7 life lessons on the cusp of 40

i've still got time...nine months to be exact. but the reminders have been hitting me like a battering ram. one by one, friends have been dropping like flies, entering the realm of the dreaded “big 4-0”—or anxiously awaiting the bomb to drop in far less ceremonial fashion than the new year’s eve ball in times square. i just saw the headline while scanning some news blogs: "generation x turns 40." blech... and the other day, i got a lovely message on facebook from my high school reunion chair: “so we’re turning 40 this year…let’s celebrate!”

“thanks for the reminder.” i thought. “i’m well aware…”

though some of my tweener co-workers (ok…to be fair, twenty-somethings!) may think i’ve officially hit “ancient” status, i feel pretty darn good for an ol’ lady. perhaps i should scorn the day it actually hits, but quite honestly, i just don’t. i’m ready.

i was reminded of this fact a few months ago when i bumped into a good friend while grabbing coffee in the office kitchen.

she had just turned 30: gorgeous, glowing, and graciously embracing this new milestone.

“happy happy birthday!” i gave her a long, heartfelt hug, and almost felt maternal as i thought back through my own experiences and how much “life” she had to look forward to.

“thank you! you know, i thought i would dread it but i’m ok with it…actually more than ok. i’m in such a good place! so now that i’m 30, what do i have to look forward to?”

“a pile of shots, a wok to throw up in and a few hours of recovery time to do it all again” … oh wait, that was my 20s! yeesh.

anyway, it was a lighthearted question…that inspired a much deeper answer. sometimes when you’re living it, you may not realize how far you’ve come, how much you’ve accomplished, the perspective you’ve gained, how much you’ve grown. and then a question gives you pause, and there is, simply, clarity.

“what do you have to look forward to in your thirties?” the answer was far too loaded for a drive-by kitchen chat, so we booked a proper lunch to celebrate and discuss. here is a topline of what i said:

“words of wisdom from my 30s”

1. perfect imperfection: one of the biggest epiphanies i experienced in my thirties was a true awareness—and acceptance—of myself. i vividly remember the painstaking self-consciousness of youth. of begging my parents to “drop me off at the corner” for roller skating saturdays at my grade school, terrified that my friends would make fun of our white oldsmobile toronado (can’t imagine why) or my parents’ filipino accents. of first dates in college where i’d pound enough grape ape everclear before the barn dance to wipe away the inhibitions…and sadly, on occasion, the unfortunate mess when the liquid courage dissipated and the liquid upchuck surfaced in its place. in the working world, being faced with following someone else’s dream or carving out my own path, when i felt utterly clueless about what it should be. all of these misadventures were part of the learning process, culminating in the biggest lesson of all: that no matter how “put together” people appear, how much they seem to have going for them, everyone’s got their baggage, everyone’s trying to find their way. the more you get to know people, the deeper you scratch beneath the surface, the more you realize we are all the same: perfect in our imperfection. instead of chasing an ideal or worrying about your limitations, you learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

2. your voice: an essential part of embracing who you are is finding your authentic voice. in my thirties i realized that, as life gets more complicated, nobody is going to figure things out for you, nobody is going to set you on a course toward greatness—or mediocrity for that matter. “it’s all up to you.” when you’re out of the protective bubble of college, where groupthink reigns supreme, and you surround yourself with friends who look like you do, think like you do, it’s safe, secure…and the furthest thing from real life. without that safety net, you are forced to decide: what is important to me? what issues matter? what do i like/dislike? without anyone else weighing in, what do i want? it’s terrifying at first, but also empowering. whether through work or hobbies or interests or passions, you begin to discover—and own—your voice.

3. no drama: also known as “shedding the deadweight.” in your twenties, you’re on a process of self-discovery, and with that comes a plethora of interesting characters: people who expand you, experiences that push you out of your comfort zone. some people are inspiring. there’s an instant connection…and they become an indispensable part of your lifelong journey. but inevitably, you realize that others are just deadweight. “friends” who bring you down. or like pigpen in the “peanuts” comic, they move through life with a swirl of drama that follows them wherever they go, and engulfs anyone (including you) that happens to get sucked in. for awhile, it may be entertaining, but as time goes on, the electricity wanes. and it’s just plain exhausting. by our thirties, many of us realize that it’s time to ditch the drama and cut the cord on the clusterf**ks in your life.

4. the core: all this talk of clarity and confidence would make one think that with each year, nuggets of wisdom simply pop into your consciousness like pimples on a preteen, but nothing could be further than the truth. for most of us, your 30s is a time of incredible milestones: marriage, kids, moments of bliss that give meaning to an otherwise self-centered existence. but in other ways, your 30s will find a way to shake you. rock you to the core. for all the good, you may experience, first hand, loss like you’ve never known: of a parent, of loved ones, of friends, of jobs. of relationships that you thought would last forever…but didn’t. illnesses that might strike without warning. real-life reminders that you’re not invincible will hit you over the head like a hard, blunt object shattering your ruse of control. perhaps it stands to reason that the heaviness that comes from hard times tends to hit when you’re older, wiser, stronger. when you’re more prepared to handle it. and when you realize that your core—the people and values that you hold closest to your heart— are the key to helping you through.

5. at any moment: this decade has taught me that life is all about moments. not the trajectory from point a to point b. not your best laid plans mapped out on a calendar. not the “ single moment ”where you thought you’d finally “arrive,” but the many little moments from which you learn and grow. we don’t always know what final shape it will take, but those moments pieced together form the mosaic of your life. moments with loved ones that mean everything. moments meant to be cherished but often missed. moments that, at any moment, could be taken away.

6. simple things:

i used to flip through magazines and earmark pages and pages of things that i simply “had to have”: clothes, bags, shoes, baubles. but when i hit my 30s and life grew infinitely more complex, those must-haves ironically became simple things: more time spent laughing with my kids, breathing in the air atop the sand dunes, enjoying the stillness of quiet moments, taking in the sights and tastes at the farmer’s market, strolling the neighborhood in search of the next cozy nook. sure we all want to look and feel our best, but ultimately the finer things don’t bring true fulfillment.

7. young at heart: sometimes it's easy to feel overwhelmed by the weight of the years. we all grow tired of the juggling act: trying to keep up with work and housecleaning and kid-chasing and list-making. the bones may be a little creakier, your eyes a little sleepier. but other times you may feel more alive, more aware, more inspired than ever. there’s nothing like having two little living, breathing reminders to not take life too seriously. when i see the world through my childrens’ eyes, i share in their wonder. when i’m texting “OMGs” and “LOLz”, i feel like a giddy tweener. when i’m reminiscing with old friends and the laughter flows as freely as the wine, there’s no pretense and no purpose other than to say that we’ve made it this far—and are sharing in this journey together. and last but not least, when i hit the bars, i do still occasionally get carded, which always makes me crack a cheshire cat smile (even if they are just throwing this old dog a bone!).

whether 30 or 40 or 60, age is just a number. the clock is going to keep on ticking until your time is up, so make the most of every moment…i'm not professing to know all the answers, but i feel like i've cracked enough nuts to be ready for anything that the next decade throws my way. so come on 40, bring it. i'll be ready!

how much longer?

another road trip. this time to celebrate a truly momentous occasion: my dad’s 75th birthday. a big party was planned. my brother was flying in from the west coast. loads of people had rsvp’d to attend this amazing milestone: three-quarters-of-a-century of a life well-lived, and largely devoted to enriching the lives of others through his warmth, eternal optimism, intellectual curiosity and legendary cooking.

the kids were giddy with excitement. the car was packed with the requisite road trip essentials: snacks, bottled water, pillow pets, and an assortment of tunes—from radiohead (oddly enough logan’s favorite lullaby music) to adele’s crooning to those damn “party rockers” who were “in the house” with us across 3 states(!)—designed to keep the monkeys in the back seat engaged and us awake during the boring trek across the interstate.

about an hour into the drive, after we just crossed over the bridge to the skyway, it started.

“are we there yet?”

“no honey. we’re still in illinois.”

“how much longer?”

“a long time. don’t worry about it. just enjoy the ride.” ugh…it’s going to be a looong drive, i thought to myself.

normally, i’d seize the opportunity to craft my speech for the event during the all too familiar, 5+ hour drive on the long stretch of toll roads from chicago to cleveland. but this time i wasn’t worried about what i was going to say. i had written an homage to my dad months earlier, “finding your inner zen: a portrait of domingo,” as a way of sharing what an incredible source of inspiration he has always been to me. i felt fortunate to be able to read it aloud in a room filled with loved ones who were gathered in his honor.

unlike my usual, down-to-the-wire antics, this time i was prepared well in advance...so my plan was to sink back into my seat and sleep long enough to wipe away a good chunk of time off the drive. i closed my eyes.

but deeper thoughts were swirling around in my head. in the two weeks prior to this trip, my CEO’s son, thomas, passed away at the age of 7 due to neuroblastoma, a childhood cancer of the sympathetic nervous system. shortly after that, the news broke that steve jobs, the single greatest visionary of our time, had died at 56.

they were world’s apart, in years and life experiences. yet a similar reaction was echoed in both instances: “they lived life to the fullest. they touched people’s lives. and they were taken far too soon.”

i thought about my mom, who worked herself to the bone as a physician, only to finally retire and find herself with kidney failure, years of dialysis and not enough time to savor the fruits of her labor. she passed without ever laying eyes on rome, the eternal city, on her second grandson, on so many things that she would have loved and cherished. “she lived life to the fullest. she touched people’s lives. and she was taken far too soon.”

i looked out the window, eyes welling up. we zoomed past a bright, red, white and blue sign: “welcome to indiana, crossroads of america.”

“YAY! we’re in indiana! so we’re close now, right?” he was squealing with delight.

“um no, not even close.”

“ok so how much longer?”

“long. don’t worry about it. just relax. look out the window and enjoy the view.”

“awwww…ok fine.” pin, meet balloon.

a few miles later we came across a worn, but beautiful red barn. “hey guys, did you see those spotted cows? weren’t they adorable?”

“ohhhh so cute, mommy!” he was squealing again.

we filled the time between sing-alongs with views of neatly rolled haystacks on a blanket of light green grass, acres of golden cornfields, a massive semi accident that stopped us dead in our tracks for 45 minutes, and finally a breathtaking sunset before the boys finally started to drift off to sleep.

we were well into ohio now. monster yawns were heard from the back seat.

as he rubbed his bleary eyes and smacked his lips, he mustered one last attempt to gain certainty.

“ok i’m going to take a nap now. hopefully when i open my eyes we’ll be there…but can you please tell me how much longer?”

i didn’t answer. i paused to contemplate the question. when i peeked behind me a few minutes later, they were both fast asleep, peaceful and breathing deeply.

“how much longer?”

steve jobs’ sister gave a moving eulogy about their relationship and the person he was—not only as the most brilliant innovator but as a brother, as someone who cherished beauty above all else,  who loved love and embraced learning.

she eloquently spoke how of his illness was a great reminder that “none of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here…we all—in the end—die in medias res. in the middle of a story. of many stories.” 

but how many of us are savoring the chapters. living with intention. taking the time to pursue passions. appreciate loved ones. acting with the consciousness that at any moment, the plot may take a turn.

there will be smooth stretches, epic disasters, roadblocks, and hopefully some unexpected surprises. but if you’re forced to take a detour, no one may see the half-baked ideas formed, or hear the words you meant to say, but didn’t. you’ll only have who you are and what you’ve done up until that moment.

some people, like my dad, are thankfully blessed with rich lives and longevity. too many others are taken far too soon. either way, we are put on this earth. to learn from each other. to be inspired by each other. to appreciate beauty. to make the most of whatever time we are given.

“how much longer?”

“i don’t know. don’t worry about it. just enjoy the ride.”

pay it forward

i can vividly remember two distinct events in my life that reminded me—on a fundamental level—how good people can be. how optimism can trump negativity. how genuine acts of kindness can make you see that we’re not all crusty, self-serving assholes that roam the earth on an endless quest for personal gain. that sometimes, just sometimes, you can do things for the sole purpose of making other people happy.

the first instance happened when i was six years old. we went shopping at our neighborhood grocery store, pick-n-pay. as my parents meandered through the produce aisles, i went off to the bakery section to peruse the desserts. i was in awe: a magical snow white cake with seven dwarfs making their way merrily down a sprinkled path. giant cupcakes. chocolate frosted eclairs. glazed donuts. cookies for days. there i was, a little girl with eyes wide and nose pressed up against the glass, lost in reverie around these amazing delicacies…

and then i heard a voice speaking to me from behind the counter. i was too small to see who it was so i had to take a few steps back. “hi dear, well aren’t you cute,” said the sweet-faced lady in a white apron and tufts of blond hair peeking out of her hairnet.

back then, i was terribly shy so i just cracked a nervous smile.

“would you like to pick out a cookie?”

my heart started racing. i had my favorite patchwork lion purse (complete with yarn mane) strapped across my chest. it was fierce and fashionable, but much like now, there wasn’t any money it! so i froze.

“don’t worry dear. go ahead and pick one out.” her face was kind and reassuring. i scooted toward the glass case frantically scanning my options. as i got closer, my gaze settled in on the target. i lifted my little finger timidly toward the case and pointed at the giant, perfectly circular chocolate chip cookie.

she smiled. “that’s a great choice!” she pulled a piece of wax paper out, grabbed the cookie, and leaned over the counter to hand it to me. “there you go sweetheart. enjoy!” and that was it. i didn’t have to pay.  she just gave me a cookie, showed me some kindness—and i walked away with an indelible memory. lesson #1: people can do good, not because they have to. not because they want anything in return. not because anyone is watching. just because.

flash forward to my first year out of college. i was living in chicago and, like every dutiful notre dame alumni, was making the trek to the golden dome for the first home game of the season. if you’ve ever made the drive, it’s short…but far from scenic. suffocating pollution in gary, indiana. annoying traffic on the highway that is perpertually under construction.

nonetheless, my roommate and i were excited to get back to our alma mater, old friends and, of course, the long-island-iced-tea-stained linebacker dance floor.  we made our way out of the city and were cruising along toward the skyway. from the distance, we could see a backup of cars.

“great. traffic. this is taking away serious tailgating time. ” (nice to know i had my priorities in line…yeesh!...but i digress.) we inched our way to the toll booth at a snail’s pace, getting crustier by the second. i fumbled around for the $2.00 toll fee and pulled down the window.  i extended my hand to give him the money.

instead of the typical, weathered toll operator scowl, he had a twinkle in his eye. “don’t worry about it ma’am.”

“excuse me?”

“the guy in front of you paid your toll.”

i was flabbergasted. it was such an unexpected, random act. we were elated…and inspired.

“here you go, sir.” i handed him the money. “pay it forward, baby!”

we exchanged cheshire cat grins and i drove away. lesson #2: it really does feel as good, if not exponentially better, to give than receive.

these little epiphanies are often taught, but rarely felt. in real life. tiny gestures—a 50 cent cookie, a $2.00 toll—that can have a tremendous impact on another human being.

the whole rest of the drive, i kept thinking: “who does that kind of thing?”

well, it’s the same kind of person that returned my wallet, everything intact, when i lost it on the train. and the friend that surprised me with an amazing bouquet of flowers the other day, just for simply being a friend.

it’s you and me. random acts. unspoken words, spoken. a pat on the back. a phone call. a small effort. a big thank you. a bit of affirmation. appreciation. an ear to listen. a shoulder to lean on. a reminder that a little good has a lot of power.

pay it forward, baby.

play to the top row

portrait of dorcas

tell me that’s not a subhead that grabs your attention! yes, her name was actually dorcas. dorcas lavina snow. the tattered yellow newspaper clippings framed on her wall told of her descendants braving the atlantic on “the good ship anne” and settling in plymouth, massachusetts in 1623. eventually her family migrated to brecksville, ohio and settled much of the quaint town on the west side of cleveland.

our paths intersected one fateful day when i was a freshman in high school. it was an all too familiar scene. my mom, standing at the foot of the stairs yelling to us early on a saturday morning.

“get dressed! we’re going to meet your new piano teacher!”

“shit!” the collective groan could be heard from both my brother’s and my rooms. “here we go…”

since i was in kindergarten, we had a revolving door of horrific piano teachers.  bernadette, a snappy twenty-something blonde who taught lessons above a candy store (the only saving grace) and made me cry when I struck the wrong keys. miss woodman at the cleveland institute of music, a haughty, balding woman with a shrill voice and penchant for not wearing bras. miss castellano, a mean spirited italian princess who would tap her pen to the beat of the song and tell us we “should be ashamed of ourselves” for not practicing more. needless to say, we were not excited to meet the next perpetrator of our musical torture.

when we exited off the highway, we turned onto snow road, aptly named for miss snow’s father. she lived in an old white colonial with black shudders. we rung the doorbell and her filipino maid maria opened the door. sweet.

“an old white lady with a filipino maid is going to teach two new filipino kids some piano.” i could feel the dread bubbling up inside me.

we walked down the long creaky corridor to the “parlor.” the smell of mothballs and roasted chicken from the local stage coach restaurant permeated the air. at the end of the hallway, there were six old queen anne victorian chairs with scrolled legs and faded tapestry seat covers lined up. the sitting room was adjacent to a pair of white french doors that were closed shut.

then one of the doors swung open. dorcas snow. was she a sight to behold! old. no, decrepit. white stringy hair tied up in a bun. thick, cloudy cat-eye glasses. a parchment lace blouse that buttoned up to her neck. floral prairie skirt hiked up to just below her bosom. white lace ankle socks and gnarled feet stuffed into pointy caramel brown heels.

it was difficult to process how this little old lady could possibly teach me anything besides how to dress like a granny on little house on the prarie…but as my eyes gazed past her, there was a serious clue. after she greeted us, she opened up the second double door, and there, in the next room, were two gleaming 8-foot Steinway concert grand pianos, their undulating curves nestled perfectly together like two pieces of the most glamorous jigsaw puzzle you’ve ever seen.

this lady meant business. sometimes she was wistful and nostalgic. other times she was stern and crotchety. but she always commanded the utmost respect when she’d tell you to step aside, hobble over to the piano, and bang out a concerto with the verve of a sixteen-year-old.

she was a concert pianist in her youth and demanded excellence. even with all the high school angst and bitterness about having to forgo precious mall time to practice piano, you did it—in order to avoid humiliation, in order to please her, and shockingly, in order to push yourself, to revel in how you could possibly make the piano sing like you never imagined you could.

miss snow had an uncanny ability to size up not only your technical aptitude, but also your aura, your unique personal style. she selected songs that played perfectly into your strengths. for my brother, it was melodic, upbeat rhythms a la gershwin. for me, it was all about finesse—idyllic reveries and pieces that required emotion, expression, touch.

the only problem was, in all the years of “playing the piano,” i never really understood what that meant. sure, i could read the notes. i’d bang them out. when the direction said pianissimo, i played softer. crescendo, i played louder. staccato, crisp and light. ritardo, slow it down.

i learned the difference when it came time for our first big recital. i was given my piece: a prelude by rachmaninoff. it was intimidating, but eventually i committed it to memory. i was quite proud of myself when i went into my lesson.

i sat down on the bench and started the song. miss snow listened. from the corner of my eye, i saw her fidgeting. i played a few more bars. then I saw the grimace. the next thing I heard was the clapping.

“hold on, hold on. stop for a minute.”

she hobbled over to the bench. “i can tell that you have been practicing because you have the notes memorized, and that’s great. but you’re missing something.”

“what was she talking about? i sacrificed some serious phone time to learn this stupid song.”

she plopped right down on the bench next to me and pulled up her sleeves. she crouched down and started to play. her bony frame swayed to the melody while her curled fingers traversed the keys like a dancer pirouetting across the stage. the piano was shaking and i could feel the music. in my gut. could my eyes actually be welling up from hearing, or rather feeling, the music?

after she played the last chord, she stopped, turned, and looked me in the eyes.

“when you play—whether in your living room at home or in the biggest concert hall—play to the top row. like you mean it. so you feel it.”

during this season of fresh starts and new year’s resolutions, miss snow’s words ring true. playing the piano, much like life, can be rote. you go through the motions. memorize the notes. but do you really live like you mean it? so you feel it?

if not, it’s never too late to start.