How the Preparation for an Event Adds to its Joy

Tonight, I've thought a lot about the similarities between Christmas Day and a wedding day. In preparing for Christmas each year, so much planning goes into the decorations, the baking, the meals, the presents, Christmas morning, and navigating commitments. For weeks, we focus on and work towards one day. That one day means a few hours filled with family. An hour at a Christmas service. Food eaten in moments. Gifts ripped open in seconds. Weeks of planning dissolve quickly. But they're moments of memories. Experiences tattooed on our minds that never leave us.

As a child, the weeks of December meant an overwhelming excitement as each day crept. As a grad student, going home for Christmas meant excising myself from all of the new and challenging and forward-focus to settling into the warmth of tradition and familiarity. As a young parent, it meant experiencing the wonder and magic of the holiday again. 

Of course, above all, Christmas is important because of its celebration of the birth of Jesus. Many complain of its commercialization, and, I agree, it's beyond crazy. But regardless of the creepy, blow-up, arm-waving Santas, most people know about the origin of the Christmas holiday. Understand that its roots are deeper than mistletoe and stockings. 

After Jamie proposed to me, I spent seven months planning our wedding. We decided on a venue, a photographer, a videographer, my dress, the menu, the goodie bags, the band for the reception...everything down to the flowers on each table. But those seven months weren't a burden. Every moment spent planning for a four-hour celebration only intensified the experience. If I'd passed the baton to someone else and said, "Plan my wedding. I'll simply show up," the night wouldn't have meant as much. To know that each thought put into making it special for not only Jamie and I, but every one we love, made those few, fleeting hours more special.

Christmas is the same. The few hours go quickly, but the weeks leading up to it create a mind-set and experience that transform us and create lasting memories. In December, we sit in anticipation  of the holidays. We hum and smile at strangers. We glean the joy and human connection that oftentimes lies dormant. 

 We find joy in both the journey and the destination. We savor the preparation as much as the few hours of the day. Both bring happiness and create memories that last a lifetime. But in feeling the exhale in the after, let's remember that it doesn't end with the experience. The events are simply a gateway to a life committed. A reminder to look outward instead of inward. To put others before ourselves.

Grace and Perspective

Addison Roads', "Grace," is a beautiful song about perspective and the catalyst grace serves to move you forward. The lyrics poetically portray the juxtaposition experienced when we see something from our past. In the song, it's the home the songwriter grew up in. For me, it's more auditory than visual. Over the past few weeks, I've heard "Merry Christmas, Darling" by the Carpenters on the radio. My mind always fractures. Part of me is back in 1978. It's Christmas morning. The house smells of ham and cookies and cinnamon. My mom is in the kitchen getting ready for our entire extended family while my brothers and I play with the goodies left by Santa.

The other part of me smarts at the pain of my Mom's death in August. When I was in my 20's and heard "Merry Christmas, Darling," it made me smile. Reminded me that I would soon be home with my family for the holidays. Now, it's a painful reminder of all the Christmases my Mom lost to her dementia and will never experience. Christmas mornings filled with children's laughter as they open their gifts. Stories and smiles over coffee. The lazy comfort of simply being together with no where to go and nothing to do.

In the past few months as I've worked through the conflicting  emotions of my Mom's death--sadness, relief that she's at peace, joy at knowing she's finally home--it feels as though things have moved so quickly. Like I'm on one of those moving sidewalks in the airport. She was sick for so long and now she's gone. The piece of me that desperately clung to her memory as she devolved into her disease let go. Because she won't get sicker. I won't wake up everyday waiting to hear if today was the day. Knowing she is at peace makes me at peace. But after fifteen years of losing a bit of her every day, the suddenness of her death feels like an abrupt ending. Like a novel you've been reading that just stops. The road you've been racing down just ends. It causes a kind of disorientation. When such a large part of your emotional every day is gone, the void feels like both a gift and an emptiness.

So there is Grace. Webster's has two definitions. The first defines it simply as a way of moving that is smooth. The second defines it as unmerited divine assistance given to people for their regeneration. To me, the two definitions aren't independent, but extensions of one another. Getting through tough times in a way that actually moves you forward and does so in a fluid way requires divine assistance. My family has experienced much pain. The loss of my Mom, the loss of my brother, the loss of my daughter. Oftentimes, crossing the bridge from today to tomorrow seems daunting. But I will do it. Because of Grace. I will merge my fractured mind and move forward embracing every memory and everyday.

There's Nothing Simple about Simplicity

"Simplicity is not the absence of clutter. It's refining and being able to define the very essence of something."  
John Ive, Senior V.P. of Design at Apple, Inc.

We use objects, systems and tools everyday that simplify our life and make things easy. Twenty years ago when I graduated from law school, I didn't have a cell phone, an email account, voicemail, social media or the internet. To type a paper, I had to use the Computer Lab at school because no one had a personal computer. The "world wide web" was in its infancy.

Today, I carry an iPhone that weighs ¼ of a pound but can access my email, my voicemail, my social networks, the internet, the prescriptions I need to refill at the drugstore, my Starbucks card that I no longer need to physically carry, my bank account, satellite GPS, traffic conditions, weather conditions, stock market conditions...and can talk to me when I ask it questions. Smartphones illustrate the essence of the complexity behind simplicity.

Can you read? You're reading this (thank you!). We read all day everyday. A simple skill essential to accessing and executing most everything that we do. From food shopping, banking, reading road signs and communicating. Twenty-six letters strung together in various combinations allow us to do all of these things. Twenty-six letters. And only ten numbers. With 26 letters and 10 numbers, we write books, craft national budgets, create algorithms, study science and disease. Worlds open. They improve. Through the simplicity of the tools honed to allow the most efficient connection and communication.

Things that appear seamless never are and certainly aren't an example of simplicity. Systems, tools, even relationships aren't simple because they lack clutter or complexity or problems. They're simple because time was invested to define the essence and purpose of something and then refine it. From the apple that you slice and enjoy to the Apple that you trust with every appointment, document, creative venture and photo, neither is "simple." Because there is no such thing as simplicity. Simplicity is simply the result of mastering complexity.

The True Focus of the Holidays

Tonight, I watched "Elementary," a modern-day drama of a New York-based savant detective, Sherlock Holmes. In the episode, he's annoyed that his partner wants him to have dinner with his chef brother who's prepared an elegant meal for him. Sherlock asserts to his partner that he detests the idea of an elaborate dinner because "The ritualization/fetishization of food is as an egregious waste of time as I can think of."

Yes, fictional Sherlock, I agree! I've propounded for years that we unnecessarily focus the quality time with our friends and family around food. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Birthdays. Any holiday. Even just getting together to watch a football game is about food. The meal. We spend countless hours planning menus, preparing things ahead of time. Then, when we actually all get together as a family, the meal takes minutes. Maybe half an hour. Instead of sitting around and simply enjoying one another, we (particularly women) spend the majority of our holidays in the kitchen either cooking, serving, or cleaning up.

What if we could simply get together and sit and talk. Share our lives. Enjoy the pleasure of uninterrupted conversation. What if instead of making Thanksgiving and Christmas about the meal we brought in pizza and enjoyed time just talking. Laughing. Being a family.

In many parts of the world, food is a necessity. In ours, it's a luxury. So many go to sleep every night hungry. What if we--those of us who never go to bed hungry, who have ice cream before bed, who get a $4 coffee from Starbucks everyday--sat with our families without the distraction of menus and courses and clean-up and embraced being together. Thankful. Instead of ritualizing and fetishizing food and making it the centerpiece of the time we spend with those we love most, why don't we simply take a step back. Order take out or eat peanut-butter sandwiches and focus on the actual point of this season. It's about family not food.

Finding Comfort in Simple Things

Tonight, I watched my puppy, Ellie, play with her toy squirrel. Backstory, we adopted Ellie two years ago from the Humane League. She was six-years-old and came to us from a foster home. My friend, Cherisse, spent months loving her and nursing Ellie's emaciated self back to health. When we brought her home, the one belonging she had was her toy squirrel. 

With an almost seven year history we weren't part of, Ellie's personality was created by people we'd never know. Quite frankly, she's nuts. From the moment the sun comes up, she's screeching at bunnies. Barking frantically at any light that refuses to be stationary. And is compelled to jump not only on you, but on your chest. In your face. With a determination that you aren't staying asleep because there's way too much going on right now that you need to know about.

Yet, when she's tired or finally goes to a quiet place, she finds her squirrel. She lays on the floor and lovingly, gently gnaws at it. Usually, when I leave the room, she follows me. She has an internal GPS that alerts her when Mommy's more than 10 feet away. But when she has her squirrel, she finds such comfort that it takes her a few minutes to realize that I'm out of her imposed "zone of safety." 

Last night, my honey and I watched "The Voice." An amazing kid from Alabama sang his heart out. Typical country sound. But when they asked him questions and he spoke, I chewed on my squirrel. First, I heard him say, "Thank you" to the production intern that opened the door for him. Then, when questioned by the judges, every verb with an "i" was articulated with an "a." He said, "I thank" for "I think" and added syllables and said, "Yes, sir." I chewed on my squirrel a bit more.

I moved from Alabama when I was 20 and went away to Emory Law. It's been over two decades since then, but when I hear the sweet nectar of a Southern accent, my heart smiles. 

We all have our squirrel. That thing that no matter where we are or what we're doing in our lives, it puts us in a place of comfort and safety. For me, it's the lyrical sound of a Southern drawl. Like when my friend, Matt Parks, in a Creative Team meeting says "dill" for "deal." Or "pen" for "pin." I'm home.

How Our Senses Bring Life To Our Past

Memory is a funny thing. So often it eludes us. "What was her name?" "What street is that on?" "Who sings that song?" Little pieces of information float around in our heads. How convenient would it be if everything was filed away and easily accessible? But so often we find ourselves in the middle of a conversation and forgetting our point. Or walking into a room and wondering why we went into it in the first place.

Yet, a song, a smell, a situation can throw you back in time and sit you right back into that place. My mom used to wear Ciara perfume. Everyday. I hardly stumble on it anymore, but when I do, it's as if she's standing beside me. Music has the same power to be a time machine. If Madonna's "Like A Prayer" ever comes on the radio, it's 1989 and I'm driving down the road with my best friend, Kathleen, singing at the top of our lungs. I'm back in that moment if only for a few seconds.

Last Sunday, only one month after placing my Mom to rest, I attended the funeral of a woman I'd never met. But she was the sister of someone I admire and care for deeply. Attending the services was a vastly different experience. My Mom's was a video tribute to her life followed by a Christian minister's words. The other service involved a Rabbi describing an amazing life, accented by the beautiful, soulful song of a cantor. Sitting in the moment of celebrating this life yanked me back to just a few weeks ago when I said good-bye to my own Mom. The emotions that surfaced were visceral.

We often try to push through tough experiences. It's a survival instinct. But when we do, we create memories that are warped. We push our emotions down and vow to deal with them later. In doing so, we end up forever changing the lens through which we see certain things. Our memories dilute or amplify depending on the circumstance. Subjective and molded by the emotions we refused to confront.

When I think of my Mom's death, I want to create in my mind memories that preceded illness. I want to remember holding her hand as we walked into the bread shop. Her kissing me goodnight. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies and her perfume.

What's so wonderful about the sensory nature of memory is that even though she's gone, simple things bring her back. Right next to me.

When Your Children Pull Your Focus Outward Instead of Inward

I've written before that ideas are like butterflies. They flitter around and hopefully land on you. When they do, you must watch them carefully and focus on their beauty. Soaking it in. Because within seconds, they're gone.

People I know who write speak of a muse. That illusive thing that taps you on the shoulder and makes you look one way, then forces you to look another. That causes you to pause and reconsider your orientation. How you sit in this world and your focus.

Last night, I wanted to write about a Zac Brown lyric I'd heard. But my beautiful, nine-year-old ADHD son wanted me to listen to quotes from the movie he was watching. Just as the wave of a thought washed over me, he'd scream, "Mom, listen to this." And the thought was gone. The muse an apparition.

I'm not upset about this. My thoughts are my thoughts. Ever-changing and subject to the influx of information and influence. While my sweet baby boy, and his words, need to be embraced in their innocence and honesty.

So I sat down to expound upon a country lyric, but am instead relishing in the interruption that is the beauty of my son's love and life. The thoughts that flitter like butterflies will always be there. Looking for a landing place. But my children's need for my attention will not.