Yesterday I made my very first payment on my very new car.

Today, I got rear-ended on I-93 South in Boston at the height of morning rush hour.

I was rocking out to the Uptown Funk Pandora station – getting pumped for a day of important partnership meetings when, suddenly and forcefully I heard a loud crash and felt my felt my chest involuntarily lunge toward the steering wheel.

Thankfully my seat belt was on (as it always is) and due to heavy traffic, no one was moving fast enough for the airbag to deploy.

It was just that I had basically been parked, in the slow lane, and so, a collision from the back was just completely unexpected.

I quickly put my hazards on and before getting out of the car called my husband.  First, I wanted to tell him I was okay, and second, I wanted some guidance.  This had never happened to me before.  I was nervous.  And that after accident adrenaline had kicked in, making me a bit jittery.

Ken told me to get the other driver’s registration and insurance information, license plate and driver’s license number, take some pictures, and if I felt sore to call my doctor when I got to work.

It was scary stepping out of my car at 9:44 AM, onto one of the busiest highways in Boston. Hell, it was scary just parking my car on that highway at that time.

The gentlemen who hit me quickly asked if I was okay and was sincerely sorry for the accident.  He and I quickly decided to move our cars into the slightly safer side near an adjacent on-ramp, exchanged info, snapped some quick pics, and then, we were each on our way.

He was kind, cooperative, and genuinely concerned.

I was grateful for his disposition, that I could safely drive away from the accident, and that my son had not been in the backseat.

When I arrived at work, a little late and still a bit shaky, I was met with hugs and help.

When I called the police to report the accident (and was transferred to the State Police because of where the accident occurred), I was complimented on ‘doing the right thing,’ by not calling (and waiting) for the police on-site.

“At that time in that place,” the officer said, “all that would’ve happened was increased backups and delays and we would’ve just told you to download the accident report paperwork from RMV site.”

I’d already done the download, so the officer said he’d log the accident and they’d keep an eye out for the report to come in.

I also called the dealership where I got my new car and they offered to help me find the best place to get my brand new ride looking brand-spankin’ new again.

The rest of the day was stellar.  All of my meetings went incredibly well.  I had a great yoga session.  And, because my in-laws are amazing and took Briggs for the night, Ken and I got to enjoy a whole two hours together over a lovely dinner.

Starting my day with a car accident isn’t how I would’ve chosen to usher in my Wednesday.  But if an accident was due to come my way, I’m grateful for how this one rolled out.

No one was injured.  Everything can be fixed.  And the energy around all of it – including that of the man who simply made a mistake in back of me – was kind, collaborative, and helpful.

And, it was still a pretty great day…which I attribute to my practice of gratitude.

When I focus giving thanks, I can take what might feel like starting from a loss, redirect that energy, and come from behind to turn it into a win.

Gratitude is my Superpower.

What’s yours?

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

Right after Christmas I bought a juicer.

It was one of many suggested ways to prep the kitchen for a successful finish of the cleanse.

I took the suggestion.

Though, up until tonight the fine piece of gleaming machinery sat on my counter untouched.  So, even though I scored a fantastic post-holiday deal, I was beginning to wonder if it was worth the investment.

What I didn’t know when I started the cleanse is that the final week is comprised totally of cold soups, juices, and smoothies.  In fact, today was a day of fasting.  Just water, tea, and (if needed – and for me it was) a bit of whole, fresh juice.

I’ve never owned a juicer.  I’ve always assumed that a high powered blender basically produced the same result.  That assumption proved to be wrong.  Very, very wrong.

You can imagine how a day of work, hour-plus commutes, and a mad dash to the library to make Tuesday movie night could build up an appetite.  And I had significant doubts that the juice of two carrots, a mango, six strawberries, and a peach would satisfy me in the least…but the doubts proved useless and the courage to try (once again) proved powerful.

This glass of pure and unadulterated nectar was the most rewarding indulgence I’ve given into in a very long time.

A real “cheers” to beauty, health, and happiness.  And as I sucked up those final divine drips, I heard myself singing one of my son’s favorite sayings from Daniel Tiger:

Just keep trying, you’ll get better!

(PS – Even though I’m proud of trying, I’m still pretty psyched for breakfast tomorrow. :))

A Reiki session ends with a cleansing.

A clearing of energy.  The absorption of all of that is good, healthy, and helpful, and a release of anything that is not serving the receiver’s ultimate purpose.

And while the meaning is deep, the process is very simple:

With the receiver still laying on the massage table, the practitioner places his or her hands a bit behind the receiver’s head and then, keeping about two inches off the body, the practitioner passes over, until he or she has gone over the receiver’s feet and off the table.

And all that is good stays in, and all that one does not need gets recycled back into the earth.

I’ve been giving Briggs mini Reiki treatments before bed (on and off) since becoming attuned in Reiki I early last month.  He loves them.  He likes the mellow music, the white candles, the warm touch, and he especially loves the cleansing.

Mostly for two reasons:

1. He loves the lavender spray I use to start the cleansing.
2. He loves giving me a cleansing following the end of his.

“Okay, Mum, my turn,” he informed me tonight after gleefully hopping off his bed.

He insisted on spraying the lavender once more on each of his hands.  Then he touched my shoulder, and my forearm, and then my knee, and then…then he said:

“Okay, all that good stuff goes right into Mum, and any bad energy let’s just chuck that right out the window to go get better.”

It was perfect.

Look, there’s a part of me that’s still a bit nervous when it comes to sharing this spiritual stuff.  I’m not yet above the fear of judgement and ridicule.

But, when your four year-old wishes you nothing but good and sentences anything that might be gnawing on you to immediately stop and go clean itself off outside…even if it is a little silly (or sounds much too simple), it feels amazing.

Like the world is working perfectly.

And that feels worthy of sharing…at any cost.

Coffee has been made everyday in my house since Labor Day Weekend 2007 – when Ken and I first moved in.

Morning coffee is a bit of a religion here and it’s been quite an experience going without a single drop over the last 14 days.

And while this rich, delicious, bitter brew from the gods has long been a constant in my home, today was the first time I savored it.

Ken had just poured a fresh cup and it was like every one of my senses got swirled in with his touch of milk.

I felt the warmth.

Smelled that deceiving nuttiness that tricks kids (or at least tricked this kid) into believing it may be sweet all on it’s own.

Saw those hues of reds and browns cream together.

Tasted dark chocolate, red wine, and peanut butter.  Flavors get combined in my imagination.  And delicious tends to manifest more delicious.

Then, I actually moaned.

“Everything about that is so good,” I told Ken.

He smiled, agreed, but stopped short of offering me any.

Somehow being hyper aware of how lovely this mug of morning was (is) subsided my craving – and a whopping two weeks in I finally get it.

While feeling better, losing weight, and learning lots of new things are extremely fulfilling – all of these experiences are merely positive byproducts of cleansing.  Not the goal.

The goal (of course) is gratitude.

For the abundance.

And the experience.

And the return to true loves with renewed appreciation and healthy longing.

It was by far the best cup of coffee I never had.

In 2008, I graduated from Lesley University.  I received my Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing.  My concentration was Fiction.

In 2009, I came back for an event as an alum…and drank my face off.

The following day I returned to campus mostly to apologize, and also to seek out the current student who’s mother had assisted me in calling my then almost father in-law to come pick me up.

I was too drunk to dial or even see the keypad.

“You have a very kind and patient Mom,” I told the early twenty-something.  “Please tell her how grateful and sorry I am.”

“She was just really scared for you.  I kind of can’t believe you’re even upright.”

After that I stayed away from anyone or anything associated with the program for a very long time.  I also stopped writing.

I conned myself into believing that this was simply a night that got out of hand.  I refused to accept it as a symptom of crippling stress, anxiety, or underlying depression, and I comforted myself with the fact that no one from work was connected to anyone from my network at school.

This was well before I was on LinkedIn.

In more recent years, I’ve confessed to Ken that getting my MFA was a mistake.  I came out of undergrad virtually debt free, and then racked up close to $40k in loans for an advanced degree that in many circles stands for “More Fucking Adjuncts.”

Ken never agreed with my logic.

“You loved studying with those authors.  And there’s no way you’d be able to crank out a couple hundred scripts every six weeks for those friggen pledge drives if you hadn’t.  So, you’re constantly using what you learned.  It wasn’t a waste.”

To borrow a notion form Anna Lyndsey’s memoir, Girl In The Dark: Ken is the miracle I live with every day.

In this slow and lovely return to writing, I’ve been flirting with the idea of going back to school.  Not to earn any more degrees or acquire any more debt – but rather to be a student.  To learn.  To listen.  To absorb.

So, when I found out that there was a reading tonight at Lesley, even though the mere thought of returning ties my insides, I decided to go.

And here I am.

And this time, I’m ready and open.

(PS – this picture is a nod to my super smart and talented professor friend, Mark)

Briggs just yelled – in fear – from his bedroom.

Instantly, Ken and I dropped our books, sprang off the couch and lunged up the stairs.  Spanning two or three stairs with each step.

Ken got to him first.

He’d started a groggy walk out of bed and found he hadn’t cleared all of his Matchbox cars out of his path.  The combination of the unexpected cool and sharp metal under his bare foot, and the shadows from the hallway light creeping into his room, got the best of his imagination.

He mistook his beloved cars for scary bugs.

Dad soothed him.  I soothed him.  And within a few minutes he was snugged back in bed, back to sleep…but, not before I told him:

“You’re always safe here in your room Bud, but you can always call out for help whenever you feel scared.  Ok? Always.”

“Okay, Mom.  I love you.”

“I love you, too, Love-A-Lou.”

Another snug.  Another kiss.  Another reminder to learn from our kids.

When you are scared, yell for help.

Someone will answer.  Might even be you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PWk3i9WT-8

My husband sauntered through the door tonight holding up his Samsung, singing Uptown Funk.

Without even being asked Briggs and I joined right in.

In the moments leading up to this joyful and highly unexpected entrance, I was struggling.

Under the nag of a headache (that is likely connected to now being a full 11 days off any and all caffeine), the touch of exhaustion (I stayed up too late last night), and the ping of dwindling patience (I complied with Briggs’s request for BBQ chicken for his dinner – and then he didn’t touch it), I heard the voice of temptation:

One little cup of coffee won’t kill the cleanse – just take a time out and get back on it tomorrow morning.

And then came the dancing, and the Uptown Funk, and Ken…and I was reminded why I don’t cheat.

I’m thankful for my commitments.  They bring out my true, best, beautiful Self.

And following our family funk out, I looked over at that devilish coffee pot and started singing another top 40 gem:

Oh, no, Honey, I’m good.

When I was no more than three weeks on my own at college, I got a tattoo.

And a bad one at that.

It only cost $50 and at the time, I didn’t know that art (on your body or elsewhere) is not something to cheap out on.

But, I was with a group of upper-classmen from my NCAA Division I Field Hockey Team and the trip to the parlor felt a bit like a test.

“Pierced or poked,” I remember one of the girls saying.

Though it wasn’t really a choice.  The NCAA mandated that no player would take the field with any visible piercings, so my thought process was that I better get inked.  No matter that I was a walk-on, and throughout the entire season only saw two minutes of actual playing time.

So, I drew a shooting star that I sometimes doodled in the margins of my notebooks and asked the artist if he could put it on my back.

“Sure,” he said.  “This will be my first one.”

“What, shooting star?” I asked.

“No, tattoo.”

It came out exactly how you think a $50, first-time, based on a doodle tattoo would come out.

But, no matter.  I loved it anyway…until I didn’t.

For more than a decade now, I’ve been talking about getting the tattoo redone, changed into something else, even removed, but never have.

Honestly, most of the time I forget it’s even there.

But, today, I remembered.

Late this afternoon, I found myself in a deep and meaningful conversation with a mother who’s recently lost her teenage son.

Her pain is massive – but her unyielding love, connection, and devotion to her boy is even bigger.

I want to share how honored I feel to be collaborating with her and some of her son’s most treasured friends in crafting an event to celebrate his life…but the words to encase such privilege escape me.

Toward the end of our conversation this loving, grieving, endlessly hopeful Mom thanks me for my time and compassion – and then she shares a very personal story.

One about seeing a shooting star the night of her son’s passing…and how she’s understood them as clear signs of guidance ever since.

Suddenly, I know exactly how to express my gratitude for her trust in me.  I text her a picture of my tattoo in all it’s teenaged and doodled glory.

And we are both filled with love.

I went to private Catholic elementary school from third through sixth grade.

Before and after every lunch bell, we prayed.  Or rather, my teachers and perhaps some of my classmates prayed, but I just recited words.

I didn’t really get prayer as a kid – or for most of my time as an adult for that matter.

But, this morning, over sprouted-grain toast, a spread of raw honey, a pretty pile of sliced strawberries and Honeycrisp apples sprinkled with ribbons of mint and toasted pumpkin seeds, I felt compelled to be still.

Just be still.  Say thank-you.  And marvel for a moment in the delight of a pure and simple breakfast.

And, you know, it made it taste even better.

In the weeks leading up to the holidays, work had gone so smoothly and successfully, and yesterday, I caught myself focussing on the fear of that being a fluke.

Then I went on Facebook.

And saw a post from Emily, a fellow Beth Israel NICU-Mom that I had befriended when our boys were in the hospital.

Emily and her family had a longer stay than us – starting with hospital bedrest many weeks before she delivered her triplets, and not really ending until many months after her boys arrived, as one of her three was readmitted to intensive care shortly after coming home.

In these short, long years since, Emily and her husband have continued to share such pure gratitude for the on-going health of their three handsome, lovely miracles.

I always love seeing her posts.  Pictures of the boys.  Snippets of their time in school, with family and friends…but last night something else:

While on a training run for the Boston Marathon in support of the Beth Israel Deacon Medical Center NICU, Amanda Turner Russell was struck by a car and later succumbed to her injuries. I met Amanda by chance in Hanover when I was pregnant with the boys. In a casual conversation it came up that Amanda was a labor and delivery nurse at Beth Israel where the boys were to be delivered. She promised to look for my name around mid-August, my goal for delivery.

Several weeks later, well before mid-August, I was admitted to Beth Israel hospital with preeclampsia. Randy and I were terrified…Once I was settled in my room, Amanda’s name came back to me and I asked the day nurse if someone named Amanda from Hanover was working… Amanda was working that night and had agreed to take me on her assignment. 

Amanda came in to check on my shortly after her shift started. I was so happy and relieved to see her smiling face walk through that door… Amanda assured me everything was going to be okay and that we would get my blood pressure down. Her confidence gave me the encouragement I needed. 

I was attached to an automatic blood pressure cuff that took a reading every 15 minutes. It had an awful, distinctive alarm when the reading showed high blood pressure and every 15 minutes, for hours, that alarm went off. Before Amanda went to check on her other patients I asked if I could have something to drink but she told me I was under strict orders not to have anything to eat or drink for at least 24 hours. 

Eventually Randy fell asleep, but I could not…Finally, sometime late, late into the night, I got the reading I had been hoping for – 120/80. No alarm. 

A few moments after that reading Amanda came in the room with a huge smile on her face and a cup in her hand. “Did you see that last reading?” she asked? With tears in my eyes, I told her I had. “You did it!” she said. “I brought you a congratulatory drink!” She had brought me a cup filled to the brim with ice and just the tiniest splash of cranberry juice poured over it. I drank it gratefully. Nothing had ever tasted so good…

Amanda and I saw each other periodically since that night. She visited me during my hospital bedrest and we ran into each other in Hanover over the years. I think I thanked her for that night but probably not as much as I should have. 

This year I won’t be filling your Facebook Feeds with pleads to support our March of Dimes family team…But I will ask you to consider making a donation to Amanda’s fundraising efforts in support of BIDMC NICU or a fund set up in support of her family and 8-year-old son. I can’t thank her in the way that I should have when she was still here, this is the best way I can think of to honor her and the memory of the kindness she extended to me and my family.

https://www.crowdrise.com/bidmcb…/fundraiser/amandarussellrn

https://www.gofundme.com/cfgv4ecs

I prayed.  I cried.  Then I clicked on the GoFundMe site and donated to the fund set-up to support Amanda’s family, including her 8 year-old son.

As I relayed the story to Ken and told him where the money was going, I remembered why I fundraise.

So many times when I tell people what I do for a living, they follow-up with something like, “Oh, I could never do that.  Beg people for money?  Not my idea of a good time.”

To these responses I almost always agree – that begging is painful and raising money for an important cause is often not a “good time.”

But, that’s not what I do.

Even when I haven’t felt my best, my intention has always been to approach my work with the same sincerity as Emily so lovingly displayed in her post.  Raising funds and awareness for a mission, a purpose, or a person is not an obligation, it’s a calling.

It’s a channeling of passion.

When tragedy strikes – as it has with the devastating loss of Amanda Turner Russell – the pull to do, to contribute, to help restore any sense of compassion and connection is a good thing.

A beautiful, human, loving thing.  A thing that I am honored to work toward.  A thing that you’re invited to be a part of.