Teenagers, it's hard for us too.

A teenager who was
 nice to me

I am grateful for a lot of things but I am deeply grateful for this: with few exceptions, my teenagers were nice to me.

I wish I didn't know how unusual my experience was, but reminders like this are everywhere:

Across from me in a restaurant, a woman was seated with two boys, around nine and fifteen. From the way one, but not the other, interacted with her, and from the way each behaved as though the other weren't there,  I'm assuming they were her sons.

The younger boy, clearly relishing her attention, engaged his mother with jokes and chatter and stories. The older boy, slumped in the corner of the booth like a crumpled shirt, said nothing. 

While the younger boy chatted, the woman sat forward in her seat smiling, nodding, listening, smiling, nodding, listening... During pauses in the conversation, she turned to the older boy and made polite attempts to include him all to which he responded with long looks at his phone, impatient shrugs and a very irritated look of "How would I know?"  

I wanted to slip her a note: "It gets better." But that would have been presumptuous. For all I knew the behavior of her fifteen-year-old was an improvement over the way he normally punched his brother in restaurants.

To be  scorned by a child who has adored you for years is the hardest, most bewildering experience parents describe in the parenting years. It's expected and it's expected to be hard. But like labor itself, it hurts more than you think it should.

"How would I know?"

It starts suddenly, with the  whatever stage. It evolves into the later What?? Nothing! Nothing's wrong! Stop asking me that. Just leave me alone. Why are you like that all the time? stage which lasts another year or so but feels like longer. Finally, in the last stages, convinced of how little they want from us, we find other things to do and other children to talk to, and try to remain silent while they negotiate life without us.

We  have been told to let the rope out, that they are entitled to their growth, their distance, their isolation. Still, it ages us, wakes us in the night, makes us cry. We know we'll live through it,  and so we brace, we accept, and above all, we wait.

Why are you like that? they ask us with that squint.

I love teenagers, they are mighty and mystifying and with rare exceptions, I've not looked into a teenage face and failed to see traces of the little person they once were behind that squint. But it is their parents, with their fixed, neutral expressions and hidden hurt and unwavering resolve to stay near, who have my heart.

And I wish

if only for a few moments

that a teenager...

...could view their separation through the eyes of the parent who - with no warning -  has been shown the door but instead, moves to the other side of the room like a quiet child who still wants to see what's going on.

...who feels powerless in a world of influences beyond the home - could know their power to hurt a parent with a single look, a single, scornful statement: Why are you like that?

...who feels insignificant without a circle of friends - could know the way their single bad day will - instantly - reverse the most wonderful day in the life of a parent.

...who should be allowed to make a bad decision, to act like a jackass - would remember that it isn't possible to act in any way that will change the way a parent loves them.

...who would be crushed if a peer were to treat them with the contempt and disrespect that they inflict on a parent, could know it hurts just that much. 

...could remember that there are other teenagers who experience the reverse - parents who have given up on them, taken back their own freedom, ceased their communication - and would trade places with a luckier teenager in a heartbeat.

But most of all, I wish that teenagers, who need more than the air they breathe to be loved for who they are, could see that equal to their efforts to journey away, is the parent's determination to walk with them, even if at enough distance  to avoid getting stepped on.

All four of my teenagers evolved into adults I admire and adore. Today I enjoy relationships with them that are among my most rewarding, energizing, inspiring - and loving.

It does get better. It is worth the wait. But for some parents, it isn't free. 

Teenagers, I wish you knew, it's hard for us too.

Post-less

My schedule for the week

Recently, I saw an announcement that Dave Barry, "Legendary Humorist", would be speaking/performing/signing a book somewhere. I appreciate Dave Barry (and his friend Carl Hiaasen) but I don't remember the details.  I just thought: I would hate to be billed as a legendary humorist.

What pressure. What if you're tired? Or coming down with a cold? Or hungover? What if for any other reason, you just don't feel funny?  What if you're scheduled to be funny on stage that night, but wake feeling anxious and can't shake it? What if you're just having an insecure day? We all have insecure days.

What pressure.

I'm sensitive to this. I fret if  there's high expectation attached to something I said I'd do, or if I'm rushed to produce something without adequate time to prepare, or, apparently, if I have just enough time to prepare, because as of last night, Sunday, after I literally had a week to prepare today's post, well...

It's not performance-anxiety as much as time-management anxiety. I'm not preoccupied with doing something well enough, I'm preoccupied with not doing it on time which makes no sense, because I have complete control over my schedule. And yet, it seems the way I manage deadlines best is to give myself plenty of time in advance, and almost no time right before a deadline so that I can strike a comfortably pressing environment without creating a pressured one.  You know who else does this? Children who are potty training, and every college freshman I ever knew.

Am I on my own nerves with this behavior? Yes, I am. But I understand it. As I've said before, the magic thing about fifties is that you figure things out quickly and take action. All that staring out the window, thinking about why, who and what we "are" is what they're doing over at the kid table.

I love writing - book, blog or whatever - but I love it most when I have plenty of time to delete and start over and delete and start over again.  For example, in addition to finishing my novel, I post to this blog on Mondays.  The minute I hit "send," I start writing for the following Monday. It's my fun day. When I-don't-have-to-run day.  It's what I call the "paint on the page day".  I write, write, write, knowing most of it is crap, but also knowing I have days to slice and dice, and lots of time for distractions discoveries:  Facebook updates, Google searching, blog trotting. Then, as the stretch between Mondays shortens, by Sunday, I have the basic post and I finish it off by becoming that twenty-five-year old who says in interviews,  "I thrive on pressure" (spare me) when what they really mean is "I procrastinate like crazy,  but know how to pull my ass out of the fire at the last minute every time," (a far more impressive skill) and that's what I do. I meet my Monday deadline and have interesting discoveries to bring up at dinner .

Last week, however, after being pulled repeatedly from my writing schedule for one reason or another I was left with only time for last minute writing, and no time at all for discoveries. And yet, on that abbreviated schedule, didn't I have to look up why Yanni divorced Linda Evans, what the expression "Come to Jesus" really means, where I would find the mother-of-the-bride dress of my dreams, why the chat list on Facebook changes so often, and pictures of Chopin so I could ask my violist daughter if she ever noticed how much he  looks like Al Pacino? ("No," she said, "But I will now. Thanks.")

Early last night, when I would usually be picking a good graphic to go with my post, and discussing where to go for dinner with Larry, I was still in my socks and ponytail, looking at a post that had six or seven different points embedded in it.  

Give it up, I thought, and so I fixed myself up and went for dinner.  

So I apologize for offering only a post about not posting this week, but I'll bet some of you can relate. And, even as you read, I am splashing about in my stream of consciousness and eyeing my editorial calendar, in preparation for next Monday's post.

Because it's Monday, my fun day. I'll be ready for Sunday, which is another story.

P.S. The line "I-don't-have-to-run-day" comes from The Bangles "Manic Monday" a song that was probably written in it's entirety on a late Sunday evening and yet performed very well on the charts. 

Pet sitters and other marchers

Don't worry, this post is long, but only some of it is about my empty nest kitten, Gus. 

Empty nest Gus

Long ago, when I was between the ages of 8 and 11 and my teeth were too big for my face and I never got picked for kickball and I was discovered talking to myself - often - I remember a tired old teacher telling me that I was "someone who marched to a different drummer." 

It's been years of course, but I can still spot another marcher - my refrigerator repair guy for example - a mile away. But I've been at ease socially for a long time, so when a marcher and I communicate, provided they are peaceful, I am always happy  to carry the conversational kickball. Then, if my marcher and I confront an awkward  pause  - waiting for a supervisor to call back with a price for example, we won't have conversations like these:

Appliance repair person: 

Me:

But more like these:

Me:  "So how did you decide to be an appliance repair person?"

Appliance repair person  "My father told me to get a job and I answered their ad."

Me:

Appliance repair person :

Anyway.

Courtney is getting married in September. She is not, as I've mentioned, willing to relocate to New England. I will, therefore, be making monthly visits to Cleveland to take over help with the planning. Because Gus is unaccustomed to being alone for more than a few hours at a time, and because he gets sick when he travels, and because boarding is out of the question, and because none of my friends or relatives are willing to move in while I'm gone, my only choice was to hire a pet sitter.

I had mixed feelings. My experience with marchers who prefer non-human company is that they don't always love actual humans. They can be snarky. They can have off-putting bumper stickers that say things like: "The more I know about people, the more I like my (non-human)".  

We'd have to interview, and how would that go?

Me:  So, how long have you been in this business?

Pet Sitter:  I'm not sure what you mean.

Me:

Pet Sitter:  

But I asked around, found the perfect candidate and went to her website. Did I care about testimonials? Not really. Did I care about years in the business? Not really. What I wanted was a picture which I would scrutinize for signs that she was a happy person who would be compatible with docile, affectionate Gus, or a disgruntled, surly person who might drive him under the bed where he would wonder why I stopped loving him.

But my marcher had a smile and eyes that said, "I also cry at sad movies" and so I clicked "contact".

From the kitchen window Gus and I watched her arrive, not in a crumpled van in need of cosmetic repair or covered with hostile bumper stickers but in a late model Honda that looked freshly washed. Out of the car did not step a person stealing furtive glances at the woods and chatting with herself, but an energetic young woman who marched to the door with confidence. When she knocked, Gus leaped like a gazelle from my arms and raced to the door as though he'd been waiting all eleven months of his life to meet her.   

Here would have been a good time to pull out a couple of chairs, discuss Gus's habits, her rates, what they included, when she'd be at the house, and conduct a tour.

Instead, I shared my  research of the Ragdoll breed and explained more about them than even I had wanted to know as a prospective buyer. Then I asked ten or eleven questions about her experience. Then I offered a few "let's say" hypotheticals to gauge her judgment.  Then I asked if she would prefer to email me each day with reports or leave written ones.  And how would they spend their time? And what about emergency vet trips? Where would she go and would they treat him without my authorization? Should I sign a release?  Then, so that there was no question about the unique drummer to which I march, I spent several minutes trying to figure out where to leave her a key. Mailbox? Under the mat? In an envelope under the tire of my son's car? Under a rock in the back yard?  For the second time,  I asked if she would take Gus to the vet if he was sick.  Her answers were thorough and polite and probably she wondered if I'd left the house since bringing Gus home.

"So food is here." She  pointed with her pen at his dishes.

"Yes, and the water, as you can see is next to it."

"In the bowl," she nodded.

"He never drinks it but if I had to eat kibble, and the same kind all the time, I'd definitely want to have water with it. But Gus loves the fountain I bought for him. He drinks from it all the time."  I called Gus to his fountain to demonstrate, and he responded by staying where he was. 

Pet sitter:

Me:

After a tour and a few more "what ifs" and even more discussion about where to leave the key, we agreed to talk again soon, and the interview ended.

I hoped we made a good impression, but I wondered where exactly I'd gone for that half hour while my inner marcher was in charge.  Maybe, I concluded, we try harder to relate to those in whom we see a little of our hidden selves. Or maybe, we make our most awkward attempts at relating when relating is most important.  

Outside, the pet sitter sat in her car making notes. Probably while the visit was fresh in her mind, she wanted to get her thoughts down on paper.  

Probably they included something like this:

Cat: sweet and social.

Owner:  not used to interaction with humans others.

In any case, I was charmed. In addition to being equally skilled at communicating with humans and non-humans,  the pet sitter clearly adored Gus. I hired her to visit the following week when I would make my  first visit to Cleveland  to take over help with the wedding planning. 

Gus, clearly thrilled, responded to the news by having a drink at his fountain. 

The inexcusable behavior of strangers

Several years ago, I was shopping along a busy street in Portsmouth with a friend when we passed a parked car which had been left running with the windows cracked. Inside, a three or four-year-old girl climbed around on the seats, over and around  the console. All her little light-up sneaker had to do was hit the shift to send the car in motion. 

Without thinking, I tried the door. Locked.

"I'm waiting for the driver," I told my friend.

We stood by the car like sentries, hoping we'd discover that the driver had made a quick run into the dry cleaner, maybe an ATM stop.  The little girl inside the car waved at us.

More than ten minutes went by. My face got warm, my pulse quickened and I knew I was going to initiate something in the next couple of minutes that would be unpleasant.  I suggested to my friend that if a confrontation would make her uncomfortable, she should find something else to do for a moment.

"Are you kidding?" she said,  "I'm not going anywhere."

After several more moments, the stranger exited a Starbucks -  grande in hand -  and I stepped toward her.

"Excuse me," I said. She was startled. "I can't believe you left this child in a running car. What would you have done if she'd put the car in gear?"

The woman ignored me, and searched for her keys.

"We've been standing here waiting for you, and it's actually been over fifteen minutes," I said.

The stranger, rummaging still, said, "The line was long."

"She could have put your car in gear! Or climbed out of the car!" I said.

A little crowd  had gathered and my friend filled them in. Then there was whispering, "What?!" "You're kidding!" "Really?!" "That's inexcusable!" Someone blurted out,  "You don't deserve to be a mother!" and another said, "Some women never get the privilege you know!"  

It was turning into Lord of the Flies with mothers. Without responding, the woman got in her car and drove away, while I considered how crowd-think had ruined my perfectly good intentions.

A few years later, I watched a woman attempt to herd several teenagers through their back to school shopping.  They were raucous and silly and she was already on edge when she came in the store . In only moments one of the teens did something  that  pushed her too far and she began to scream and swear at them.

"Get the f*** in that f****** room before I kick your ass!!"

My face got warm, my pulse quickened and I knew I was going to initiate something in the next couple of minutes that would be unpleasant and so I suggested to my daughter that if a confrontation would make her uncomfortable, she should wait outside. She was gone before I  finished my sentence.

At the counter, quietly, I said to the woman, "I want you to know I am appalled by how you spoke to those kids.  I can only imagine how you talk to them at home." She turned, looked me over, and snorted, "Oh! Really? You're appalled." I thought she might hit me. The teenagers circled like a gang of dogs and when she let loose with a profanity laced rant about people like me who didn't know how to mind their own business in their little worlds where nobody says bad things, they laughed.

Later on, I thought it over.  At arguably some risk, I accomplished nothing. In fact, rather  than inspire this woman to reflect on her inexcusable behavior, I supplied her with a story to tell her friends back in the other little world where they do say bad things.

I vowed never to approach a stranger again on another stranger's behalf. 

I made good on this two nights ago.

I watched a man pull into a handicap parking space , hop from the car, and not walk, not limp, but jog into the restaurant.  Upsetting , yes, but maybe, I thought,  he'd been handicapped until recently and just wasn't anymore and so I checked. Nothing. No placard, no plate.

He just didn't want to look further for a space.

Inside my brother waited to meet me. He suffers from a lung disease which requires him to use oxygen almost all of the time and has a placard hanging from the rear view mirror which he finds humiliating.  Had he not been dropped off,  had he arrived after the man took the space, he would have had to circle endlessly for another or go home.

I watched the man park and leave his car but I said nothing. After I found my own space and went into the restaurant I saw him sitting in a booth behind my brother, and still, I said nothing. Nothing about how those spaces are for others who face greater struggles than limited parking. Nothing about how an unavailable space could spell  the end of the evening for someone who has just spent the day indoors. I said none of those things.

For two reasons: First, because unlike the situation in Portsmouth, there was not a specific victim of this man's bad behavior in sight, only potential ones.  I had no doubt that, had I'd seen him taking the space as my brother was rounding the corner, I would have spoken up. But in this situation,  it was a principle I would have been defending more than a person.

Second, had I approached the man and been met with a response like the mall-woman's it would have ruined dinner for both me and my brother, something we both look forward to each week.

And so, with little reason to act other than to defend my own principles, or the dignity of another who deserves respectful, humane treatment, I said nothing.

And when people learn to need reasons  greater than defending their own principles and standing up for others, to be sure, they will do it less.

And that is inexcusable.

It's wonderful to learn things that will solve problems in the future. After the questions I have asked myself in the aftermath of acting, versus failing to act as I should, I know this:  I may have other dilemmas in the future, but I won't have that one. 

Five Minutes

Another little story about getting started on a Big Goal and then I'll talk about something else.

A while back, my daughter, a violist who seeks to perform with a major orchestra, who was moving away from her friends at the time, who had been experiencing crappy luck with auditions, who was worried about money, and who was exhausted after a busy season teaching very small children to play the violin told me she'd had it. "I don't even practice anymore," she said. 

The "anymore" referred to days, thankfully, and not months. 

Because.

Big dreams aside, active musicians, like all artists, must practice every day to not only  hone their skills but to stay connected to themselves.  I suggested an approach to help her hop back on the horse and a couple of weeks later she was out of her funk.

I would like to take credit for the suggestion but it was offered to me by my sister-in-law Christine, after our youngest was born and I had fallen into a stretch of such fatigue, I actually dozed in the shower, twice. I  spent all of my time looking forward to bedtime and was on the edge of tears constantly. If it wasn't post-partum depression at that moment, it promised to develop into one.

At the time, Christine was a personal trainer or in the process of becoming one. "Why aren't you exercising?" she asked.

"I'm planning to," I said.

"If it were your child who needed it, you'd find a way. It's just as important for your own health."

But it was hard, I explained, to be up at night with the baby, taking care of the other three, feeding everyone, getting them out the door to school, etc. The thought of putting on workout clothes and lifting weights just made me feel guilty and irritable.

"So," I said, "I will when there's time."

Tell a fitness zealot something like that and they will respond by offering you a solution that you can have in place before dinner.

"Do what I do," she said. "On days when I feel gross or tired or just not into exercising, I give myself five minutes. That's all. That's enough. I figure if I go through the prep to do something and want to quit after five minutes, it's fine. I just make it a goal to start.   I have yet to not finish my workout."

I took her advice. Five minutes a day became ten, then  twenty, then thirty. Days became weeks and it's now been over a decade since I wondered how to fit this into my life.   

We all do this, become enamored of a goal that we picture in its finished form. Eventually we think about the work that's required to get there  and if that isn't overwhelming enough, the distance  between  then and now  is defeating.  We don't abandon the goal, we just don't start.

My Big Goal of finding an agent requires a series of tasks - readying a manuscript, submitting and editing it and starting all over again. It will take great patience and perseverance and there are times when I'd rather do laundry. Or load the dishwasher.  Or call Bank of America for any reason. I use the five minute approach to get to the page, but I've modified it in that I quit after five minutes whether I want to or not. Very soon my eagerness to do more takes over, and my project and I trot off on our horse together.

Identify the tiny little attainable  goals that comprise the larger ones, pick one and resolve to give it five minutes every single day. You'll  train yourself to stay on course, you'll feel a sense of accomplishment in spite of yourself - knowing it's more, and not less, that you can accomplish.

To our minds and our bodies and more important, to our self-respect, it's critical to feel we're moving toward something. The  goal of starting, rather than finishing, works.

Five minutes.   You can do anything for five minutes, and more.

When good advice is bad for you

It's only been 2013 for a few days and I wonder how many people have already veered away from their resolutions to change everything from their hair color to their marital status.

I have a  theory about why this happens to dreams and plans - the big and the little -  but first, a little story about imagination and knowledge featuring Reality, Romance and Capacity.  

I dream of one thing other than being a better person, parent, spouse, friend, sibling,  daughter and politically informed citizen and that is to publish a novel. Before I knew better, here is  what I thought I had to do:

Write a story I'd like to read myself, send it out and figure out who would play my characters in the movie.

"Guess what I'm doing?" I said to my friends.

Like everyone else who had this idea before me, I read Stephen King's "On Writing" for inspiration. Yes, I thought, I could do 1000 words a day. Five pages, give or take? Sure. Others would take it from there.

They are called literary agents, I learned.

And then, while I was still honeymooning with my dream I learned that:

Writers often write and submit multiple novels before they get published

...get rejected hundreds of times before they get published

... need to be published before  they get published.

... need to read the authors represented by their target agents

... have a website and a following

... join writer groups

...attend conferences

...and probably will not get published

Everything I wanted would  take years of preparation,  practice and patience in addition to those 1000 words a day. And then, it was only possible that I'd find an agent and even less possible that the book would sell.  

Hello Reality, here is my friend Romance. I don't believe you've met.

I sulked for awhile, then I got busy. Then I got serious.

A couple of years later, when I was not even close to finding an agent and predictably discouraged, I met Capacity when an author-friend told me that if I were really serious, I would be sending out fifty manuscripts a week. I would be following through with emails. I would be chatting up agents at conferences and writing an article here and there to submit to four or five national newspapers. Maybe lobbying the local newspaper for a regular column.

If I were serious.

At the time I had four children at home who needed rides and dinners and counsel and clean clothes, and the thought of managing such a crazy-ass number of submissions stunned me into silence. 

Worse, it made me question my drive instead of respecting my capacity.

It isn't that we don't need solid experts who can tell us just how monumental our goals are.  Or that husbands, friends, parents and children should not give you constructive advice.  The thing is  the timing of it. We seek input when we're unsure, just as our instincts are beginning to speak to us, when we aren't quite aware of our financial and emotional limits and when we  need to imagine more than we need to know.  With help from loved ones or from experts at the wrong time,  it's easy to confuse "naive" with wrong.

And give up.

The early life of a dream is like these first days of 2013 when you are still imagining the great things that lie ahead. Your enthusiasm is fresh and spirited and will urge  you from bed in the morning  like a puppy who needs to go. This is not when to broadcast. This is when to protect your dream, plan for it, learn what's involved and then figure out what you can do about it at a pace that fits into your life .

Capacity is a real thing and not only crazy-ass ambitious people make dreams come true.

So dream your dream and visualize your goal and  understand what you're taking on. But do not fail to understand that all you can do - is enough.  Do not fail to understand that if you can't do as much as some, your commitment and patience will bring you to the same party, if a bit later on.

And.

When you do go public, be ready to hear good advice, all well-intentioned, all steeped in realism - the antidote to a dream - and prepare to ignore it.  Because nothing will kill a dream, plan, resolution, goal, idea faster than listening to others instead of that little voice inside who was there first. 

Be serious about your dreams. 
Every single day, do what you can. 
You'll get there. 

Things I learned about people and passion in 2012

It's December 31, I'm watching the last sunrise of the year, and your gifts are ready.

If you're a regular reader, you know I'm fascinated by relationships. All kinds; with spouses and children,  parents and siblings, friends and relatives, total strangers.

I read about and saw the same things on the news that you did. But this year, I also watched:

A mother speaking in gentle, full sentences to her pre-verbal child.
A teenage boy draping his arm around a girl who stood on the street weeping.
An elderly couple arguing with ease and humor in line at a deli.  
A man grocery shopping with his two-year-old daughter, helping her with the words to the songs she sang while he patiently fetched the items she tossed from the cart.
A man in his twenties bounding up some stairs to hold the door for a man in his late eighties- then  waiting until he was all the way through.

I observed cranky, unhappy people driving $80,000 cars, and young people working in awful jobs with a smile on their face. 

I saw some people ruin themselves, and others fight to save their own lives.  

I noticed one woman sitting alone one morning, quietly turning the pages of a book while she waited for a methadone clinic to open. 

And, after the horror in Connecticut, I saw young parents in an entirely new way, as they probably saw themselves.

The spirit is a miraculous, stubborn thing I learned in 2012.

Below are the other important things I learned or learned anew. Most of them are about relationships. Some are of the "duh" variety. However, they are all worth mentioning. If any make you consider the  gifts you offer, and withhold, in your own communication then you're welcome. Come back again next year and bring your friends.   

And, since this was the year I went back to writing full time, I've included some thoughts about work-in-progress which really is what life is all about.

And finally,  I've included some  thoughts about love because, well, you know,  love is all around. No need to waste it.

Herewith.

Love 

If you feel it, say it. There is no better expenditure of time -even when there isn't time and even if it's awkward - than to tell someone, out of the blue and with as few fluffy, confusing  words as possible, some reason why you cherish them.  It's harder than it sounds which is why we don't do it more often.

The most beautiful parts to a true love relationship are these:  the magical infatuation stage when one can describe their attraction to another for as long as their listener will tolerate it.  And later, when it is like walking and breathing to have them  in your thoughts a little bit, all the time.

We love the way we know how, and usually the way we ourselves would like to be loved. But some need words and some need actions and it's a big part of love to know how you differ.  

Every nice thing you do for someone you love, every "I Love You" you offer,  loses meaning with every "I'm Sorry" you can't bring yourself to say.  

Money

There are wealthy people who  never want for food, warmth or shelter but allow themselves to starve emotionally in loveless, lonely relationships. Even if it's practical and tidier, do they wonder what dies in the process? I do.

Pampering someone is not the same thing as loving them and both the pamperer and pampered know it.

Difficult people

You just can't reason with someone who wants more than anything to be right (or show you that you're wrong).  You probably don't lack the skills, it's just that a righteous person feels unfaithful to his or her point of view when he or she listens to yours.

Even lazy, pampered, entitled  people have moments when they know they haven't earned what they have and wish they could fix that.

Be gentle with obnoxious people. The ones who won't give up the floor. The ones who talk loudly about Important Things  on their cell phones in public. The ones who try too hard to be funny. They probably don't want to be that way and they have to live with themselves all the time.

Be gentle with unhappy people, even if you must flee their company at the first opportunity.  That surly butcher who doesn't make eye contact or say thank you may be coping with a loss or disappointment that would overwhelm you. Assume there's a reason, and be kind. 

Do not be gentle with bullies, young or old. They know they make people uncomfortable and they resort to intimidation because they can't earn respect. They deserve neither your respect nor your fear.

Rare is the person who is truly, honestly unaffected by what people think of them. Everyone has someone they'd like to impress. And  I've seen uppity, successful people  hold serious grudges, for a long time, when someone of greater stature refuses to admire them.

What others think of you when you misstep is fleeting and variable and stays with you far longer than it stays with them.  You however, are your own constant company, critic, and champion. Be as good to yourself as you would be to your child. You can nurture yourself with understanding, or shred  yourself with doubt, rebuke and criticism.  Don't turn on yourself like that.

Passion

I don't believe anyone is without passion. Everyone has something they would do, all day long, would miss meals while doing,  if they had the money they needed already.

People shouldn't confuse passion with career selection, but they do. The difference is that one requires spirit and connects us to life, while the other requires training and validates our planning and organizational skills.

Explore your passion if you've been lucky enough to discover it but don't drive it into the ground.  The  less  income or outcome you demand, and the more joy you derive from a passion  the more you will be brought things by your  passion which you weren't looking for, but needed just the same. 

Work in progress

Don't sulk over what you might have accomplished if you started sooner. There are things - important things - you can only do well or better if you're older.  

We obsess over the completion of things. Finishing. Ending. Being done.  That kind of preoccupation is for students in college, or new  interns, or those who  wish to publish before they perish. It's true in building a career, it's true in being married, it's true in writing:  When it comes to the heart and mind, work in progress is as exhilarating - but not as sad - as finished work.

If it is time to end something,  start something else first.  Don't close a door behind you only to discover that on the other side is where the floor ended too.

Even if you dream about how, when, where and what things in your life should come next, they can be the hardest to start. Don't wait. You give up the romance of dreaming when you give in to the fear of failure and vice versa. If you don't surge ahead and risk the downside, you'll just be vaguely frustrated forever and you won't have any new stories to tell at dinner parties.

And finally, if it's happening right now, there's  probably a reason for it, you will probably  learn something you didn't know, it will probably be something you need, and eventually, you will share it for the right reasons.

With wishes for peace and all the rewards that you dream of in 2013, I love you, I appreciate your visiting, and will see you next Monday.

Susan