Hello Miss Sunshine!

It’s official. Spring has sprung. Goodbye, Mister Gray Skies. Hello, Miss Sunshine.


I hope you have walked around your house and de-winterized it. Threw away anything resembling that season. Pinecones, evergreens boughs and holly berries have got to go. It’s time to display bird nests and eggs, daffodils and butterflies. Open your windows. Wash the blankets. Get a puppy.


Winter and spring have become for me—this week especially—metaphors for everyday living. I have noticed—more than usual—a predominant and unfriendly ethos floating around the world. A winter-like “graying” of people and their zest for life. With the arrival of spring, it’s time to change that. And for good.


Just last week, when I was changing in the gym locker room, a fellow lap swimmer waltzed in donning the cutest bathing suit. Totally fabulous. Orange tankini. So I commented (couldn’t help it of course): “Wow! That’s a great suit!”


No response.


Thinking she was hard of hearing, I looked her in the eye and repeated myself. “GREAT suit!” inflecting my voice so she would really take note.


She looked straight at me, kept walking and said nothing. Just opened the door towards the pool.


What’s up with that?!?


I stood back and shook my head. “What a hag,” I thought. She couldn’t have even stopped to say “thank you?”


And so it goes. People in their own little worlds. Without thought or time for anyone else. Wandering around with no bounce in their steps nor sparkle in their eyes. Living in “winter moments” of gray rather than “spring moments” of (lime) green.


My plea this week is simple: Live as if you believe in the hopes and promises of spring. Greet others with a smile. Say “good morning” to a complete stranger. Look at a colleague in the eyes and ask how he is doing. Laugh with your eyes. Shake someone’s hand firmly. Answer the phone cheerfully. Open the door for the mailman gratefully. Drive courteously.


You will stand out in the world. And be respected and admired for embracing life with spring-like exuberance. With joie de vivre. It’s not difficult. Takes very little extra energy. Just requires thinking about others. Of shifting one’s mindset.


It’s what the world needs at spring. Totally. Spring has sprung. Live it.


Blessings,


Carolina

No Big Deal

Ok. This is the first time I am publicly admitting to it: I am accident prone. Now, if you’ve ever “googled” me, it would be readily apparent. It’s been completely disclosed over and over again in my writings. I’ve been hit by a car while crossing the street not once but twice (and how many people do you personally know who could say the same thing?) First time: I was hit while walking and wound up unconscious for awhile before waking up in the ER and spending four days in ICU. That was followed by a month in the hospital, months in physical therapy, a couple of major surgeries and permanent damage to my right leg (it’s almost one inch shorter than my left as a result of being crushed to smithereens). Second time: I was hit by a car while biking by a j—k who failed to look before he leapt into the street, hitting me broadside, re-breaking my pelvis and my left shoulder (which required complete reconstruction and excruciating physical therapy for almost one full year. )


I haven’t had any major accidents since then, nor have I had many minor ones, except for the very occasional fender benders, the likes of which seem to mess up moms like me, teenage drivers and others who sometimes have other things on their minds. Mind you, I am a low risk driver. Middle-aged (ouch!), careful and not-given-to-convertible-sports-cars-due-to-turning-middle-age. But I have so much on my mind these days: the whereabouts of four kids in three different schools, my husband’s travel schedule, the dog and guinea pig’s dinner schedules (OK, I am kidding; I spend zero time fretting about the guinea pig) and the soon-to-be-remodeled kitchen subcontractor’s bidding schedules. Not to mention the state of the economy, the upcoming presidential race, the war in Iraq or stamping out global illiteracy.


As moms, we carry the weight of the world on our shoulders! And that weight, while dragging down our physical beings, wreaks havoc on our brain waves!?!


Just last week, while driving pleasantly enough to work (my office is a good 45-minute commute through mostly idyllic country two-lane roads) I took my foot off the brake when the light turned green for one teensy second while simultaneously looking down to change the radio station (I’d blame this on my daughter’s delay in organizing that mysterious iPod I got for Christmas but I don’t think that argument would stand up in court) and boom! Metal hit metal as I ran into the backside of the enormous SUV now directly in front of me. Yuck. Out I got, on this rainy, cold Monday morning (the first day back from my birthday celebration in sunny Miami nonetheless) and met the slightly irritated woman SUV-driver-owner. I apologized profusely, told her I took my eye off the wheel for one teensy-weensy second as we stood there, in the rain, inspecting the damage. A coin-sized bubble messed up her otherwise perfect fender and, after offering my insurance info as well as payment and restoration in full, she smiled and said: “I’ve done that before. No big deal. Go and have a good day.”


I thought I had left the scene completely unscathed. Thought I had done zero damage to my own car, until a week later when Nick, who was home from college, commented on my messed-up front fender. I hadn’t even noticed……but it was, indeed, noticeably banged up and lopsided.


I had global illiteracy and the state of the economy on my mind.


As I sit at my computer and look at my (somewhat messy) house (and think about my messed-up car), I realize what an imperfect world we inhabit…and what an imperfect piece of work I truly am. The guinea pig’s bedding is strewn all over the kitchen floor; a sweeping tonight will only guarantee more mess in the morning. The laundry basket is emptied and clean clothes are lined up in my drawers; tomorrow, dirty socks and tennis clothes will fill up that space. A candlelit dinner is enjoyed in our dining room and china has been washed, dried and put back in the cupboard; breakfast will bring another round of dried cereal and milk in bowls that will not quite find their way into the sink.


And so it goes. On and on and on. A relentless stream of accidents and mishaps and messes. And mistakes. Innocently enough, yet inevitable. Life is messy. And motherhood can be even messier. Sticky. Dented.


And would we have it any other way?


As you go through these years carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, I hope that someone—your spouse or your kids or your parents or your best friend—will give you grace. Let you get through the messes without being too hard on yourself. (My own husband’s reaction to the discovery of my dented fender? Laughter.)


As laundry and dishes and things and puppies and toddlers mess up your days, give them plenty of grace. Sweep or wipe or mop as need be. And try to let it all roll off your shoulders. Try to smile and believe: “No big deal.”


And then go and have a good day.


Easier said than done. Yup. Especially when hormones impair our best-intentioned good humor. But we are, after all, in the season of Lent. Reflection is in order. Perspective.


I wish you all blessings on your week,


Carolina

Happiness Revealed Through Family, Girlfriends…and Chocolate

And great food and drink. Sunshine. Dancing.


I just spent my birthday (“the big one”) holed up in a hotel room and conference center in New Jersey where I was committed to a three-day business meeting. Nothing against New Jersey; I could certainly think of worse places to be. I had, after all, heat, hot water and electricity. Plenty of coffee. But the days were long. And my heart yearned for home. My familiar and favorite spots. My own bed. Shower. Closet full of clothes. And hubby, kids and Bichon Frise pup snuggled up on my legs during my just-before-bedtime ritual of watching the news sprawled out on my down-cushioned sofa, plump pillows supporting weary head.


But work responsibilities called and, truth be told, there is something extremely satisfying about living up to work responsibilities. So I attended this meeting without too much whining. It helped a lot that we had a treat awaiting us with—as serendipity would have it—perfect timing (which took away any of the pain I was experiencing.) For my husband happened to have qualified for a recognition trip gifted by his company which took us both to South Beach (Florida) for four days (in the middle of winter) conveniently convening as soon as my New Jersey business meeting ended.


On the last night in New Jersey, my husband met me in my hotel so as to spend my actual birthday night with me. He surprised me with the dozens of cards and emails that you—my wonderful and faithful readers of this Rocket Mom Newsletter—sent to me. He organized them all in an album and wrapped up the whole thing in a beautiful box, presenting it to me at the end of a long work day which found me too exhausted to even find my way downstairs for a bite of dinner. So I just sat in my hotel room—facing my husband who sat across from me to watch my reactions—with dark chocolate bar in one hand and the card-and-email-stuffed-album in the other.


It was a lumpy-throated hour. Some of your notes, frankly, totally choked me up. Others filled the room with gut-busting laughter (the “Carolina Machina” was priceless, Deborah! I laughed and laughed until I cried. ) As I leafed through notes from my oldest girlfriends as well as from new ones, those of you who, though scattered across the globe and whom I shall probably never meet, have become connected to me each week through this Newsletter—I understand with every cell of my being the value of family and friendship (OK, and chocolate, too).


To those of you who wrote to me: thank you from the bottom of my heart. I laughed and cried out loud. This was a tender time spent in a quiet hotel room in—of all places—New Jersey. With the love of my life. And with you all. Your notes invigorated me to continue writing despite the increased demands on my days, a tough day job and book contract being the two heavy “new-ish” factors in our family’s already bulging equation.


Your friendship—along with the great food and drink, sunshine and dancing for which SoBe is famous and of which my husband and I appropriately indulged in celebration of “the big one”—meant the world to me on my birthday. As it does on this day, too.


Thank you for being my friend. For celebrating with me one of my life’s greatest days.


Big hug,


Carolina

Daring to Be You or Why Lime Green is My Black

If it hadn’t been for my lime green corduroy bell-bottomed pants, I’m not sure that I would have as many toddlers in my circle. Or strangers, for that matter. Nope. Most people expect to see blue denim rather than green corduroy on one’s legs and so when they see lime green, a conversation—or upturned nose—is usually the next step. (I actually bumped into the only other woman on the streets of New York City over the holidays who was also wearing lime green cords; we gave each other a high five). Yet these wonderfully worn-in pants are the mainstay of my at-home winter wardrobe…and an identifiable part of who I have become over the years.


I’ll turn fifty this week. So it’s a turning point. But hey. Fifty’s the new thirty. (And Thursday’s the new Friday.) And lime green is my black.


Turning fifty gives one pause. It’s time for reflection. Where one’s been. Where one would like to go. The world is a-changing, that’s for sure. And today, there seems little that will stand in the way of living life to its fullest when middle—or old—age settles in. We went skiing this weekend, and although I avoided the black diamonds, I managed some decent runs down the blues. Didn’t see a lot of older folks out there, but the diehards still do their own thing. Always have. Always will.


Daring to do your own thing—to be different—takes some guts. But it gets easier as you get older. You just don’t care what other people think as much as you used to! Sticking your neck out to express a dissenting opinion, wearing clothes that buck the industry standard, or rearing your kids in ways that make you seem like an odd duck are all part of living life creatively. Wearing green cords instead of blue jeans.


None of the world’s greatest leaders followed the crowd. Nor have its greatest artists. Or brilliant minds.


Each one of us is gifted with a birthright of virtually unlimited creative potential. Ability to leave your mark. You need to figure out how to tap into your potential and more significantly, unleash it for the benefit of others.


How to get started? Or move father faster? At fifty, here is how I see it:
• Travel more. Taking a break from your usual daily scenery will free up your mind to enjoy different cultures, different accents and languages, different foods, different air, different smells, and different sights. It will inspire creativity in the deep recesses of your mind.
• Expose yourself to the arts. Immerse yourself. Through museums or theater, the symphony or in a class: study the masters. Their works will motivate you.
• Become prolific. One characteristic of creative people is that they produce. Geniuses never seem to run out of brilliant ideas. Bach wrote a cantata every week, even when he didn’t feel like it.
• Think like a child. Get in touch with the child inside you. Look at issues in life and ask: “How would I look at this situation if I was six years old?” It makes wearing green corduroys fairly easy.
• Give yourself the freedom to act creatively. Let yourself act like a creative person, whatever that means to you. Buy yourself a pair of red shoes.


Or green pants. And wear them. You will feel more brilliant instantly. Trust me.

Playing Hurt

When we got the call at 2 AM last Saturday, I hopped
out of bed with the thought that anyone faced with a
ring in the middle of the night would have: "Who in
the world would be calling us at this hour?"


I looked at caller ID and, not recognizing the
number—and seeing that it was not Nick, our son away
at college some thirteen hours from home—I yawned and
crawled back into bed, pulling the down covers way up
over my head.


Forgetting all about that middle-of-the-night-call, I
moved through Sunday morning as always: early morning
tennis, cherub choir rehearsal, church. I felt
particularly moved to go up to the altar that morning
to lift up little Katie, our 3-year-old friend who has
been in our hearts for the past couple of years. We
met in the same clinic where our son was treated for
leukemia. She was having a tough time and had been in
our family's near-constant thoughts and prayers.
Barely leaving the altar, my daughter ran up and
grabbed me, forcing her cell phone into my jaw: "Mom.
It's Daddy. He said it's urgent."


Heart pounding, I heard the news we had dreaded: Katie
had passed away last night. It was her mother who had
called us at 2 AM.


Last week was Super Bowl Sunday and it was my turn to
write my annual "Playing Hurt" newsletter. But I
couldn't move. Couldn't talk. Couldn't think.
Certainly couldn't write. I was playing hurt. And was
immobilized. Right in the middle of the field.


Monday took me to New York City to meet with the mom
and dad. I told them I'd like to be with them. Help
them do errands in preparation for the next couple of
days ahead. Visitation. Cremation. Could I be their
hands and feet? Walking eighteen blocks in the blazing
cold of the northeast last week, arm in arm the three
of us as we walked down First Avenue in search of the
florist who had come highly recommended, we began the
painful process of selecting the flowers for Katie's
casket.


Sometimes when we play hurt we understand what's going
on. We accept the hurt as part of the natural state of
affairs. A grandparent dies and we are sad, certainly.
But we look at his or her long life and we accept the
end. Sometimes accidents happen and we agonize over
the injuries sustained by a loved one. Yet we
understand that healing will eventually occur and that
bones will eventually mend.


And then sometimes we endure things that never make
sense to us. Will never. Crib death. Death of a
toddler. Childhood cancer.


Playing hurt this year finds many of us in the Katie
Camp mourning her passing, something which none of us
could have ever imagined as possible. The spunkiest,
brightest, funniest, cutest kid one could envision had
left us. We had all sensed that she would fight the
leukemia and go on to live a very long and happy life.
She brought each and every one who had ever come into
contact with her unspeakable joy! She locked eyes with
mine two years ago and crawled into my heart, only to
stay there forever. The sadness I feel over her
leaving us is, frankly, nearly unbearable.


I am trying to stay focused on Katie's spirit, and my
faith leads me to believe that she is in a better
state. Watching us from above, I know that she has
joined the heavenly realm and that she is dancing with
the angels. Staying focused on eternity is the only
way that I am able to get through the motions of these
days.


Most of us are carrying around a burden or two every
day. Illness. Separation. Prodigal children.
Brokenness. It is not the playing hurt that separates
you from me. We are all playing hurt. Daily, to one
degree or another. Playing joyfully while playing hurt
is the most difficult thing in the world to do. It is
our ability to play hurt with some level of abiding
joy that marks us as victorious in this daily thing
called life. Being able to infuse joy into the
patterns of living—while playing hurt—is one of our
greatest earthly challenges.


I pray that you are well. And that if are hurt—like I
am right now—that you shall try to find joy in the
morning. As shall I.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

Nagymama’s Hungarian Chicken Soup for Your Family’s Soul

OK. I promised you my Hungarian chicken soup recipe. Being that we are suffering from an arctic blast, with wind chills in the negative 15 to 25 degrees, it seems that a wonderful pot of simmering chicken soup is the perfect anecdote for the bone-chilling days we’re experiencing in many parts of the country. Here is the way I remember Nagymama, my Hungarian grandmother, making it. I’ve carried on her tradition by making it this way for my own family as well:


• Fill up your stock pot about two-thirds of the way with water. No need to measure; just fill it so that there’s enough room to add all of the following ingredients. (two-thirds should be just about perfect.)


• Rinse your chicken with cold water and add it to the pot. Use either a whole cut-up chicken with the insides removed or three to four split breasts, with skin. Season the pot with ground kosher salt and pepper. Partially cover the pot and bring to a boil.


• When it boils, remove the lid, reduce the temperature to a roaring simmer, and once you get the boiling under control, partially cover again. Cook at this temperature for around 30-45 minutes, until the chicken is tender when poked with a fork.


• Turn off heat and remove the scum from the top of the pot. Then remove all chicken from pot. De-skin, de-bone, cut into bite-size pieces and put it back into the pot. Add peeled carrots (the authentic Hungarian way is to add them whole, not cut up), diced celery (again, add whole stalks if you want to be authentic) and quartered peeled medium size onions. Check your seasonings, now adding genuine, sweet Hungarian paprika (I also add a healthy does of thyme, although Nagymama never did!) Simmer on low heat for at least a couple of hours, until the flavors have a chance to mingle. (You can also let it simmer all night long on the lowest possible heat, removing it from the stove first thing in the morning.)


• Right before you’re ready to serve it, add thin egg noodles right to the pot, turning up the heat so that they cook through (about eight minutes.) Enjoy!


Nagymama always served this with homemade bread and pure butter. A European pastry was also served, as was a good cup of after-dinner coffee or tea.


Fewer aromas fill up your home better. Fewer memories of your children’s home could be stronger than the ones this will create. Try to keep a pot of this going for the rest of the winter. I am trying to do the same……


Until next week,


Carolina

Whipping Your House into New Year’s Shape

It’s not quite fair of me to write this newsletter. Not yet, anyway. Normally one to be completely on top of this kind of thing, I’m nowhere near ready this year. I have a litany of wonderful excuses—none of which you want to hear—but wonderful excuses they are and hey, one’s reality is one’s reality after all! And my reality this month left no room for un-decorating after the Holidays. So whipping my house into New Year’s shape is, today, a hypothetical at best. Heck: my Christmas tree still stands (proudly, I might add) in my foyer; angels and Father Christmases still line my kitchen window seat; and candles still stay light in every window (which, frankly, this year are staying up until Easter. But that’s another Newsletter). Friends are coming in from out-of-state next weekend (no time to whip things into shape before then either). So, looking at February for me is about the best I can do (and if this gives you liberty to lag along with me, well, that’s what rocket mom friends are for!)


But hypothetically or for real, it’s time to at least start thinking of de-constructing your home’s Holiday wonderland. Time to throw out the gingerbread houses and un-eaten cookies. Time to put all of those hard-to-find-home-for gifts away. Time to read the Christmas cards one last time and organize the photos.


So some thoughts:
• The first thing to come down is the tree (obviously). Ours is a 12’ tall artificial one (our kids have allergies to the real thing). It could stay up year round (and one year it really did. Funny story: it was in my living room and was easily visible to anyone passing by as I kept it lit most of the day and we lived on a very busy street. One night in May—so like five full months after Christmas—my pharmacist, who still made house calls—called and asked if I knew that my Christmas tree was in my living room. Duh?!? Like I could walk through my house and miss it….Had no time that year to take it down so left it up all year. Hmmmm. Looking like a great idea this year, too. ) But if you’re less eccentric than I, take the thing down, put all the ornaments in green and red plastic boxes so you’ll be able to find them next year, and get it all neatly put away and stacked in your attic.


• Next, dismantle any of the artificial greenery and pinecones or anything else that you might find at your local greenhouse (which is artificial) and wrap it up in plastic boxes or plastic bags and keep it all organized together. I take all of this stuff down, blow off the dust, wrap them in clear plastic garbage bags with a tight twist tie, and put them in my garage on a high shelf so that they’re airtight and out of sight until the next year.


• Pull down all of the Christmas things that cannot stay up as “winter decorations.” Santas should come down. Angels could stay out forever. This could be a tough call; if your house is like mine, once everything comes down, the house looks like it just had a bad haircut. So if you need to leave a few things up, so be it. The decorating police will probably cut you some slack.


• Lastly, organize those cards and photos. My girlfriend, Leslie, wrote to me that she takes all of her cards and organizes them by size; she also takes the photos and punches a hole in the corner and strings a ribbon through, making a nice and neat little keepsake in the process. When they visit friends throughout the year, she can easily pull out the photos to remind the kids who they are going to see. She also uses the opportunity to take the cards and photos to her computer where she inputs and updates the names of the kids. I take those same cards and pitch them (sorry!) but I do save every single photo. I store them by year in the hopes that one day when my hair is white I’ll drink herbal tea and eat crumpets in my conservatory and fill up archivally-correct books with all of them. In chronological order of course.


And when you’re all done doing this wonderful little yearly ritual, get out the vacuum cleaner and whisk away all of the dirt. Dust, too, but only if you’re in the mood. Make yourself an espresso and if you happen to have a cookie in the house, treat yourself to one of those, too. Whipping—houses or heavy cream or thighs-carrying-extra-Christmas-weight for that matter—requires a lot of energy.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

Rocket Mom Takes on Winter Old Wives Tales

A weekend is meant to be spent doing all of the things that you love…or at least doing all of the things that you hate but know that you have to do anyway (laundry, bill-paying and grocery-shopping come quickly to mind. Urgh!)


So imagine my disgust at having to spend the entire weekend in bed—and I’m talking entire as in twenty-five-hours-in-bed-without-getting-up-or-able-to-move-my-pounding-head—without the ability to do any of those things which I love (writing books, playing tennis, going to the symphony; yup: all three were on my weekend agenda) or hate (yup: laundry, bill-paying and grocery-shopping were there, too). Seems I caught not the flu (got my flu shot weeks ago) but an especially virulent stomach virus. Probably from my twelve-year-old son, who brought it home a couple of days before. Or perhaps from a colleague, who came to work the morning after being up all the previous night in the bathroom. Thankyouverymuchforsneezingonme.


Spending precious time in bed sick does not come easily to me. I had plans, for crying out loud! And grand ones at that. But it got me thinking, once my head stopped pounding that is, about all of those old wives tales that your mom and mine—and our grandmothers, too—told us when we were little kids. About keeping colds and flu’s at bay. Believe it or not, some of them are true and some of them are just plain silly. De-bunk or adhere as you see fit. Here goes: Rocket Mom takes on Winter Old Wives Tales:


1)OWT: Going out with wet hair will make you catch a cold. Sounds perfectly sane. But actually, I believe that going out with not really wet but slightly damp hair helps your body stay immune from catching colds as it builds up your resistance to the elements. I leave the gym almost every morning with slightly damp hair. The doctor’s take: an old wives tale. Going out with wet hair doesn’t make you sick; viruses do. (OK. So the docs and I agree on this one.)


2)OWT: Catching a chill gives you the flu. I am convinced that this is the truest of all old wives tales. I can re-count five times that I caught the flu within 24-48 hours of getting chilled. By that, I mean that I shivered. Complete wisdom from our mothers. The doctor’s take: While doctors for years have always claimed that only viruses give you colds and the flu, the latest research supports me. Researchers placed volunteer’s feet in cold water for twenty minutes and found that they were more likely to catch a cold within a few days than those who did not. Ha! My kids, who are convinced that I am soooo wrong and who refuse to wear winter coats to the bus stop, will hate me for doing the research on this one. But the docs and I agree. If you shiver, you get sick. (Period. End of story.)


3)OWT: Chewing garlic and eating onions keeps you healthy. Completely convinced. Except there is no need to chew it. (You’ll have no friends, after all). Instead, take one or two caplets daily to keep weirdo germs away. I completely swear (and I use the word gently here) by this. Have taken garlic for over thirty years. Almost never get sick. Have plenty of friends. The doctor’s take: garlic is good for lowering your cholesterol. May have some preventative aids. (C’mon. It’s my numero uno biggest health secret ever.)


4)OWT: Chicken soup is Jewish penicillin. Absolutely! Are you kidding?!? The best cure in the world. (And I’m not even Jewish.) Drink it in spades when you’re sick, when your tummy hurts or when you’re feeling blue. The doctor’s take: we can fly a man to the moon but we still haven’t figured out a cure for the common cold. So eat it if you feel like it, but don’t expect it to be an immediate cure-all. (They don’t know what they’re talking about. Make buckets of it when viruses are floating around your whole family. And if you need the Hungarian recipe for Jewish chicken soup, email me.)


5)OWT: Starve a fever, feed a cold. Or is it the other way around? Why does everyone mix this one up? I think it best to starve a fever. Your stomach just can’t handle too much food when it’s busy fighting away those nasty germs. The doctor’s take: it doesn’t matter. Eat if you can. You need the nutrients to get better. (OK. So eat then. But if you throw up, don’t call me.)


6)OWT: Sweat out a cold. I never exercise when I’m sick unless I’m at the tale-end of the cold or illness; I just don’t have the energy for it. But the minute I feel a little better, I’m right back at it. The doctor’s take: don’t exercise when you’re sick because you need your strength to fight the cold. You can’t sweat it out or burn it out or exercise it out or sauna it out. (Humph. I’m convinced I can swim it out or weight lift it out or tennis it out. I am.)


7)OWT: Colds and flu’s are most contagious before the symptoms even appear. I’d think this is true, except in the case of when the sick-o is sneezing right on you or coughing and then touching you. Yuck! The doctor’s take: not true. Colds and flu’s are most contagious when the symptoms are the strongest or at their height. So stay away from someone if they have a runny nose, are sneezing like crazy or coughing up a storm! (Carry hand sanitizer with you and use it after you shake someone’s hand. It’s flu season, for Pete’s sake! And ditto for after touching door knobs or being anyone who is obviously sick.)


Lastly, if you are sick, please do not go to work! Do everyone at the office a favor and stay home! And really lastly: the myth that chocolate causes acne is just not true. Daily usage reaps a beautiful complexion. The secret is eating it everyday. And dark only. It has been scientifically proven in every major university study throughout the world—and for centuries—to keep colds and flu’s at bay.


Hmmm. I must not have been eating enough of it.


Happy, healthy week!


Carolina

5 Fast Gift Ideas for the Holidays

You undoubtedly have five minutes to spare these days, period…..no time to read a lengthy newsletter (and no time at this end to write one!)


So here goes: five fast gift ideas for the Holidays:
1)Give away whatever your local school or orchestra or sports team is selling. They’re most likely raising funds for something significant. Our youth symphony is selling specialty coffee to raise money for our trip to Vienna in the spring. Nuf said.
2)Give soap. Everyone needs it. If it’s difficult to find (as is pure olive oil soap), your friend will love it all the more.
3)Give gift cards. Rather than just sending hard cash, gift cards read “I have given thought to something you might like.”
4)Give home-baked cookies, pies or cakes. I recently baked a few pecan pies and took them to dinner parties. Wow! They were such hits. Simple.
5)Give your time. Offer to spend an afternoon with a friend or with her toddler. Read a book to a nursing home patient. Sit with someone in the hospital.


Spinning off last week’s Newsletter (Simplify Simplify Simplify), this is my M.O. for the Holidays. Based on the dozens of email responses of the week, it appears that I’ve struck a chord.


Keep it simple. Easy. Fast.


Next week: a wrap up on the year…as well as the highlights of our upcoming Quinceañera!


Blessings,


Carolina

Simplify Simplify Simplify

Quick Rocket Mom Newsletter. Too many cookies-to-bake-gifts-to buy-photos-to-take-cards-to-address-parties-to-host. Did I mention laundry?!? Behind in that, too…


Busy month. OK. So let’s get serious. And get real. For the first year EVER, I am sticking to my guns to follow the motto I have never been able to live by. You guessed it: “Simplify Simplify Simplify.”


Officially gone are the shipments of eighty out-of-state Christmas packages, endless lines at the post office and department store cash registers, toys for tots I hardly know and expensive gifts for friends who need not. I have resolved to spend my time, energy and money, instead, on those friends and relatives in my inner circle who have cared enough about my family during these past few years…and who have stayed in touch through thick and thin. Call it (almost) reaching fifty (and finally reaching maturity.) Call it getting a reality grip (of sorts.)


I have decided this Christmas to help those who need help and put “on hold” those who do not.


So I will spend time in the hospital with my friend whose daughter is fighting the ugly disease of leukemia and I will sit on that park bench whether I like it or not because that is the bench that has been put in my earthly path. I will bake cookies with a six-year-old because she wants me to spend some time with her at Christmastime (yes, Heather, that would be Rachel). I will have coffee with aching friends experiencing loneliness and isolation. And I will host a party for my closest friends and neighbors because when life got really icky for us, these folks came through with shining colors.


This Simplify Simplify Simplify thing might sound harsh…but life seems quite short to me these days. So I have officially changed course and I am giving you official license to do the same. I have decided to honor charities that hit an inner nerve of mine but not those which don’t; laugh and cry with those who have done both with us over these past few years but not spend my time with those who have no clue at to what we’ve been through; and love deeply those who have remained in our family funnel through thick and thin but filter out those who have blown us off. Sounds harsh, huh? Nope. It’s a reality check. And, truth be told, Christmas is a time when the rubber hits the road. When you truly get what happened in the little town of Bethlehem a couple thousand or so years ago and you have chosen to celebrate it ecstatically. I totally get that. And I want to share that joy with you. But what I don’t get…and I will no longer let myself get sucked in to…are those things that have no relation to the message of Christmas. Things that look great on the surface but that don’t really count.


So I will love my neighbor and love the sick. Help the hurting and help the little ones come to Him.


The rest of it? Almost all of it over the top. Out of season.


So when I run out of time, out of energy, out of steam and out of conviction…which I have already done (and it’s only the first week in December!?!).... well…it’s just going to have to wait. Until January.


That’s what that month is for. Right?!?


I send you all my best at Christmas. And to my house for a long cup of coffee and to celebrate the season. And friendship. And the gift of Christmas. And the things that really matter. You know who you are. Why you’re in my life. Just show up. On Thursday morning, the 21st. 9:30. Come and break bread with me around my table. Laugh and cry with me. Share with me, truly, in the real message of Christmas.


All blessings to you and yours,


Carolina

Writing Your Way through the Holidays

A pleasant surprise awaited me today when I opened my first red-and-green Rubbermaid Christmas box during our annual decorating ritual: written instructions as to what went where. I had completely forgotten that I had stapled instructions as to where to place holiday decorations the year before; when I opened up each box, I didn’t need to scratch my head wondering what I did with the snowman, Father Christmas, angel or feather tree in years past. I just followed—lazily, I might add—my own prescriptive for how to do things in the status quo. That the angel went in the kitchen and the snowman went in the family room; the Father Christmas went on the tea table in the living room and the garland went on top of the dining room welsh dresser.


Now, this may not seem like a big deal. “So what,” you probably ask. OK. Well, here’s the deal: as we get older, life gets more complicated. It’s not filled anymore with just carpool and homework drills, or job-juggling and dinner preparation. It’s filled with bigger kids, bigger appetites, bigger shopping trips and bigger laundry loads. College applications. Tuition. More travel. Harder violin concertos. Life just gets busier. Hectic-er.


And so having someone or something tell me what to do—even if it’s just a silly index card stapled to an artificial ivy skewer with directions on where to put the thing—it helps my already overloaded brain. And it will yours, too.


So here’s my big Holiday tip: write stuff down. Everything. Journal everything. Gifts you need to buy for whom to ship where. Menus you need to plan. Trips to which stores you need to shop. Parties you need to squeeze in when and where. Obligations you need to fulfill to whom.


Let’s face it: the holidays can be stressful times. We all feel over-stretched, over-extended and over-worked. It doesn’t really matter where we find ourselves. At home or at work, we are committed to the max. School parties and neighborhood dinners and business lunches spread their dates across our collective calendars and keep us on our toes. Wiped out physically, emotionally and even financially, we collapse into bed each night wondering how we’re going to get through the next four weeks or so. Gift buying and wrapping and shipping and lines and credit card swipes get us completely whigged out just thinking about them!


These next weeks ahead call for nerves—and buns!—of steel. So go into them with the organizational finesse typically reserved for the pro’s. Planning a party? Write down the menu and the guest list and stick it in your Filofax or your Blackberry. Record menus in your recipe box and refer to them year after year. Write down every gift you purchase for whom. Check your list so that each year, when you prepare for the upcoming Holiday shopping trips, you’ll have a record of every single person on your list. And also record who gave you what. It’ll help jog your memory when you do this year’s gift buying.


Make a plan. Stick to your plan. And write write write. Trust me: when next year comes, you’ll breeze through these days with extra energy and extra time on your hands so that you can truly enjoy this month.


The month of December should be amongst the best of your year. Friends and family gatherings should be the happiest celebrations you could plan and attend. But you need to be prepared. Organized and fortified.


So go get ‘em. Go to the end–of-year concerts and recitals and block parties. Bake those cookies and decorate the gingerbread men. Indulge in gorgeous gift wrap and put the curlicues on the cards.


And if you figure out how to do all that each one of us rocket moms needs and wants to do AND get dinner on the table: please send me an email with exact instructions. It remains the most elusive of my daily responsibilities. And if you can get it on an index card and staple it somewhere….well, you’ll move to the head of the class.


Blessings on your week!


Carolina

Celebrating Traditions—or Why Hosting a Quinceañera is a Grand Thing

Several years ago, while we were living in Miami, our son, Nick, took part on the court of a Quinceañera party (a “Sweet Fifteen” for Latin girls) of a gal who was a friend, to be sure, although not necessarily a “best friend.” Never having encountered a “Quince” before, we had not the foggiest idea of what was involved.


Turned out, this was ”the event.” Private dance lessons were on tap for everyone involved—everyone being the Quince princess, the seven fifteen-year-old girls on her court (think homecoming) and the accompanying seven fifteen-year-old boys. And not once, but twice, a private dance instructor gave them all private dance lessons so they would all dance perfectly when the appropriate time came (as in private dance instructor came to their house and gave private dance lessons for a couple hours each time…you do the math.) Girls wore floor-length gowns, coordinated to the white Cinderella-esque wedding style gown of the Quince girl; boys wore rented tuxedos. Nearly three hundred guests were invited to a sit-down dinner and professional photographers, cake makers, dance instructors, set designers, make-up artists and hair stylists all played their own distinct roles.


Now, my husband and I attended, invited as we were by virtue of the fact that our son was on the court. But our other children were not; they were simply told of the event after it occurred.


Fast forward five years. Our daughter vividly remembers every single detail of that Quince…lock, stock and barrel…and, now fifteen-years old, wants a complete and total re-enactment of the whole Cinderella bit.


Given that our pockets are not that deep, that we have no intention of doing the whole pumpkin-turns-into-a stagecoach thing on a revolving platform (no, I am not making this up), we have told her that, yes, she may have a Quince and yes, it can even have a Cinderella theme (she is our only princess, after all) but that the line needs to be drawn in the proverbial sand by mom and dad with clearly-delineated markings.


Well, “clearly-delineated,” “pockets-not-that-deep,” and “Cinderelle-esque” are all relative concepts.


To live in Miami, which, let’s face it, has a clear majority of Latinos from all Spanish and Portuguese-speaking countries of the world, one embraces Quince parties because they occur each and every weekend in each and every year. To attend a Quince there at some point in your life is like, well, living in South America and celebrating “sweet fifteen” as a fact of life. Like breathing. To live in Fairfield County, Connecticut and host a Quince party is like living in the North Pole and hosting a luau. There ain’t none.


So when our daughter announced that she was having a Quince, to all non-Spanish- taking high school freshman, they had no idea what in the world she was talking about. But to those who took Spanish in middle school, they had some inkling of the impending brouhaha. But as these girls had never lived in South America—or heck, even Miami—they truly had no clue.


OK. So she chooses her court. Seven girls. Seven guys. (Can you imagine what that was like?) We order the gown, and it is, indeed, a wedding gown. It’s very Cinderella-y. Billowy. Lots of tulle. We order the dresses for her court (with the tearful note that her dearest friend from Miami who was to hold center court cannot make it up here for the event as she’s in the middle of exams. A sad late note for both girls.) We order the shoes (yes, they have a glass-like heel). We order the invitations. (An ordeal in and of itself. Have you noticed the cost of stationary lately?!?) Order the jewelry for each girl on the court. Ditto on the venue, the food, the DJ, and yes, if you can believe it, the dance instructors.


And then we start looking at tiaras. Now, I’m not Latin. (Nope. Pure-blooded Hungarian.) But even I know that Quince girls wear tiaras. And they are like, very expensive. And I’m saying: “Cristina, can’t we just go to the mall and get you a cheap one at Claire’s?” You’d think I had committed heresy.


So we look at every friggin’ tiara on the display shelf at David’s bridal shop. They make these things from Swarovski crystal, you know! And I just had to draw the line. I mean, this thing was getting out of hand. So I start pacing back and forth and back and forth on the floor of the bridal shop, turning over and over in my mind what I’m teaching my daughter about money and budgets and celebrations and indulgence and EVERYTHING is now all of a sudden riding on a stupid tiara.


She volunteers to pay for the difference between the one she really wants which is way out of my budget and the proposed one from Claire’s (which had an imaginary value anyway) and I coalesce and buy her the tiara.


And when I talk to one of the court-gal’s mom the next day, we kibitz about these girls and teenage-hood and money and rites of passage. Having hosted two bat mitzvahs herself, she had perspective. And then she said what would hit me like a ton of bricks: “You’re not just having a Quince. You’re preserving a whole cultural tradition.”


And I stopped and thought about how these traditions come and stay. About how generations of children have celebrated religious heritages with bar/bat mitzvahs and christenings and baptism parties; about how American girls have Sweet Sixteen’s and how Latin girls have Quince’s. About weddings. And how these events occur just once in a lifetime. Once or twice in a family.


And I decided that making a big deal about a life event is a grand thing. That it thrills me to no end to have a daughter, and a precious, beautiful one at that. That few of us take enough time out to celebrate life. To enjoy laughter and fellowship and good food and good cake.


We’re getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving next week here in America. Embrace it. And those you love. With good cheer.


For celebrations—Quinceañera’s--are grand things.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

The Pluck Factor

Plucky (pluk’e) adj. Brave and spirited; courageous.


Have you ever noticed how few people possess radiating energy? How eyes lack sparkle and how few real smiles there are out there? How almost no one looks you in the eyes when you talk or how few people have truly gracious social skills? One thing that never ceases to amaze me is the lack of charisma or magnetism or exuberance among people everywhere!


So when I met Lorraine and Cam, I was immediately drawn to their energy. To their lit-up eyes, frequent laughter and bubbly personalities. Now they’re not particularly bubbly as in “effervescent.” No, they are actually more on the subdued side. But when one talks to them, their eyes twinkle. They smile when they talk. They maintain fabulous eye contact. Good upbringing? Perhaps. I’ve met both of their parents, even though one set lives in Scotland and the other in England (and we live up here in Connecticut in New England) and they are, indeed, darling people.


It’s even more amazing that we were drawn to each other with laughter and happy-talk considering the common thread that brought us together in the first place: leukemia. Their sixteen-month-old daughter, Katie, was diagnosed just before our seventeen-year-old son, Nick, was. Both children are treated by the same team of doctors. We met, for the first time, in the west wing of Yale’s Children’s Hospital. All of us were scared and admittedly, in a rather sad state.


Yet we continued, throughout treatments for our kids, to help each other get through them. I chased Katie around the chemo clinic when Lorraine and Cam were simply too worn out to do so, or held her when she needed a finger-stick and kicked the nurses too hard to get it done; we read stories together and sometimes she let me rock her to sleep. We colored, watched Dora the Explorer and played with puzzles. Cam engaged Nick in talk or made coffee and bagel runs for all of us. Lorraine kept me company and together, we helped keep each other’s spirits high.


They are back at the hospital, this time at Sloan Kettering, as Katie has undergone a bone marrow transplant this past week. It required weeks of pre-transplant consultations, tests, radiation and chemo. It also required Lorraine and Cam to temporarily set up house in New York City, in a rental apartment a couple blocks from Katie’s hospital room.


Some of us might complain about the difficulty of this situation. About lack of personal time, poor hospital food for weeks on end. Of watching our own children endure rigorous testing and annoying, seemingly endless blood work. Of the unfairness of the circumstances.


But not Lorraine and Cam. They maintain a positive attitude and continue to deal with every little detail with spunky, feisty attitude. They possess an enormously high “Pluck Factor.” They have a “to-heck-with-you-attitude” when people get in their way. They trudge through their days with laughter and verve. Hospital food the pits? No worries. Lorraine brings to Katie’s hospital room a crock pot along with bags full of groceries. When nurses wander in from the aroma of a slow-cooking roast and firmly let her know that she’s breaking all the rules, she tells them that she’s not dealing with the crummy food they’re trying to serve her. When little Katie does something adorable, Lorraine sends out an email blast for all of us to enjoy the moment. During the actual transplant, a video was made and we all got to witness closely (albeit from a distance) what it was really like. The video clips were amazing…..And afterwards? She and Cam celebrated with champagne and scrumptious food at a local French bistro.


Forget sad faces and going along with the ho-hum motions that most people simply accept as part of the circumstances. Lorraine and Cam have decided to maintain a spirit of resolve and a completely positive mental attitude in order to get through these days with grace. They let no one, and nothing, stand in their way. Katie’s well-being is their over-riding concern, and all of their efforts are directed to that end.


Strong-minded people serve as tremendous inspirations for me. When life throws you a curve ball, a U-turn, a disappointment or an unpleasant surprise, the outcome will oftentimes be greatly dependent on the way in which you handle yourself during those times. It takes practically no strength of character to be charming and adorable when everything is going your way. It’s when things get dicey that your true character reveals itself. And that’s when you need a high Pluck Factor. When you need to be courageous, to turn the ordeal into a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. To show your true colors, and your grit and the stuff of which you are made.


Many readers of this Newsletter are going through ordeals at this very moment. I know so because you write and tell me of them, and my heart goes out to each and every one of you. I hope this letter finds you determined to increase the Pluck Factor by just a little bit. To hold your head up high and courageously get through these days as have my dear friends Lorraine and Cam. You will serve as wonderful role models for someone else who, one day, will need to exhibit a high dose of pluck, too.


Please continue to keep me in your loop. Your concerns become my concerns and I will keep your needs closely guarded in my heart and in my prayers. I wish all of you—and especially those many dear readers who have written to me this week—all blessings as you go through these next weeks with as much strength, and pluck, as you can muster.


Peace,


Carolina

Minding Your Manners

This weekend found me in New York City and in Philadelphia, working on my book and catching up with my oldest friend and on some window shopping, too. A good walk down Madison Avenue in the fall is always a good thing. As is a good book store browse, a slow coffee-brownie indulgence in a side street café, and a peek inside an antique shop or two. We did all of the above in spades.


There are few things that bring me more pleasure while in the city than shopping. Not real shopping, as in buying, but leisure shopping, as in looking and touching. I need not, so I am rarely tempted. And certainly not at Madison Avenue prices. But the enormity of selection, the newness of collections and the entertainment value of people-watching is just too wonderful to ignore.


And so it was with great fun that we ventured into and around the flagship Ralph Lauren store on 72nd and Madison (a must-stop on anyone’s agenda. No kidding.) It evokes awe. Masterfully designed, with gilded-framed oil paintings lining every wall, densely-piled carpeting lining every step and attentive sales assistants lining every aisle, one certainly glides through the store as if on cushioned ballet shoes. It would be difficult to escape without feeling better for having had the experience. For having tasted “Ralph’s” genius.


And so, as I walked down the heavily-cushioned staircase on my way out, I couldn’t help but feel as if I had experienced civility at its New York best. That attention to detail and to good manners was contained, if nowhere else, within four large walls on one city block in my favorite city on the face of the earth.


My visit wasn’t long and it became time for me to retrieve my car from a soon-to-expire meter on Lexington Avenue. I walked quickly toward the exit and as I leaned against the heavy glass door onto the sidewalk, a gentleman (and he was, indeed, a gentle man), called out to the two ladies who were entering at the exact time that I was exiting.


“M’am. M’am,” he called, shoving what looked like a ten-dollar bill towards them, as they looked back over their shoulders, puzzled. “One of you dropped this on the sidewalk.”


I could hardly believe it. I said, rather softly to him, “Now there’s a real gentleman,” but he either didn’t hear me, or he ignored me, as if to suggest that chasing ladies who had dropped money out of their wallets was a perfectly normal everyday thing to do and that there could simply be no other alternative.


Picking up pennies on city sidewalks is a silly thing to do. But giving them away to the first child to cross one’s path makes it a worthwhile adventure. But picking up a ten-dollar bill and chasing down a complete stranger to give it back is hardly a common occurrence in a big city. And it caught me completely off guard. It gave me renewed faith in mankind. In young men in general. I smiled thinking of the mother who, some time, somewhere, had—over the years—taught her son well.


Holding doors open for people, shaking hands firmly, smiling while talking and expressing genuine thankfulness, are all wonderful gestures of civilized people everywhere. I vow to work on that this week with my own brood. To make sure that my boys know how to treat young ladies and that my daughter knows how to treat young men. And to remind them of the rules. That they say thank you for treats and for gifts. Always. And remember to write notes by hand. That they speak clearly to adults. And look them in their eyes when they talk. That they always answer the phone or the front door cheerfully.


Little things count. And minding one’s manners—one of those littlest things of all—is one of those little things that counts the most. I trust you feel this way, too!


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

7 Must-Do’s for Fall

These past few weeks have found me busier than ever: my new job has kept me with a textbook in my hands every day for the past four and a half months as I became re-licensed and certified in virtually every area of the financial services industry; working on a new book has kept me traveling throughout the northeast, interviewing homeowners and photographing magnificent interior design; and spending these past two weeks out of town in back-to-back meetings, leaving the hotel before sunrise and returning at dusk, has prevented me from reveling in the majesty of Fall. How awful it is to be unable to enjoy these glorious colors to the fullest!


Perhaps it has been, as some well-intentioned friends have suggested, a need to return to a very full life after dealing with childhood cancer and care-giving for two solid years. Point made and well-taken. I think there’s some truth in that. Perhaps it’s the need to finish out a career I started twenty-plus years ago. Or perhaps it’s my way of simply helping out with four college tuition bills (they come whether we’re ready for them or not, y’know!)


But along with that busyness comes much-needed respite. For time to take a simple yet meaningful pause. I’m hearing from lots of moms that it’s just that time of year again. When the rush of back-to-school has taken a backseat but when other stuff hits: parent-teacher conferences, Fall recitals, and soccer and football practices every other day. We’re anxious to regain equilibrium. To get perspective before the anxiety-provoking Holiday rush. To catch your breath, delight your senses and enjoy the company of family and friends in the beauty of this season we’re finding ourselves in.


Here, then, are seven must-do’s for celebrating this fabulous season:


1) Go for a drive in the countryside. Last weekend, to celebrate our son’s birthday, we attended a college football game; the timing couldn’t have worked out more perfectly as the stadium was located within twenty minutes of the hotel where I was staying out-of-town for those two weeks on business. Afterwards, we drove to a charming Connecticut village to have dinner with the photographers who are collaborating with me on our upcoming book. The roads to their home were winding and narrow, but oh!!! The colors of the New England countryside were beyond description! Red competed with gold, along with orange and violet, in some of the most beautiful foliage I’ve ever seen. As wood smoke mingled with crisp air, we became intoxicated by the sensual delights of the area. (For all of you old friends in Florida, a trip up East within the next couple weeks is a must-do!) Please try to carve out some time in your everyday busyness to spend some time out in the country.


2) Visit a pumpkin patch. Hopefully by now you’ve already picked out the best of the best and plunked it down on your front stoop. Smaller gourds and miniature pumpkins, arranged on tabletops and windowsills throughout your home, make for charming displays. Don’t let too much time get between you and fall decorating, or the Christmas tree will be up before you know it.


3) Make a big pot of homemade soup. While admitting to buying commercial stock for the boys (fewer things fill them up faster after long, hard football practices in the crisp fall air up here in New England), I have not had time—nor been home—to make the stuff from scratch. But now it’s on my list! Chicken noodle, beef stew and cream of tomato are our family’s personal favorites. Settling back into the routine (oh, those good ‘ole days!) of always having a large stock pot of soup simmering on the stove sounds like a good thing to me. The days ahead will only be getting colder after all.


4) Bake a pie. I admit to skimping on time in the kitchen. Somehow, baking has not yet made it onto my short list. Too much to write, too little time. If you’re feeling like I am, how about at least trying to bake one easy pie this Fall? Pumpkin is a no-brainer. Sweet potato and apple both work perfectly, too. Or how about a cobbler or crisp?


5) Rake leaves with the kids. What a great way to get your blood moving! Fall yard work is especially invigorating. And just think: within the next few weeks (if you live in the north anyway), your lawn may be covered in snow.


6) Set out fall flowers. Ornamental kale, mums and pansies look splendid against the deep colors of fall foliage. Cluster flowers together for fuller impact. And while you’re at it, make time for planting bulbs. The ground will be completely hardened in but a few short weeks.


7) Take a hike in the woods. And if you don’t live near one, shy of coming to visit me, get out of the city for awhile and dive into nature. My husband’s favorite daily ritual is a solitary walk in the woods surrounding our home. Being alone for an hour is nourishment for one’s soul. Fewer things could provide more glorious time for personal reflection. With leaves crunching underfoot, babbling brooks singing their own songs and foliage screaming for one last look, meditative woodland walks rank as absolute necessities.


Enjoy these next few days before the leaves fall completely off the trees. Go for a few last bike rides. Play with the kids outside. Walk. Breathe deeply. Fall is upon us so briefly.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

On Spread

I’ve been giving much thought lately to “spread,” or to the impact I’m having on those around me. Most days find me frustrated that I don’t have very much of it, feeling that once I’m gone, my legacy won’t be large enough, that enough lives won’t have been positively affected by my having been here, and that I won’t have had the effect that I always hoped I would have had.


Our society is celebrity-driven and success-oriented, so oftentimes I feel that unless I’m doing something that’s truly in the limelight, nothing I can say or write will have enough impact to much matter. I suffer from the “little ole’ me” syndrome, which is rather unfortunate, as I feel quite certain that little folks and little words generally matter more for all eternity than most of the great “success” stories alive today.


I realize all too well the impact of small acts of kindness. Of gentle words spoken to a neighbor, funny lines imparted to a weary colleague, or the impact of taking time out of a busy schedule to visit wounded, frightened or sickened loved ones.


I realize, especially as I get older, that serendipity happens, and that we need to rejoice in it. That people come into our lives for but a short time and that each one plays a distinct role. That circumstances are oftentimes orchestrated by our Creator. That His mysteries should be embraced, reveled in with joy and wonder, and celebrated for what they are.


I’ve also made the conscious decision to divest out of activities that take me away from my passions. I realize more than ever how my time is limited and that I need to invest it where I feel called to impart the largest spread. Teaching our church’s cherub choir of three, four and five-years olds is one of the highlights of my week. I have the distinct sense that serving these little ones is where I need to be one day a week. As I reflect back on my own childhood and on those dear souls who had significant spread during those years, I can count them on two hands. One of them was my Sunday School teacher who, forty-five years ago, had such a strong impact on me that all these years later, she always bubbles to the top of my list.


I’m still out-of-town on a business trip. I’m meeting new people daily and wondering where in the world my place is in all of this. Wondering why I’m supposed to be here, away from my own family. What I’m supposed to be learning and imparting. Whose life will cross mine. Who needs a kind word. A laugh. Encouragement. Trying to find out if I’ll spread.


How about you? Where are you? Are you supposed to walk alongside someone this week? Are you supposed to spread? And if you feel too spent by motherhood, by your spouse, or by your daily four loads of laundry, will you recognize those moments when you’re supposed to spread? Or those people put into your path who you are supposed to impact? We’re all on the journey together, that much I know. It’s figuring out the important stuff that keeps me up at night…..


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

What’s Your Story?


The unfortunate and surprising news this week of a friend’s sudden passing has caused me pause. Healthy fortysomethings are expected to live long enough to take full care of their young. Deaths at this age are termed “untimely,” and they always knock the wind out of our sails. And while I don’t use the particular phrase of “untimely death” often, as it generally cuts across my own religious beliefs about life and death and the role of the Creator in both, I do admit to feeling at ease with the thought that indeed, one’s death at this age seems to be out of the natural order of things.


Combined with the uncanny timing of my re-taking (some twenty-plus years after taking it the first time) the licensing exam for life insurance, I’ve given more thought than usual to my epitaph. I’ve been thinking about what my husband would write about me. About which handful of words he’d engrave into stone which would preserve my memory for all those who will come after me. Perhaps I’ve been studying the rules and regulations too hard; perhaps it’s getting to me. Perhaps I’ve spoken with one too many associates this week. Been forced to be too “net” when describing someone, or when describing myself, for that matter. At a business dinner on Tuesday, I had to stand up and give my own “elevator speech,” those two minutes which were supposed to shed light on just exactly who I am to a roomful of complete strangers.


And at our Society meeting this week, we discussed how to “get our groove back.” We talked about how we choose to participate in activities and how we de-select out of others. How the bottom line to involvement is passion. How we need to direct energy and time into those things that define us according to our natural gifts and talents and interest. And pass on those that don’t.


When I think about those things that will shape my own story, I know that certainly those organizations in which I’ve chosen to be involved will add texture. That how I’ve chosen to spend my time has shaped the person that I’m becoming. That the people I’ve surrounded myself with will add chapters. That they’ll color it or highlight it or punctuate it. With spice or laughter or compassion, as they have been placed into my life to add accordingly. That my children will further develop me. That my life work will help others construct measurable boundaries in attempts to describe me.


What’s your story? If someone had to work on your epitaph, what would they write? If you sat twenty of your closest friends and associates around a table to distill your story into a handful of words, what would they be? Do your everyday activities reflect the real you? Do your friendships help you to become the person you feel destined to become? Is your work life representative of your life work? If you had to choose just one word to define you, would you be able to come up with one?


I’m not thinking about my epitaph in a morbid way. I believe that each one of us needs to reflect on our own story at one time or another…or at many different times throughout our lives.


For me, it’s not even the “live life one day at a time” thing…although I appreciate now more than ever the gift of each day. For me, it’s the going through the motions of each day, the tough driving-through-traffic-eating-your-lunch-at-your-desk days and the getting-kids-ready-for-school-while-trying-to-catch-up-on-laundry days that give me the most food for thought.


For I don’t believe that it’s necessarily the mountaintop experiences that provide the most food for the soul. I believe it’s how you live the day-in-day-out that means the most. That makes people notice. That provides teachable moments. Mentoring opportunities.


Fodder for your epitaph.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina

Something to Wake Up For

Driving to work one morning last week, I was stopped at a light behind a large SUV, the woman driver scurrying madly through rush-hour traffic. Her vehicle proudly displayed two college decals, one from Harvard and the other from Dartmouth.


“Wow!” I thought. This mom’s got a couple of really smart cookies on her hands.


The light changed to green and as she got a little further ahead of me, I noticed a bumper sticker at the bottom of her SUV which read: “I have no idea where I’m going.”


What a contrast! This mom who raised two kids smart enough to gain entry into two of the toughest schools in the world…and she has no idea where she’s going?!? (“B-I-M-B-O” crossed the synapses of my brain…)


If you wake up in the morning without a plan, with no idea of where you’re going, how in the heck are you going to get anywhere worthwhile? How are you going to enjoy the dizzying liberation that naturally flows out of living a life with purpose? With no roadmap, no idea of where you’re going, the prospect of waking up to the same old same old, the humdrum, the mundane responsibilities that face all of us: getting breakfast ready for the family, separating the reds from the whites, driving carpool, fetching groceries, answering old emails…you’re likely not “zoo-ed” up to even get your tired little feet out of bed!


I’m not dismissing the role of motherhood, or its everyday oftentimes mundane realities. Hardly. I’ve been doing its drills for twenty years, quite happily thankyouverymuch. And children or no children, we all face everyday tasks that are capable of draining the lifeblood out of the most enthusiastic amongst us. Let’s face it: few people face those proverbial four daily loads of laundry or paying overdue emails with unabashed gusto!


But there’s more available. And it’s well within reach.


This weekend found me in Washington, D.C. for an annual conference of like-minded men and women across the country. It offered leadership training of the highest caliber. Having attended this forum regularly for the past ten years, I always look forward to reconnecting with old friends and to making new ones during the September conference ritual. I hung out, as usual, with three of my favorite women on the planet; Alyse and LaNeil are each eighty-two years old and Shirley is sixty-five. They each possess vitality rarely seen in people half their age. Their faces glow. Their eyes twinkle. They are warm and wonderful, healthy and vibrant, curious and generous.


They devote their time to causes which they enthusiastically embrace. They are passionate. They work diligently. Without pay, they serve as foot soldiers for the critical issues of our time. They have something to wake up for. They have a following; people depend on their leadership. Young people rely on their mentoring. Still others seek their wisdom and knowledge of the issues in an effort to become better equipped to deliver the same message with vigor to listeners entangled in their own network of friends and associates.


One of the secrets of discovering your significance is to find that for which you were created. I can assure you: we were not created to live in isolation. Nor in self-serving, self-indulgent behaviors that bring immediate but short-lived satisfaction. We were created for community. For service. For expanding our little corner of the universe for the benefit of others. To take on missions larger than self with far-reaching implications for the generations to follow.


If you are looking for a secret to living with exuberant vitality, find a cause. Join a mission. Seek to connect your inner passion with the vision of someone who has come before you. With one who is working in the center of the universe to effect massive change.


Want glowing skin? Sparkling eyes? A youthful bounce to your step? Longevity? Vitality? Find something to wake up for. Be it your own kids or your spouse, your neighborhood or your elected officials, worldwide hunger or inexcusable illiteracy: get involved! It’ll help you put that foot on the floor every morning and encourage you to truly get up and at ‘em.


Onward and upward!


Carolina