Hubby vs. Mean Reviews, Touched by an Email

I'll be very honest with you, blog reader friends. Just between us, negative reviews about a book you've written can suck. Even though every book gets them, even though you can always learn something from feedback, even though it's part of what you signed up for when you decided to take the self-important step of foisting a book on the world. Even though, even though, even though.

It doesn't matter how you re-frame it or how much you're expecting it; if any part of your fragile writer's ego is exposed when you peruse the one- and two-star reviews that are an inevitable part of the publishing process, you are open to be a little wounded by them. The ones that make valid critical points are challenging enough to swallow, but at least they offer you something you can take away with you to improve for later. Or, choose to ignore and better define who you are as a writer. Both useful behaviors.

More difficult are the reviews that seem just plain mean-spirited. These are definitely the minority, even of negative reviews, and they don't bother me as much as they did at first. I'll admit to being surprised sometimes at the vitriol that some people feel after reading a book that wasn't exactly what they expected, or they felt was wordy, or whatever. But I'm the writer, and I knew the minute I clicked "publish" that one of my new jobs was to work on checking my sensitivity and keeping perspective.

Hubs, on the other hand, is still working on growing thicker skin. He's learned to handle my (often intense) self-criticism and even helps me wade through feedback to pull out themes to improve my writing for next time. But when people are mean, he still gets a bit hurt and defensive. And, you know what? I think it's sweet. At the end of the day, I'd rather have the guy who gets mad on my behalf than a thousand five-star reviews.

All that said, I also wanted to share that I have received some incredible emails in the last few weeks that have been really heartwarming. Several people have reached out to let me know that The Marriage Pact was more to them than just an entertaining read (which was my primary goal), but that it had some personal significance to them. Whether it was something Marci experienced that resonated with them or just a connection with one of the characters, some people have a special experience with the book, and I've been delighted to hear it.

One note in particular landed in my inbox last week while I was taking a break from working on Regrets Only. The note was from someone who would probably not be considered my typical target audience (as he pointed out): a 63-year-old man. I'll respect the privacy of what he shared with me specifically, but several events in his life mirrored some of those in The Marriage Pact; though his real-life story was in many ways far more beautiful than my fictional one.

It meant the world to me that he enjoyed the book, and that he took the time to send such a personal email about it. It means even more, since my Dad -- who was also 63 -- died last year before he could finish reading my first novel. I never got to hear his impressions, but it's nice to know that it's at least possible he might have enjoyed it.

Self-publishing can be both a raw and rewarding process. We get to play a lot of roles: from parent to author to spouse to business owner to editor to marketer. Sometimes in the midst of the chaos, the universe gives us what we need: useful feedback, a supportive spouse, or an encouraging word at just the right time. The trick is being able to look up from the keyboard long enough to appreciate it!  

Stranger than Fiction (Parts Three and Four)

This is a continuation from the previous blog entry about a week I couldn't have made up if I'd tried. It will make more sense if you read that one first.


Part Three: Situation Comedy

After Tuesday's crisis, you would think I'd had enough drama for a good long while. Apparently, there is never enough drama in my life.

This storyline actually started at the very beginning of the week, when we turned our 2 1/2 year-old Little Monkey's doorknob around to lock from the outside. This was a last resort effort to help him learn to get to sleep on his own, without .5 mg of melatonin every night and a parental song-and-dance that ranges in length from 30 minutes to 2 1/2 hours.

He used to be a great sleeper until we transitioned him to a big-boy bed, about a month before Fozzie was born. Once he learned he could get out of bed and stake a claim on some of that attention his little brother was getting, we were done for. Nearly seven months later, we have become desperate enough to reclaim our evening peace that we have begun locking him in the room (after books and kisses and water and goodnight) and letting him work it out by himself. It actually did seem to help after a first night of chaos and destruction.

Monkey's doorknob is very old, one of many we've been meaning to replace upstairs. It's the kind that locks inside and has a key lock on the outside, for which we have never had the key. We put gobs of masking tape on the lock as a temporary solution the first day we moved in, planning to replace the doorknob ASAP. And here we are over a year later... Of course when we turned the knob around we removed the masking tape so we could lock it from the outside.

We were planning to meet some friends at the park Wednesday morning. I had just put Fozzie in his crib, and Monkey and I were discussing our differing opinions about whether I would be allowed to change his diaper and get him dressed before heading off to the shower myself. As a show of personal power, he attempted to lock me in his room, but I caught the door before it closed (whew!), unlocked it (I thought) and closed it behind us so our diaper-clothes battle wouldn't wake Fozzie up in the next room. When he was dressed and ready, I headed out of the room to get a quick shower.

I headed out of the room. Out of the -- oh, no. Are you kidding me?

It was nine o'clock in the morning. Hubs had gone to work for the day and was not expecting to hear from us until at least noon for lunch, and probably wouldn't get worried until one or later since he knew we were going to the park. Fozzie would be asleep in his crib in the next room for an hour and a half, tops. My phone was downstairs, along with anything else remotely useful. We'd done a great job childproofing the room - no tools, keys, wire hangers, or blunt objects in sight. Hell, I wasn't even wearing a bra.

Locked in a second-story bedroom with nothing but an energetic toddler and a few toys and books. Ho-ly crap.

It was easier not to freak out since the previous day's adventures had really put things in perspective, and I told myself that even in the worst case we'd all be hungry and miserable but safe. (Deep down, though, I didn't know how long I could listen to Fozzie cry when he woke up without tearing through the wall to get to him).

Monkey was calm and brave through the whole thing. He stood on his bed next to me and we shouted out the window, hoping to attract the attention of neighbors, walkers and/or passing cars. Every time a car would pass, we'd call out fruitlessly for help, and then he'd look at me and say, "Oh, well!"  Can you tell we've been practicing handling disappointment?

We were lucky that it was cool outside and not raining, or we might seriously have been stuck there until Hubs came home after work. But a passing jogger - our Good Samaritan - heard us and came up the driveway to help. He didn't have a cell phone, but he was very nice and tried to break into our house. No luck. He went across the street to my neighbor who works from home, but she was understandably hesitant to open the door to a strange man in jogging clothes. So, he took off jogging back to his house a few neighborhoods away and promised to return with a phone as soon as he could.

For the next little while, Monkey and I played with his trains and waited. After a little bit had passed, the slight possibility occurred to me that maybe this guy would get home, realize he was late for work or something, and think I'm sure they've already flagged down someone else by now. So I went back to the window, just in time to see another neighbor pull up in their driveway caddy-cornered to ours.

We don't know these neighbors well at all, but we did attempt to introduce ourselves when we first moved into the neighborhood and were greeted somewhat brusquely. Still, in an emergency they'd respond, right? We shouted to them for help and, when they turned in our direction, I tried to yell out the explanation of what we needed. They turned and headed toward the door. "No! Wait!" I yelled, "I need to borrow a phone - we're trapped in my child's bedroom!" They looked at me for another long minute, went inside and closed the door.

Fortunately for us, not everyone is so jaded, and the Good Samaritan returned with his car and a phone. He called Hubs for me, explained what was going on, and chatted with us for a minute to make sure everything was okay before heading off. It turns out we have a mutual acquaintance who lives in his neighborhood, so we are going to try to track him down to thank him properly. He also reported that on his way home, he tried to flag down several people in cars to get help to us faster, but no one would stop for him.

In any case, Hubs was home in a few minutes to release us and appropriately, to laugh at me. Crisis #2 of the week brought safely to an end.

Part Four: Friends and Neighbors

When I was a little girl my mom and the other women in the neighborhood spent more time in one another's kitchens than they did in their own. We kids flowed freely back and forth between the houses and up and down the streets. We knew which neighbors would let you cut through their yards and which didn't. We knew who would buy candy bars for the school fundraiser and who wouldn't. We knew their pets' names, their kids' names, their cars. We had friends in other places, too, but that little community was the center of our world. It wasn't pleasant all the time, we had our issues, but we knew each other.

Nowadays I feel more connected to people on Facebook than I do those who live within a mile radius of my house. I can tell you what someone in another state who I haven't seen in person for more than two decades had for dinner last night, but I couldn't tell you the name of the guy who turned his back on me when I was locked upstairs. We've lived here for a year and a half, fifty yards away from his front door.

Maybe this is a function of the age of our neighborhood and the fact that it's a relatively busy residential street. But I can't help but notice that more of us are paring down our relationships to the known quantities and easy connections. The friends we know through other friends, the people we've found on pinterest. Texting, status updates, blogging (ahem). We can gather and send information and feel 'connected' without having to actually connect at all. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Luddite. I love technology and social media (insofar as I can keep up with it) and I'll continue to use it. But it seems to me that we are taking fewer and fewer social risks as a culture, choosing the perceived safety of our computer screens rather than braving the challenge of getting to know new people. We lock away 'Others' and the world outside.

I don't pretend to know all the facts of the Trayvon Martin shooting, nor do I even remotely compare my scary experience last week with the hell that his parents are going through. What I do know is that while I got relief after forty minutes, Trayvon Martin's parents have no relief or justice in sight. Their unarmed child was murdered by someone who was supposed to be the neighborhood watch captain. He was supposed to be looking out for the safety of all the children in their neighborhood, and instead he let baseless fear turn him into a perpetrator himself. I can't help but wonder how that situation might've ended differently if the 'neighborhood watch' had focused more on bringing neighbors together and less on rooting out potential villains.


This probably sounds weird, coming from someone who had a scary experience with the stranger I hired to care for my child. Part of me wants to quit my job and stay home so that I never have to trust anyone else with his safety again. But I believe we do not make ourselves safer by disconnecting from 'Others' or 'Unknowns.' Ours is a global village, and it's time we all took responsibility for getting to know our neighbors. In the flesh, warts and all.

Losing our real, live, imperfect connection with others means losing our village, along with the fundamental thing that makes us human. And that is dangerous.

SERIOUSLY Stranger Than Fiction (Parts One and Two)

Part One: Prayer

I'll be honest: prayer has never been a big thing for me. I spent most of my formative years as a staunch agnostic (yes, that probably is an oxymoron -- decidedly undecided). For many more years I was a kind of spiritual wanderer, searching for a home. Now that I'm happily settled into my identity as a Jew, I like to concentrate on prayers of gratitude and the ritual prayers that surround my heart during Shabbat and holiday services like comfortable old sweaters.

I have never been one to consult the Almighty on big decisions -- at least not consciously -- nor do I tend to pray for help when I'm in trouble. It's just not my style. Sometimes I like to think that G-d knows this about me and maybe even finds it amusing, the way I do when my two and a half year old is trying to jump high enough to reach the ceiling by himself.

This week, however, has been a different story.

Even though I work very hard to keep good emotional boundaries, sometimes my professional life affects me personally. I'm human after all. In the past couple of weeks, I have taken on one of the most challenging and heart-wrenching cases I've ever worked with, a child (and family) suffering so cruelly from OCD that it hurts my heart.

I can't say more about that for fear of compromising confidentiality, but suffice it to say I caught myself saying a prayer this week, that I would be able to help this family in some small way and would not add to their frustrations by being useless.

Part Two: Horror Film

Those thoughts, however, were eclipsed by my own crisis on Tuesday. We had a new part-time nanny, who had been with us for about three weeks (2 days/week). Though we adored her at first and my almost seven-month-old seemed to love her, too, things just didn't seem right after the first few days. There was nothing glaringly wrong, just little things that didn't quite add up. Things that made hubs and me just a touch concerned about her personal life and overall stability. I had tried addressing our concerns with her, and she responded appropriately, but I still wasn't 100% satisfied.

That day I was on my way to lunch and had a sudden impulse to drive by the house, just to make sure everything was okay. As our house came into view, time slowed to a crawl and my brain struggled to process the fact that the sitter's car was not in the driveway (she did not have permission to take little Fozzie Bear anywhere except on walks, and I knew she didn't have a car seat base installed in her vehicle).

I slammed the car into park and ran inside, frantically looking for a note or some other indication of where she might be. My son, the diaper bag, and the carrier part of the car seat were all missing. Everything else was in place. Panic rising, I called the nanny from both my cell phone and the house phone. She didn't answer.

I called 911. The operator took my name, address, the nanny's name, a description of the car, etc. I forced myself to be calm while giving her the information. Only when she asked me to describe my son and what he was wearing when I saw him last did my voice break, threatening to bubble over in suppressed fear. Visions of an Amber Alert with my child's name and information raced through my mind.

I paced wildly and willed myself not to vomit, trying to keep the horrifying possibilities at bay. The operator asked if I had any reason to be suspicious of the nanny, and I gave her what information I had, including some things that weren't necessarily incriminating, but had given me pause. Some of those I won't mention here.

But I knew she was having financial difficulties. I knew she had a boyfriend (and what sounded like a rather tumultuous relationship). I didn't know his name or the kind of car he drove, or what he did for a living. I knew she was from out of state, but I didn't know the names or locations of friends and family of hers who lived in the area. Why hadn't I asked more questions? The operator said she would send a patrol car.

I called my husband to come home using the other phone while the operator dispatched the unit to our house. She said that I could hang up and wait for the officer, but I couldn't bear the thought of being alone with my thoughts, so she stayed on the line with me until he arrived.

The next half hour was far and away the worst of my life. Talking to the officers, leading them around the house, continuing to call and text the nanny. Watching my husband pull into the driveway on two wheels and immediately begin reciting everything he knew about the nanny and her car. And, praying as I never have before that my child would be okay.

It was 31 minutes between the time I called my husband and the time the nanny finally returned his frantic calls to say she was on her way back with the baby. Hubs made her stay on the phone with him the entire time and continually report her location to make sure it made sense to him and that she was headed directly back. [Have I mentioned that I married the most amazing, brilliant man?] Not until she was in view of our house did he inform her that the police were there. All told, I would guess about 40 minutes elapsed between the time I discovered Fozzie missing and the time he was back safely in my arms.

The police officers, who were very kind to me, seemed mildly concerned that some kind of violence might erupt when the nanny got back (and trust me, gouging her eyes out did cross my mind); but once she was back all I wanted to do was hold my baby boy and never let him go. I also had to fight the urge to go pick up Monkey from school three hours early and never let him go, either.

Sanity prevailed on all fronts, however, and I was able to calmly listen to the nanny's pathetic-even-if-true explanation for her ridiculous and irresponsible behavior, and then just as calmly tell her to please take a few minutes to gather her things because she would not be back. There were so many bad decisions, from leaving the house in the first place to not calling me or leaving a note, to putting the carrier in the car without its base, to not keeping her phone on her while she was gone. And that's all if I believed her story about the supposed emergency that took her away.

The cops took her information/driver's license and filed a report, but did not ask us if we wanted to press charges and -- a little surprisingly -- did not give her a ticket for the car seat violation. I think they were just glad the incident was resolved, and I was too relieved to care either. After checking him over carefully and kissing him like crazy, I canceled the rest of my day and put an exhausted and disoriented Fozzie down for a nap.

My mother-in-law was kind enough to drive up from Macon to be with me -- and to get her hands on the little guy -- for the rest of the afternoon. The five of us went out for dinner after school/work, and the day ended far better than I could've imagined at noon.

It's funny, if I hadn't been through that experience, I think what happened the next morning might've thrown me for a serious loop....

Stay tuned!

Sure, we're in a relationship. But are we Facebook material?

I've spent a good bit of time on Facebook in the past couple of weeks, promoting THE MARRIAGE PACT, and it's had me thinking about how social networking is changing the way we think and talk about relationships. I've never been someone who pays a lot of attention to how many FB friends I have or, sometimes, even manages to scroll down past the fold on my news feed each day. In fact, it's not unusual that I will miss out on fairly major announcements from my friends until someone actually passes the news on in person. Though of course I expect all 350+ of my friends to take an active interest in whatever I've posted. It's very passive-aggressive social networking.

The other night, however, a good friend of mine commented about how he notices when his friend count goes down by a few numbers and wonders who has defriended him and why. So naturally I have started noticing that, too, and am suddenly obsessing about it. Why did my friends circle shrink from 354 to 351 today? Which three people did I lose? Was it something I posted? Something I liked? Or did those folks just close their accounts or decide to eliminate anyone they hadn't actually had a conversation with in, say, the last 15 years?

I was talking to Hubby today about this absurd new source of social anxiety, which of course prompted him to make fun of me relentlessly for a bit. A few minutes later, he said "You're going to defriend me now, aren't you? I'm going to be dumped on Facebook by my wife." Possibly, sweetheart. Quite possibly.

It's funny, though, that Facebook has added a whole new layer to romantic relationships and friendships alike. We learn quite a bit about our friends and lovers through their Facebook postings and habits. Sometimes it's great to have information we wouldn't get any other way; other times, it's way more than we want to know.

The relationship status itself is also pretty interesting. My status has been unchanged since I opened my Facebook account (despite my idle threats to the contrary), but through my single friends I've learned that updating one's relationship status is a delicate matter. How far into the relationship do you update from "single" to "in a relationship," and at what point do you actually link your status to the person you're dating?

The same friend I mentioned earlier actually had a fight with a girl he was dating a while ago, because she was upset he hadn't updated his relationship status in what she considered an appropriate amount of time. Her concern, of course, was that he still wanted his cute female friend base to see him as single. But if you do update your relationship status, it pretty much comes across as a major announcement; and the congratulatory comments start pouring in from everyone in your social network. I'm not sure where that is on the relationship ladder, but I think it's somewhere between meeting one another's parents and moving in together...

The flip side is when the relationship doesn't work out and you're faced with returning your status to 'single' in front of the whole world. Breakups and divorces used to be something we could do quietly, sharing with our friends and family in private as we felt ready... but now it's either hang onto a false status or share, share, share -- with everyone from your best friend to your third-grade teacher. And do you stay Facebook friends with someone you're no longer dating? How about someone you became friends with because he or she was dating one of your friends, but they're no longer speaking to each other?

Another interesting element in all of this (at least to me) is how the mechanics of Facebook insert themselves into the way communicate with our friends. Those who choose not to do Facebook at all miss out on lots of interactions and online conversation, but they at least miss out on everyone equally. I don't know how the little hamster on the wheel writing the algorithms behind FB makes decisions about what's 'important' enough to go in my news feed; but I do know that I see much more of some friends than others. In fact, I have several friends who post A LOT, which is great, and I guess because they post so frequently I comment on their stuff more often. So, I see more of their stuff. Lots and lots and lots.... Up to the minute news.

On the other hand, I am almost always missing out on the posts by 3 or 4 of my closest friends, who post less frequently -- and since I talk to them in person much more often, I am less likely to comment on their posts because whatever I might say has already been said. I guess to FB, it looks like I'm not interested in them. But that doesn't mean I don't want to see what they've posted; in fact, those are the updates I'd like to see the most. So how to tell the little hamster? I can't. Facebook doesn't work on a spectrum, doesn't allow us to "rank" friends according to our viewing preferences or categorize or own posts according to importance.

I can't assign an importance value of 100, for example, to the birth announcement of my child, or a 15 to the funny thing my cat just did. (Alright, alright, a 5 for the cat). I can't tell Facebook that my best friend is my best friend and that I want to see every one of her vacation photos, even the blurry one that no one else found remarkable. Facebook only allows for "Like" or not, comment or not, and "Hide" for when you just can't take it from a particular person anymore. It doesn't reflect the subtlety and nuance of real relationships, and yet it can impact those relationships simply by what we see or don't see when we log in for a few minutes at the end of the day.

I'm wondering if this will evolve over time as social networks become more sophisticated -- allowing us to organize in detail what we want to know when, and from whom. As though I'm not already spending enough time lost in FB-world, I really need to add a couple of hours a week managing it...

Love and Finding Home

Today was a fantastic day. If you live in or near Atlanta, you know that the weather was absolutely perfect today - sunny and low-60's. And since Sunday is our family day (the only day neither of us works), we got to enjoy the wonderful weather together.

First on our agenda, we went to a brunch at our synagogue for prospective new members. I don't often talk about our synagogue life, but today we were 'representing' young families, so I had the chance to briefly tell our story, while Monkey ran around the room like a crazy person. I realized as I was fumbling through it why talking about our synagogue always gets me so emotional; it's because our relationship with our shul has pretty much paralleled our relationship with each other.

When DH and I decided to spend our lives together and I realized that Judaism was my true religious home, our synagogue was the first place where we both felt truly welcome. Our rabbis (who are an amazing married couple from South America and two of the smartest, warmest people I know) instantly embraced us and have followed us on our journey ever since. Rabbi Analia guided me through my studies and helped me prepare for the Mikveh (ritual bath of conversion). Both Analia and Rabbi Mario served on my Bet Din (conversion panel), along with another amazing rabbi who is a member of our congregation.

Together they conducted our wedding ceremony, which our Jewish and Christian friends alike felt was a beautiful, moving and spiritual experience. We still frequently say to one another the special words that Analia shared with us that day, "If I had to choose again, I would choose you. Every day."

After brunch, we made our way back to another sacred space -- or at least a beloved space that represents something sacred  -- our favorite trail alongside the Chattahoochee. I have been walking that trail regularly for more than three years. It's meant lots of fresh air, burned calories, time with nature, several audiobooks, and lots of great conversations with my walking buddies. Last year, when I was training for the Avon walk, I must have covered those same 3.2-ish miles more than 100 times.

But for the last few months, with the move and the toddler-chaos and the weather, that favorite space has been neglected. Like an old friend, I've taken it for granted. When we went back today, we both noticed lots of little changes (new gravel, new plantings); and I also noticed that it was especially sweet to be there after so long. With all the transition in our lives lately, it felt like going home.

We don't get to the trail, or to synagogue, as often as we'd like. And yet, whenever we go either place, I feel more centered, and inspired to be just a little bit better than I was when I arrived. Nature never scolds me for my absence; the sounds of the birds and the soft breeze coming off the river are mine just for showing up that moment. And in our religious community, there are always warm smiles, hugs, and words of wisdom waiting for us when we walk in the door -- whether after a week or three months.

It occurs to me that our marriage is the same way (well, except that we see one another every day). Maybe we don't or can't always give one another our very best. But we find ways of reconnecting, and my sweet hubby is always inspiring and encouraging me to be a better person.

I guess that's what a home really is - a place where you are accepted and loved exactly the way you are, but also a jumping off point to become an even better you.

Oh, yeah, here's a picture of Monkey with a balloon.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all... I hope you enjoy the day with someone who makes you feel at home.

This 'Marital Moment' Brought to You By....

ME: Urrgh! You keep complaining about stuff, but you won't accept any of my solutions!

DH: I know, I'm really frustrating that way. It's a character flaw.

ME: Character flaw? Really? Are you sure it's not just a consistent, annoying choice?

DH: Hmmm... [Thinks]. Nope, it's a character flaw.

ME: *Sigh*

A Fantastic Fall Day

Nothing deep to report today, just relaxing at the end of a lovely fall day. The weather was perfect today, and we drove to North Georgia to see the beautiful leaves and take MLM to a pumpkin patch. A stop at Greenwood's in Roswell for some home-cooking out on the porch, and a nap on the couch during football, and our day was pretty much perfect.

Today was one of those days that I always missed when I didn't live in Georgia, cool and crisp with spectacular colors everywhere, blowing in the breeze. I loved so much about Austin, and still miss it often; but there's no noticeable change of seasons in the mild Central Texas weather -- it pretty much goes overnight from 120 degrees and dry to the three weeks of chilly rain known as 'winter.' The trees native to the Austin area don't really change colors as they do here, and I always longed for these autumn days around this time of year.

A nice drive in a beautiful place always brings back memories of the other places I've been (there have been many -- I'm very fortunate); and gets me thinking about the list of future destinations I keep filed away in the back of my mental filing cabinet. It's sort of like eating a delicious meal and reminiscing about other great meals at the same time. What? No? Just me? Anyway....

A few months ago, DH and I decided that one of our joint goals for our family is to try and visit all 58 National Parks and 100 National Monuments in the U.S. I'm pretty excited about the idea of exploring as a family some of the places we've been separately in the past; and going to new places, too. We're also toying with plans for some international travel; but since that will require lots more money and planning (especially for MLM), it's not really in list form. But it's fun to dream.

Between the beautiful leaves, the winding road, and a sweet baby asleep in the backseat (or giggling for no reason, when awake), today's little trip went a long way to lessening all the stress of moving and lightening the weight of my seemingly endless to-do list. At least for a while....

A Decade in the Life: Part Three

Yep, Just Like on 'Sex in the City'

When I left Austin, I closed an important and treasured chapter of my life. My experiences there changed me forever; and frankly, I didn’t know what to expect on returning to Atlanta. As it turned out, a whole new era was about to begin.

Looking back, I know I met the man who is the love of my life once before I even moved back to Atlanta. I’d come home for a visit and to do some work for my friend’s company, where he happened to be working. I remember we had a nice conversation about New Orleans and I thought he was really cute, but that was about it.

Once I did move home, however, and we began working in the same place and hanging out with the same group of friends, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that the cute boy in the lab was a really incredible person himself. I could go on for a while about what makes him so special to me (and lots of other people), but that would embarrass him and bore everyone else.

As we began spending more time together, the primary tension in our relationship was that MD-future-H had always envisioned himself marrying someone Jewish. Someone born Jewish, actually. And so he only dated Jewish women, which obviously I was not. So we oscillated for a few months between dating and not dating [I think he broke up with me three times during this period]. And in the meantime, I found myself reading “Judaism for Dummies,” among other things.

I’d been on a path of spiritual searching for years (far longer than this blog covers), and my close-up experience with Catholicism in Austin had piqued my interest in ancient and ritual-focused religion. So as a relationship with a nice boy spurred me to learn more, I found myself drawn to Judaism at the deepest levels of my being. After further education and mutual soul-searching, MD-future-H and I decided that someone willing to consider conversion and someone willing to consider marrying a convert could make a go of a relationship.

From there, we just followed the path that seemed to be appearing at our feet with each step. We took a Derech Torah class as a precursor to my conversion, where we met lots of great people – some of whom were in the same situation we were, and many who have been our friends ever since. Soon I began studying with Rabbi Analia, one of the most wonderful and wise women I’ve known. She and her husband Mario lead the congregation where we’ve found our spiritual home.

We got engaged in February 2006; MDH knew how much I love Jane Austen, so he took me to see “Pride and Prejudice” at the Alliance Theater, and proposed at a quaint little Italian restaurant before the show. His wonderful family accepted me warmly, and they have never treated me any differently than they would a born Jew.

In May, Rabbi Analia decided I was ready. The Bet Din (conversion panel) and my submersion in the Mikvah (ritual bath) were incredible experiences that marked a whole new era in my life as a Jew-by-Choice. I’m honored to be part of the Jewish community. I am still learning, day by day, what it means to be Jewish, and particularly how to help lead a Jewish household. It will be a lifelong journey and I’m cherishing every moment.

In September 2006, our beloved Rabbis Mario and Analia presided over our beautiful garden wedding. When Analia talked about how my mom and Sam’s dad (who had also died suddenly in April 2002) were both with us in spirit, a sudden breeze blew the white tulle walls of our chuppah high in the otherwise calm air. It was chilling and lovely.

The last three years of my decade have been decidedly different from the first. There have been more losses – both grandmothers, my brother’s best friend, my first boss at the Catholic school (who was always really kind to me). But there have also been tremendous joys, achievements, new friendships and the deepening of old ones. I went back to grad school, completed my Master’s in Counseling and am enjoying the challenges of a new career, one that constantly drives me to reflect and question myself.

For me, the impulsive choices and perpetual newness of the early 2000’s have been replaced by a whole new kind of adventure. In June 2009, we expanded our family with the long-sought addition of our beautiful baby boy. He's an amazing little kid with a funny personality that is already beginning to emerge. Difficulty getting pregnant and the experience of undergoing fertility treatments has helped us -- if at all possible -- to treasure him even more.

I no longer characterize myself as a world traveler – though we did take a fantastic trip to Ireland when I got my counseling degree – but being a mother to our six-month-old son takes me to new places every day. And while no marriage is fail-proof, MDH and I work hard to secure ours to something larger than ourselves, so that we’re not left alone during those inevitable hard times.

And Two the cat is still hanging around, letting us know when the kiddo is crying (as though we can't hear him). She's a decade older than when she came into my life, but not too much worse for the wear. Our family has lots of big plans for the coming months and years; but if 2010-2019 is anything like this past decade, we'll mostly just be holding on tight and trying to enjoy the ride.

One of those Father-Son Moments

So I was in the kitchen yesterday and I heard MDH in the living room, entertaining the baby. In the middle of a stream of coos and squeals, I overheard this: "We like blankets. And that is a blanket statement."

Oh, sweet shower...

Yesterday was one of those days. My little man was so exhausted that he couldn't sleep -- and it was driving us both crazy. I tried everything - his crib, the pack-n-play, the swing, the bouncer... every contraption known to man designed to make babies comfortable and sleepy. I tried a ride in the car and walking around the house in the Maya Wrap (sling). No dice. He just kept crying himself into short bouts of fitful sleep, then jerking awake to scream with renewed energy and volume.

He was miserable, I was miserable; he cried, I cried. There's nothing worse than your child being inconsolable and feeling like there's nothing you can do about it. And even though - logically - you KNOW it can't go on forever, it feels like, well.... forever. I felt completely inadequate as a mom, and totally frustrated as a person. There were a couple of moments when I thought I might just go for a walk and leave little man to cry it out in his crib.

I didn't do that, of course. And of course he did calm down eventually. And when MDH came home from work, he took over parenting duties and let me have 30 very sweet minutes all to myself to take a long, scalding-hot shower. It was amazing the difference I felt... 6 hours of frustration washed away by a half hour of hot running water.

It really made me appreciate the little things (like a hot shower) that that make us feel human. I thought about all the methods of torture that involve taking those little things away - like time and sleep deprivation. They don't sound all that awful from the comforts of your living room, but (as every new parent can attest) losing those little freedoms that we normally take for granted can really wear away at your internal resources and sense of self...

I spend so much time, in my line of work, exploring the complex and unknowable depths of the psyche and all the intricate neural systems that make people tick (or not). But it occurs to me how simple things like uninterrupted sleep, basic hygiene, or the freedom to just sit and gather my thoughts for a few minutes are so fundamental to my basic sense of well-being. Maybe I'm not such a complex creature after all.

I Want Happiness Insurance

Since we are now expectant parents, MDH and I decided recently it was time to grow up and get life insurance. I have to say, there's something a little morbid and scary about the concept of life insurance, and it's not easy to talk about the life of yourself, and especially the one you love most, in terms of dollars and cents. Still, it's good to know that if anything happens to me, our offspring at least won't be saddled with my ridiculous student loan debts.

I think most people would agree that life insurance is generally sensible. Homeowner's, health insurance... I can get on board with those. But I've noticed lately that there are more and more opportunities to "insure" yourself against life's ups and downs, and some of them are pushing the boundaries of reasonable behavior.

When we took a childbirth class recently, we spent the lunch hour listening to a representative from a company that "banks" infant cord blood, on the off chance that your child comes down with a serious disease that might be helped with stem cells harvested from his or her umbilical cord. Now I don't think there's anything wrong with these advances in technology, nor do I judge anyone who decides that banking cord blood is the best thing for his/her family. And frankly, if banking cord blood were more affordable (considering the likelihood that you'll actually use it), we would definitely consider it. As it is, we are planning to donate ours for free -- to be used for research or by others in need.

What bothered me about the guy's speech wasn't the concept of banking cord blood, or even the price that the other expectant parents in the room seemed happy to pay. It was the scary approach the representative took -- claiming that "most people who declare bankruptcy do so because of health care costs" (what? where did this statistic come from?), and implying that those who did not bank their child's cord blood would regret it when someone in the family develops leukemia... etc., etc. It just seemed like the industry is trying to profit from the fears of new parents in a way that seems, well, a little disgusting.

On the other hand, I think that the cord blood industry is just taking advantage of a general trend in our culture towards wanting (and expecting) lives that are completely sanitized from dangers, dirt and risk. With all our wonderful technological advances and modern conveniences, it seems that many of us have developed the idea that we shouldn't have to deal with anything unpleasant or unexpected at all. We want someone to fix things for us when they go wrong, and we go to great lengths to attempt to control our lives -- bringing out the worst of our anxieties and, frankly, hubris.

I have a theory that we live our lives at such a hectic pace that there is no room for uncertainty, so when the unexpected happens, there is no energy left to take things in stride. I was at the car dealership a few weeks ago getting my windows tinted (which, btw, I didn't want - but the dealer talked me into it, glancing at my pregnant belly and telling me that my new baby would be uncomfortably hot in the Georgia weather without the tinting.... sigh). Looking around the waiting room, I noticed that there were a number of signs offering various types of "insurance" available for car owners.

You can buy wheel and tire insurance to avoid the "unexpected expense" of a flat tire. So I guess that means I would prefer the expected expense of the wheel and tire insurance? Just think, while you're standing on the side of the road in the rain, canceling appointments via cell phone, you could be comforted knowing that you have already paid for that new tire three or four times over via tire insurance -- and thank goodness you won't have to pull out the plastic today.

But if that's not reassuring enough for you, you can also purchase the "appearance protection" plan for your new car. With this plan, you'll also pay some monthly fee for a while, and then when you accidentally stain or burn your car's upholstery, the dealer will repair or replace it for you. It will be like new again -- just as though human beings never sang songs or spilled soda or made memories in your vehicle at all. Whew.

Now part of this is just car dealers being car dealers; but they wouldn't offer these programs if someone weren't buying them. Dealers (and insurance companies, and retailers...) know how much we hate ugly surprises and imperfections. We hate them so much, we will sacrifice the joy and money and optimism we have in the moment in order to assure ourselves that some pain might be spared us in the future. We love extended warranties, hand sanitizer, and money-back guarantees.

But how reality-proof do we need our worlds to be? What is this pressing need we have to prevent "tragedies" that are really just the normal ebbs and flows of life? I would argue that the emotion and money we spend on the front end trying to avoid everything uncomfortable is not only fruitless (life will always find a way to surprise us); but the pain and effort of avoidance outweighs whatever expense or discomfort we would naturally incur later.

We are robbing ourselves of the opportunity to enjoy what we have when we have it, because we are so focused on what could happen to take it away. And when something unpleasant does happen (like the burning smell emanating from our dishwasher last night, indicating that we will soon be shopping for a new one), we have a hard time accepting the reality because of our frustration.... "I put all this work into making sure things would go smoothly and now this??"

It just seems to me that with the economy at a shaky point and many of us struggling with both our finances and fears, one thing we can definitely afford to give up is the expensive and unending search for perfection. It's easier said than done, so I'm reminding myself as much as anyone else: Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the ride.

The Nest and Beyond

For the second time in 3 years, we have wrens nesting in the planter just outside our front door. This means that I had to scrap my early spring plans of putting ivy in the shady planter, but it's totally worth it.

Two years ago, we called our feathered visitor "Gertie the Birdie," (we're sort of into names that rhyme with what they are -- hence our unborn child's unfortunate moniker "Cletus the Fetus.") Gertie laid 5 eggs during her time in residence on our front porch, and we watched them hatch and grow with unbridled fascination. Sadly, only four of them survived to leave the nest, and MDH had the unpleasant job of removing the poor little straggler after his family had moved on.

The planter is just below eye level - it hangs on the wall outside our door - so having a bird's nest there gives us a little taste of the discovery channel every day. MDH has affectionately named this year's mamma bird "Wrenita," and ever since she took up residence I've felt a kind of kinship with her... one expectant mom to another sort of thing. Of course, I'm a touch jealous of how quick the gestation period is for birds - they went from an empty nest, to tiny brown eggs, to babies with huge closed eyes in just a matter of weeks.

We've had fun in the past week or so, stopping by the nest and making kissy noises at them to see their hungry little mouths reach out in instinct, waiting for us to barf up something delicious (I know it's a little cruel, but it's irresistible). And now when we peer into the nest, the little birds peering out are slightly smaller replicas of Wrenita herself, already looking wise and grown.

Add to this progression of life the soap opera-like element of our cat -- who watches the birds with intensity through the front window. And this morning she was particularly frantic, running from window to window, chirping (like a cat, not like a bird) insistently to let me know there was something hunt-able and tasty-looking just outside.

When I went out myself, I found Wrenita and another bird making an incredible racket -- they were both flitting from bush to tree to stairway railing, chirping loudly and nonstop. Even though Wrenita typically makes a hasty and quiet exit whenever we enter or leave the condo, this morning she made little effort to hide from me, and the constant chirping didn't stop despite several repeated trips in and out the door.

Both adult birds kept up their noisy dance for some time, and I finally decided that they were trying to coax the little ones to leave the nest and attempt flying for the first time. I don't know if that's really what was happening -- bird expert, I am not. But I thought it was pretty cool anyway. Mamma bird (and her friend? Daddy bird? Auntie bird?) didn't climb into the nest and push the babies out. They don't carry the babies out and fly for them. But they also don't abandon them to their fates... they consistently, patiently encourage them with lots of verbal reassurance and wait for the little guys to figure it out for themselves.

It's a great reminder of what good parenting should be... and perfect timing since I am entering that neurotic phase of pregnancy that has me worrying about every little thing, doubting my parental abilities, and fighting off the urge to buy the little guy everything in the store. Which store? Doesn't matter. Every store.

Somehow watching Wrenita encourage her little ones this morning gave me a little (maybe temporary) feeling of confidence and relief. Nature has away of working it out, and I know that somehow even my imperfect instincts will help this little one find his way in the world.

A Season of Gratitude

Thanksgiving was four days ago, and I finally feel like I might be ready to eat again! We had a wonderful holiday with family and food, a nice wrap-up to a busy but fulfilling few weeks (so busy and fulfilling, in fact, that I haven't blogged in a month!).

Since this is the season of gratitude, I thought I would take a few minutes to express how grateful I am for so many things that make my life rich. I'll admit that this blog is more for my benefit than the reader's, but perhaps you'll bear with me as you contemplate your own feelings of gratitude.

First and foremost, I am grateful for the love of friends, family, and of course, MDH. Without the love and support of the many people I am lucky to have in my life, I would be incredibly lost. There have been many occasions lately on which I've been surrounded by love and laughter -- and those times refresh my spirit in a way that nothing else can.

I am grateful for all the opportunities and challenges this year has presented me. Many times I have been frustrated and exhausted this year, and sometimes I have failed outright. But in every failure and frustration there has been an opportunity to learn something: patience, inner strength, generosity, humor and even a new skill here and there. I'm also grateful for the challenges that are still ahead of me; I know that next year will present me with innumerable opportunities to learn and grow.

During these difficult economic times, I'm more aware than ever how blessed I am to have a warm, safe place to sleep each night; basic good health; consistent food in my belly; and any number of options for how I choose to spend my time. I know that many others don't have these simple things - gifts that I take for granted each day.

It's nice to have a special time of year that reminds us to be grateful; and I hope I can carry some of this gratitude forward to each new day. Just thinking about all for which I am grateful makes me feel calmer, more centered and in many ways... at peace.

So, here's to a peaceful December filled with cold weather, warm friends and grateful hearts!

Can I Rent a Storage Unit for Emotional Baggage?

So one of our tasks for the upcoming holiday weekend is that MDH and I are planning to clean out some stuff we've had in storage since early in the year. We boxed up some clutter while our condo was on the market, and now it needs to come home so that we can save the $80/month we're currently paying to keep it somewhere else. A simple enough task, but I am dreading it as though it's a colonoscopy.

I'm not alone. Storage units are popping up everywhere, and more Americans than ever have so much stuff that we can't even manage to cram it inside our own houses. I'm all for capitalism, but how much stuff do you have to have that you can't even fit it in your house? That means that rather than selling, donating, or tossing our stuff when it is no longer useful (not to mention the horrifying option of buying less of it in the first place), we are renting spaces to store our stuff away from ourselves. And for the extra space, we're paying a premium (we're currently paying $8/month per square foot for storage -- that's 10 times what our mortgage & condo fees cost per square foot!)

As I write that, I'm almost embarrassed. I find myself gawking at my own inability to keep better organized, trim the fat, and lose the stuff. But I also know, deep down, that part of the problem isn't material or financial. It's emotional. I am renting a luxury space for my emotional baggage.

Every time I go to the storage unit, muttering about the ridiculousness of the whole scenario and wildly determined to turn over a new, simplified leaf -- I turn around and leave defeated. I walk out to my car with my tail between my legs and a tiny box of something in my hand that I'm committed to sorting through. Next week.

That's because when I look around my 10-foot-square penthouse, I see so many things I'm just not ready to handle. There are things I bought that are really unnecessary in life; and I'm too stubborn or embarrassed to admit that maybe I didn't need a glass cake dome after all (I never bake, but I love the idea of it). Or that my first softball glove - now rotting from the inside out so that it is almost crispy in texture - is finally destined to work its way to the bottom of a landfill and slowly rot back into the earth.

There are boxes of mementos my mother kept, most of them truly useless now and meaningful only to her. I have no place in my home to put these boxes, and for as long as I've had them, I've only opened them once. And yet, even though she died over six years ago, I find it hard to throw away something that Mom cared enough about to keep, box, and label. It feels almost like a betrayal to veto her decision - she thought this was important, she wanted my brother and me to have it, see it, understand it... and who am I to decide it should now go to the dumpster outside Public Storage? Maybe I'll start somewhere easier.

There's some play therapy stuff I got from another therapist, who was kind enough (and wise enough) to give it away when she no longer needed it. As a student, I gratefully snatched the opportunity to have some really great tools for free; knowing that one day I would have the space and opportunity to make use of them. Even though the possibility is somewhat slim that I'll make tremendous use of them in the next year, I worry that if I give them away myself (a) I'll regret it when the chance does come around to use them, (b) I'll feel guilty that I accepted a donation that could've gone to someone else and now am really acknowledging that I'm not using it, and (c) that if I try to pass them on, the original owner will hear about it and I'll be embarrassed. Hmm... that's complicated, too. There has to be something simple in here!

There's a doll bed made by my great-grandfather. It's sturdy and useful, and both my mother and I played with it when we were little girls. If I'm fortunate enough to have children of my own, I'd like to pass it on to them. But before I can really find a good spot for it at home, it desperately needs to be re-covered in fabric. It was stored in a relative's attic for years, where it developed stains I have no wish to identify. Another item on the "Great Intentions" list that I'm planning to get to.... someday.

So, moving on - a huge box of unsorted photographs. That's a 3-weekend project, easy. Double that if you include all the time I'll spend reminiscing as I try to sort through them and remember names, dates & places.... High school yearbooks, my letter jacket, notes from old friends and boyfriends; gifts and cards from people I loved but who, because of death or distance, are no longer around to hear me say it. How do you say goodbye to such things? How do you acknowledge that the space in your life is getting smaller for those memories, for those people -- and does that also mean that the space in your heart for them is shrinking as well? What will be left to speak for those years of my life - which I already have trouble remembering?

As I stand in the tiny spot in the middle of all this and look around, I feel overwhelmed, sad, and a little dumbfounded. Where do I start? I glance around quickly and opt for the cake dome - I think if I work hard and use a stepladder, I can squeeze it on the top shelf of the linen closet, right next to Mom's huge old punch bowl (which I've used a grand total of ONCE). So one box is taken care of, and the decisions on everything else delayed to another day.

I have to say, driving away, the $80 a month is starting to sound like a bargain.

Chisel, Stone and Frequent Flyer Miles

… And we’re back. The blog has been on a hiatus for a month or so, partly because of my graduation and all the festivities surrounding it, and then because we took a trip to Ireland for nine days. It was my first time crossing the Atlantic since I backpacked through Europe 10 years ago with a friend from college. [How old does that make me feel???]

Back then, I spent 6 months visiting 20 countries and traveling became a way of life. I got accustomed to needing only what I could carry on my back and to exploring new places and people almost daily. This time we spent just 8 days, and confined ourselves to the Emerald Isle and one night in London. Still, the experiences felt pretty similar and by the third or fourth day, I found myself back in the traveling groove, hoisting my pack onto busses with authority and counting a good map and guide book among my most prized possessions.

We walked (or biked) several miles each day, sometimes with our 30-lb packs in tow. We put our lives on the line and into the hands of the Bus Eireann drivers – who appear to have somewhere to be and nothing to lose on the way. We sat in pubs and talked politics and football with the locals. We sang passionately along with the ‘rare auld songs’ as though we’d been hearing them our whole lives. We allowed ourselves to be surrounded by the warm welcome of the Irish people, who showed us enormous kindness at nearly every turn. It was one of those trips that demands of your time, energy and love; and from which you come home totally exhausted and fully renewed at the same time.

It’s funny how trips like that – whether they’re to another country or just a few miles from home – help us to discover who we are. By engaging with experiences and culture that are not our own, we learn something about who we are – maybe something that changes even at the moment we’re learning it.

In our performance-oriented culture, we often define ourselves by what we have and what we do. People we meet ask us about ourselves, and we tell them first where we work. We pride ourselves on having the nicest home, the most exciting job, the most volunteer commitments, sophisticated tastes, interesting parties. All these active, deliberate things have a place in who we are and how we express ourselves to the world. They are things that make up our identities, our self-concept.

But another, often-overlooked part of ourselves is not in what we choose to do, but in how we respond to the world around us. Travel is a great example of both active and passive interaction with the world. It all starts with active choices: choosing to travel, selecting a destination, buying a guidebook, picking activities, and putting yourself out there for the experience. After that, it’s all about responding.

The long room in the library at Trinity College in Dublin is the world’s largest single-room library. For centuries it has housed two stories of shelved books (organized, oddly enough, according to their dimensions) in its long arched room, and it will continue to do so for many more years, long after its current students and this writer are gone. In its quiet way, it is epic and lasting. But its impact on me is not just through the stories I tell, the pictures I take or the postcards I bring back with me. There's a more subtle impact in my internal reaction, the moment I ascend the stairs and take it all in.

The awe I feel entering the hall with its polished wooden walls and the incredible arched ceilings. The first breath as the unmistakable scent of old books fills me with memories and possibilities – my summer at Oxford, childhood trips to the library with my mother, pecking out my first story on my grandmother’s old typewriter… It all comes back instantly and disappears just as quickly, with every step I take across that hallowed floor.

Walking down the hall, my reaction to this place is visceral, unique, and difficult to describe. And even though I can never fully share it with others, it’s part of what makes me who I am, as fundamental in that moment as anything else about me.

Of course, you don’t have to travel to Trinity College or anywhere else to respond to the world in this way. Every day, we react in small, often-imperceptible ways to sensations and situations, and each reaction is a tiny pixel in a total self-portrait. Jazz music. Fresh coffee. The sound of a baby crying. Poetry. A friend’s laughter. A stranger in need. The annoying guy in the next office. These things have little intrinsic meaning until we react to them. But by eliciting our reactions and pushing us to engage with the world around us, they help chisel out the sculpture of who we are.

Often, I think, we get so busy focusing on our life’s active choices – going to work, scheduling our social lives, keeping up with an endless to-do list – that we stop paying attention to our little reactions to the world around us. We lose touch with what (largely) makes us who we are.

For me, traveling is a great opportunity to reconnect with that reactive part of myself, the part that connects directly with the world, taking it in without judgment and allowing the reaction to flow wordlessly through me. Getting out of my routine allows me to sit back and just enjoy being a part of the world, appreciating the artful expressions and emotions of those around me (and those who lived long before me).

I am not a singer, but when everyone in the pub is belting out “Wild Rover,” I can add my voice joyfully, without thought of what others will think. I am not a theologian (or even a Christian), but the echoes of children singing within the old stone walls of St. Patrick’s can still fill me with spiritual reverence and comforting grace. I am not a historian, but I can place my hand on a carving created thousands of years ago and feel connected to my infinitesimal place in human history.

Back on my home soil and into my own routine again, I feel challenged to keep awareness of these responses and reactions with me, to allow them to impact me fully. It is our gift as human beings to be able to participate each day in our own creation. We are made, not by chisel and stone, blood and bone, but by moments and experiences.

What will I do with what the Sculptor gives me today?

Under the Pollen, You Look Familiar

Spring is here and, in my hometown of Atlanta, love is -- quite literally -- in the air. The trees and shrubs are doing their best to reproduce despite the recent drought; and as a result the entire metro area is covered in a soft, yellow-green carpet of pollen -- so thick and pervasive it's a little hard to avoid calling it "lustrous."

When I pull my car out of my space in the morning, the powdery pollen flies off it like fresh snow in Colorado. Throats are tickling, sneezes are echoing, and non-native Atlantans are loudly, irritatably, questioning their choice to move to a city that turns into one giant allergen for 4 weeks a year.

But for me it's all about renewal. I'll gladly suffer the sniffles and the semi-permanent yellow tint we all acquire this time of year for the beautiful green that emerges with it -- and those unmistakeable signs that winter is over and the warm days of summer are on the way. I'm particularly joyful this year, because as spring emerges from its shell, I get to look forward to graduation with my Master's in Professional Counseling.

A journey that started for me in Texas 5 years ago is finally drawing to a close -- or at least the first part of the journey is ending. Now I can go forth as a learning professional, rather than a professional student. And perhaps more importantly, I get to focus my constantly wandering attention on the pursuits that interest me most... and be only minimally concerned about meeting external standards.

Now that the final weeks are upon me, I find myself staring out the window more. I am learning to allow my thoughts to wander occasionally and not feel completely guilty about it. I've been shopping online. I've been planning trips. I've been tracking down some of my long-neglected friends and making plans to spend quality time with them --- not just the occasional 'in-passing' time where our minds are mostly focused elsewhere, but real time that involves really listening and really connecting.

It's hard to describe how freeing this has been for me. MDH (My Darling Husband) tells me I'm starting to seem much more like myself -- and less like the exhausted, fragile, overwhelmed mess he's been married to for the last year or more. Okay, he didn't say the second part, but I know he's thinking it!

These days, I find myself with renewed energy that builds on itself, because I'm able to use it not just for the things I have to do (which tend to drain my energy), but also for things I want to do. Two months ago, I often crawled into bed like it was my only sanctuary -- too exhausted and drained to move or think -- and waking up feeling like I'd barely been able to sleep at all.

Now I'm starting to notice that I'm still buzzing with positive energy late into the night, less concerned about grasping for a couple of hours of sleep and more focused on just enjoying whatever I'm doing at the moment. I've heard that when great artists, athletes, and scientists are at their best, they get into a zone in which time, food, sleep, and the outside world become mere abstractions. I am far, far from being an artist or athlete; but at times like this when the world seems bursting with possibilities, perhaps I understand "the zone." At least a little.

I think most of us need more of that particular state of mind in our lives, and we don't always make time for it. It's hard to lose yourself in a project when yourself has to go to the grocery store, finish a paper, respond to twelve e-mails and fold laundry -- all before bed. So we start with the shoulds, dutifully checking off each item as we go; and put the wouldn't it be cool if I coulds last on the list. And guess how often we get to those? Not often. We usually don't see them as productive or necessary to our daily lives.... But I wonder about that.

In order for the various plant species to survive, our leafy and flowery friends literally have to put themselves out there. They give up millions of tiny bits of themselves, most of which land impotently on cars, asphalt, and in the lungs of unsuspecting and allergic pedestrians. Only a tiny fraction of the pollen produced will find its way to bearing fruit and helping to create new life. But the plants go on pollenating, without regret or concern. They're in the zone, doing their thing, obeying their natural drives.

So with spring on the calendar and renewal on the wind, I'm gearing myself up to get totally, esctatically lost. Lost in a good book. Lost in conversation with an old friend. Lost in a writing project about which I'm passionate. In a new country I'm exploring. In music I've never heard before. Lost in the night, missing sleep -- not because I am worried or overwhelmed, but because I have more interesting and fulfilling things to do than merely sleep. I'm going to try to honor the impulses I have had my whole life: to do the creative, the fun, the utterly unproductive. And hopefully what will emerge is some combination of who I've always been and who I've been working so hard to become.

As one of our counseling heroes, Carl Rogers, so eloquently put it: "The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."

Maybe to create yourself, you have to start by losing yourself.