“Do you remember me?” I remember asking Amanda.

“Kinda,” she answered.

Amanda was exactly ten days older than me and she and I had met once before, at my Mom’s boyfriend’s house.  When he was still married to a woman named Jean, and my Mom was still married to my Dad, Todd.

“We met once at Bobby’s,” I said.

“We call him Uncle Rob,” she exclaimed.

“Can we call him Uncle Rob, too?” my sister, Lindsey chimed in.

“Lindsey and I used to call him Mr. D, but that would just feel weird now, I guess.”

That made the three of us laugh.

It was the summer before third grade and Amanda and I were both eight, and our younger siblings, Andrew and Lindsey were both six.  Our parents had agreed to get the four us together at the Ashburnham lake house that Bob’s family affectionately referred to as “Camp.”

Camp was pure heaven.  Complete with everything any kid would need to take full advantage of a New England summer.  Sand, water, fishing poles, bait, Wiffle ball, snorkels, flippers, a speed boat, tubes, rafts, water skis  – and what I considered the “original” GE refrigerator.

Nestled down in the basement to the left of the stairs, that ancient piece of well-made machinery  kept cans of soda so cold it turned the fruity flavored Market Basket generics into the most divine slush that’s ever passed through these lips.

And at night when the bugs made it absolutely impossible to enjoy one more minute by the fire, there was UNO.  And Jenja.  And Perfection.  And Chinese Checkers.  And regular checkers.  And Monopoly…of course Monopoly.

Amanda, her brother Andrew, my sister Lindsey and me became first cousins that summer.  Two whole years before our Mom and their Uncle exchanged their official “I dos,” and toasted their union at that very same lake house where my Dad, Bob would introduce the three of us to our extended family.

With 27 years now come and gone since since that first summer we connected at Camp, it feels more than ever like we’ve always just been a part of each other.

I spent most of today thinking about that first summer, because today is my cousin Amanda’s birthday – and up until very recently I carried an immense amount of guilt about not giving my son a brother or a sister.

I know that cousins aren’t siblings.  But, technically speaking, nearly all of my “cousins” aren’t even my “real” cousins – but yet, they remain some of my most favorite, dependable, remarkable, and generous connections.

Cousins are irreplaceable – and I’ve been gifted some of the best…and subsequently, so has my son.

So, here’s to Amanda – and to cousins – and to life being so very good today.

When my mother was nearly through the eighth month of her high-risk pregnancy with my sister Teresa, I set her off.

I was fourteen, nearing the end of eighth grade and angry about…something I can’t remember.

She, my Dad, Bob and I were all in the living room – arguing.  My other two sisters were likely hiding – together – in one of their rooms.  My face was burning with hot tears and all I  remember feeling was pure, fierce, adolescent rage.

So, I let it out:

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said.  “I’m going to work my butt off, because I know if I don’t I’m STUCK.  And I can’t think of anything worse than being STUCK in this awful, miserable, small place, where there’s nothing.  Just STUCK in absolutely nothing.”

That did it.  My very pregnant (prescribed to be on bedrest) mother leaped off the sofa taking a back cushion with her and came after me.

“You think this is miserable?” she shirked. “You think this is awful?” She backhanded me with the pillow.  “You” (pillow whack). “Don’t” (pillow whack). “Have” (you get it). “Any.” “Idea.” Whack, whack, whack, whack.  Now she was crying much harder than I ever was.

Dad stepped in.  Took the pillow.  Reminded her to breathe and go lay down.  I got myself off the carpet and walked outside to finish my tears in peace.

The night sky helped calm me down and eventually we all got to apologizing.

I was truly sorry for getting my mother that upset, but I wasn’t sorry at all for what I had said.

At that time that small town made me feel even smaller.  Constantly judged and responsible for upholding the expectations of others.  The only power I could find was in digging in, in order to crawl out.

Tonight, as my husband and son, and I were all getting ready to leave that very same house, in that very same town, after a truly lovely Sunday Supper, I found myself wanting to do nothing more than stay.

To enjoy more of my parents’ home cooking, and the smell of the wood stove, and a good book on their back deck with a thick blanket and an uninterrupted night sky.

I wanted to stay just to be with them.  Around them.  A part of them.

Maybe it’s the natural order of things to miss how much your parents care for you as you’re growing up.  But, I’m surely not missing it now.

Me (to four year-old son): Briggs, do you really want to go to Kindergarten in the fall?

Briggs (while still playing living room hockey): Of course I do.

Me: I thought maybe you could go back to being two or something?

Briggs: Nope, going to be five.  Going to Kindergarten – ah, no, Montreal skates away – it’s the Winter Classic.  Bruins get the puck back.  He shoots, he – wait, pee brake for the Winter Classic.

As he runs to the bathroom, I call out:

Who do you think will be your favorite people in Kindergarten?

Briggs: You and Dad of course.  You’re my family.  You’re always my favorite. Even in Kindergarten.

A moment to live in, love a lot, and let go of.

My husband has been sick (really sick) for a little more than a week.  Thankfully, he’s at the end of it and starting to gain his energy back.

Though, now I’m feeling more tired, achey, and congested.  Hard to tell exactly why, but instead of ignoring my feelings, I’m feeding them.  With sleep, and tea, and mini-doses of fear and doubt.

Of course those hurtful doses aren’t helping – but, I popped those pills for so (so,so) long that sometimes, I still swallow on instinct.

Big pieces of my anxiety exist because I struggle with healthy boundaries.

I like when people at work, home, and out in my community depend on me.  I like being counted on, seen as dependable, capable…for me, it’s thrilling  when someone asks for help.  So, I say “yes,” a lot.  Even when I shouldn’t.  Even when it hurts.

Then of course saying “yes,” too much results in worrying a lot more.  And worry is my drug of choice – so stopping after just a few is nearly impossible, and emotional hangovers are pretty much a guarantee.

Last night I wanted to binge.

But instead of letting my internal dialogue continue to spin me into panic, I went to bed early and did a round of 21 breaths.  A technique I learned from a book called: buddha standard time. Long, deep, but easy breaths through the nose, then out – however feels best…like dropping a 10-pound bag of groceries on the counter.  I usually go with audible sighs out my nose and mouth that also help me drop my shoulders and neck at the same time.

I don’t know if I got in/out the full 21 – but I did fall asleep.  And all I remember after that is right before I woke up, I heard a lovely, familiar voice (my own, but not) encouraging me to:

Try again, a different way.

And, I will.

I’ve started listing.

When I can feel that anxiety want to spin up from my lowest self and start twitching out my eye, I stop, reach for pen and paper, and just start to-do dumping.

No prioritizing.  No logical thinking.  No separating work, from home, from extra-curricular activities.  Just feeding the page with whatever I’m afraid wants to feast on my insides.

And once the pages (always the pages) are covered, I breathe, smile, let go, and repeat for however long is necessary.  Then I calmly approach, begin, and decide what actually needs attention.

Today my “Get To Do”list looked long and daunting – but the three most important items got done.  And I drew big, fat, lovely red lines through each of them.

And tonight, still tired, achey, and almost teary, those three lines are what I’m choosing to focus on.

What I did today and who I am now is enough.  It’s all enough.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FCZ8azY_wU

Prior to dating my husband, I made a lot of questionable decisions regarding boys and men.

Like spending my nineteenth summer dating a divorced 29 year-old with an ecstasy and coke problem.

I’ll call him Jersey.

For three months, Jersey and I waited tables at the same chain steakhouse in Florida.  Once we started “dating,” (a.k.a, getting high, watching TV, and fooling around) he made himself okay with the fact that I wasn’t going to give him my virginity, as long as I kept paying for groceries.  At the time, this felt fair to me.

One night, while I watched Jersey prepare a truly succulent baked stuffed pork chop with whipped potatoes, gravy, and sautéed spinach on the side, I asked him:

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“Hunger,” he replied.

I laughed.

“Sounds funny, but it’s true,” he said.  “There’s never a better time to learn something, then when you need to know how to do it.  When you don’t make a lot of money for a good long stretch, you figure out just how hungry you can get.  And how to make what you have, taste as good as it can.  What we have tonight makes it pretty easy.  But, yeah, I’ve been hungry a lot, so I learned to cook.”

I hadn’t thought of this conversation with Jersey in nearly fifteen years.  But tonight as I made my family a perfectly cooked strip steak topped with a creamy sauce of caramelized onions, shiitakes, and kale, along side velvety baked sweet potatoes, and a salad of english cucumbers, grape tomatoes, and ribbons of fresh basil, the scene played out in my head.

Truth is, I didn’t learn to cook from hunger.  I’ve never gone hungry…but I was raised by parents, who were raised by parents, who had.  Generations of barely making ends meet.  The original Quick Fire Challenge so to speak – figure out how to feed an entire family with tap water, canned goods, and whatever you pickled from last summer’s garden.  You’ve got thirty minutes on the clock. Go.

 As I plated tonight’s hot meal for my husband and son, I felt an intense and warm calm come over our entire kitchen.

“Dad, taste the steak it’s really nice and juicy.  Perfectly cooked, Mom.  Congratulation, you are NOT Chopped.”  (We watch a lot of Food Network)

I laughed and thanked my four year-old for his sincere compliment.  And then I said another, silent thank-you.

Thank you for keeping this day, our home, and my life free of addiction and naked pantries.

In the past three days I’ve been in two separate conversations about, The Giving Path.

A navigation tool first introduced to me by fundraising experts within public radio, and over the years I’ve whittled and wandered to make the Path my own.

The point of The Giving Path is to visualize the clear and necessary steps it takes to get someone, to do something.  Whether you want someone to make a donation, buy a ticket, or simply respond to an email, letter, or text, certain things have to happen to get what you want.

Here’s how I outline the steps:

1. Initiate – You have to first make contact with whomever you’re trying to reach.  He, she, or they need to be aware that you exist.
2. Educate – Next, your audience needs to really get to know you.  What do you do? And, more importantly, why do you matter?
3. Engage – Now that everyone’s acquainted – let’s do something together. Extend a friendly invitation to take a quiz, leave a comment, come over for visit (or an event), or send something intriguing to watch, listen, or read.
4. Inspire – Through engagement attention is had, now’s the time to make it memorable.  If it’s a quiz, man it better reveal something interesting – an event, better want it to never end – a video, podcast, excerpt from a book, article, or journal, better beg to be shared.
5. Activate –  If the first four steps are taken thoughtfully, this should actually be the cake walk.  Simply make your ask and be grateful for all you receive.

While the steps are outlined easily enough, walking them out is actually pretty tricky.

Initiate & Educate are the longest, most expensive, and most critical steps.  Mess these up and your path turns to quicksand.  You’ll use all of your precious energy to yank yourself out of sinkholes that will inevitably just keep swallowing you whole.

Though if you exhaust yourself too soon, and then skimp on Engage and Inspire, all of your hard work will be for not.  People can know about you their whole life long, but if you don’t make them feel involved and important you’ll miss the chance to actually connect.  And connection is everything.

Ah, yes, then comes Activate.  The step that everyone’s (almost) always in a rush to stand tall on.  Make the money.  Sell the tickets.  Capture the data.  Get the answers.  This step is the arrival, the goal, the point of the whole damn Path.  Patience with the first four steps makes this last one so lovely, easy, and comfortable…but patience is a gift that we’re not always ready to give, or receive.

Professionally, I’ve helped raise millions of dollars for worthy causes by walking multiple campaigns and strategies down this simple glorious path.  I’ve also likely NOT raised just as much (if not more) when I’ve conned myself into rushing (or completely bypassing) one or all four of these critical steps.

But still, with all of my professional admired and awful results, I never once considered applying The Giving Path to my own complete journey.

Until, today.

Lately, I’ve been negotiating feelings of confusion, division, and uncertainty.  And these feelings weren’t feeling good, because I’ve been living with me for nearly 35 years, and by now I should clearly and confidently be activating my forever plan.

But, then it occurred to me.

A lot has changed.  I have changed.  And so, really, I’m just on Step One.  Just getting to know me and taking the time to understand what it is I actually want and how I actually want to get there.

And honestly, being firmly on Step One feels so much better than running around trying to keep up…with nothing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCIfQXNWJXs

I went to Walden Pond today.  Walked around the whole thing  with a good friend.

Didn’t take long.  About twenty minutes or so, and neither of us were wearing the right shoes and I was in no way dressed appropriately for the wind or the frigid shade…but still…

There was peace.

And  as we hiked up our final hill and looked back through the evergreens and bare maples to watch the rippling water, I heard a gentle voice surface:

There is always peace.  Just walk toward it.

I circled “yoga – 7P” in my planner – twice.

When Ken came home he asked if I was still going and I was tempted to say, “no.”  I haven’t practiced since Sunday and while that doesn’t feel good, getting out of a good rhythm is still just so easy.

Especially after a day filled with meetings and driving.

My lower self can still con the rest of myself into believing that eating bad food and watching good television can make me feel  better.

But, tonight, I didn’t fall for it.

I got to the studio and on my mat, and I gave myself permission to breathe and smile, and not push into anything that didn’t feel good.

And then, totally unexpected, as I exhaled my arms wide and my heart out – I felt it.

“Ahh!” I blurted – giddy and full of smiles. “Wow.  Sorry.  It’s just..that…wow.”

“It’s called Prana, or you might have heard it called, Chi,” our teacher explained.

“I don’t know.  It’s like my hands just kind of turned into dust, or particles, and blew off my body.”

“Everything is energy.  Looks like you just felt yours.”  She smiled, bowed, and then helped me into a headstand.

I love (and watch) a lot of good television.  But there’s nothing on Showtime, HBO, or Netflix that’s ever given me the same zing as tonight’s preview with my own power.

Last night we gave in and went out to dinner.

Things have felt hurried and out of sync – which means we haven’t made it to the grocery store.

I was hungry, and short on time (there was a special town meeting last night), and so heading out to the pub around the corner made sense, but I felt guilty about spending the money.

I’m still not making what I used to.  I know that saving is important and I need to be better at it.  And, I do prescribe to the law of attraction – which basically states that if you worry about not having enough, you will, in fact, not have enough.  And so I try to focus on my abundance, and an abundance, I certainly have…but sometimes, the bank statements still get the best of me.

Regardless of my mixed emotions, we went to the pub.

We were greeted with live celtic music.  Two fiddles, an accordion, and three-part harmony.  The room was filled just enough to feel full without feeling crowded.  I stashed a deck of cards in my pocket and my husband, and my son, and I played rounds of Go Fish and Crazy Eights until our plates of pipping hot comfort food arrived.

Our waitress called all three of us “honey,” and “sweetheart.”  I started taking in the entire scene from the outside in – like I was watching a moving directed by Ben Afleck. All of it cloaked in thick, authentic eastern Mass accents, and filled with at least six guys who you’d totally believe went by Sully, Mac, Mic, or “What’s up, Kid.”

Hell, we were even playing with a deck of Red Sox cards.

And, it all just felt like home – and even when the rest of the world feels out of sorts to me, home always feel good.