the glamorous life

November 17, 2013

“how do you find the time?”

“for what?”

“working full time. being a mom. eating. shopping. working out. writing.”

“seriously?!” disbelief. “umm…i don’t,” i said. “it’s literally a constant frenzy from one minute to the next.”

eye roll. “come on. you make it look so easy.”

easy. right… within the span of a week, i had washed and folded 6 loads of laundry, woke up at 4am to a sick kid and a pile of projectile vomit that i literally caught in my hands, got stuck in a monsoon with no umbrella running from the office to the bus to the car to go to school for pick up, only to be the last mom there, enduring the glare from a crusty teacher and the sad face staring back at me asking “why were you late?” i racked my brain to remember algebra and geometry theorems to help with math homework, and lectured my eldest on hygiene fouls and the importance of changing your underwear every day (after having noticed only a few pairs in the mountains of said laundry). i broke up a fight over snakes that i had won for the boys playing whack a mole, and another grapple over what show to watch, and one about who gets to sit “in the middle” chair at the dining table, and yelled at both of them every morning for five days straight about moving like snails in the race to get ready for school.

but every day, when i get to work, i put on my pumps and pull it together. before i had kids, i vowed to try to retain my sense of identity. buttoned up. accessorized. harmonized. i’m a libra after all. i’d strike a perfect balance between mom and maven. work and werq.

but behind the scenes, it’s mostly mayhem. a tight rope act. spinning plates. at any given moment, the ruse of control can give way to chaos. and the oft fortuitous avoidance of disaster turns into a head-on collision of the all-too-common kind.

a couple weeks ago, it was my halloween horror story. the costumes were bought. the pumpkins were out. the trick or treating protocol reviewed. we were ready to go. but a busy work week and an all-nighter the day before distracted me enough to cause the debacle. halloween morning, pulling up to the kiss and ride, i see yoda and spiderman, bat man and a lady bug traversing the crosswalk. i was struck by the sinking realization that i had forgotten to dress him up in costume for the pre-k parade.

it was soul-crushing. an epic mommy #fail.

we managed to save the day, scrambling back home to pick up the scooby costume just in time for the pre-school procession. he was no worse for the wear, but the damage in my mind was done. chalk that one up as a spinning plate officially shattered.

i licked my wounds for a couple days, and then picked up the pieces and re-commenced the spinning.

it may look shiny on the outside, but truth be told, it’s also a grind. when you’re a parent, there is a crazy duality to every day that you can’t really comprehend unless you’re living it. stolen moments of glam are outweighed by grubby hands and gooey messes. it’s exhausting, exciting, enriching, enraging, energizing, emotional, enduring—an endless amount of effort.

one thing it definitely is not: easy.

try as you might, you can’t do it all. balls will drop. events may be missed. things will be forgotten. and striving for perfection or balance will set you up to fail. between being there for everyone and trying to salvage a sliver of yourself, something’s gotta give.

but the flipside is that somehow, some way, you discover a capacity within yourself that you never knew you had. you find an extra ounce of energy despite a few hours less of sleep. you discover an untapped well of love that expands though you feel like you’re running on empty.

it’s not easy. but you embrace it. because you know it’s not just something. it’s everything.

the happy show

November 3, 2013

when you work in an office, it’s easy to get sucked into the vortex. meetings and email, staring at your computer screen for literally hours on end, perfecting the assprint in your non-ergonomic chair and spilling crumbs onto your keyboard as you clumsily scarf up a sandwich while typing and chewing simultaneously.

frustrated and uninspired, i resolved to make a conscious effort—particularly in times of stress or duress—to get up out of my chair and take a walk outside. at a minimum, it would be a few minutes to get some fresh air and clear my head, and if i was lucky, hopefully stumble on something more than simply relief from the daily grind—possibly even inspiration?

a couple months ago, some creatives in my office were buzzing about an exhibit at the chicago cultural center, a landmark building that features a revolving schedule of free lectures, films and art exhibits. given its proximity to my building—literally one block away—it was a no-brainer. spending my lunch hour staring at some cool typography would be a welcome diversion from the blinding pain of another powerpoint.

“the happy show” is the culmination of visual artist stefan sagmeister’s 10 year-long exploration of happiness through typography, video, sculpture and interactive installations. his ultimate quest: to discover whether it’s possible to train your mind like you train your body—to be happy.

it struck me that “the happy show” was an odd title, suggesting a tv program or movie, a state of being where we passively watch the storyline play out versus actively create an outcome. yet the installations seemed to present an entirely different conclusion altogether.

when i got to the exhibit, i was immediately transported. upon entering the huge, open loft, i was enveloped by this sweet, ethereal music. the sound didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular, but rather filled the space with lightness, air, the perfect backdrop to ponder such existential questions: what does happiness mean? does it vary between men and women? what conditions are required to achieve a state of bliss? what are the barriers?

one of the focal points of the exhibit was a giant installation of neon letters that spelled out the phrase: “my overall level of satisfaction.”

connected to the words was a bicycle that viewers were invited to sit on. as you began to peddle, other phrases would shine brighter, glowing with intensity.

another installation: an electric outlet with the accompanying words scribbled:

and on a massive wall, white post-its were artfully arranged and 3 separate fans gently blew on the paper in a billowy, cascade of movement. you had to step back to decode the message. “uselessness is gorgeous.”

accompanying the arresting visual display, his method for manufacturing happiness:

"i came up with a repeatable technique to artificially produce a moment of bliss: take a scooter, drive it on a beautiful road with little traffic so i can ride without a helmet and feel the wind in my hair while listening to about a dozen carefully selected songs, music that i don't know well (so it won't have any baggage) but am likely going to like. and very important: there can be no purpose to the drive, just cruising without any goal. this recipe would send shivers down my spine every time.

to do something without any goal and without any function has its own beauty. it's the difference between a walk in the park and a commute. it's the difference between art and design."

the overall point: happiness doesn’t simply happen to you. you have to work at it. stop to consider the conditions and people who ignite that feeling within you. find the stimulus. or create it.

after meandering through the installations, you are then guided to another room, a huge cavernous space containing nothing but two massive inflatable gorillas. the first one held a sign that simply said “EVERYONE.” think about it. we all have hopes and dreams, stuff we’re passionate about or simply curious to try. but how often do we stop ourselves, self-censor, chicken out, for fear that “everyone” will judge or laugh or see us as the failure that we’re convinced we’ll be if we dare step out of the comfortable cocoon of complacency? the big fat hairy gorilla in the room is “everyone.”

sometimes art can be pretentious or simply too precious—caught up in its own beauty or self-importance. but this exhibit really spoke to me. the universality of the theme. the accessibility of his message.

happiness isn’t a cloud, an ethereal thing that floats above, taunting us through objects and things we think we want. it’s a conscious decision. an action. it’s work. simplicity. human connection. relationships over things. amazingly beautiful.

in our control.

mind the gap

October 19, 2013

if you’ve ever ridden the tube in london during rush hour, you know: it’s survival of the fittest. your body moves—or rather is moved—along with the black-clad mass of humanity pushing forward toward the platform. as you stand and wait for the train to arrive, you’re reminded, with quintessential british politeness and decorum, to “mind the gap.” translation: be careful while crossing the space between the platform and the train door.

i’ve always found this warning amusing, as if “the space between” was the ominous danger. last time i checked, fear of being trampled or getting eaten alive by the jaws of life (aka the train doors) when, half-in and half-out, you can’t quite squeeze your entire body into the sardine-packed train car, was a much more perilous proposition. just ask my co-worker(!)…but i digress.

recently an old friend who reads the blog wrote me a lovely note. “thanks for all your photos and musings—they close the gap in such a wonderful way.” they were beautiful, unexpected words, and it occurred to me that it was such an interesting way to phrase the compliment.

the gap. the space in between. the filler time spent refreshing our phones, worrying about plans, checking off lists, waiting for the next meeting or appointment or thing you have to do.

is it really throw-away time? useless moments that mean nothing? is it blasphemy to think that possibly, they are…more?

last week, i was in new york for a work trip. big CEO presentation. high stress. down-to-the-wire drama the night before. shmoozy networking dinner. and many sleep-deprived nights.

thankfully everything went off without a hitch and i was scheduled to fly out the next day. time for breakfast. an hour to kill before heading off to the airport. grab a starbucks in the hotel lobby, check email, scan the internet, pound my latte and hit the road?

eff that.

fall in nyc. 18 blocks from central park. room to breathe. time to exhale.

i put on my flats (yes, flats!) and hit the street.

manhattan. horn honking, fashion werqing, people watching, sidewalk trashing, construction worker whistling, people bustling, energy pulsing in this city that i love.

and then the park. i’ve been there many times before. but was still completely swept. off. my. feet.

mind the gap. don’t just step over, plow ahead, as if all the appointments in your outlook calendar are the only things that matter. as in london, the signs will be subtle. no one is going to block off an hour in your calendar to stop and smell the roses.

i know you’re busy. i get it. but don’t fall victim to the real jaws of life, the mind-numbing routines, the corner-cutting rat race, the soul-sucking obligations.

an hour. 20 minutes. a couple seconds. when you can, mind the spaces in between. they’re small. seemingly insignificant…but they can fill more than just the time. they can fill you up. and feed your soul.

we are stardust.

September 29, 2013

when i got the invite, my first instinct was to do as i always do: scroll, scan, click, delete. but convenience (the venue was literally across the street from my office) and the lure of free cocktails was enough to let the email linger longer than the usual ten seconds from inbox to digital incinerator.

“squarespace is coming to chicago! join us for a meet up to connect with fellow bloggers and share tips, ideas and inspiration.”

though a schmoozy networking event was the furthest from my idea of fun (especially given my near-nonexistent free time), i decided as the date came closer that it couldn’t hurt to check it out, if only for a couple free drinks and post-work curiosity.

to my surprise, while stuffing my face with sliders and st. germain, i got to speak with the most eclectic, interesting group of people that i’d probably ever encountered in one room.

a hubbard street dancer. a trombone sheet music transcriber. a nonprofit marketer. a privacy lawyer battling big tech behemoths like google and facebook. a jazz musician. and several aspiring photographers embracing the escape from the drudgery of their day jobs…and that was all within 20 feet of the entrance.

i enjoyed a few enlightening conversations and dutifully exchanged some cards…but the biggest takeaway for me was marveling at this amazing, quirky collection of people—all unique individuals, insanely passionate about their tiny little corner of the universe.

one conversation in particular struck a chord.

“it’s called ‘making stardust’.”

“oohhh! that sounds beautiful,” i said. “what does it mean?”

“well i’m a graphic designer, and my blog is a place where i post daily doodles from my moleskin, whether it’s drawings or sketches—basically anything that comes out of my brain and onto the paper on any given day. i named it ‘stardust’ based on the scientific theory that we are all essentially made out of dust particles from a huge stellar explosion millions of years ago. you know that theory?”

nope, i didn’t…so off to google i went.

according to science daily, “every element on earth…was created in the heart of some massive star. and the heaviest elements— such as gold, lead and uranium—were produced in a supernova explosion during the cataclysmic end of a huge star's life…the iron in our blood and the calcium in our bones were all forged in such stars. we are made of stardust.”

amazing.

imagine all these fragments, artifacts, pieces and parts, coming together to create every individual on this planet. sprinkles of celestial light, brimming with energy and potential…and before us, the opportunity to burn bright. or like stars, fade off into the distance with barely a flicker.

as i write this post, i’m on a plane, returning from a trip to arizona. flying through the clouds, over painted deserts, vast mountains and endless skies, it’s easy to feel tiny, insignificant. but what if we believed our unique perspective, our voice, our ideas or even doodles, could deliver an impact, make an impression, influence a situation or inspire a single person.

wouldn’t it be worth it. to act. to express. to share. to risk.

they say a flap of one butterfly’s wings can cause seismic shifts in the universe…maybe that’s what it’s all about. to live with intention—in whatever corner of the world you’re in, in whatever way inspires you most.

push out of the comfort zone. embrace, rather than avoid, those cosmic collisions. the atoms within you and around might shift. but in the grand scheme, wouldn’t you rather go out with a bang than a blip?

bright shiny objects

September 12, 2013

it was a typical sunday evening. we had just settled in from a long day of workouts, errands, and random household chores. the kids were huddled up on the couch, eyes scanning the rectangular screen, fingers rapidly pressing and swiping, and their intent faces illuminated by the bluish glow shining up from their laps. tablet time.

“dinner’s almost ready guys! can you please turn that off and wash your hands.”

crickets.

“excuse me! did you hear what i just said?”

nada. they didn’t even flinch.

as i watched them, the scene from afar was heart-warming. the two brothers, lately more sparring partners than adoring siblings, were giggling, smiling, admiring each others’ mastery of the ginsu knife swipe on “fruit ninja.”

but their utter entrancement with the device—and complete lack of acknowledgement of me—were starting to bug.

“hey, you guys need to listen to mommy!” my husband said sternly, looking back at me to exchange eye-rolls before heading out the front door to take out the trash.

“ok. 5 more minutes, PLEASE!! i just need to get to the next level.”

ugh. my will to fight was sucked up in the puffs of steam rising from the medley of pots and pans on the stove, so i gave in.

“fine…but you better turn it off as soon as your time is up.”

2 minutes later, daddy returned, flinging the door open and bursting in with a huge, cheshire cat grin on his face.

“what the…”

his hands were cupped and loosely pressed together.

“GUESS WHAT I’VE GOT, BOYS!”

he was giddy with excitement.

the commotion jarred the zombies out of their trance, and they looked up in unison to see what the surprise was.

he moved his hands closer and we leaned in.

and then we saw it. the bright, green glow flashing intermittently in his hands.

a firefly!

“WHOA! COOL!” the boys squealed as they watched the magic bug light up.

city fireflies are few and far between—in fact it had been decades since i had seen one—so despite my distaste for bugs in general, i too was mesmerized by the light.

i can remember vividly spending hours catching fireflies in my front yard on a late summer evening at dusk. i was around my son’s age, 8 or 9. my brother and i, and the neighborhood twins, were in the front driveway playing four square (old school—you know, the kind with an actual red ball).

as the sun began to set and the daylight dimmed, we started to notice green flickers of light hovering above the lawn. first a few, and then more. it was a spectacle. magic. and we ran into the grass to see if we could catch them.

they weren’t afraid. they weren’t elusive. they buzzed around with no clear direction, almost beckoning our eager hands to take hold. we’d reach out and snatch one—glowing life and light—cupped gently in the palm of our hands…just like my husband’s.

i thought of that summer night with nostalgia and longing…for carefree times and endless days and simple pleasures.

our kids are growing up in a different world. a digital world. and technology has, in many ways, brought “the world” into their hands. facts, knowledge, information, all at their fingertips.

and the frenzy over every new device— most recently the new “magical” iphone 5S—has become human nature for many of us. but i read a provocative, and in my opinion quite profound, article in FastCoDesign about a recent apple commercial that expressed something that i’ve been feeling since the 4, 4S and 5 releases.

everyone is telling me i should care. every time a new model, software version or operating system rolls out, i’m supposed to pant with anticipation for the next new shiny thing. the commercial itself heralds the proclamation:

“this is it. this is what matters. the experience of a product.”

as the author mark wilson writes, "Watch the ad closely for me. As we’re told that products are what matter, we see a series of shots in which people actively turn away from life to engage with their technology…. In what should be a warm, humanizing montage, people are constantly directing their attention away from one another and the real, panoramic world to soak in pixels."

no doubt technology has transformed life as we know it…and in many mind-blowing ways for the better. but don’t be fooled by the bright, shiny glow. no device can ever replace the feeling of sun on your skin, the twinkle in your kids’ eyes, sparkles of light dancing on the water.

it’s up to us to carve out time, “catch fireflies,” keep some moments sacred, devoid of devices and things that impede rather than enhance our experience of life. for our kids—and ourselves—these are the bright, shiny objects we should seek and hold precious. they are the ones filled with magic light that sinks into your soul and lingers long after you let go.

the roadtrip

September 2, 2013

2,016 miles. 28 hours. 7 states. 2 cats. a 135 pound great dane. and a little black prius.

when i told people that i was willingly volunteering to drive with my brother cross-country—from california to nevada, utah, colorado, nebraska, iowa and illinois—to move him back to chicago from LA, the reaction was pretty much universal.

grimace. groan. “oh man! he is going to owe you, bigtime. that sounds BRUTAL.”

i’ll admit, the scenario paints a picture that is absolutely ridiculous, if not absurd.

but to me, this was the chance of a lifetime.

the opportunity to leave the kids back at home, the daily grind far behind, and for once, not worry about “leaning forward”— an overused mantra in my industry mandating that we must constantly look forward, innovate, stay up-to-date with every new device and technology or risk falling behind, and into oblivion, for not keeping pace with the dizzying pace of change.

i was looking forward to simply sitting back.

some of my fondest memories of growing up were the rituals of our family roadtrips. i can vividly remember hauling brand new copies of “green eggs and ham” and “cat in the hat” in one hand, and my pillow and ragged winnie the pooh bear in the other, as we piled into our wood-paneled station wagon. in free-wheeling, 70s-style, we would lay the seats flat and spread out across the back, occasionally looking up to watch the cars whiz past or pull down our imaginary truck whistles when the 18-wheelers rolled by. we would pack plenty of snacks: funyuns for my brother and fritos for me, and munch away as my dad practiced his speech for the customs officers as we neared the border into canada.

in those days, the journey was just as fun as the destination. but now, we seek the quickest path from point a to b, and non-stop flights are the travel method of choice. the trip itself is an annoyance, as we brace ourselves for lines and traffic and wailing babies in the rows behind.

this time, i was just “along for the ride” so i wasn’t bogged down by the usual “baggage,” save for a small overnight bag (…ok maybe not that small as it had to fit a couple pairs of platforms for 2 nights out in LA!) and my DSLR camera.

in the car, at early dawn in silver lake, as the sun was beginning to rise over scattered palm trees and power lines, we plugged our destination into the gps…and drove.

it’s hard to describe the feeling of having such a wide stretch of open road before you.

we’d talk for hours. and sit silent for some. all while taking in the awe-inspiring views that lay ahead.

so much time. without distraction. in your thoughts. in the clouds. in the songs.

from towering mountains to rolling tumbleweeds, we immersed ourselves in the colors, the patterns, the textures of each place—details surely missed at 30,000 feet.

he drove and i shot…and shot…and shot.

when we think of states, the images usually conjured up are shapes on a map, accents and archetypes, checkpoints to cross off en route to a destination.

but this trip was magic.

on the road. “the air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that i thought i was in a dream.”

and as for my brother, well, he was leaving home, and yet returning to a place called home years ago. coming full circle.

“what is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? — it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. but we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.” –jack kerouac, "on the road"

lightness

August 31, 2013

when i was putting on my makeup this morning, i saw it.

a thin, crescent-shaped line in between my eyebrows.

maybe it’s just a smudge, a tiny smear of eyebrow pencil that went astray, i thought.

i took my thumb and swiped the groove. upon contact, the pressure seemed to smooth it out. but the second my finger left my face, there it was again.

i hadn’t noticed it before.

i started making faces in the mirror to figure out how it got there. smile, no. eyebrows up, no. eyebrows down, no. happy, no. surprised, no. worried…WHOA.

you know the look. the one you get when you’re stressed out, frustrated, frantic or upset. over time, furrowed eyebrows had slowly and subtly forged a wrinkle in my forehead.

they say that with age comes wisdom…but the truth is what also comes is heaviness, gravitas, the weight of responsibilities, deadlines, care-taking and future-making.

i was reminded recently how important it is to take the load off, steal moments to let go, to find time in the daily grind to laugh, to love—to be, in a word, light.

no matter where i am or what i’m doing, whenever i see a balloon, i smile. i get this visceral reaction: happiness. surely it’s tied up in memories from childhood, but beyond that, it’s the lightness, the optimism, the purity of feeling when you’re not weighed down by life.

it’s sad that we have to use the word “steal” for something so basic, as essential as oxygen to our sense of balance and well-being. but ironically, it’s hard work to not work, to not spin, to not move from chore to chore and task to never-ending task. and laughter and light tend to fall to the bottom of our most pressing agendas.

whether it’s date night or girls’ night, you need to make time for those moments of lightness: where cares fall away and there’s just you—giddy, laughing, singing bad songs, telling old stories, being stupid, silly, and squarely in the moment. those times will sustain you, smooth over the lines, heal your heart, and make you feel truly alive in the living.

fearless

August 21, 2013

portrait of JJ

he came into the office in cobalt skinny jeans, ready to #werq.

he’s a southern boy, a superstar, a pint-sized perez with a penchant for color and blue sky dreams of owning his own birkin.

it’s his first job out of college, yet he owns client calls. he spins circles around some twice his age.

“i’ve got a plan,” he likes to say, with a scheming, twinkle in his eye. lolla VIP, check. dinner with friends, check. 90-day roadmap to world domination.

while we stood around in our baggy flannels, jean shorts and timberland workboots, spewing gen x angst and smelling like teen spirit, JJ dons his rainbow wings and flies.

after the invincibility of our 20s, the risk is settling into this thing called life—where settle may be the operative word, where dreams and passions are put out to pasture in exchange for expected roles and real-world responsibility.

we old dogs piss and moan about “those self-entitled millennials,” shaking our fists and longing for the good old days of grunge…but i can think of more than enough examples that blow that generational myth.

twenty-something techies who are taking silicon valley by storm. suzy orman fanboys sitting on a pile of apple stock (holla dodsy!).

they aren’t bound by barriers. they don’t retrench from rules. they don’t cling to jobs or roles or boxes that hold them in. they’re fearless.

instead of vilifying them, perhaps we should admire the ones that stand out. the ones that stand tall—with pure belief, in themselves and their destiny. like JJ, perhaps we should take a page out of the peacock playbook and sprout some wings of our own. with shoes like that, there’s nowhere to go but up!

...and then there was one.

August 14, 2013

“twins!”

we stared intently, squinting to make sense out of the black and white blobs assembled on the screen.

“can you see them?”

“umm… i think?”— half-hoping that if i couldn’t, then they wouldn’t…be a thing. we were there for #2. but nowhere in my plans was there ever any inkling, an iota of thought, about a third.

my eyes were glued to the monitor as she clicked away, the cursor plotting points from end to end across two tiny, bean-shaped eggs.

for 26 weeks, i watched them grow—slowly transforming from tiny blobs into…life. hearts beating, arms waving, legs kicking. what was at first terrifying became both weird and wonderful. a crazy twist of fate that we came to not only accept, but embrace.

i looked forward to my weekly ultrasound visits as a chance to peek into this big, round belly and see the twins spinning, twirling, playing, a surreal glimpse into what was soon to be a very real part of our lives.

week 27. i got to the doctor’s office for a routine check-up, a day like any other day.

“let’s see how we’re doing!”

she slid the smooth ultrasound device across my belly, clicking away to capture the images.

not much small talk. strange…

baby A. click. click. click.

baby B. click. click. click.

back to baby A.

still no words.

in the room, usually filled with banter about how the rascals were moving so much that she couldn’t get a good view, the silence was deafening. i started to feel a sense of panic wash over me. my heart began to race. i tried to divert the attention, focusing on the muzac piping in through the office stereo. breathe in. breathe out. eyes welling up though nothing was confirmed.

after 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling, at the sink, at the floor—anything but the screen—the doctor entered the room.

“i’m sorry. one of the babies just stopped growing.”

and just like that, there was one.

“inexplicable.” “horribly sad, yet somehow meant to be.” all the things that people say (and you say to yourself) to deal with such a tragic loss.

when he stopped growing, there was a void, a hole, an emptiness, that with each day grew smaller and smaller thanks to the radiant bundle of energy and love and light that is my logan.

he was there. he was ours. he was part of our family. and then he was gone.

his name was luke.

flash forward to now. four years later, time has healed. i count my blessings every single day for the amazing family that fills me up, holds me up, and gives me meaning in this mad world.

but every time i hear that name, there is still a tinge, that feeling, the memory of someone that was a part of me, yet i never got to meet.

one day, my brother came over. he lives for horses. works so he can ride. it’s his sanity, clarity, grounding for his sometime frenetic tendencies. he lost his first horse suddenly to a freakish equine virus.

he too had a void to fill.

he spent every free minute scouring websites, viewing hundreds of videos of horses spread out across the tri-state area. after months of searching, he finally zeroed in on two. sirage was a regal fresian with an athletic build and an elegant gait. he was convinced that this was the one.

he put money down for the pre-purchase, arranged for the vet check, and planned the terms of the negotiation. in his mind, it was a done deal. dot the I’s, cross the T’s, and he would have his horse.

but in the days leading up to the purchase, things began to sour. the horse was slightly smaller than the standard. the seller became defensive, aloof, and refused to negotiate. what seemed so right felt now, in his gut, just wrong.

there were two choices…and just like that, there was one.

big brown eyes, the gentlest soul, a stunning yet serene presence.

“you can train a horse to ride, but you can’t teach him how to love. this one…he’s a lover,” said his previous owner, welling up as she stroked his soft, velvety nose.

this was it. the one. a new member of our family. and his name was luke.

was it a sign? a karmic signal from above? maybe. or was it merely a crazy, uncanny coincidence that brought him to us? probably.

all i know is that now, when i hear the name: “luke.” the tinge is replaced by comfort—a sense that maybe, after all this time, maybe it was “meant to be.”

goodness

August 7, 2013

i stepped off the plane. fried. bleary-eyed. 4-hour red-eye flight. SFO to ORD. finally wrapping up two intense weeks of a wicked work schedule.

cramped quarters in coach. no room to stretch. ready to crash in my own big bed.

i trudged down the endless hall, the spinning wheels of my bag propelling me forward. down the escalator. through the rainbow walkway. around the corner to the tunnel. “trains to the city.” keep on walking.

when i finally got to the CTA turnstyle, i reached into my purse for the train pass. right pocket, nope. left pocket, nope. inside front pocket, no. big back pocket, still no.

missing phone, déjà vu. here we go. i propped the purse on top of my luggage and started the search in earnest. receipts, keys, lipstick, compact, shuffling around in my cavernous bag.

after about a minute of watching, he spoke.

“ma’am, are you from chicago?”

“yes, i am.” half smile. “i’ve got a card…it’s in here somewhere.”

i looked back down to continue to hunt.

“don’t worry about it. come on over.”

i looked up.

“it’s all right. you look exhausted. i’ll take care of it.” he proceeded to put his pass into the slot, and waved me over to walk through the gate.

his words were clear but did not compute. train fare from the airport to the city had recently been raised from $2.25 to $5 so surely there was no way he was just going to pay for me.

“come on through!” he said with a warm, reassuring smile. “just remember me…and have a great day.”

and that was it.

it woke me up. an unexpected jolt. he paid it forward, asking nothing in return.

for all that is bad in the world, sometimes people are simply good…and that is something i will never forget.