Today I had a studio session at the broadcasting station where I used to work.

My current boss wrote an amazing poem that I want to share with our extended network, but to do so I need a high quality recording.  And I need it in less than two days.

So, I called my former colleague, who I knew was still in charge of studio bookings and asked if there was a way to fit us in…and there was.

I haven’t been back to do any work at this studio since I left almost a year ago, and I certainly have never brought a current boss to a former employer to wrap a project.

But, the pieces felt like a good fit, so I put them together.

And it worked.

Every former colleague I had the good fortune of running into was kind and open.  My current boss was impressed by the ease and flow of the session.  And everything that needed doing got done in less time than expected.

Yesterday, a friend gifted me a box of oracle cards.  There’s a variety of ways to use these cards, and this morning I decided to use them to help guide my day.  Provide a meditation.  Something I could continue to come back to, stay rooted in, regardless of what would unfold.

And you know which card I picked?

Thank God.

And here’s what the corresponding guidebook has the say about this Thank God card:

The ego focuses on lack and therefore creates it.  The Spirit concentrates on the endless stream of gifts God gives us and thus creates that.  This is because the greatest blessing the Divine bestows on us is the ability to create what we focus on.  Pay attention to all that God gives and you get more; focus on lack and you get less… 

Tell your ego to be quiet, and learn what thanking God can do.

For me, for you, “God” is whomever and however you choose to see, feel, and live her – him – it.

All I know, is that a time not very long ago my ego wouldn’t have allowed for today to happen.

But, Thank God, now I live in the present.  And it’s here that any (and every)thing is possible.

There was so much to be grateful for today.  So many good fortunes, unexpected gifts, restoring conversations, that I wasn’t really sure what I would reflect on.

But, Briggs was.

Just minutes ago, long after dinner, dessert (10 chocolate chips), a game of Sorry, another of Trouble, Briggs wandered over to the bookshelf and asked if there was still time to read just one book before bed.

“Always,” I answered.

“Is this a good one?”

From way in the back he pulled a hardcover book that I’ve been housing on a variety of shelves since the summer of 1999.

My very own copy of Oh, The Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss.  Gifted to me by Aunt Jane, Uncle Mike, and my cousins Amanda and Andrew for high school graduation.

When Briggs was in the NICU, I read this book to him everyday.  And hundreds of other days after that.  But, it hasn’t been in rotation for a good long while and tonight it made me cry.

Earlier today I had a meeting in downtown Boston.  As soon as I walked in the building it felt very familiar, even though I had never been to this particular office before.  Something about the lobby…then it occurred to me.

My cousin Andrew works here.

I remembered being in this lobby years ago when he ran his first Boston Marathon and my friend Edgar and I made an audio recording of the event.

I shot my cousin a text to see if my memory served me well.  It did.  And he was able to meet me for a coffee following my meeting.

It was the first time I’d seen Andrew since starting this process – and it was so good to see him.  One of the many benefits of getting healthy is that you’re finally able to see the health of others.

My cousin is so kind and giving.  He’s married to a wonderful woman, who is clearly his best friend, and the two of them are truly stellar parents.  He works hard but keeps the important thing the important thing.  Which is why, even though he has a very demanding schedule, he is genuinely happy to take a break and enjoy this unexpected visit.

I’m completely present for our conversation.  So is he.  And, as I flipped open that book given to me 16 years ago by Andrew’s Mom, my dear Aunt Jane, I’m taken back by her inscription:

Amanda,

As you go places, and we know you will, never forget your roots and the people who will always love you!

It took a lot of digging, but now I am rooted.  I am strong.  And I am deeply connected (and eternally grateful) to all of the love that has always flowed in, and out, and around me.

Especially when I could not see, feel, or understand it.

Kid, we’ve all moved mountains.  We’re off and away.  But, there are even more mountains to move, so, let’s stay (peacefully) on our way.

My car broke today.

A project plan fell through at work.

I forgot to pay my student loan.

But, my car broke while I was still in Billerica.  I managed to make it back home, and Ken was here in plenty of time to get Briggs.

And when I checked my credit (because it’s likely a new car is in our future), it was good enough to get a loan without a co-signer.  A few years ago this was so (so, so, so) not the case.

At work, honestly, the changes to the project plan made it better.  And I like working in drafts.  And part of getting it right is trying first.  It’s the only way to find out what’s wrong.

Online bill pay makes it so easy to catch up when the day-to-day kind of slows you down.  So, I use it to my advantage.  There is no problem here.

And, I just finished the loveliest dinner with my family.  Baked veggie omelettes.  Sliced cucumbers.  Fresh cheese.  Sweet grapes.  Crisp, local apples.  Ice cold water. And just a splash – a rich, lush, splash of cabernet.

A dinner of the gods with the people who light my world.

Today wasn’t easy.  But, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t wonderful.

I spent the majority of yesterday and today marveling at how my life has changed.

Yesterday, I spent six insightful and lovely hours becoming certified in Reiki I (a hands-on healing modality that connects us with the healing energy around us).  So, now I know how to give Reiki to myself and others.

And today, I spent another six insightful, healing, loving hours celebrating my in-laws’ birthdays – surrounded by some of my most favorite people in the world.

I am filled with so much gratitude and amazement for both days.

Five months ago, I knew something was really wrong when a trip to the museum with my extended family caused so much anxiety that I cried the whole ride in.  I was petrified for them to see me.  That they’d be able to tell.  And that all I had to offer them was more worry and disappointment.

Four months ago, I still believed everything was a chore.  That I couldn’t afford the time or effort to do anything but push and punish myself.

Three months ago, I didn’t even know what Reiki was.

Two months ago, I found the strength to give in and open up to anything that might help.

And today…today I am happy.

I am well.  Today, I am connected and fulfilled.  Today I am able to receive the joy of my family and the comfort of knowing (really knowing) that I am safe.  I am loved.  I am light.

Today, I gave my sister in-law a picture of Briggs and a card…letting her know that even though Ken and I never had a ceremony to make it “official,”  she is and always has been our son’s godmother.

She had no idea that I would be bringing her this gift today.

Just like I had no idea that she would be giving me a beautiful bracelet and a card…letting me know that she is grateful for me.  That she is proud of me.  That she has always, will always, be by me.  And that I am a gift to her brother and her nephew…and to “all of us.”

So, yes, today I am connected.  And I am grateful.  So very, very, grateful.

And I am Happy.

Tonight was my work holiday party.  It was so good to introduce Ken to so many of my co-workers.

And when the DJ played Shutup and Dance with Me, there wasn’t a soul on the dance floor.

I asked Ken to dance and at first he resisted.  And then, he didn’t.

And it was the most amazing early Christmas gift.  Us.  Together.  In love – without a care who knows it.

The first time I tried to write a book I was in eighth grade.

I scribbled out over 100 notebook pages (front and back).  I barely changed the names and descriptions of the kids I went to school with, and my big plan was to get it done and published before I graduated high school.  That way I could earn a full scholarship to any school of my choosing.

And I would chose a school far, far away from all the kids I wrote about.

I felt pretty proud after those first 100 pages were inked and without discrimination I started handing them out to anyone who said they would read them.

The response was pretty lack-luster.  Those who didn’t want to hurt my feelings told me they just didn’t have time to read anymore.  And those who took a sharper tone let me know that my handwriting and spelling sucked.

The criticism wasn’t unwarranted, but at the time it was enough to convince me to quit.

I tried again in high school.  Not with a book, but a play.  I decided to rewrite MacBeth as a modern day small-town drama.

My AP English teacher was impressed.  Unknown to me, she made copies for everyone in the class.

“Amanda took a really creative approach.  Let’s read it out loud, and then give her some feedback.”

The reading didn’t go on for very long before one of my classmates started laughing pretty noticeably.  When asked why, his answer was to the point:

“The accents she’s using are all over this place.  Is this Southern or New England, or what?  It’s just kind of a mess.”

I’m sure the teacher said something reassuring, but I don’t remember that part.  And, like the early critiques of my would-be novel, the critiques on my modern MacBeth weren’t wrong….they were just enough to make me quit again.

I didn’t pass my Advanced Placement English exam.

I didn’t graduate high school with Honors.

I didn’t score well on my SATs.

I did manage to earn enough academic scholarships to pay most of my way through a liberal arts university in southern Connecticut.

And after I earned my undergrad degree, I wanted to try for a Master’s.

I BOMBED the GREs.  Doing so poorly that I burned the results to rid my memory of the actual score.

Then, one day after Ken (my husband) and I had been dating for about six months, he asked:

“You love to read and write.  Why don’t you go for your MFA in Creative Writing?”

I laughed.  At him, and me.  “Because I can’t spell and I don’t have anything good to submit.”

“Do it anyway and see what happens.  And if you get accepted to a school in Massachusetts, you can move and we won’t have to do this long distance bullshit anymore.”

Two months later I was accepted into the MFA program at Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

That program was so good and bad for me.  It brought me to my husband, connected me with my passion, introduced me to so many talented authors and life-changing stories.

And it also reminded me time and time again that I still couldn’t spell.  Still couldn’t catch my own typos.  Still tried too hard.  Still needed to quit, again.

So, while I did graduate, shortly thereafter, I abandoned writing completely for more than five years.

It’s hard to love my typos.

I know that sounds silly…but it’s true.

It’s really hard to love my typos.  And punctuation problems.  And spelling mistakes.  And my sentences with missing words.

Every time I see one it still stings.  Nudges those memories of forever feeling inadequate.  Unworthy.  Silly for trying.

But today, after seeing so many mistakes in this blog, I decide to nudge back.

There may be many imperfections.  But, like Julia Child once taught my corner of the world, perfect is boring.

And I’m thankful that my life-my beautiful, complicated, evolving life is neither perfect nor boring.

It’s a miracle.  And so, I suppose, are my typos.

Because at least they are a sign that I’m still trying.

Today came close to feeling like a bother.

It was raining which meant longer commutes – everywhere.

A colleague and I had a meeting this afternoon in the Fenway.  And after rolling up to three lots only to find “SORRY LOT FULL,” I finally gave in to the $40 garage.

I forgot to tie up some loose ends before heading back home, so I pulled over at a Dunkin’ Donuts to clear my to-do list before pulling into my driveway, but the WIFI kept dropping out.

And there was still a brief to prepare for a pitch tomorrow…that honestly, was making me anxious.

And so, a decision had to be made.  Keep fighting.  Push and punish, or stop.

So, I packed up the computer, got back in my car, headed in the direction of home and decided:

Tonight, we will unwrap Christmas.

And wouldn’t you know, I pulled in right behind my father in-law.  He’d just picked up my son from daycare (followed by a stop at another Dunkin’ Donuts for a special treat).

My father in-law drives an F-150 and has escorted me to pick out a tree every year since 2007, when Ken and I first bought our home.

It is still rainy, but not that cold.  Briggs is still snug in his car seat.  And, my father in-law is the salt of the earth, so it’s of no real surprise that he happily obliges when I call out:

“Hey, don’t get out of the truck.  How about we go get a Christmas tree?”

I hop into the passenger’s seat and the three of us are off.  We head half a mile down the road to our usual tree buying spot, and given that it’s rush-hour on a rainy Wednesday, we are the only three customers on the tree lot.

Which is ideal because Briggs is very clear on what he’s looking for:

“A small one, but not like some straggly pine tree that Charlie Brown picks out.” (We have Charlie Brown Christmas on DVD and it’s currently in heavy rotation.)

The man on the lot, protected head to toe in yellow rain gear, smiles and brings us right over to a beautiful, fat, short balsam for $19.99.

“This one,” he says, “is a great tree and it’s only still here because of the weather.  If you like small trees, this is the one to take.”

“It’s perfect!” Briggs declares.

After a fresh cut and quick trip inside to pay, the three of us are back en route to home.

“Pup” – as Briggs calls him, loads in our perfect five-and-a-half foot tree, gives a round of hugs and kisses and is off to have dinner with Nana.

Briggs and I waste no time getting into the Spirit.

Christmas carols and candlelight and plenty of “oohs” and “aaahs” over each and every treasured ornament.

We wait for Dad to get home to do the best trimming.  And once he’s there, well, then it really is perfect.

I catch Briggs spending a few extra minutes looking over a box of red, brown, yellow, and green bulbs.

For me, they are one of the most important parts of Christmas.

“Do you know where those came from?” I ask.

“Nope,” Briggs says – still not lifting his eyes from them.

“Your GG, Dad’s Nana gave those to us the first year Dad and I bought this house.”

“Can I put a green one on?”

“Of course.”

These bulbs are likely more than 50 years old.  They are simple and gorgeous, and my husband’s grandmother insisted that her son in-law (my father in-law) bring them over right away when she heard we had no Christmas decorations.

At the time, (remember this is before Briggs), Ken and I weren’t so keen on decorating.  But, I did insist on a tree…even if we didn’t have anything to put on it.

Nana fixed that pretty quick.

I fell in love with those bulbs from the first time I saw them.  And, that’s kind of how I felt about Nana, too.

By the time Ken and I started dating Nana already had 9 children, 19 grandchildren, and I think by then something like 10 great-grandchildren. (Briggs would go on to become her 13th great-grandchild years later.)

This is to say, there were already quite a few folks for her to love…and yet, she just kept finding room to love more.

She loved her kids.  She loved her grandkids.  And she loved all the people her kids went on to love and marry.  And then, she loved all the people her grandkids went on to love and marry.

She loved her in-laws.  Her sisters.  Her nieces and nephews.  Her friends.  Her neighbors.  Her neighbors’ neighbors.

She just loved us.  All of us.

My final words to Nana before she moved on to whatever is next, were:

“Thank you for finding room to love me, too.”

And her final words back to me were:

“I just always could love.  I love all of you.  There was always enough room.  Always.”

And so yeah, today was almost a bother.

Until I let in a little Christmas.

Thought of Nana.

And remembered the making room for love is all the room I’ll ever need to make.

(PS – And after making more room, and trimming that tree, prepping that brief for tomorrow didn’t feel so bad after all)

I talk and write a lot about my son, Briggs spending 61 days in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit.

Though, today it occurs to me that I’ve never written a single word, or shared a single story about Lyndsay and Anna.

These two young, loving, intelligent women were the early intervention specialists assigned to work with Briggs following his discharge from the hospital.

Lyndsay was the first.

She came to our house for exactly one week after Briggs’s surgery.  I worried over her visit the entire day, and when she promptly arrived with her teammate (the initial visit is always done by two therapists), I was overcome with anxiety by her very pregnant belly.

That was a time in my life when I thought it best to avoid pregnant mothers.  I didn’t want them to see my baby and ask questions – afraid that my answers might scare them or worsen might deepen my already worse pain.

Initially, I held back my tears.

Lyndsay was so warm and inviting.  With every exercise and question she treated my son like a person (not a patient), and she made me feel safe.  Like Briggs and I were in good hands.

Near the end of her visit, while Briggs was wrapping up his stellar tummy-time, I turned to Lyndsay and whispered:

“Is he going to be okay?  Will he ever catch-up?”

And what she did next, I will never forget.

There, sitting on my living room, with one hand on her belly and another gently on my shoulder, she cried with me and answered:

“You are such a good, Mom.  He is already doing so well.  You are doing everything he needs and we are here to help.”

For the very first time of Briggs’s life I truly (if only momentarily) knew everything would in fact be more than okay.  It would be good.  So good.

Lyndsay worked with us once a week up until her own baby called for her sincere, complete, and loving attention.  And just before that time, Lyndsay introduced us to Anna.

I was skeptical of Anna, even though Lyndsay assured me that philosophically she and Anna were twins.  They approached their work and their kiddos the same way, and Lyndsay promised that Briggs and I were in good hands with her.

But Anna wasn’t the one who had cried with me that late afternoon on my living room floor and I didn’t know if I had it in me to be that vulnerable with another child care professional.

But, I did.

Anna was patient with me.  She didn’t push for a connection like the one I had instantly struck with Lyndsay, but she was always so attentive and playful and loving toward Briggs.

He was happy when she visited.

About a month after Briggs’s first birthday Anna was over for our weekly play/therapy date.  I was reading Are You a Cow? to him, when suddenly, unprompted, he made a “moo” sound on the cow page.

“Did he just moo?” Anna asked, shocked.

“He couldn’t have? I thought he did…but…”  He was young for this and I was thankful for Anna’s second set of ears.

I flipped back to the cow page and pointed to the barnyard animal and said again, “Are you a cow?”

Clear as day, he moo-ed again.

Ana and I both lit up.

“Briggs,” she said, “there are two year-olds who have a hard time with that.  You’re doing great work.  And so are your Mom and Dad.”

And then, Ana and I had our first good cry together.

Ana and Lyndsay were not high paid healthcare workers.  The kind of support and therapy they provide most often comes with an annual salary anywhere between $16-25K.  Briggs was one of a dozen of children they would criss-cross the eastern coast of Massachusetts to help.

A few weeks into each of them coming to work with Briggs and me, I noticed that they would sometimes stay in their cars for long periods of time before coming in.  When I asked them why, they’d explain that there was never enough travel time worked into their schedules, so things like eating, emailing, and phone meetings all had to take place in driveways and parking lots.

I let them know that they were ALWAYS welcome to come early or stay late.  That hey would ALWAYS have full access to our refrigerator, microwave, oven, stovetop, coffeemaker, bathroom, and/or Internet connection.

“Whatever you need,” I said, “whatever we have, we are more than happy to share.  It’s the least, the very least, we can do.”

Today, on this Giving Tuesday, I’m reminded of the constant and selfless service Lyndsay and Anna provided my family at such a critical time.

That’s why, in their honor, today I made a $100 donation to the Life is Good Kids Foundation.

I came to work at the Life is Good Kids Foundation precisely BECAUSE their mission is to serve childcare professionals like Lyndsay and Anna.  They offer low-to-no cost resources, retreats, and workshops to those who dedicate their careers to working with our most vulnerable children.

Early in his life, Briggs was one of those most vulnerable kids and the love, joy, and assurance brought into our home by those trained caregivers has made a lasting positive difference.

This GivingTuesday I give thanks to Lyndsay and Anna and to all those who are committed to making our world a place where life is (truly) good for all kids.

Vacation was good.

It was lovely to escape to the Adirondacks and be nestled in the woods with my husband, my son, my parents, their dog, my sisters, my brother in-law and my nephew.

My parents rent a beautiful, historic, grand home just up the hill from downtown Lake Placid as an early Christmas present to all of us.  We’ve been doing this for a couple of years now and it’s turned into a lovely family tradition.

In the past this trip has been synonymous with indulgence.  Over packing.  Over eating.  Over drinking.  Over sleeping.  Over shopping.  Over doing.  Making that five-hour trek back to Billerica nothing short of miserable.

But, this time it’s different.

I packed my yoga mat and Yoga for Beauty DVD and invited everyone to join me in the living room at 6:30 the next morning for a dawn practice.

My mom asked if we could push to 7:00.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “we don’t want to miss the sunrise.”

Though, I was a bit nervous about waking up so early on a “getaway” – aside from when Briggs has demanded it, I’d never willfully done that before.

“I’ll see what I feel like,” my Mom said. “But, if I’m not there by twenty-past just start without me.”

I woke up at 5:30.

I didn’t want to cheat my Mom out of the practice in case she decided to join, so I decided to use the extra time to set up the room.

I cleaned the debris from the first night festivities and decided to start a fire in the old, well-used fireplace.  I set up the candles I brought.  Found the yoga DVD and set it up in the player.  But I for whatever reason, I decide to keep the disc laying in the tray, ejected from the player.

When the room felt right, I sat on my yoga mat and just practiced my breathing.  My listening.  The crackle from the fire was soothing and the distant creaks from the long-standing home welcomed me in to this place where families have been gathering for centuries.

I don’t know how much time passed, but gently and suddenly, I was lifted out of my meditation by the sound of the yoga DVD being taken in to the player all on it’s own.

I didn’t know what time it was…

I should probably tell you that I use the same yoga DVD each morning, so I know it, by heart.  It always begins with an advertisement for other programs by the producer, then the disk menu, then the choosing of screen size, then the familiar soothing music and lovely welcoming from the instructor, Rainbeau Mars.

But, on this morning, somehow the commercial, the disk menu, even the formatting prompt are skipped over and I’m brought right to the start of the practice.

So, yes, I didn’t know what time it was, but I was sure it was time to begin.

At the end of Rainbeau’s welcoming, for whatever reason, I rotate my mat and decide not to look at the screen, but instead face the window.

This has never occurred to me before.

I go through the practice the way I usually do.  Staying connected to my breath.  Following Rainbeau’s suggestions.  And silently repeating the following mantra:

Reveal thyself in love.  In health.  In beauty and connection.

I recently watched the film Awake on Netflix – about the first yogi to bring yoga to the West.  That’s where I got the “reveal thyself,” part – and honestly, in saying it so often, I thought that what I might be wishing for was some kind of literal revelation.  For something or someone to somehow magically appear.

And the love, the health, the beauty, and the connection – those were the things I was wishing for me, of course.

But, then, while in practice here in this grand home in the hills of the Adirondacks. In front of this warming fire. As I’m transitioning from one pose to another.  Lifting my head to the sky, and repeating: in beauty.

I see it.

The sun is rising.

The sky has magically (in seemingly an instant) run through every hue of pink and red you can imagine, and the tall pines and the far off flakes of snow dusting the mountains in the distance catch light.  And the entire landscape out this frail window seems to dance.  And sing.

And for the first time, I am aware of the “in” in my intention.  Reveal thyself IN love.  IN health.  IN connection…in beauty.

I finish the practice and I am filled.

For the first Thanksgiving of my entire 34 years, I am truly and completely full.

Wednesday, November 25

I usually write these posts a day late.  Giving me an entire day to reflect on the day that was, before sitting down and sharing with you.

But, this morning, no such time is needed.

This will be my last post until Sunday.

Not because I need a break.  I don’t.  I love this.  But, rather because I am committed to being completely present with my family over the Thanksgiving holiday, which for me means that writing will be limited to paper, pen, and hand.

Besides, I’ve been thinking about this post for awhile now.

On this, the Eve of Thanksgiving, what I am most grateful for is my Depression.

The first time I said this out-loud, the person I was talking with asked me to walk him through this…so, walk with me:

Prior to this exploration I was consumed with competition.  Everything I did was about going further, pushing harder, getting more and NEVER, never giving in.

I was still kind.  Responsible.  Open, in moments.  But, I was missing out on grace.  I felt burdened by the weight of wanting.  Suffocated by the obligation of obligation.  Invisible to my own joy.

I didn’t create.  I couldn’t be present.  And I believed it wouldn’t get better.

I was wrong.

I have not “fought” my way back.  I’ve loved it.  My Depression has taught me how to love me – which has showed me how to be open to others.  I am filled with love, empathy, and acceptance.

I am a better Mother than I have ever been.  More in love with my husband (after more than 11 years of being a couple), than I have ever been.  I am more connected to my parents, more thankful for my sisters,  more in awe of every connection.

I am here.  Now.  In gratitude to my precious Depression.

So here’s to giving thanks to all our parts that make us whole.

Let’s keep loving them…even when we can’t see where that love might take us.  Have faith and lots of light.

Blessings to you and yours.  Happy Thanksgiving.