Find “about ” and ” credits” files. Waffle over how much to use. Or how little. Copy and paste. Edit. Format. Correct. Print. Correct. Reformat. Print.

Copy and paste seven files. Edit. Format. Print draft. Damn. Fight with Word. Curse Microsoft. Curse again. Oh. There must have been a page break there. Delete that. Argh. There are two copies of one file – where did the second one come from? Print. Proof again. S**t. Yet another not-so-elegant transition. Forgot a notation. Take a break before I print. Review. Print.

Find camera. Photograph the subject. Upload.  Where are the photos?!!  Oh, I’ve updated operating system since last upload. Poke around. Find photos. Import to iPhoto.  Edit. Blah! Bad shadows. Rinse and repeat. Matte or gloss? Print. Border is inconsistent. Print again.

3pm. Did I have lunch? How do I indicate which image goes with which story? Oh. Doh: number them. Search for razor-point Sharpie. Great gussie! Where are my mailers? Mad search ensues.

4:45. Dash to post office. Address one of their mailers at counter. Hand to clerk. Swipe debit card at 4:58 pm.

5:15. Pour wine. Sit on screened porch. Stare into space. Stare into space.stare into space. stare into spacestareintospace. . .

It took SIX hours to get a twenty-page proposal printed and mailed. SIX. (Well, really five, plus the hour looking for my stash of Priority Mail mailers and the Sharpie. But still.)

Twenty years ago, this project would have taken nearly a week to prepare. Remember when we had to type, and use correction tape or liquid, and retype (and retype) to get it perfect? Then save to a floppy disk and go to Kinkos to print and copy en route to the post office? (I’m still too ticked at HP to give them any credit.) But remember when  you had only a dot matrix printer?

I LOVE MY MAC.

His name is Newton. He works hard for me. He holds my data, and he finds it when I ask, nicely. He makes me look good. And he does it quickly. Usually.

Canadian poet Merle Shain understood love. She declared: “If I were to marry again tomorrow, I wouldn’t give up one friend. I’d take them all with me as a sort of dowry and tell my new husband that he was getting a rich wife.”

I’ve always wondered about girls and women who leave their friends behind when a man steals their heart.  I don’t get it. What I loved most about The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood was the life-long friendships.  Their husbands got a handful!

Last weekend I sat with three women whom I haven’t known long, but already feel that I know well. The breadth of self-disclosure was stunning, the honesty was liberating, the awareness motivating.

I’ve been thinking since about friends—the ones who bring me real joy, what makes them so valuable, and how they touch my soul with such depth, again and again.

There is always genuine interest, good conversation, and enjoyable companionship.  We share similar values, but experience and beliefs different enough to be interesting, provocative, and moving. There is empathy and authenticity.

Those who love me most will tell me when I have peas in my teeth, and when I am wrong in my thinking. More, true friends inspire me to be and do my best. They mirror my strengths, and equally, my weaknesses. They’ll let me wallow for a while when things go awry—and they listen completely—then goad me to seek solutions.  They nudge me to venture into new territory, and cheer me on whether I stumble or thrive. They laugh at my jokes. As a Native American friend would say, “They give me thunder.”

They are my champions. They give meaning to my life.

And I have the honor of doing the same for them.

Friends and family are oxygen for my soul.

She went out to play Thursday afternoon, and didn’t come home that night. Or Friday, or Saturday. Nor Sunday or Monday.  I put notices on the neighborhood message boards, asked friends to hold the vision of her return, and tried not to fret. Cats do these things, sometimes.

There were moments of imagining the worst, then of knowing she was fine.  Moments of intense longing, and wishing.

Finally, she came bolting in, mewling loudly, demanding food and water. I filled her bowls, and waited for her to tell me about her five-day adventure.  But noooooo. No explanation. No apology.

I tried to be at least a little ticked at her, but wasn’t able to. My friend Christina said of four-leggeds: “ . . . they know not the ultimate depths of how they touch us… which may be part of the charm they hold.”

Dictionaries say joy is “great happiness,” which I think of as a big emotion. But what I love most is her rubbing up against my ankle, or nestling against my side or my neck on the sofa. Sliding under the covers to curl up in the crook of my knee or at my feet as I sleep. Her purr after she dines or when I scratch her neck. My elation at her homecoming was somewhat short-lived, yielding quickly to the simple pleasure of her presence, her company, her touch.  Is there something smaller than “great happiness” but equally as grand? As important?

I don’t know what it’s called, but every day Miss Kitty brings me sustainable, consistent, unadulterated joy. I’m glad and grateful that she’s home, and I think she feels the same way. She’s been stuck to me like Velcro ever since.

Purrrrrrrrrrrr. Purrrrrrrrrrrr.

Carpe diem

Rebecca

What is it about adorable dogs that fills my heart with joy? It is there sweet faces and adorable personalities.
Spend some time with Denver and you will know what I am talking about.

The conference concluded with a panel of six “million dollar” speakers and consultants, including the consultant’s ultimate consultant, Alan Weiss, and leadership development speaker Mark Sanborn. Roxanne Emmerich, the author of “Thank God It’s Monday,” said that we are not selling information or knowledge but rather wisdom. Hmmm. Wisdom as a commodity.

Wisdom is defined as insight, the ability to discern what is true. Wise people are often considered enlightened, which means to be free of illusions.

So, how can you bring more wisdom to your work? Here are three ways.

1) Tap into your wisdom. Employ proven practices like meditation, trusting your intuition and paying attention to dreams to solve problems, boost creativity and make wise choices. Confucius advised, “By three methods we may learn wisdom: first by reflection, which is noblest; second by imitation, which is easiest; and third, by experience, which is the most bitter.” Take time to reflect.

2) Focus on what matters. Distractions can often be mistaken for opportunities and much of what we fear never materializes. Every day, we are seduced by bad news, superfluous interactions on social media sites, and the latest gizmos and gadgets. Just because you can participate, doesn’t mean you should. When you get sidetracked on your road to success, save your precious time and energy by simply asking yourself if this detour really matters.

3) Emulate wise qualities. According to The Talmud, “The highest form of wisdom is kindness.” Whenever you can, express genuine compassion, concern and appreciation for your coworkers, employees, clients, vendors and associates. By doing so, you will inspire them to do the same.

“There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it,” said Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Edith Wharton. Either way is wise.

I shared that he “loved being the center of attention, yet he loved watching others shine. He loved succeeding, and equally celebrated other’s successes. ‘A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.’* His was a generous spirit.”

Memory of Mark was keen today as I visited with other long-time friends:

Sylvia is so proud of her grandchildren that she beams.

Donna had a breakthrough in establishing and enforcing emotional boundaries.

Betsy earned an A in a class from a professor who does not give A’s. (Free tuition at state colleges and universities in Georgia is a bonus that comes with Medicare and Social Security! I only have ten years to go.)

Charlie is also a returning student (though not even old enough for an AARP card) and will graduate Sunday, to embark on a new career for which he is splendidly suited and prepared.

Peggy and Gibbs are in a new home that fits them perfectly and makes them smile.

And my friend Carol, having regained some of the vision lost in one eye, is doing nearly everything she wants to do with resourcefulness and élan. She’s piecing a new quilt, and loved one of the fabrics so much that she hugged it.

There used to be a road sign on Lakewood Freeway that read

Take Gap

Give Gap

Give and take. Take and give.  Everyone gets his or her turn to lead, or follow. Then it changes again.

Recent months have been exceedingly challenging, but the successes of  treasured friends or family can make my spirit soar.  Some days I share joy by lighting the candle. Other times, I find joy by having my candle lit.

Carpe diem

Rebecca

* Quote from Father James Keller

Hill says that “breaks” happen to those who make them happen, to those who are willing to continue on no matter what, to those who have an intense desire despite being surrounded by friends, neighbors and media all telling you, “You’re crazy, don’t you know it’s a terrible economy? Stop trying so hard, wait till things settle down and get better.” Wait?  If Thomas Edison waited for a better economy we’d still be in the dark. If Henry Ford waited for a better economy we’d all be in better physical shape from walking all the time. No, they continued, they persisted, they did whatever it took to accomplish their burning desire.

Persistence is the key element to success. Breaks come when you continue moving forward in the face of fear, in the face of “no.” Breaks come when you continue connecting and creating relationships with people, when you continue educating yourself. And most of all, remember the JOY is in the journey. Enjoy each step. Enjoy every moment.  Be persistent, keep moving forward and believe that with persistence you will achieve your ultimate success. Because you will.

The other day, as I was contemplating our human tendency to focus on mistakes and missed opportunities, the above quote formulated in my mind and made its way to this blog. It was a comfort to me and I hope to you, too.

As I mentor and consult, I find that some of my clients have limited their success because of their fear of standing out or speaking up. Some choose to take on too much responsibility, instead of delegating duties. Others compare themselves with colleagues and wish they had pursued that big account, written that book or taken that risk.

When you see failure as just more data, you are free to take more chances, celebrate your mistakes and savor the lessons learned. And, you are less likely to harbor restrictive regrets and resentments about yourself or others.

Acclaimed 18th century poet and critic Alexander Pope got
it right when he said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.”

Who could need more proof than honey—

How the bees with such skill and purpose
enter flower after flower
sing their way home
to create and cap the new honey
just to get through the flowerless winter.

And how the bear with intention and cunning
raids the hive
shovels pawful after pawful into his happy mouth
bats away indignant bees
stumbles off in a stupor of satiation and stickiness.

And how we humans can’t resist its viscosity
its taste of clover and wind
its metaphorical power:
don’t we yearn for a land of milk and honey?
don’t we call our loved ones “honey?”

all because bees just do, over and over again, what they were made to do.

Oh, who could need more proof than honey
to know that our world
was meant to be

and

was meant to be
sweet?
Julie Cadwallader Staub.

My mother, born in 1923, adored paper products, especially napkins and tissues. “Do you realize what a relief it is not to have to wash and iron snotty handkerchiefs?”

The little things, it seems, made the real difference.

New Year’s Eve of 1999 found me in Alabama with a friend.  His grandmother, at 103, was in a nursing home, and the only person I knew with a foot in three centuries. Champagne and fine scotch, an elegant dinner and fireworks galore paled at this momentous landmark.  Gram was ailing and failing, unable to string thoughts together, but still, she was 103.

Both days when we visited Gram, a crone rested in a wheelchair in the hall nearby: Mrs. Whitton. While most of the residents wore housecoats and slippers, she had on stockings and sensible brown shoes, a khaki polyester skirt and a beige and white flowered button-up blouse. Gray-blonde hair teased and sprayed, surely done each week in the beauty shop downstairs. Her eyes were dull and flat; but she wore lipstick. Bright red-orange lipstick. ALL over her mouth. And cheeks.

Lipstick by Picasso!

I almost laughed, but my Higher Self whopped me on back of the head.  I began to rummage in my bag for a tissue, thinking to ask if I could help her wipe it off and put in on right.

A bigger psychic whop. I stopped and took a breath.

It was already on “right.”

Mrs. Whitton stared back at me blankly, but with a huge, glorious toothy smile, which the lipstick took — literally, from ear to ear.

My design school professor had been right: more than 20 years later, I felt the depth of his teaching. If I’m ever in Mrs. Whitton’s seat, wearing too much beige and a hairstyle 30 years out-of-date, with rare neuro-connections, I pray I remember the joy of a good lipstick.

Carpe diem
Rebecca