Places We Know Well

We traveled from home to a place we know well, to patterns that are long established, and routines that have existed for years. Yet, in the midst of all the "going back," there was a realization that things have changed. We have aged, and so the things that move us aren't exactly the same. We have lived through another year of new experiences, and so our view of things is influenced by that. The place has been growing and changing in our absence, so what we remember is still there, but slightly different. What we want and need has shifted, just a little, so what we will take away from this time will shift as well. What we feel has been shaped by change and challenge, and so we arrive with different strengths and different weaknesses. Home has changed in all sorts of little ways, and so "away from home" means all sorts of different things. Tradition mixes with change, away mixes with home, "the same" mixes with "brand new."
 
But perhaps that's just how life is--ever updating what we think we know, ever changing what it means to say "return" or "comfort" or "the same."
 
We traveled from home to a place we know well, and we discovered that we still have a lot to discover...

"Like" and Remember

Earlier this week, one of my posts received a "like" from a former colleague, someone I haven't talked to in years. Now, "liking" online is easily done with a simple mouse click. But since I myself don't actually "like" that often, it matters to me when someone does. Maybe it's that Sally Field "You like me, you really like me" thing, which perhaps lives inside each of us. We all like to know that what we do matters to someone, or to a lot of someones. We want to know that we are somehow making a difference.
 
Yet, on the day of this particular "like," what I felt was more than just "you like me." In an instant, for this was a former soap colleague, I was taken back to control rooms and edit rooms, to long production days and dramatic scenes and big musicals and things I had learned from a master. I guess that's how it is when we get a reminder, ever so brief, of our past. We may insulate ourselves daily with the drama and concerns of today. We may put the past aside. We can even pretend that we don't feel its loss. Yet, it can take just a moment or a "like" to bring it back.
 
As the week went on, I quickly became re-immersed in the daily tasks of my current life. But the "like," and the memories and feelings it brought back, actually stayed with me all week. I guess that can happen when something has mattered in our lives. I suppose it should. If we're lucky, the memory can motivate us to face our next challenge. It can remind us where we've been, what we've done, and how that mattered.
 
So, never underestimate the power of a well-placed "like." It may convey "you really like me," but it can end up doing a whole lot more.

Brick By Brick

Most days, my son comes home with basic homework--reading, a bit of writing, perhaps a math worksheet. Today, as I retrieved him from the bus (because that is what you do when you are awaiting word on your next day of work), he announced that he would be building a model of the White House. And that we'd need to acquire Lego to do it. For tomorrow.
 
Now, it's not that his bus is so late in the day that such a thing is impossible. But as I struggle to make the most of my "not working, but trying to work" time each day before school bus time, I generally perceive the hours from 4:00 on as "settle in" time. I give up being able to accomplish much on my own, since kids are suddenly buzzing around. We generally stay inside, because they have been out since quite early, and if there are no afterschool activities to race to, I am happy to be in with them. So when it was suddenly announced that a trip to buy Lego would be necessary, I simply stared in disbelief. How could we possibly do such journeying this late in the day, much less, complete a potentially major building project in one night?
 
I have vetoed many a proposed outing in my time because of expense, bad timing, or sheer exhaustion. This one pretty much checked all of those boxes, yet, before I knew it, we were off on a brick-buying excursion.
 
The thing about doing things you don't want to do is that once you give yourself over to them, they can often be a lot of fun. In this case, in the course of traveling to two--yes, two--Lego stores (white bricks are not as abundant as you'd think), we took three buses and a train. We saw tourists (it's summer in the city), tourist attractions, and a police escort. We spent time talking, instead of plugged in to our individual screens. And we negotiated our way to the bricks we hoped would be enough to build the White House in one night.
 
Turns out that, just as Rome wasn't built in a day, Washington isn't easily built in one night. The project will likely continue into the weekend. But we have the supplies--the bricks we bought, plus a lot of our own (because you always need more supplies than you realize). We have a plan of sorts. And we have a running start. So there will be a White House.
 
In a day that ended quite differently than I could have imagined, I learned a little something about building--whether it's Legos or life. Hard as we try, we can't always accomplish what we want in a day. What we can do is begin. We can assemble the necessary supplies, whether those are Legos, or cooking ingredients, or resume bullet points. We can make a plan. We can choose to believe that we actually can do it. And then, brick by brick, we can start building.

Little of This, Little of That

I worked with someone today who talked about wanting to do things right, about not wanting to rely on "little of this, little of that" fixes to problems. As she spoke, I glanced around at our laptop, which is connected to a monitor because the laptop's own screen doesn't work, at a standing fan, which supplements the power of a less than adequate air conditioner, and at the stacks of plates and cups in our cabinets, which don't even come close to matching. Pretty much my whole life is comprised of "little of this, little of that" fixes. And most of the time, it works pretty well.
 
Do I wish that the devices and pathways in my life were simpler and more straightforward? Perhaps. There are times when it would help a lot if the laptop were actually mobile, the way you expect a laptop to be. There are moments when I think it would be nice not to have a giant fan in my living room. And there are times when I wish I had the kind of job that made it clear, for years on end, where I needed to go, and for what hours, each day. Sometimes, however, all we can do, with our things and with our lives, is make the best of what we are dealt. In the case of my life, that means a little more clutter to get cool air or computer time, and daily negotiation of where I will be and what I will be doing (and, therefore, daily negotiation of how my family needs to adjust). It's not perfect. It's a "little of this, little of that" reaction to a life where the "right way" just isn't always possible.
 
I would like to think we are being adaptable. I would like to think we are learning the life skills that will equip us for bigger crises than a crippled laptop. Maybe we are, maybe we're not. In the meantime, we're simply saving money and time and energy (okay, maybe not energy with the A/C+fan combo) for the time when we will need to, and be able to, do things "just the right way." I figure as long as we can make it through each day of our "little of this, little of that" life, maybe we'll end up doing just as well as "just right."

Back To School?

Just as my kids are about to finish their school year, I find myself feeling as though I've got a lot to learn.
 
I suppose this is not a new situation. There's nothing like freelancing to remind you on a daily basis how much knowledge you don't have. Whether it's applying for jobs that require skills you've never before needed, or working at gigs where you are surrounded by people who know all sorts of things that you don't, it's hard not to feel like a full-time student of sorts. Is that demoralizing? Sometimes, I suppose. But as I talk to my kids about the ways in which they are going to develop certain skills this summer, I realize that there is always more to be learned. The trick, perhaps, is to seek out the learning opportunities that actually feel like a summer break, so that you are adding skills that make you happy, rather than just ones that make you ready.
 
I'm not sure yet what my "course load" will be this summer. It might include some geography, as we travel to explore colleges. It might include a bit of training in logical thought, as I am called upon to balance the needs of my work life and my and my family's home life. There might be some tutorials in social media and Excel, because who these days can't use a bit more of those? The rest will be a "build your own major," based on opportunities--and needs--that arise.
 
My kids can't wait for summer, and maybe in some ways, I can't either. A change of pace will give us all a bit of time to learn the things that will take us to our next steps. So it's out of school, but back to school. Because it seems as though, no matter how far along you are, there is always more to learn.

Everything Was Possible

It's an interesting thought, isn't it? In this case, I actually borrowed it from the title of a book I just finished, Everything Was Possible by Ted Chapin, a chronicle of the journey of the Sondheim musical Follies from conception to Broadway. It was a remarkable book. (Let's face it, any book that consumes my attention when children and employment concerns are buzzing around me has to be pretty remarkable). In a life when I am sometimes satisfied just to get a few phone calls made and dinner on the table, I am amazed by the effort that goes into the shows that entertain us.
 
As I finished the book (I was actually sad to be done), I closed it, and thought about the title. How much could we do, if at every turn, we believed that everything was possible? How many things could we try on the way to getting it right? How creative might we be if we believed that with enough of ourselves invested, everything truly would be possible?
 
The past few years for me have been an education in a lot of things that seemed impossible, mixed in with a few reminders that things that seem far away actually are possible. It is easy, when faced with "no," to believe that nothing is possible. As I discovered in the book, Follies faced tremendous obstacles on its way to Broadway--from cast issues, to music yet to be written and rewritten, to a complicated set, to a hard to understand concept. Seven Tonys later, it became a show that made history.
 
As I think about Everything Was Possible, I think not about what could be, but what has been. Because I kept an open mind, there have been opportunities. Because I had people who supported me, I climbed from one level to the next, made transitions from one arena to the next. Because I didn't allow circumstances to get the best of me, I sometimes made the best of them.
 
Is everything possible? Perhaps not. But with a little belief, maybe for all of us, there is a moment in our lives when everything is possible. When we can be creators and experimenters, and developers of great things. And by believing that everything is possible, we can come away with a little masterpiece to show for it.

How You Play The Game

For the third year in a row, my son's little league team did not make it past Playoff Game One. Despite a strong season and some pretty scrappy players, they just couldn't pull it off. So we continue with the rest of our lives, no longer scheduling around "maybe" baseball games, looking toward the end of school and toward summer plans.
 
As we walked home from the game, my son having shaken hands with the other team, and all of us having thanked one of the coaches, we talked about the game and the year. While my son hadn't made a game-saving or game-winning play, he had certainly carried his weight. While he might not be remembered as a star of the team, he had improved on many things over the course of the season, and had really worked hard practicing on his own between games. Is he upset (or are we) that the team won't have a shot at the title? Sure. Winning is fun. Is he (or are we) sad that the season is suddenly over? Maybe, but sometimes moving on is actually okay. Can he walk away knowing he was there when it mattered, doing his best when he could? I think so. And sometimes--whether you're a kid or an adult--that is more important than the winning and the trophies--to know that you have worked, and grown, and improved, and contributed. Sometimes, it really is not so much about whether you win or lose. Sometimes, if you work at it, it really is about how you play the game.