Should it be carried gently as a sleeping baby in your arms, held with acute awareness of its inestimable preciousness?  Or with abandon?  Tossing the day up in the air with delight, watching it return to your hands gleefully anticipating the breathlessness of being thrown higher again and again.

Perhaps it should be carried over your shoulder, as one carries shirts fresh from the dry cleaner?  Protected in plastic that provides the security that they will make it home spotless and pressed (assuming you don’t fall into a puddle).

Do you hold the day like a briefcase – holding so tightly to the handle that your fingers ache, secure that no one will be able to take it from you?

Or

Like a well-worn handbag held casually and almost mindlessly – its weight comfortable in your hand, its contents familiar (save for the occasional forgotten lipstick and dollar bill at the very bottom of the bag).

How do you carry the day?

Held tightly against you like a cell phone to your ear, doing all you can to make sure that no one can hear what you are attending to?  Protectively guarding your privacy despite being in the middle of all this humanity??

Do you carry the day with confidence or trepidation?  Delight or dread?  Is it one more parcel to hold along with too many others to effectively juggle?  Do you push it away as a stroller or a shopping cart, keeping control of the direction by keeping a certain distance between you and it?  Is it pulled along like a rolling suitcase, casually unaware of its contents (for after all it is always behind you).

Do you balance the day like an overly full cup of coffee that is thisclose to spilling over, taking mincing, tentative steps to avert sartorial disaster?

I suppose different days require different handling.  Today my  arms are at my sides, keeping questionable rhythm with my feet.  Today perhaps the day itself will carry me.

Reblogged from Dr Bill Wooten:

"I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching
my mind with my mind,
and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,
and it's not even noon yet.

In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in
one minute, and the longest
was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an outdoor cafe and order a glass…

Read more… 355 more words

Rather than look like I’m just sitting there ogling people, I make notes, raising my eyes subtly to take in the action (Actually, I like to think I look surreptitious – I have a hunch I’m not so graceful).

-  A guy walks by wearing a grey cap, striped sweater, wire-rimmed glasses…he looks like he could be a student at GW, but for the absence of a backpack.  He’s so intently texting that he slams right into the corner of one of the metal (heavy, wrought iron) chairs.  Unfortunately, said corner  is of a particular delicate height and I wince for him.  He lets out a “oooph” – a restrained exclamation if ever I heard one, and gingerly walked into the coffee shop.  Those of us sitting nearby all look up with sympathy and even a little amusement (that’s what you get when you don’t watch when you walk and text).  Ok, the women look more amused then the men.

-  The skylights which are supposed to welcome all the natural light look like they are bearing the traces of a really good cry.  It’s that kind of day.

-  Beige lady – I swear this is a beige lady.  Beige hair, outfit, shoes, necklace, purse…urban camouflage.  Her posture is perfect, her strides are long and her heels strike the floor with emphasis.  She covers a lot of ground with maximum efficiency.  A person on a mission, confident, hyped, ready.  She comes out of the coffee shop holding two Red Bulls.  I feel for the people with whom she’s working today.

-  Choices, choices..a man in biking shorts and a heavy sweat (or rain-soaked) checks out his options at the coffee shop.  Grabs a yogurt.  Puts it back.  A box of Special K.  Shakes his head and places it back on the shelf.  Granola bar?  Uh uh.  This is a small Au Bon Pain, there are limited choices.  He looks conflicted.  Ah!! He grabs a an apple turnover. I like this guy.

-  Cross-body bags with cross-body briefcases is not a great look.  People look like pack animals heading up Everest.  And the puce thermal lunch bag?  Um, I vote ‘no’.

-  Why does no one smile?  I must be missing the memo.  This feels like a very unhappy place, with questionable elan (but this is DC after all, we don’t pride ourselves on elan or fashion sense – or any sense at all for that matter).  I am on a crusade to get people to smile.  I consciously smile at everyone – the garage attendant, the vanilla-outfitted girl who passes my table with vacant eyes, the maintenance person who traverses the perimeter of the atrium scrupulously checking for…something.

I’m not talking maniacal smiles here – just a small smile that someone could choose to ignore or return without fear of a Jack-Nicholson-in-’The Shining’ reaction.  So far I’m 5 for 6…wait, 6 for 7 – not bad.  Each moves along in his/her own moment, which is totally cool.  I’m not looking to create memories here.  I just want to break this wall of impassivity – see if there’s any light behind those shuttered eyes, as if there is too much risk in letting someone see any emotion at all.

And I want to know all their stories – where do you work?  Do you like what you do?  What’s on your mind this morning?  House?  Condo?  Tent?  Pets?  Kids?  Partners?  What could change this moment from one that has merely passed to one that is fantastic?  Are your shoulders bowed from the weight of your backpack or the weight of your woes?

Why fuchsia lipstick?

They need music here – something to lift these sagging commuter spirits,  to imbue the morning with the hint of the possible, the funny, the sublime or even the stuff that really matters.  Time for me to head to the elevator with the guy who looks like Stubby Kaye when he was in “Guys & Dolls”.

I come at this though from a different place.  Boys perhaps are different – more muted in their expressions, though arguably more consistent.  And this is really about them.  Whether they read this or not is moot; it is for them in absentia.

If it wasn’t for the boys, I wouldn’t be one of those women for whom Mother’s Day is intended.  My boys.  Really, the appreciation should be directed their way.  They are not perfect; I have no illusions.  They are however the perfect sons for me.  They each came equipped with unique characteristics that amaze, delight, occasionally frustrate and always, always reinforce my wonder that I got so lucky.  So blessed.  I wish I could still hold them in my lap, yet I also love hearing their expanding world views.  I can touch their heads and remember them nestled in the crook of my neck, and then blink and re-focus on a conversation about work, current events, the Stanley Cup.  I crave them – I aways have.  And though I knew from the time I was able to toddle that I wanted to be a mom, I never knew I would be a  mom to men who I like as much as I adore.   Their love is nutritious – even though I’m  not sure what the RDA is.   All I know is that when I’m with them, I am the better part of me.  I look at them with occasional disbelief – these men, as boys were mine.  These men allowed me to be a mom.  And as convoluted as it may sound,  Mother’s Day celebrates them.  They are my greatest treasures, my heart, my soul.  They are my history and I am watching them travel into their futures.  And to take a line from my dad, “more loved [they] cannot be”.  Thank you for being the sons I always wanted, and becoming the remarkable men that you are.

Reblogged from JUSTICE FOR RAYMOND:

Reblogged from Lead.Learn.Live.:

Ian Martin is a British author, writer for Oscar-nominated film In the Loop, major contributor to The Thick of It and has written for radio and newspapers.  He shares his thoughts about turning 60.  A few excerpts:

1. People who "hate getting old" are idiots. Every year is a privilege. Let me tell you, callow miserabilists: getting to 60 feels like a triumph.

Read more… 190 more words

Redesigned logo used from 2011-present. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

OMG – that’s Helen Mirren!!  What is she doing in my neighborhood Starbucks???  She is magnificent, what a cool gravitas surrounds her as she regards a message on her iPhone with bemusement.  I swear it’s her.  I applaud my fellow humankind as we sublimate our collective desire to swarm, leaving her to be among the people.  It is interesting to me though that no one else seems to be sneaking peeks.  Wait…is she chewing gum while drinking her latte?  With her mouth open?  Helen!  Oh no she isn’t.  Yup she is.  Sticking the end of a ballpoint pen in her ear and scratching.  Her pinky isn’t raised.  I can hear her snapping her gum.  I get it – this most definitely is not a Helen Mirren sighting.  Damn – I was so sure.

Young woman in line with her shoulders slumped, hair covering her face as if she would give anything to be invisible.  She’s lovely actually, and dressed in black on a gorgeous spring day does not serve as a cloak of invisibility.  The blue lipstick doesn’t either – it actually looks like she’s been caught inflagrante delicti with a Smurf.  It’s that same blue.  I have to get this visual out of my head as soon as possible – it’s both funny and mildly gross.  And if this involves two consenting adults and no one is getting hurt…

Interesting meeting going on at the only table that seats four.  Three guys, one girl – all dressed in the new sartorial category “business casual”.  The young men are in khakis, three variations of the color beige and button down shirts – two blue, one white.  The woman wears a scarf wrapped twice around her neck in the fashionable way that conceals any spots on the front of your shirt.  Blue skirt, blue tights, flats. I look at them not looking at each other and smile – they all look so young, so intense.  I have yet to see one of them look up from their respective laptops, and I wonder why I’m so sure they know each other other than their matching outfits.  One guy gets up to get a refill and says to someone at the table – “I just texted you”.  Really?  I am inclined to sit here until they leave just to see if they acknowledge each other in real time as they move towards the door.  I’m inclined, but my time here is limited.

If a woman is standing in line and the seam in the back of her very-very-very tight skirt has gone off-center, do you tell her?  She’s got too much going on with the whole look not to care.  I think she is dressing to impress and she certainly leaves an impression.  I can’t imagine that she just threw herself together this morning. Her hair is sprayed to natural perfection (yes, it’s an oxymoron – get it?), eyelashes curled and mascara-ed, blush applied and blended right at the ‘apples’ of her cheeks as fashion magazines suggest.  I should tell her…no I can’t.  As I sit here in my chic gym clothes, I look like a really credible source to comment on the seam placement of her skirt.  Nope – I’m letting it go.

I see an older couple who work out at the gym when I do – we say a quick ‘hi’ as I begin to head out.  I look up just in time to see him kissing the top of her head as she leans her body into his.  The best takeaway from Starbucks this morning – all other thoughts just fade away and I carry their love in one hand and my coffee in the other.  Happy Wednesday everyone.

I struggle to describe this week.  All of the adjectives in my  mind seem to collide with one another in a frenetic game of bumper cars.  Contrasting realities – awful, horrific, mind-numbing, tragic, senseless, obscene, heartbreaking; life-affirming, connectedness, heroic, powerful, humbling, breathtaking, faithful.

Some people don’t do well with lots of stimuli – I’m one of them.  It’s why I hate the mall.  Too much going on that is competing for my attention and focus.  This week makes a trip to the mall look positively mundane.

I was in the city on 9/11;  in the Sears Tower (as it was called then – now the Willis Tower) two days later and flew to the Library Tower in LA thereafter.  My mom thought the firm was asking too much and was a wreck while I was gone.  I really think that had she known who to call, she would have dialed immediately and railed against anyone who had arrived at this decision.  Other than that, the trips were all about being there and not being rattled, reassuring those who needed it and confirming our collective strategy for responding to this serendipitous element of the new normal.

Of course, as this week shows there is no strategy for these traumatic reminders of the new normal.  The new normal wrenches us out of our skin, changes the rhythm of the day into a monotone dirge that quietly plays on an endless loop. Daily stressors are too much to bear, everything that is routine is somehow, not.  I found myself in tears for no reason (when of course there were all the reasons in the world), sitting with my body wrapped around itself, trying to contain this inexplicable sorrow, covering my mouth so the screams would remain silent while they vibrated through my body.  Did I even hear the birds engaged in their gossipy conversation over these past few days?  I don’t think so.

The collective release of tension in Boston last night infused my soul with light (and the hearts of many I am sure).  To see such joy and gratitude after these incomprehensibly tragic days returns my heart to baseline.  The treadmill begins to slow, the incline is less arduous.  The music changes – not necessarily exuberant, though hopeful.  And when I walked the Sirs this morning, I heard the birds engaged in a rockin’ game of Marco Polo.  And with a heart that is bruised, perhaps even broken, we return to our lives.

Reblogged from Lead.Learn.Live.:

Once again, I am motivated by friends, for whom this will resonate individually.  Yet I hope above all, among the takeaways is a feeling of the tremendous value you have, the wonder that you offer up everyday and the love you deserve – from yourself first and foremost.

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome

and say, sit here.  Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine.  Give bread.  Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit.  Feast on your life.

I’m really going to try to work on this…I need to.  You need to.  Let’s do it together, ok?  Happy Saturday all.