The simple life

A year ago, I came back from Costa Rica with their mantra of “pura vida!” or the “pure life” in my mind and heart. A few days ago I returned from Italy with much of the same feeling, but in their own words. I learned so much about the slow food movement in Italy, and all about making wine and olive oil and other amazing foods, but that is for another blog post. (Some of you may have already seen my photos.) But out of the food and the culture and the scenery came one concept: that life can be fulfilling and content in the simplest means possible, if you just let it be so, and embrace it with open arms.

When you make apple juice, Stefano, the owner of the agriturismo we stayed at in Southern Tuscany, says it’s like this: “Apples….stop.” When you make meat, it’s “Pig. Salt. Stop.” His simple directions became a recurring theme for our G Adventures tour group, and one that we laughed at, but all took seriously. We all wanted to work for Stefano and live on a farm by the end of the trip. We all wanted the simple life.

It’s so easy for us to get caught up in the complexities of our everyday lives — work, relationships, our hobbies, our commitments. They seem to bog us down more than they fulfill us. Technology seems to burden us and make us feel guilty rather than make our lives easier. We stress over leaving work for a day, or not responding to someone’s email, then wonder why we didn’t sleep well or eat well, or squeeze in a workout or a nap or all the things that we know need and that nourish us. We almost seem to endorse the stress that takes over…wanting more of it, begging for more of it.

Once again, Stefano makes it painfully simple: “I don’t want to die rich… I want to die quietly and with relaxation. To do what I do, you don’t think about money, you think about how to live better.”

My dad and I gave each other “that” look across the table when we heard this — earlier that evening we had talked extensively about what we think we want, how to get there, and how to know what exactly will fulfill us and make us happy. It’s the great debate: I’m comfortable, I’m content…but what does that mean? Are we really comfortable enough to leave the standards we’ve set for ourselves and take the big risk? To be fearless? What if that means quitting you career, or moving to another continent? My parents are at the stage where it’s probably easier for them to make big changes and work with it, but what about younger people like myself, who are still waiting to fall in love, and start a family? Still working on my career and figuring out what’s next? What does it mean to be fearless right now versus a few years from now or 20 years from now?

I’ve been having a lot of conversations with people lately about how to figure out how to balance the various entities in your life — friends, work, love, etc. There are those folks that think of these things in a linear way: I have to do this, and this, and this, and THEN this can happen. I’ve been on the other end of that, and it’s rough. I’m of the mind that you CAN find a way to fit it all in, but it takes work and compromise and dedication — but what’s the problem with that? If we know that things like families and relationships and having a fulfilling career are all part of the puzzle to make us happy, then let’s just figure it out. It will never be perfect, and it will challenge our minds, hearts, and bodies. But in the end, I think it’s worth it. It gives us the opportunity down the road to then readjust and see how we’re doing. Just because something is hard or scary doesn’t make it worthwhile — in fact, maybe it makes it even more worth the chance. It seems to me that the things that scare us are really the things that we want to do, and feel, and act upon…and we only know what really makes us feel like we’re “living better” when we take the risk, embrace the possibility of failure, and follow our big dreams. When we’re fearless, that’s when we feel alive.

Figure out what matters to you. Then go after it. Stop.

Traveling alone...and fearlessly!

A little more than five years ago, an amazing opportunity was presented to me: a chance to go to Thailand for work, to do a press check on a book we were publishing. My boss agreed to my request to take a couple of weeks of vacation there after my responsibilities were finished, and I got to planning my trip. I had little advance warning (just a few weeks) and quickly realized I’d be going alone — none of my friends could get time off from work on such short notice. Undeterred,  I reserved hotels in Bangkok and Chiang Mai and researched the train schedule that would get me between the two. I booked a flight to Siem Reap in Cambodia to see Angkor Wat, not knowing if I’d ever be so near again. As far as I was concerned, I was planning the trip of a lifetime.

And it was, without a doubt. But even before I left home, I noticed a recurring theme from a lot of the people I told about the trip: amazement that I was flying halfway around the world, to a county that had just experienced a coup, alone. I was told it was bold, and brave, and fearless. Once I was there, everyone seemed shocked to meet an American woman traveling alone in Asia. (Apparently, it would have been less stunning if I were European, or perhaps Australian.) I was such a novelty that a group of Buddhist monks in Cambodia wanted to have their picture taken with me, to prove that they had seen such a thing.

Not surprisingly, I found this hilarious, and more than a little strange, because it hadn’t occurred to me that making the trip required any sort of fearlessness until people started mentioning it. I wasn’t afraid to be making the trip, therefore, I wasn’t being fearless — I was just doing what I wanted to do.

I don’t remember exactly when or how I developed that attitude — I just know that at some point I realized that being afraid was an incredibly lame reason not to do things I wanted to do or see places I wanted to see. From that point on, whenever I would hesitate to do something because I was fearful, I would remind myself that fear was, for me, not an acceptable out, and I would force myself to do it. Eventually, I got to the point where I needed a reminder less and less, because I at some point I stopped overcoming fear and just stopped being afraid.

Mostly, anyway. I’ve got it narrowed down to spiders, heights, and walking up to strangers and saying hello. And I’m working on those. Well, not the spiders. I don’t think being afraid of them is negatively impacting my life in any way.

Ready to take a swing at the world!

A few weeks ago I shared a post from my friend Lauree to kick off my personal series on being fearless, taking inspiration from my organization’s commitment to the movement. You’ll be seeing more from my friends in coming months, but for now, I wanted to share my own thoughts on what it has meant to Be Fearless for me in the past, what it means now, and what it could mean in the future.

As a little girl, I jumped into the swamps of Louisiana without a care for the alligators and snakes that could bite or kill me. I wanted to ride the boat or the jet ski or the bumper cars or four wheeler faster and farther. I loved playing hide and seek in the dark with my cousins in the old barns and sugarcane fields.

As I grew older, I learned not to jump in the swamp anymore, and became terrified of things like haunted trails, but I did them anyway. I jumped at loud noises, but still wanted to ride the fastest and highest roller coasters. I tried different sports, but wasn’t fierce about any, even when I thought basketball was life. I was more into living vicariously through the characters in my novels, like Laura Ingalls Wilder and Anne of Green Gables, or Anne Frank. The most fearless thing I did in high school was deciding that I wanted to be adopted by my (then) stepdad. It was the best decision I ever made.

In college, I went skydiving my freshman year. I broke all the rules I had abided by growing up — stayed out late, partied, slacked on studying at times. In junior year, I started dating the quiet guy from my freshman dorm that had become my best friend. Right before junior year ended, I decided I was going to finish school a semester early. That led to me making a decision in early 2007 to move to DC, with no job, not much in my bank account, and only knowing one friend. It was the second best decision I ever made.

Near the swamp, not in the swamp.

Five years later, I’m on my third job, I’ve made friends, lost friends, and lost love. But I also went on some great trips, challenged myself physically (surfing! half marathons!), and professionally. Although some of these changes and experiences were painful, they were also fearless for me, and for who I was at the time. In the end, they were the best decisions for me, because I took risks, I wasn’t afraid to fail, and I was dreaming big about who I could be. Collectively, they have brought joy and satisfaction to my life.

So what now? What’s next? How do I continue my journey to Be Fearless in a way defines it for me — not for anyone else? I’ll keep riding roller coasters, I’ll run a marathon, I’ll speak in front of hundreds of people. I’ll tell people how I feel, even if I may get hurt. I may move again, or start an entirely new career. I will love again, and likely lose again. But I’ll also gain something from each and every choice, and as long as I do, then I’ll keep being fearless.

13.1 miles: done

Last fall, I said I wanted to push my limits and sign up for a half marathon. Yesterday, I ran my first 13.1 mile race, the Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon in DC…and I will say that it easily is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done, and one of my proudest moments. To some, a half may not seem like a big deal, especially to advanced runners. But to me, it was one more step to Be Fearless this year — especially knowing that at one time, I hated running.

I’ve written before about why I run, and now a little more than two years into doing races, those days when I dreaded going out for some laps seem so long ago. Now, when I miss a couple of days, it feels like I missed a meal, or I forgot to put on my watch. When I hear that friends are signing up for running programs or races, I get excited, because I know how positive they’ll feel once they start. Case in point: my good friend Kim ran her first race, the St. Patty’s Day 8k, a couple of weeks ago, to celebrate one year of being smoke-free, and to end her Couch to 5k program. I was supposed to run it with her, but had to go out of town last minute, but nonetheless, two other friends joined her and crossed the finish line with her. I’m proud of you, Kim! That 8k was my first race two years ago. Additionally, my friend Alanna ran her first race with me, a 10k, this past fall, ran another one soon after that, and signed up for the half with me and two of her friends (that’s all of us in the picture). There was so much excitement when we all met up after finishing the race, all of us proud because we each ran the entire thing, and had inspired each other, and ourselves, to Be Fearless.

After a half of course, comes the talk about what’s next. Some say they’re ready for the next one, some say they would never do a marathon. Some say they were crazy for doing the half in the first place. Everyone has their own comfort level of course. Mine? I immediately thought of signing up for the Woodrow Wilson Half in the fall, and thought that maybe in a year, I could come back to do the full Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon. You can do anything you put your mind to, of course. I’m sore, and I was tired, but it was a happy sore and tired. I had never run more than 10 miles a few times, and I went into the race wanting to run the whole thing, and although my legs were all spaghetti for a few minutes after, I enjoyed my French toast and Bloody Mary later because I deserved it!

I said I would run a half, and I did. Etc. etc. etc.

We definitely ran for brunch!

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How will I live fearlessly this year?

My first answer: I won’t.

Fearless – living without fear – sounds like a hero in an epic movie like Braveheart or Gladiator.

I’m more like Tom Hanks in Saving Private Ryan. I’d rather yell “get me out of here,” than face awful things. If I can’t be granted that, then I’ll begrudgingly do it.

How’s that for inspiration from a life coach?

I write about fear a lot. I face fear a lot. A recent blog post took me weeks to publish out of fear…of what the response might be, of how much I exposed about myself.

But, I published it.

If that is living fearlessly, than that’s what I do.

I have a mantra that began years ago while having surgery to remove a benign brain tumor: “I’m Scared & Doing it Anyway.” I believe that you can take fear by the hand and walk through the door. Fear is there. You see it. I see it. Move forward with it.

It’s living with fear, rather than without it.

Fear is there to keep you safe. Usually the thing you want most is not in the safe, comfortable territory you’re already in. So you and fear need a little chat: Yes, we want that…shiny new whatever. Yes, it’s outside of our comfort zone. Yes, it’s worth it. Let’s do it.

Back to living fearlessly. This year I will:

• Be my own best friend. I will notice how I treat myself, what I tell myself, and choose better. The more I believe I’m worthy of loving kindness and generosity – and treat myself that way – the more I will receive it.

• Date. (I may have just broken out in hives.) I will go on dates this year and meet a great guy. For some reason I’m scared about it right now, which means I need to do it. Gulp.

• Challenge what is possible. There is no reason to settle. If I’m “trying to make it work,” whatever it is, it is a sign to find another way.

Being scared and doing it anyway, and living fearlessly, all comes down to starting. I will start this year. I will put one foot in front of the other. I will open to a blank page and write.

Who knows what will happen next?

Happy living fearfully to you.

In the swamp

Anyone that knows me knows how much I value my family. As an only child, I’m very close to my parents, and as the only “only” in my huge family, I was very close to my cousins growing up, and to all of my aunts and uncles. Moving away from my home state of Louisiana at a young age made it hard to stay close over the years, so I cherish every phone call, email, or visit with my relatives. I was fortunate enough to see both an uncle and an aunt this weekend in DC when they were passing through on business, and of course, there is always some reminiscing.

People who know me also know how much I love my Cajun heritage: with that comes our love of gathering over food, especially boiled seafood. So with that being said, at the risk of embarrassment, I’m going to share a story that I wrote in high school about one of my fondest memories growing up with my family in Louisiana — hanging out at my aunt’s camp on the lake and having a crab boil. The story itself doesn’t represent one particular day, but is more of a conglomeration of memories from over the years. It remains one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written, and when I do get together with my family for a crab or crawfish boil, I’m in my element, and at my happiest. So, please enjoy this little piece of me… lagniappe:

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Cajuns, Crabs, and Comfort

I was on my way home from a friend’s one afternoon, and I was in one of those nostalgic moods, the kind where everything suddenly seems dreamy and sad and I kept thinking about my innocent days as a child. Going forty-five on the road just before my neighborhood, I passed the familiar building which always has the two jet-skis parked out front. Usually I just think, “Oh, I wish I had a jet ski,” and drive on. This time was different. It brought me back to a place I used to go: a place of happiness, of family, and of love.

“Who wants crabs?” Aunt Denny’s rhetorical question rings out from inside the screened porch. Would anyone in this family ever not want crabs?

“MEEeeee!” about fifty people yell, and everyone scrambles to grab a blue plastic tray and a knife. Hot, sticky bodies playfully shove each other as we all try to get the best pick—the biggest, juiciest, reddest crab we can find.  Good-natured teasing and swatting of knives ensue and the POP! of more Coors Lights being opened blends in with the banter of this jovial family.

Lil’ Bo’s voice booms out from the back of the line, “Y’all better not be eatin’ all my crabs, ya hear?” We chuckle and someone makes a wisecrack back at him, leading to the usual round of cat-and-mouse. Speaking from experience, it’s better not to try and argue with Bozie because you won’t win.

Seafood boil

Standing in the line that is moving along quite slowly thanks to some of the kids being pickier than others, I glance around and take in my surroundings. Lake Verret isn’t what some people would call a pretty place, but to me it’s beautiful. Aunt Denny’s old whitewashed camp sits right on the edge of the swampy lake with the cypress trees growing at the back step, and the moss providing the perfect amount of shade. A rickety weathered dock runs out into the lake where the kids jump onto the Sea-Doo and frantically scramble up the ladder when they feel a snake in the murky water. It’s like a scene straight from The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, a book made into a movie about four women growing up in Louisiana. Only this is much better, and it’s real.

“Ready, Jen?” Aunt Denny holds the tongs over the steaming pile of crab, the corn on the cob and spiced potatoes mixed in generously.

“Oh, yeah, any of them are fine, thanks.”  I take my tray with the crabs, grab a cold Coke, and wander back outside to find an open spot to eat. There isn’t much room left considering I was at the end of the line, so I settle on a stump at the edge of the property, ready to dig in. The pounding of knives and cracking of crab claws fills my ears and everyone seems to be shouting at once, just like always. Some of my younger cousins remain in the water shrieking and splashing each other with seaweed. Breaking off the first claw of a boiled crab, I’m happy to see a big chunk of white meat protruding from the end. I always try to break the claws so that the sliver of meat is exposed. This is one of the finer points of eating crab that I learned from my grandfather at an early age.  Slowly pushing the fluffy meat into my mouth, I gingerly pull it out of the claw, savoring the juices it is drenched in. Heaven. No doubt about it, boiled crab is one of the best foods in the world. Tender, light and spicy, it can almost melt in your mouth if cooked properly.

A light but hot breeze blows in my face, pushing my hair back from my moist forehead. The Coke isn’t doing a good job of cooling me off; I’m soaked with sweat. Louisiana humidity is like having a personal sauna at your inconvenience. I watch as my older cousins Richie and Stevie exchange tips on cooking, something at which they both excel. Their sun-browned hands make great stirring motions as they gesture when describing common Cajun-style ingredients. The numerous poodles that my relatives own run freely around us, sniffing at our plates and hoping to get a lick of our fingers. MaMa is sitting on the swing with Aunt Nell, both of them eating and talking at the same time. From time to time Aunt Bernie’s maniacal laugh breaks through the thick layer of moisture that saturates the air. I heave an immense sigh of contentment and wish that we could all stay right here forever.

I slow down as I round the curve on the last stretch before home. Smiling, I recall the atmosphere at the lake and the overwhelming sense of comfort. Everyone looked happy, sounded happy and felt happy. It was a storybook setting being with the people I love in a place I love, just soaking up the moment. Those were the times when I began to realize what family is all about and I wanted to take in as much as I could.  Laughter, teasing, swimming, cold drinks and good food—all ingredients that flavor my family. Although over the years our reunions became fewer in number, each time we got together it was as if no time had passed. We always can pick up right where we left off, continuing a joke from years before or reminiscing about another fun-filled gathering. Even though many of my cousins have families of their own and we are all leading busy lives, we know that we can escape to a place of comfort and affection where we will all be together and have a good time. If there’s love in a family, it’s always crab-eating time.

What are the reasons we stay? What does someone say, may it be a friend, boyfriend/girlfriend, neglectful family member, whomever, that make us stay and give them another chance? When do we reach our limit? What if one reason isn’t enough anymore and we need more?

Over the years I’ve thought about what makes me give in to relationships (be they romantic, platonic, or genetic) and give it one more shot. What words have been spoken, promises made, gestures shown, to make me turn around and come back and see if things get better? Perhaps it was an apology, perhaps it was the “but they’re such a good person” feeling, or the guilt creeping in, making me feel like I’m the bad person for wanting out. Sometimes I don’t know the reason, but I go back anyway…only to be disappointed again.

But none of the reasons have been worth it. That’s the whole point of the song, right? “I told you that I love you, and there ain’t no more to say.” If only it were that simple — we could just say I love you and things would get better. That the people hurting us, whether they realize it or not, intend to or not, would just magically fix things and we go skipping off into the sunset together. But the reality is that the reasons often don’t come through, and we’re left shaking our heads, turning away in disappointment, and wondering what could have been.

And for me…it’s often still not enough. I still want to fix it. I still want to be the one that makes it better, to figure out what’s wrong, why things aren’t working. It could be the meanest person in the world, and I’m the one wanting to make them nicer, wanting to know how I can be better for them.

I’ve worked hard in the last few years to realize that it can’t always be me, and it often shouldn’t be. That sometimes, there’s nothing I can fix, nothing I can make better, and hardest of all to hear — no reason for me to stay. Because staying will only make it worse, and staying won’t make me happier. So sometimes, it’s stopping and saying, hey, you asked for a reason to stay, and you didn’t get one…so it’s time to turn around — and not come back.

How do you know when that time is? We often don’t know, at least not right away. I’m famous for trying one more time, waiting a bit longer, and hoping someone will realize they’re messing up. It’s tiring, yet I’m that person still. Maybe because I have hope. Maybe because I’m a fool. In the end though, it’s as simple as remembering that I deserve better. And because I deserve better, and you deserve better, I ask for one reason I should stay — and if there is no answer, then I turn around. Because someone else down the road will have a reason, perhaps many reasons, that I should stay, and love them and be loved.

The view from Sugarloaf

A year ago, I created a DC bucket list for my fifth year here, as a I celebrated my fourth anniversary of moving to the city. Below is the original list with the items I’ve completed crossed off. So I still have the remaining items to check off, and I’ve also added a few more things I want to do as I embark on my sixth year in DC. Thanks to all who have joined me in my bucket list adventures (and sorry to those that I haven’t yet arranged something with!) – I’m now accepting rolling offers to complete the rest and ideas to add to it! This year I will be much more diligent; I learned my lesson from the 11 things by 11/11/11 journey. And check out my Top 11 of 2011 for a short recap of what happened in my fifth year.

Must Do for Year 5

• Go to the top of the Washington Monument
• Eat at Art & Soul
• Visit Ben’s Chili Bowl (I’ve only had it at Nats Stadium)
• Attend a Caps game
• See a concert at Verizon Center
• Hike the Sugarloaf trail (thanks, Kim!)
  
• Visit Mt. Vernon
• Visit the Library of Congress
• Visit the Supreme Court
• Run the Capital Crescent trail
• Do a night monument tour  (technically complete as I did a night run around the Mall.)
• See a full show at the Kennedy Center (only saw a Millennium Stage show once)
• See a play at the Shakespeare Theater  (ahh- I came so close to this!)
• Eat at Ray’s Hell Burger
• Visit the botanical garden
• Visit all the museums that I’ve missed so far
• Visit the National Archives

In addition to the yet-to-do above, here are some new ones for the list for year 6:

• See a show at the 9:30 Club
• Go ice skating in the sculpture garden
• Attend a DC United game
• Eat at all the Jose Andres restaurants that I haven’t covered yet
• Eat at Old Ebbitt Grill
• Fly a kite on the Mall
• Visit the Goethe Institut
• Attend an embassy event

I have my work cut out for me! Thanks DC for another great year, and I look forward to another amazing one!

Photo credit: spuddybuddies.com

When we are feeling rejected by someone or something, it’s easy to get down on ourselves and come up with all the reasons why it happened to us. It’s easy to try to rationalize someone else’s actions or decisions or find ways to defend them, even if they hurt us. It’s also common for us to settle for something less than great because we just want to feel accepted or appreciated, no matter the costs.

But we deserve better. You deserve better. I deserve better.

Think about it: a friend isn’t exactly being a good friend – they never call you back, they always have an excuse, maybe they failed to recognize some major moments in your life lately. You say, “Well, but they’re busy,” or “But they usually are a good friend.” Or perhaps you went on a few dates with someone, and started to get interested, and then they lie about something, or lead you on to think it’s something more. “Well, but they’re a nice guy/girl,” or “I should have known better.” Maybe a family member has continued to let you down over the years, but because they’re family, you let it slide.

We shouldn’t let it slide, anymore. What happened to honesty being the best policy? What happened to our friends being that – good friends? What about family who is supposed to be there for you instead of against you?

It’s in my blood to want closure when things don’t work out with people in my life, whether it’s friends, boyfriends, family members, or even coworkers. I want to get it all on the table, I want apologies said where necessary, I want to hug or shake hands and be able to move on. I hate just letting things go without clearing the air, but because of that, I also tend to give people a lot of second and third, maybe fourth and fifth chances. There are some people in my life I’ve given way too many passes, and it’s bitten me in the butt in return.

But then my lovely friend K reminds me that I deserve better. She says I’m too hard on myself. She tells me that when something doesn’t work with a guy, it’s because he’s not the guy for me, and that it’s not about me. She urges me to not deal with people who don’t want to put in the effort, who don’t appreciate me in the way I deserve to be appreciated. And it’s not because I’m more special than anyone else, or deserve more than anyone else, but it’s because I deserve the same things, really, that you deserve: respect, and honesty, and integrity, and love, and time. Because I’m a woman who lives and loves just like everyone else, with dreams, and goals, and good days and bad days, and because I should get something in return from my relationships, like we all want and need.

Remind yourself what you deserve. Remind others what you deserve and ask for it. It’s like I said before, if you want something, you have to go after it, and this is just as important as anything else. And don’t forget to give others what they deserve, too.