Before marketing and fundraising, I worked in service.

After spending a summer waiting tables at Texas Roadhouse in Ft. Myers, Florida, I came back north for my sophomore year of college, and picked up a waitressing gig at Ruby Tuesday in Trumbull, Connecticut.

One week, I picked up as many extra shifts as my class schedule would allow.  My car had shit the bed, and I put it in the shop knowing full well I didn’t yet have the cash to cover the repairs.

I closed out a week of busting my hump with a double – working opening to close on a Sunday.

My first table of the day was a fairly young couple with a newborn, out just for the sake of getting out.  They ordered water with lemon and soup and salad.  The bill came to something like $23.

They paid with a credit card, I ran it, and when I picked up the signed receipt I noticed they wrote down the total of their bill on the tip line – with the grand total then doubling their bill.

I immediately went back to them:

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said.  “You didn’t mean to tip the whole bill, see…”

They chuckled.

“It’s not a mistake,” the new Dad said.  “You did a great job, and we’ve both worked our fair share of chain gigs.”

“You earned it,” the new Mom added.

I remember crying a little and telling them about my car, and about how much the tip meant.  They were genuinely happy to give it.

Today, I found myself out at lunch with a dear friend.

It’s always a gift to be her presence, and I was thrilled to be able to gift us a great lunch out, due to the fact that another person who means a great deal to me, had gifted me a $75 gift card to a great restaurant.

When our bill came, and it turned out that we’d only spent about half of the gift card, I was instantly transported to that Sunday at Ruby Tuesday, and knew exactly what to do with remaining $30.

Our kind and excellent server came back twice to say thank you, and his sincere gratitude was a whole other gift entirely.

Turns out, when it comes to the big tip, being on either side of the table feels pretty damn good.

I went for a long walk after dinner.

The kind that works up a good sweat, and let’s me brush up against the young, driven thing I was in the summer of ’99: a recent Conant High School grad, on my way to Sacred Heart University in the fall.

My freshman year was also the first year that SHU competed at a Division I level.  I hadn’t been recruited to play field hockey, but when I wrote the coach asking if walk-ons were permitted to try-out, she sent me the summer training manual.

I followed it as best I could.  I didn’t have access to an actual training facility, so, I improvised.  I made my own water weights and sprinted laps in my parents’ expansive backyard while my then 8 year-old sister, Maria kept pace on her bike.

It must’ve worked, because (miraculously), I made the team.

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of second guessing.  Contemplating why I can’t seem to pick a direction, build a strategy, and just stay with it…

Then I went on tonight’s walk, and caught up with that wide-eyed kid, and it occurred to me: I’m a walk-on.

I’m not the kid who knew at eight, or 10, or even 16 or 17, that she wanted to play collegiate athletics at the highest level.  All I knew, when I saw that door open, was that I wanted to walk through it.  So, I did.

There are some of us, I believe, who know very early and very definitely what they want to do, where they are intended to go, and who they have always been.

I’m just not one of them.

I’m a walker and a wanderer, who just needs to gently remind herself, to keep a look out for open doors.

My son and I ended up at my mother’s today.  The trip wasn’t planned, but worked out really well.

While my parents prepped their garden, Briggs and I played hockey and Wiffle ball in between snacking on fruit salad and graham crackers.  Toward the middle of the afternoon my Grandmother (who lives just up the street) came down, sat in as catcher, and after all of us had enough of the heat, we made our way inside to catch the bottom of the 9th.

The Red Sox were taking on the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards.  We won.  Briggs was happy.  Burgers went on the grill.

After dinner, the six of us took a ride to visit my Papa’s grave at the Massachusetts Veterans’ Memorial Cemetery.  On the way there, Briggs asked where we were going and why, and I told him.

I’m not sure that Briggs remembers Papa.  He wasn’t even yet two when my Grandfather left this world.  I am positive though, that he knows my Grandmother, his Great Grammy, and he knows that Great Grammy and Papa go together.  And he loves the picture that Great Grammy has in her house of Papa holding him as a preemie…and so, he knows enough.

He knows there is love.  Endless, unconditional love.

After my Mom placed a bouquet next to Papa’s headstone, she asked Briggs to run back to our car to fetch my phone.  She wanted a picture.

Briggs happily obliged and as I started to follow him back to where we were parked, he turned around and said:

“Mom, I got this.”

The car was in clear view, so I let him go on alone.  I watched him carefully navigate the paths around the other headstones, and then I watched him stop short of the car.  Initially, he’d passed this one particular headstone, just as he had all the others, but this one called him back.

The flowers that someone had loving set up beside this headstone had toppled over.  Briggs quietly returned to fix them – unaware that I or anyone else was watching him.

I know that Papa is not in that field, but his spirit of generosity, kindness, and service certainly shined through my boy early this evening – and for the first time I got a good, clear view into what legacy looks like.

Right before I had Briggs, new neighbors moved in next door.

A lovely couple with grown children, who immediately settled into their colonial, by ripping up the backyard.

I can’t remember exactly when Ken and I met them.  I was on bedrest when they moved in, and during our son’s 61-day stay in the newborn intensive care unit, I wasn’t very “present” was I was away from him at home.

Though, sometime after Briggs was finally cleared to be out in the world (following an emergency surgery and full recovery at Boston Children’s Hospital), the couple came over.

They brought soft swaddling blankets and the most darling outfit donning ducks.

I remember apologizing for not being more social, sooner – which is when this kind, thin, but strong gardner gently shook her head and said:

“No, no. No apologies.  I knew when we saw the balloons on the mailbox, but no baby for quite some time that he was preemie.  My son came early, too.  The worry is overwhelming, but I can tell, even from over there, that you’re a very good Mom.  I totally understand if you’re not letting others hold him yet, but I’d be so honored to do so.”

I cried a little and told her that Briggs loved being held – as long as she was okay with washing her hands and forearms in the kitchen sink, drying them off, and then “pumping in” with some Purell.

She happily obliged, and then she rocked my son.

Through the years, she and her husband have watched our son grow from that tiny preemie, to a rough and tumble kid hitting Wiffle balls over their fence.  And, Ken, Briggs and I have watched them literally grow the most beautiful twinkling sanctuary (filled with every kind of native New England flower you can imagine), from a lot of gnarly vine and overgrown weeds.

Tonight was the first time that I (really) realized that Briggs’s bedroom overlooks their backyard.

How fitting, I thought.  A reminder, for both sides, that what you focus on truly does grow.

(PS – To borrow from Ani Defranco, our neighbor’s yard (especially at night) possess the kind of beauty that moves – so while the picture does it no justice, I believe your imagination can do the trick…or maybe just come over sometime. :))

I started a yoga and meditation practice about eight months ago.

It was a last ditch effort.

Diagnosed with Depression and General Anxiety Disorder, I had finally hit a breaking point.  Wrecked with constant, toxic worry, first I could barely sleep, and then I couldn’t stop sleeping.  I lost my appetite, my drive, and my creativity – all of which pushed me deeper into a panic that soon, I would lose my family.

I remember confessing (over and over) to my husband that it was only a matter of time before he left.  How could he or anyone else possibly stand for this – for my – crazy?

One morning, as I was literally convulsing with the anxiety over having to go to work and know how to do things, I asked Ken, point-blank how much more of this could he stand.

He was concerned and frustrated, but never wavered.

“You know that scene in the Departed, where Matt Damon talks about being Irish and able to be miserable forever?”

“Yeah,” I managed.

“If this is the best it ever gets, I’m still not going anywhere.  Get what I’m saying?”

I nodded and understood, but at the time still couldn’t process how I could possibly be worth that much.

Very soon after that I took out a yoga DVD from the library.  I was fortunate enough to be married to a man who loved me through the worst – so, I decided to try my best.

I would take my medicine.  I would go to therapy.  I would write my pages, and I would explore yoga and meditation.

What I like most about yoga and meditation is that it releases me from having to do it “right” – or even well.  They are practices.  Constant practices.  There is no room for perfection and competition (which took some time to really be okay with).

My practices vary.  I go through spurts when I make it to my mat for at least an hour a day, every day.  There are spurts when my mat stays wrapped up in the corner.  There are spurts when I connect with my breath and sink deep into peace and relaxation.  And there are spurts when I come to meditate only to find my grocery list racing around my mind.

Regardless, these are practices I continually come back to.

And yesterday, during a sound therapy workshop, I knew something wonderful had happened when – just for about a second – I achieved non-thought.  A glorious, divine moment beyond and outside of my lovely, churning mind.

Of course, as soon as I noticed it, the thinking resumed and the moment was gone…but here’s the real magic:

I appreciated the second.

My first thought wasn’t: 

Gosh all these months, all these hours, and finally all I get is one lousy second. 

It was:

Holy $#&*, I just got a second!

That’s progress, my friend.  And it beats the pants off perfection.

Last night my team hosted a Moth StorySLAM at the Life is Good Tavern.

The Moth is one of the country’s leading storytelling organizations.  Their podcast is downloaded about 30 million times a year, and their public radio show is heard each week on 400 stations.

Their concept is simple: True stories told live – with no notes.

One major way that they collect content for their podcast and radio show is by hosting these open-mic StorySLAMS.  Each SLAM has a theme.  Last night, our theme was, “Silver Linings.”

Anyone who wants to share a six-minute story on the given theme, can throw their name in the hat.  Last night, I threw my name in, got picked, and this was the story I told:

So, I’m in one of Boston’s most infamous bars – a quarter naked – held together by the teensiest-tiniest string across my back.

Now, the reason for the backless shirt and debaucherous night out was my belated birthday.

“You’ve earned this,” were the exact words my former college roommate Lynne said as she tied my into that very revealing and near shear halter top.

“Just look.”

And I did, and even I had to admit – this was my window to get away with this.  I was barely 23, weighed about a buck-five, and my back, my shoulders, arms and neck were the leanest and loveliest they’d ever been.

But, I knew when Lynne mentioned “earning” it, she wasn’t talking about my newfound devotion to the elliptical, or steady diet of green apples and peanut butter and black beans and tofu.

She was talking about breakups and baseball.

See, we were out celebrating 23 because 22, not so good.  

Twenty-two was the year of walking in on my live-in boyfriend completely naked rolling around in our bed with someone else.  Twenty-two was the year of finding out that, that someone else was just one of a couple dozen other someone elses.

Twenty-two was the year of racing to Planned Parenthood for every STD test available, and hastily moving out of the shared apartment that he refused to leave, even though I was the one who put down first, last, and security.

And just to add insult to injury, 22 was also the year that the first great love of my life, the Boston Red Sox, were the best team in baseball.  Up until the 11th inning of Game 7 of the American League Championship Series when New York Yankee, Aaron Boone caught the sweet spot off Tim Wakefield’s knuckle ball and knocked one out of the stadium to clinch the pennant for the Evil Empire, and crush the Sox’s Series dreams once again.

To put it simply, 22 was the year of the curse.

But, this was 23.  And here I was in my favorite city, with a fairly new body, approaching a new baseball season, and out with a new group of girls that my friend Lynne assured me would be perfect company for such a momentous occasion.

So, when one of them raised her cosmo and said, “Let’s do a toast for Amanda’s birthday,” I was all in.

“Here’s to Amanda.  And Derek Jeter.  And Aaron Boone, and the New York Yankees.”

She was clearly a New York fan and this was suppose to be a joke, but I wasn’t laughing.  I drew down my drink and inadvertently bumped the arm of the guy standing in back of me. And then I just let it all out.

“Who does she think she is?  Where does she think she is?  My fucking city.  My fucking birthday.  And she wants to toast the fucking Yankees?  Aaron fucking Boone!  And you kidding me, AARON FUCKING BOONE!”

Now that guy just let me go one until I was done and then with a big smile he said, “You have to fucking meet my friend Kenny.”

Kenny took me away from the mean girls.  And Kenny and I danced, and talked, and drank, and danced, and talked, and drank, and danced, and talked, and drank…

And when it was closing time and I was about to get in my cab, and he in his, I reminded him that I didn’t actually live in Boston.

“I live in southern Connecticut – and while on a map that may be in New England it’s really in the heart of Yankees, Rangers, Jets, Giants country – so, you should call me tomorrow and we should get breakfast while I’m still here.”

And then he kissed me, but he didn’t call.

And he didn’t call.

When he finally did call after the third night, and I asked him what took so long, he asked me if I had ever seen the movie Swingers.  And while I pretended to be annoyed, I actually have a deep love for all Jon Favreau film, so the conversation continued.

We ran into a marathon discussion.  We talked Boston, baseball, family, embarrassing high school moments – and then we did the same thing the next night.  And then, the next day Kenny didn’t even wait until after work to call, he called me on my way into work and that’s when I finally confessed…

“I have a date.”

“Huh?”

“I have a date.  To be fair, I had the date set up well before we me that night.  And while I think you’re hella handsome and love the way you couldn’t pronounce an “R” if I paid you, you’re in Boston and I’m not.  And I have a date.  And you’re in Boston – and my last relationship – you’re in Boston and I’m not, and I have a date.”

And he said, “Well, I’m not gonna tell you to have a good time, but keep my number and if you are in Boston anytime soon, call me.  I’d love to hang.”

I said okay and quickly hung up the phone.  

I went on my date.  Blah.  And a couple of nights later took myself to the movies.  A nine o’clock showing of Kill Bill 2.  When I got out around midnight and turned my phone back on, I saw I had a message from Kenny Goodwin.

My first inclination was just to delete it, because I was pretty sure this was going to be awkward…but then I realized I was sitting alone in my ’92 Kia Sephia outside of a theater in Bridgeport…awkward was the least of my worries.  

So, I hit play and could immediately tell that wherever Kenny was calling me from, he was outside.

“Hey Amanda, it’s Ken.  Look, I heard what you said the other day loud and clear, but I also know that you’re lifelong Sox fan who’s never been to Fenway.  So, I thought you might like to hear what the third-base line sounds like tonight at the first Sox-Yanks match-up of the season.”

And he turns the phone into the crowd and all I can hear is: “RAHHHHHHHHH!” 

And him edging them on to get “loudah.”

“RAHHHHHHHHHH!”

And then he brings the phone back to his mouth and he says:

“I don’t want to lose just ’cause I’m in Boston.  Call me.”

And I did – and he didn’t.

It’s worth noting that this would go on to be the season that the Red Sox win the World Series for the first time in 86 years.

It’s also when I found my teammate – who went on to become my boyfriend, my roommate, my fiancé, my husband, and the father of our son.

And whenever I think of the story of us, I’m reminded of how back breaks, questionable shirts, horrible jokes, and tough losses can all just be an elaborate set-up for one incredibly Good Win.

Thank you.

And wouldn’t you know…I won the StorySLAM.  I’ll be invited to take place in a Boston GrandSLAM later this year.

Though, really I think the credit belongs to Ken.  After all, he made the call.  I just told the story.

Is there anything more to be grateful for, when you fly?

❤️

I woke up at quarter of four this morning to get ready for a flight.  I’m scheduled to speak at a marketing conference in Las Vegas.

I was humbled to be asked.  Excited I could make it work, but nevertheless a little sad when it was time to go.

I love being out in the world.  I love having time to myself (like a six-hour flight).  And, I equally love being home with my husband and son.

Though, no matter how much I love all of these times, when each of them comes to an end (even temporarily), I start longing to stay a little longer.

Despite my longing, I kissed my goodbyes, grabbed my very small bags (I’ll be back early Thursday morning), and headed out.  I never travel with cash, but for whatever reason felt compelled to pull up to the freestanding ATM around the corner from my house and withdraw just a few dollars.

When I got out of my car, I immediately noticed the tiny copper round catching the first rays of sunrise.

See a penny, pick it up, all day through you’ll have good luck.

It was even heads up.

It then occurred to me that I was lucky for the longing.  For my meaningful connections – with the world, myself, and my family.

And for a moment all the longing and gratitude just made cents.

Maybe it’s because I’m listening to Sasha Martin’s Life from Scratch: A Memoir of Food, Family, and Forgiveness, or because I’m traveling for work this week, but today I felt called to my kitchen.

After coming home from our weekly shop, my son played hockey in the living room, while I chopped, seared, boiled, and braised.

I made a rich, deep red pan sauce.  A base of bacon and sweet onions layered with 7-bone chuck steak, Roma tomatoes, and mediterranean spices.  The flavor built and built until it rose up and out of our two story cottage to meet my husband in the driveway, as he returned from a well-deserved day away.

“It’s just a tease,” I said.  “The sauce is for tomorrow.”

I also made a meat pie.  A stew of sausage and beef with caramelized onions, bites of carrots, and fresh peas – just waiting to be enclosed with precious sheets of fillo that will finish the piece on Tuesday.

And for Sunday supper, a roasted rosemary chicken with local asparagus, garlic smashed potatoes, cucumber and tomato salad, just-made bread, delicate pan gravy, and canned jellied cranberry sauce.

There are plenty of leftovers for lunch.

The fridge is prepped and ready for the week ahead, and while I am still working on my relationship with food, I cannot deny my primal love of cooking.  And the complete joy of sharing what I make with those who come to my table.

Lately, writing hasn’t been so easy.

Maybe, I have too many competing projects.  Maybe, I’m not doing enough yoga.  Or, maybe, as a very wise friend of mine recently pointed out, it’s just been my time to listen.

Whatever the reason, I’ve been drawn to reading more than writing lately, which prompted me to pick up Marianne Williamson’s A Woman’s Worth.  My Mom left it at my house a few weeks ago, and I assumed it was her copy that she was letting me borrow…until I cracked it open:

My Darling Daughter,

In my struggle to find myself in this world, this book has been my main stay!  I read it 20 years ago and it still stays with me on my journey.  I hope it will do the same for you.

All my love, Mom xxoo

I’m reading the rest of the book, but I don’t really need it.

My Mother called me her Darling.  I am her Daughter.  She let me know that it’s okay to search, to struggle, and to stay on the journey.  She is holding hope for me, and sending all her love to me.

There is still so much to do, and learn, and go, and see, and hear, and write, and share, but no more time will need to be wasted on worth.  I’ve just caught a glimpse of mine through my Mother’s eyes, and now I can see clearly through my own.

I am enough.  She is enough.  We are so much more than enough.