Normally I don't put too much stock in horoscopes, reading them more for fun than anything else.  However, given that unsettled and off-kilter are exact adjectives I would use to describe the past three weeks AND the crazy (purely coincidental?) forecasts for some things that happened this month on the exact day in the exact way the stars said they would...well, color me a believer.  At least for the rest of this month.

(Though if the masterminds behind astrology charts tell me that November is going to be as challenging as October?  Then I'm heading for the hills.)

Add to the unbalanced fray the fact that it has been raining every day this week and you can likely understand why at the end of the work day yesterday I had simply had. it.

So I did what any normal, self-respecting, girl should do.

I took myself on a date.

Years ago, when I had just moved back from New York City and was settling back into life as a newly-single Bostonian, I invented Kelli date nights.  To be fair, I'd actually been taking myself on plenty of them as a New Yorker too, though I hadn't yet coined a specific term to describe them. But one night, that first winter I was back in Boston, as I took myself out to a book reading and then decided to stop on the way home and spoil myself with some sushi from one of my favorite spots in town - and - feeling ridiculously indulgent, also decided I would order a glass of champagne, I realized that I was on what had pretty much been the best date I had been on in eons.  Turns out, I make pretty good company.

Oh, I don't always want to be on solo dates with myself.  Let's not be extreme.  Still, there are moments when I absolutely and completely do want to do just that...be out with myself, alone.  To me, sneaking off to a movie alone now and again and treating myself to a bag of popcorn and a diet coke is a wonderfully decadent indulgence.  There are nights, when, after a long day at the office or a hectic schedule, I don't really want to talk to or engage with anyone, but I don't necessarily want to just home and stare at the television either.  Like anything in life, alone time is utterly and completely about balance and as with anything, moderation. (Including moderation, naturally.)

But back to last night.

The Wyeth family are some of my absolute favorite painters in the world. Earlier this fall, when I'd read about the Jamie Wyeth exhibition at the MFA, I knew the exhibit was a must-do.  It just so happens that the MFA is open late certain nights of the week, which made for the perfect opportunity, - despite the lousy weather - to shut my computer off at 5pm, break my routine, and go see some art.

One of the reasons that I love the Wyeth family's paintings (I adore N.C.'s illustrations, am simply mad for anything Andrew Wyeth ever produced, and dig Jamie's quirky yet realistic paintings almost as equally as his father's) is that the majority of their paintings are set either in coastal Maine, a place I have come to love and treasure, or in the Brandywine Valley of Pennsylvania which is very close to where I grew up in New Jersey.  When I look at their art, I often find myself relating to the New England side of life, which I have come to know as an adult, or reflecting back to my own childhood, recalling drives through the Pennsylvania countryside with my parents and my brother, knowing that the Wyeth's are absolutely accurately painting and portraying life in that part of the country.   

Yesterday evening, once I purchased admission into the museum and checked my wet coat and umbrella at the complimentary coat check, I immediately felt my shoulders drop, relax.  Just as I find a solo trip to the movies exhilarating, to me there is something wildly exciting about the idea of a few hours left to roam hall after hall of art completely on my own timeline and agenda.  Last night I was free to stand and stare in front of each piece of artwork for as long or as briefly as only I wanted.  I was able to circle back past a few of my favorite paintings, pausing to stare at certain aspects that drew my eye, letting my thoughts drift in and out and wander as they pleased.  Sometimes I forget what a wonderful "brain break" art museums can be.  When I lived in London, where the National Gallery was free, I used to pop in and out of that museum on a routine basis. Sometimes I went for entire afternoons, other times I would just pop in for ten minutes to catch yet another glimpse of one of my all-time favorite paintings.

Art. It is good for your soul.

Which is why, last night, I finally treated myself to an individual membership for the year.

For all the more date nights I have ahead.

Solo.  Or not.

Belated Presents.

The night before my 23rd birthday, a boy broke up with me.  It was a Friday night, and I had been calling him to see if he and some of his friends wanted to come out and celebrate my impending birthday with my roommates.  Instead of a quick call to determine what bar we wanted to meet at, I was, unceremoniously, dumped.

That was lousy.

I called my Mom.  I cried to my roommates.  We did not go out for drinks that night.

The next morning, however, as I was getting out of bed, I sat upright, looked out my window.  "Nope." I thought.  "Not today. You will not be sad today, on your birthday.  You can be sad on Sunday, you can be bummed next week.  But not today, your first day as a 23 year old woman.  He's not allowed to do that to you.  Fuck him."

And so I got up, got showered and dressed, and took myself downtown to Newbury Street.  At 23, I had no money.  I was living in an apartment with three other roommates in Brighton, making a pitiful "salary" as a temp worker.  I budgeted every penny, spreading out my bill payments between paychecks, following all of the tricks one does when they need to make every dollar count like bringing lunch to work every single day, cooking all meals at home, cutting cable, etc. etc. etc.

But that morning, as I rode the T into the city, I decided I was going to treat myself to my very own birthday present.  I was, I told myself, allowed to buy one thing - one perfect thing - that day without a single minute of stress or worry about the money I was forking over.  I didn't have to hem or haw about whether or not the purchase would fit in my budget, I certainly wasn't going to stare longingly at said object but put it back, knowing I shouldn't waste my money on something so frivolous.  Today I was free to make a single, solitary, guilt-free purchase.  Happy Birthday to ME.

It makes me laugh a little bit now, remembering the print I so proudly bought that afternoon.  It was $25, I think?  And had a woodland fairy on it?  But I loved it so much then and $25 was a lot to part with at the time.  But I did as I promised I would and didn't hesitate.  And throughout that day the next few years I never once looked back on that purchase.  Truth be told, I still have it tucked away in a closet somewhere, because even though my aesthetics and tastes have changed, I still love that print.  Not necessarily for the artwork anymore but because I love all that it represents to me and the girl I was, who made a firm decision then and there to not let the assholes that might come into her life now and then have the upper hand.

Truthfully, I'm grateful to that long lost old guy who bummed me out so much on my last night as a 22 year old.  For without him and his (lousy) behavior, one of my favorite Kelli traditions, that of treating myself to a birthday present every year without an ounce of guilt no matter if I should be spending the money elsewhere, might never have been born.

For the most part, I can still recall what I've gifted myself every year since I started this birthday tradition. There are a couple of years where I'm a little fuzzy, but in general, there was one for certain, sure thing, that I knew I would treat myself to when September rolled around.

Until this year.

The thing about making a little more money as your career advances (which, let's be clear, I'm not exactly a millionaire over here these days or anything) is you can, thankfully, afford an occasional "fun" item now and again.  Something that in the past might have set me back for months is a bit more attainable - as it should be when you're no longer 23, and have been working hard to climb that good old corporate ladder.  While, yes, there are a great number of things I still pinch pennies for, I am also at a place in my life when there can also be a few things that I fall in love with and can just *get* right then and there.  Which is awesome, of course, and I'm lucky and grateful for that.  The whole point of the birthday treat though is that it's supposed to be this item I have coveted, an item I want to plunk down my debit card for without hesitation and without a glance back.  And this year?  I had no idea what I wanted.    

Part of it was because this birthday completely snuck up on me and I'd actually had zero time to think about a gift for myself.  And part of it was because I suddenly found myself putting this idiotic invisible pressure upon myself to pick. just. the. right. thing. for. 35.  I was completely indecisive for two weeks after my birthday, popping into a couple of shops now and then or looking at items online, without ever finding just the thing.  Once I knew I was headed to Manhattan in early October for work I decided I would do my birthday treat shopping down there; that seemed somehow fitting.

And so it was, on Thursday afternoon, after I left a lunch meeting in Nolita, that I found myself face to face with one of the coolest pieces of jewelry I have ever seen.  Now, I am a girl who loves her cocktail/statement rings and I already have quite a collection of lovely baubles and trinkets, including my absolute very favorite, would save it in a fire, cocktail ring I bought in London eons ago.  But back to this new ring.  Oh, what a stunner.  She was the perfect shades of blues and greens, an awesome shape and size.  I asked the woman working behind the counter to take it out for me.  I slipped it on my middle finger. It was love! Then I saw the price tag.

Um.

No.

Yes, the whole point of the birthday gift is that it's supposed to be a present that I buy without care about saving the money, but I remain a practical girl through and through.  When a piece of costume jewelry costs as much as a plane ticket across the country?  Well, that takes the frivolous fun right out of that purchase.

I put it back.

I am not too embarrassed to tell you that I thought about it all throughout that evening and yes, okay, I even went back on Friday to look at it again.  It was, it is, a really beautiful ring.  But I couldn't do it.  I couldn't fork over my debit card, couldn't drop that amount of cash no matter that I loved it, no matter that this was my 35th birthday present to myself.

So there I was, having had an exhausting and taxing week in Manhattan, given myself a panic attack at the 9/11 Memorial Museum, ogling a ring that I would not be dropping a serious chunk of change on, standing on Elizabeth Street, staring past my beloved ring at my own reflection in the store window.  Maybe you don't get yourself a birthday present this year, Kel, I thought to myself.  If it's stressful and not fun that's not the point anyway, I remembered.

Then, it dawned on me.  B&H Photo.  I love that store!  And they carry the camera bag I've been eyeing for several months!  I can hop on the subway and get to Midtown and that will be my birthday present!  Hooray!  Immediately I whipped out my Iphone to remind myself of their exact address and saw that they were closed.  In fact they had been closed for the entire week due to a Jewish holiday.  "Great," I said aloud, to no one in particular.  "JUST BRILLIANT."

I took the train back to Boston that night, present-less, and feeling more than a little defeated.  Maybe I should have bought that ring, I told myself over and over.  (And maybe, someday, if it ever goes on sale or I have a very significant pay bump, I will.  But not now.  No can do.)

Last night, upon leaving the office, I decided I would walk home, soak up the last bit of daylight and delightful balmy temperatures, grateful for this surprise October weather gift.  While weaving my way through the city streets, I popped into a shoe store, "just to peek."  I really had no intention of making a purchase, despite my deep and long running love for all things shoe, but then I saw them. A pair of boots I had noticed in previous seasons, from a company I adore.  "Oh," I thought.  My senses perked up.  "I bet they won't have my size," I told myself.

They had one pair left in my size.

And they were on sale.

I walked around the rest of the store, the large boot box in hand, afraid to set them down for even a minute lest someone snatch them up or a sales clerk restock them.  I walked, I paced.  I carried on an entire inner dialogue with myself:
"I want these boots."  
"But, Kel, you don't really need more boots."
"Yet maybe these are it," I countered.  "Maybe these are my birthday boots."
"Fine.  You can get them but you better ask what the return policy is."

I stepped up to the counter; the sales clerk began fawning.  "I saw these come in the other day!" she exclaimed.  "They are so stunning."

I smiled, still cautious. (Why was I suddenly being so damn cautious about this birthday treat for myself?)  She asked for my email address, looked me up in the computer system.  "Oh," she tells me, looking up from the screen.  "We have a coupon here that hasn't been used yet.  It's for your birthday last month."

Reader, I bought those boots.

Oh, and since I saved all that money thanks to the sale and that coupon?  I went ahead and ordered myself that coveted camera bag too.

Happy Birthday To Me.

(Perhaps I'll treat myself to that ring by the time my 40th rolls around.)
  

More Than Any of Us Can Bear.

The block is immediately haunting.  Minutes earlier you were navigating your way through the twisting streets of lower Manhattan, for down here there is no grid system to follow, and as you are walking you find yourself thinking about the fact that One World Trade Center is almost open, almost ready for occupancy.  Had you stayed in New York all those years ago, with the company you worked for while in the city, you would be one of the tenants about to move into the building, about to swap your Times Square offices for brand new ones in America's tallest building.  You're thinking all of this and watching street signs and traffic and people and thinking about the past thirteen years and then suddenly, you turn right at the corner of a block and there you are.

Hallowed Ground.

It is an overcast early October day, the threat of a shower or two lingers in the clouds above.  Despite the throngs of tourists, the atmosphere is somber, quiet.  Aside from the one or two grade school children you overhear asking their parents questions, people are quiet, thoughtful, reflective.  You step up to one of the two reflecting pools.  You run your fingers along the names engraved along the edges, thinking for a moment about the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C. and recall being a child yourself, watching people take rubbings of names, of witnessing strangers run their own fingers over name after name carved into rock.  That was one memorial. And now, here you are at another one, in another city, from what will likely remain the greatest national tragedy of your lifetime.

You have come alone.

When you have held your breath and said a prayer for those names closest to you, when your heart already feels too heavy after only a minute or two of looking at those names, all of those names, you allow your graze to move outward, beyond the engravings and toward the waterfalls.  From previous research you know that each of the pools sit in the footprint of where those mighty World Trade Towers once stood, that each of them measures approximately an acre in size.  Amazed, in awe, and humbled you listen to the water pour down through each square shape for a few moments.  Thinking, reflecting.  All any of those people did that morning was go to work.  Just an average, ordinary, brilliantly blue-skied Tuesday in September.

Thinking that sneaking off for a few hours in between appointments on a late Friday morning might mean there would be less people, fewer crowds, you're rather amazed at the endless lines of people queuing up in various appropriate lanes.  There are school groups, elderly couples.  Foreigners, young families, bus tours.

You have had a rough week during this trip to Manhattan.  Some meetings haven't gone quite as expected, a few things have not unfolded as you expected them to.  You are tired, emotionally exhausted, and can feel you are already not quite yourself this morning.  Still.  What minor complaints.  There were nearly 3,000 people who died more than thirteen years ago that you are willing to bet would give almost anything to be in your shoes, to have the luxury of worrying whether or not your potential client was as impressed with your discussion as you had hoped they would be going into the conversation.

So you buy a ticket.

You owe them that.

It has been thirteen years and the wounds, while you cannot imagine that they will ever completely disappear within your lifetime do not feel quite as raw, as fresh.  You are always one to pray each morning on the anniversary, now and again you find yourself thinking of various victims that you came to "know" in the days that followed the attacks, even when another anniversary hasn't rolled around again.  

You have done your homework.  You know you will be going underground, you understand that there are various sections that may be harder than others to view, to witness.  You have read that there are warnings posted for certain sections, you know that there is always the option to "opt out" of various rooms or exhibits, should the need arise. Still, you are rattled when you step through the entrance, have your ticket scanned, and are immediately confronted with airport-like security.  There are bins for purses and backpacks, metal detectors to walk through.  Of course you know why this is necessary.  Of course you comply with the regulations.  But your nerves are immediately frazzled; your mind cannot help but go to the failed security efforts at various airports that fateful morning, your brain flashes back to the grainy black and white images that were later released of the hijackers walking calmly through security themselves.  You set off the metal detector when you step through the first time.  You are sure it's because of the watch and bracelets you are wearing on your right hand, but a gruff security guard rushes immediately in front of you.  "Miss.  Stop." he exclaims.  You take a step backward, reflexively.  "Miss.  Stop.  Listen to me."  You nod, suddenly frightened, amazed that at 35, you can still be made to feel instantly like a teenager.  "Step back again." he says, sternly.  "Put your arms above you in an X, like this."  You nod, do as he says.  "Now come through.  Slowly."  he commands.  You do as you are told, there is no beeping, no alarm this time.  Your bag is there waiting for you, you pick it up in a hurry, sure that if you can just get away from the congregation that has bottle-necked due to security, you will feel okay, less shaken.

There is no natural light.

The museum moves you slowly underground level by gradual level.  It is, you can tell from the moment you step toward the actual exhibits, an extraordinarily well done museum.  While you weave through levels, you're unaware how much further underground you are moving, aside from an initial escalator and a handful of steps, you are never fully aware of the deep decent you make.

One of the very first things you notice are the two large structural columns, remnants you know, from the original Twin Towers.  You eye the metal, note the height, the thick steel.  How massive these pieces are, even now.  Countless, the number of times you marveled at the size of those two Twin Tower buildings as a kid on trips into the city, racing with your mother and brother, vying to be the first to spot both the Twin Towers and the Statue of Liberty from the car while riding along the New Jersey Turnpike.

As you continue to descend you pause, looking to your right.  There, next to the common stairs you, yourself are currently standing on, are the "survivor's stairs."  You read the plaque nearby, understand that these are the Vesey Street stair remnants, the very stairs that so many fled down that terrible morning.  The stairs are worn thin, crumbling in parts.  As you read you learn that the stairs themselves were originally granite covered and stood next to two escalators that worked every morning and every evening to take thousands and thousands of commuters up from Vesey Street to the World Trade Center Plaza.

You close your eyes after reading the plaque, unable to keep from thinking about the hundreds of images from that day, of anyone fortunate enough to be a survivor, fleeing from those buildings as fast as they were able.  When you open your eyes you notice a man in uniform, the New York City Police Department, standing a few steps below you, staring at these same Vesey Street steps.  His eyes are wet with tears, his hands gripping the handrail.  You watch as a young man about your own age, one you spotted earlier leading a group of high school students into the museum, steps toward the officer.  They exchange no words, no handshakes.  The teacher simply gives the officer's shoulder a squeeze for a moment and the officer nods in acknowledgement.

Your heart seizes in your chest as you watch the two of them interact.

Humanity, in its purest form.

The In Memoriam room is heartbreaking, just as you expected it would be.  The pictures.  The faces.  The stories.  The thousands upon thousands of simple people, as ordinary and as innocent as anyone, all of them gone, vanished, in less than two hours.  

Your hands are shaking as you move from In Memoriam wall to wall, your chest feels tight.  And yet you keep looking, keep reading, keep staring at the faces because you have to.  Because you can.  Because you are still here.  Because they are not.

As you walk back out into the main hall, you can feel the tightening in your chest getting worse.  You're having a hard time breathing a full breath.  Feeling overwhelmed you decide you will not linger in this museum as long as you had initially intended, you allow yourself the opportunity to bypass a short film that visitors are queuing up to view, you walk rather quickly past the memorial quilts.  You pause by the twisted and mangled fire truck, you read the signage and recall with equal parts terror and clarity how entire fire stations and police units were wiped out, all of them gone, together, in an instant.

You come upon an interior room titled, simply, September 11, 2001.  There is a small line to get in, people are slowly entering the revolving doors to the exhibit one by one.  Once inside, the rooms feel even darker than they did a moment ago.  In front of you is a projected image of the two twin towers on that sunny, crisp, early September morning.  The images, they flicker once, twice, and on the third flash, the first plane has struck.  In your mind you can instantly see yourself, thirteen years and a handful of days ago, pulling out of your father's driveway in New Jersey, on your way to work, idling your Jeep while your Dad pulls the empty trash bins back from the curb.  "Dad," you say.  "The radio is reporting that a plane just hit one of the World Trade Towers."  You and your father look at each other for a moment, perplexed.  You both shrug your shoulders, shake your heads.  You drive off after another second, waving as you turn out onto his street.

That was the end.

The end of a certain existence we will never truly know again.

As you step further into the room, you see The Today Show footage from that morning. Matt Lauer interrupts his guest, an author promoting his new book, announcing that they have breaking news about an airplane that appears to have hit one of the Twin Towers.

And you're back there.  In an instant, that day, that horrible, shocking, tragic, unbelievable day is coursing through every vein in your body.  You walk past the televisions, the boards explaining what the recent headlines had been on September 10, 2001.  You hear a voice recording.  It is a husband, calling home to his wife, telling her if she hasn't seen the news yet, that a plane just appears to have hit the North Tower.  She is not to worry, he tells her, calmly, as things seem secure in the South Tower and he's okay.  In a minute there is a beep, another recording.  It is the same man again, this time, with another message, telling his wife that he is, instead, actually going to evacuate.  There is another beep signifying the end of the message. 

And then there is no more.

You start to sweat, to panic a little bit.  This is getting to be too much, you realize, and you begin to pick up your pace moving through the exhibit.  You hear the voices of flight attendants, their messages to air control towers when they realize they have been hijacked.  You read on the walls quotes, comments, from loved ones - both those who died during the attacks and those on the receiving end of those calls, those voice messages, those last updates.

You walk faster.  You think of your Mom.  You wish she was here, right at that very moment.  She would understand without a word.  She would know.  You have never actually had a panic attack, you realize, but understand you are very close to, if not already having one, now.  It is so crowded.  There are so many people.  It is so dark.  This is the day you have already lived, lived enough for a thousand lifetimes, and there are reminders of it everywhere.  You thought you would be okay.  You thought you would feel far enough removed.  But you are, in a breath, back there.  To that Tuesday morning.  Worse, even perhaps now, as you know the outcome, the sheer magnitude of horror, death, unspeakable tragedy.  You walk past an area that covers the people who were forced to jump from the towers, you read quotes on the wall about the people on the ground that bore witness to these souls forced to leap to their own deaths.  You owe it to them to keep reading, to continue to bear witness, you know, but you cannot.  You cannot keep looking and watching and listening because all you can think now is that you have to get out, get out, get out and you want to run but there are too many people around and you are trying to move past the little children holding their parent's hands and the group of elderly women walking together and you can't seem to find an exit, where is the door, is there any door anywhere, and you think of the thousands of people who were looking for doors and stairwells on September 11, 2001 and you cannot recall a time when you have felt this frightened and panicked and you just need some fresh air, just anyone get you to some fresh air, please.

You can't stay.  You can't look at anymore, you cannot track the events leading up to 9/11 nor the events that unfolded in the years after up until the present day.  You just need light.  You need air. You need out.  You are sorry.  You are so, so sorry you say to yourself over and over again as you try and navigate which floor you are on and where you can find an exit that won't set off an alarm.  You pray to the victims as you move up toward the entrance.  You are so very, very sorry.  You thought you could do it, you tell them.  You thought you could make it.  You are so sorry.

And then, there is an exit.  A guard standing by.  He nods once as you walk - almost run - past him, tears in your eyes.  I am sorry, you say.  I couldn't stay, you tell him.  He nods again.  He knows.   

We are all so sorry. 

Equinox

And now, suddenly, we are a week into October.

October is a month that I do not exactly look forward to.  Yes, I know.  The month that so many people love more than all of the other eleven...and it's one that a large part of me dreads (almost, but not nearly as much as I dread November.  And don't get me started on March.)

I wrote last year about my end of summer woes and thoughts, in general, about the fall.  Friends and strangers alike have tried to convince me of fall's merits, to persuade me to leave my summer love behind and join them in their pumpkin latte, tight wearing, soup making, jacketed love fests.  I know though, that I will always be a summer girl at heart, that I won't every shake my unconditional love of flip flops, ponytails, sun dresses, beach days, fresh summery fruits and vegetables and the gloriousness of relishing the long beautiful hours of daylight the summer season ushers upon us.  I have my favorite, just as others have theirs.  

Still, this October, I am making a conscious effort to, if not exactly usher in fall with grins, kisses, and open arms, to at least embrace the season as best I can, to appreciate all the goodness and beauty it offers.  Which, yes, yes, I can see...I'm not completely blind to what this season has to offer.

While a part of me cannot help but mourn the days getting shorter and colder, or shudder as I don tights and boots and scarves, or even worse - have to pull a jacket out of the closet before I leave my apartment, I am trying to see the beauty of this new season we are in.

Really.

I went on a hiking/yoga retreat this past weekend up in New Hampshire and even with the cool, rainy weather we experienced, I sought out the beautiful. I worked on paying attention to the glorious positives of a fall weekend get-away with some of my favorite yogi pals.  I breathed in the scenery, the sights and smells of a early fall weekend in the mountains.  I paid attention to the views.  And I felt grateful for it all.

I can't abandon my beloved summer months and I'll certainly never be the first person to run toward a big cozy sweater with glee. However, one of the greatest lessons this life has taught me thus far is really, it's all in how you choose to look at things.

So let's do this, fall.  Give me all you've got.

But don't get too excited.  You can still tell your old cousin winter to just back the heck off. 

See You in April.

Tonight, at 8pm Eastern Standard Time, one of two Wild Card baseball games will begin, helping to eventually determine, after a few rounds of playoff games, which two teams will head to the 2014 World Series.

This year, the Red Sox are certainly not on that short list.

Last Friday night, my friend and I went to Fenway Park to catch the first night of the last series of baseball this year for both the Red Sox and the Yankees.  In years past, an end of September ticket to a Sox game (versus the Yankees no less!) was an item to be treasured, revered.  Fall baseball!  This year, the biggest motivation my friend and I had for attending this game was that it would be one of Derek Jeter's last; that we might have the opportunity to watch him play once more before his retirement became official.  (You know it's bad when a Sox fan is looking forward to seeing a Yankee on the field more than almost anything else at a home Sox game...)

It didn't much matter who won the game on Friday night as neither team was headed to the playoffs and truthfully neither team even played any of their all-star heavy hitters, because why risk the injury?  As the game wore on, it became more and more apparent that even Jeter himself would not be making an appearance that night.  Still, as I sat in the bleachers with my friend, watching the fans sitting all around me as well as those in other parts of the ball park that were flashed on the big screen in between innings, I couldn't help but smile.  Everyone knew the outcome of this game didn't matter. Yankee's fans had come donning Jeter shirts, intent on seeing one of their beloveds one last time.  Us Sox fans...well, I like to think most of us simply came for the love of the game, the ball park, the team, this town. 

******      

When my friend Hannah and I went to Old Faithful in Yellowstone earlier this month, we arrived just as the most recent eruption was ending.  By the time we parked our car and got up to the geyser nature's show was over - for the next ninety minutes or so.  She and I wandered around the park ranger station and the gift shop killing time.  Eventually all we had left to do was make our way over to the benches surrounding Old Faithful and wait.  As the next projected eruption grew closer, more and more people joined us on the benches.  We overheard various bits of conversation, people watched until our hearts content.  And then, right within the ten minute window, as promised, Old Faithful began her performance.  The crowd oohed and aahed, cameras clicked, people clapped.  And I felt tears spring to my eyes.  

To me there has always been something uniquely special about those sort of communal moments; perhaps that is one of the reasons I have always enjoyed the 4th of July and fireworks as much as I do.  I just find it so innocently charming and endearing that a mass of strangers, from all walks of life, can gather together and await something as breathtaking and perfect as a geyser exploding into the sky or fireworks bursting into the air with colors and noise,  In days where people can be far too busy looking down at their cell phones or wondering what event will happen next...always next, I find it perfectly wonderful that we can still share communal moments now and again, no matter how grand...or how small.    

The same goes for those dear old baseball games of mine.  

In my office at work, I have several pieces of Red Sox regalia.  One afternoon this summer, one of my co-workers poked his head in the doorway.  "Kelli.  I've been meaning to ask you for ages.  What is the secret?  What did your Dad do to create such a Red Sox fan?  I've got three little girls at home and I'm desperate to have at least one of them love the game as much as I do."

I laughed and explained that in truth, my father had nothing to do with my Red Sox adoration.  It's a matter of living here in Boston, first of all, as I genuinely believe there is something in the water.  I told him about an old ex-boyfriend of mine, who was the biggest Red Sox fan I knew when we started dating.  "The games were always on," I explained.  "I didn't really have much of a choice but to learn and fall in love the team too."  I elaborated further, telling my co-worker that even though the boyfriend had long since vanished, the baseball had stuck.  He and I both agreed that there's something magical and uniquely wonderful about a summertime ball game.  Yes, we all want our teams to win, sure the World Series titles are great.  But to me, there's something perfectly wonderful about hearing a ball game on in the background while you garden outside.  Or passing two old men sitting in lawn chairs who are listening to the game themselves.  It's the lemonade and the hot dogs and the cold beers on a summer night, the kids who idolize their favorite players, the neighborhood gang of children gathering together to play their own ball game in front yards all across this country.

Perhaps that all sounds too much like a Norman Rockwell painting, but so be it.  Baseball is one of the few things that spans generations.  It is timeless.  A classic.
    
When my friend and I walked down the stairs and into the belly of the ballpark at the end of the night on Friday, we both paused for one quick moment, staring out at the stadium light field, taking a breath.  Goodnight Fenway.  Goodnight Red Sox. 

Until next year! she and I agreed, as we parted ways on Lansdowne Street.  I walked home, pulling my Red Sox hoodie a little closer around my neck, aware that cooler air was moving in, coming our way, that the seasons are changing.

******

Every year, at the end of the final Red Sox game of the season, the radio announcers read a quote from former Commissioner Bart Giamatti.  It is how they end their broadcast and I have always loved it.  What I love just as much though is the familiar comfort in knowing that it will all come around again and again, each and every year.   

190 days until Opening Day.  

“[Baseball] breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall all alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.”