Author: Lisa Gurry

It’s 11:48pm on Cinco de Mayo and I’m so ready to bid an energetic adios to this day.

Not my usual blog demeanor, but in the spirit of keeping it real, I will share that I really don’t like this particular day.

This year I’ve had more time to think than usual, as my boys are out of town at a basketball tournament and my oldest daughter has had a full plate of social plans, including a sleep-over at a friend’s house tonight.

So I tried to keep myself busy with my youngest. Going for walks in the brilliant sunshine, running a few remodel errands (yay for finding the perfect tile for my master bath after at least 8 stores and hours online!), and summer clothes shopping for the both of us.

But I here I am. As Cinco de Mayo is winding down, with a preoccupied mind and a heavy heart.

You see, Cinco de Mayo is an anniversary of sorts. For the last nine years, it has been the anniversary of finding out my daughter’s health diagnosis. Last year, my beloved grandma died on this day. So I kind of want to give the 5th of May a super rude gesture most years – this year, more than ever.

Nine years ago it was a normal day. I was wrapping up my maternity leave/sabbatical from work – almost eight months of time to focus on being a mom to my new precious baby and her two older siblings. This time was such a gift. Taking my daughter to pre-school. Taking my son to Little Kickers soccer. Cuddling my baby. Endless tea parties and super heroes and dress-up. It was busy and wonderful and it was coming to an end, as I was going back to work in a few weeks.

I was in the house alone with my baby when the phone rang. I didn’t think anything of it. Her doctor had noticed a few developmental delays and suggested we get a MRI. At first, I resisted. She would have to go under anesthesia and at only 5 lbs 10 oz at birth, she was a tiny little thing. And I was certain – so incredibly certain – that she was fine. I even said, “You see Dr., she is a third child. She is in her car seat far too much chasing after her older siblings. Don’t worry, we have this parenting thing down – I’ll do more tummy time, blah, blah, blah.” I honestly was a bit embarrassed, but not worried.

So the phone rings and I’m holding my baby, in the house by ourselves in her room – I remember it like it was yesterday. I had called the pediatrician the day before requesting a final report. I had actually called several days prior after the MRI because I was heading to Vancouver to run my first post-baby half-marathon and wanted to make sure it was OK to leave her with family for a night. The radiologist said, “yes, everything looks fine. Nothing to worry about.” So off I went for a night – ran a half marathon – and came back home. Seriously, not worried. At all.

So the phone rings. And I answer. As if it is no big deal. It’s the back-up pediatrician on call returning my call because my pediatrician was on vacation. “Oh hello,” I say, as I make silly faces at my baby.

He introduces himself and asks if I’m driving. What? And then he asks if there is anyone else with me. What?? And I start to feel frantic. And I tell him to tell me what he called to say. I am not driving and I am alone with my baby, but I need to know. Now.

He says, “Your baby has a neurological condition called agenesis of the corpus callosum. This means she is missing the part of her brain that connects the right and left hemisphere. I don’t really know what it means. I’ve never seen this before. I think you need to see a neurodevelopmental expert at Children’s.”

WHAT??? What did you say? How do you spell that? You’ve actually never seen another child with this? WHAT???

I was shocked. Terrified. Heartbroken. With the certainty that her life, my life, and the life of our family just changed in an instant. I knew nothing else. But I knew everything had changed, with certainty. 

As he was describing what he had read on the Internet, I flew downstairs with my baby and also searched the same Internet. WHAT?? Could this be possible?

I was healthy. Only 32 when she was born. She had extensive testing done in utero. Clean bill of health. Normal birth. WHAT??

The Internet terrified me so I closed it down. Looked down at my smiling baby and tried to make sense of this crazy. I was panicking and crying and trying to remain calm. I knew I needed to call my husband but so didn’t want to destroy his world. How do you tell your husband his precious baby is missing part of her brain? And you cannot fix it??

But I did. And I tried super hard to be calm. And completely lost it about one second into the conversation. He came home immediately, we held our baby, and tried to optimistically believe that she would be fine.

It was very probably the very worst day of my life.

And then last year, on the very same day, my beloved grandma died. While she was not in great health, she was so smart, so sharp, and so amazing. I loved her so much. I got home to my mom as soon as I could and we focused on sending her off with all of the love she deserved.

But ugh. Cinco de Mayo. What. A. Day. 

I’ve already decided that next year will be different. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wasting a day of the year being sad. We are going to throw a huge Cinco de Mayo party. It is going to be awesome. I will surround myself with friends. I will eat guacamole and chips and salsa until I explode. I will enjoy several Corona’s. It will be amazing.

Because I’m ready to take back Cinco de Mayo. Sometimes in life, you just have to. 

And now, it is 12:11am. Which is officially May 6th. The day has passed and I am going to have the most amazing May 6th ever.

Lately I’ve had a case of the blah’s. What are the blah’s you ask? The blah’s are when you can’t quite seem to shake a dark cloud over your head. Your shoulders feel weighty, smiles are harder to come by, you may be grouchy at odd times for no apparent reason. Nothing has gone horribly wrong. But the blah’s…..they remain.

It could be because I just barely survived the rainy season – April is my least appreciated month in Seattle. It could be because I’ve been juggling a lot at work – including some projects that aren’t my favorite. It could be because I’m still consumed with the remodel and making a ton of choices which started out fun, but are now becoming wicked time-consuming – just this week I’m finalizing the details on over 60 lights – yes, 60 – for our house. That is an awful lot of lights. And I love lighting.

Or it could be for a number of other reasons. But anyway. Blah. Blah. Blah.

So this blog is devoted to my top ways to cure the blah’s. 

1. Watch your favorite movie, hopefully one that makes you laugh. Check out for the night. No working. No social media. No laundry. No nothing but sitting on the couch. Focusing on doing nothing. For me, the choice was easy this week. Couple’s Retreat, obviously. This may be the best movie of all time. Vince Vaughn. Jason Bateman. A ridiculous storyline about a set of couples that have been married awhile and need a spark, so off they go to Tahiti. Not only does it make me want to go to Tahiti, I laugh out loud. Many, many times. Every single time. This is an old movie at this point. So old I couldn’t find it on Netflix. So I bought it from Comcast for $6.95. This may be the best $6.95 I’ve ever spent.
2. Watch something else that makes you smile and reminds you of the ridiculousness of life. This one is easy for me too. I have a huge crush on James Corden of the Late, Late Show. I rarely watch him live – only on YouTube. I could seriously watch Carpool Karaoke skits for hours. He is so ridiculously funny. And he gets the musicians to do silly things where they all crack up. Laughter is contagious and he makes me laugh. A close second is Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake’s History of Rap. Also epic and awesome. There are like six different versions – the first few are the best. The songs of my youth all mashed together in hilarious fashion. Amazing.
3. Cuddle with people you love. One of my favorite ways to end the day is hanging out in my oldest daughter’s bed. We’ll talk to her friends on FaceTime, look at ridiculous meme videos, and watch YouTube. It’s ultimate chill time. And if I’m lucky, her brother will join us and we’re like puppies piled into a bed. And Zoe of course. Because wherever I am, so is Zoe. Who is really a big puppy in the bed.
4. Dance party!!! I love music. I love to dance. I’m sure I always will. Even when I’m an old grandma and just rocking it at weddings, hopefully in a cool “rock on grandma!” kind of way. You can really have a dance party pretty much anywhere. My car is an awesome dance party location. I’m not fazed at all if people stare. I just smile and add more energy. It’s best to have room to move though. So my living room is my best option currently. This can be done to any music you like. Right now, my youngest daughter is really into this crazy fitness instructor called the Fitness Marshall. He teaches you how to dance while giving you a work-out! And he is silly funny and says sayings that make me laugh like “Toot your horn! No one else is going to!”
5. Exercise. It’s really true what they say about endorphins. They give you a boost. Heavy things don’t seem that heavy anymore. I met my girlfriend for a run the other morning and it was immediately mood-lifting. Both the run and the girl talk. Tomorrow morning I’ll have to go solo, but I know I’ll have more energy, more smiles, and less blah’s because I’ve started my day on the move.

So there you have it! I hope you never have a case of the blah’s. But if you do, these five steps are full-proof ways to shake them off. Promise.

I read an article yesterday in the Wall Street Journal called something like “When did you first feel old?” It was a clever little article quoting the minister of longevity from Stanford (an actual thing) and quotes from people from their late 20’s and beyond on when “old” feelings first settled in.

The obvious push is to answer the question yourself. When did I first feel old? 

In typical fashion, my first instinct is Nev-er.

I am young at heart. In reasonably good shape. With a lot of vibrant energy. I honestly feel like I could be 25 most days.

I choose 25 intentionally because I had my first baby at 27 and all hell broke loose for the next decade. That sweet little princess and her two siblings to follow were all terrible sleepers. Real deal sleep deprivation does not make one feel young.

So I harken back to 25. Nope. Not me. Not old. Still a spring chicken.

And then, I realize, if I’m being honest with myself, this is not true.

It’s a completely embarrassing story, but I will share. The first time I truly felt old – or certainly old-er than I would like – was several years ago. I’m going to guess I was about 35ish. When I realized I was older than Justin Bieber’s mom. That’s right. True story.

My big kids were huge fans. And truthfully, so was/am I.  I can’t remember how I figured this out. It could have been watching one of his documentaries (with my kids! although the first one was actually quite good). Or reading an article. In any case, yep, not only could I be his mother, but I am actually older than his mother. By just a few years in my memory. And I think she had him when she was like 16. But still.

Eye opening. 

Now, sometimes at work, when I’m in a meeting with real “millennials” or people many, many years younger than me, I do feel old-ish. But then I quickly brush it off.

Because I still hold true that age is just a number. How you feel. How you act. How you embrace life – this is what matters, not a number.

I’m going to keep hanging on to 25ish…even as it becomes decades in the rear view mirror. And with certainty, I ignore all of those “what not to do after 40” articles that are all the rage. Wear a bikini? Heck yeah. Ripped jeans? My favorite. Long hair? For sure. High heels? Absolutely.

All potential rule-breakers. All totally me. What really matters is not how old you are – or if you feel old. But are you making the most of the age you are? I always want the answer to be definitively yes.

Today I went on a field trip! For real. With a group of seventh graders, including my favorite seventh grader, my son. Our destination was the National State History Museum in Tacoma.

I love a good field trip. You get to see your kid interact with their classmates. It’s like an animal in their natural habitat. And I’m an anthropologist. Observing, watching, and soaking it up. If he reads this, it will likely be my last field trip. But anyway.

It’s a K-8 school and I’ve known most of these boys since kindergarten, if not pre-school. To see them now, so big and teenage-ery, is wild. They’re mostly all taller than me. And somehow, my son is almost the tallest kid in the class. Unexpected…from this 5’1″ mom.

The field trip wasn’t that notable really other than my own little anthropological study. But a certain sign did catch my eye.

It’s possible I’m the only one in the whole museum that even read the sign about artifacts. It was small and obscure. But it spoke to me.

Here’s why:

What is this sad little Tigger doing in this blog? It’s a great example of an ordinary object with extraordinary meaning.

This Tigger was on my oldest daughter’s first birthday cake over 14 years ago. It was in a kitchen drawer for many years, alongside other candles and baking supplies. I kept it because it was a sentimental reminder of her first birthday and I am an acknowledged sentimental sap.

Six years later, after I had found out her little sister had an unknown and rare neurological disorder, I was reeling. We didn’t know what the future would look like for her and it was a terrifying and heartbreaking time. Once we got the initial diagnosis, it took three months to get into a neurodevelopmental doctor, and many more months of uncertainty and fear.

During this window of time, I struggled to process. One day, my eye landed on this Tigger. It became symbolic. I could choose to tackle this challenge with fear, uncertainty and gloom (a la Eeyore) or I could be a f#$+ing Tigger. With endless optimism. And energy. Bouncing through the day versus plodding. Choosing joy.

I chose to be Tigger. And I have been embracing my inner Tigger ever since.

Since then, Tigger had a distinct spot on the windowsill in my kitchen for many years. When we moved into our rental house, he ended up in the medicine cabinet by my toothbrush. I’m not sure why, but I see him several times each day.

This morning he caught my eye and I paused for a moment and thought…”hello, little friend.”

So the sign in the museum about ordinary objects with extraordinary meaning caught my eye today. I thought of Tigger. And so many other objects that I surround myself with at home and at work that have extraordinary meanings. They’re my little secrets mostly. But they inspire me. They make me happy. And they remind me of the meaning of life.

Recently identity has been on my mind. Perhaps the most existential question – who am I? 

I’ve had a few friends make major life transitions recently. And others considering big moves. It’s interesting to me how many of us identify ourselves by what we do.

I’m a mom. I am a wife. I work at Microsoft. In many ways, it’s a great thing. You must love what you do on some level for your home or work to pop to the top of your life identity.

But if we dig deeper, there is more.

My dad taught me this when I was 20. I was a junior in college. I had a storied running career in high school and had a full running scholarship to the college of my choice (which I chose solely for their top-notch running program). My roommates were runners. My best friends were runners. The guys I dated were runners. I was surrounded by….running. This would have worked out perfectly if my storied high school career had continued.

But it didn’t. I was constantly injured and after my 13th stress fracture and following a double leg surgery that had me largely bed ridden for a week, I was done.

My parents were my biggest cheerleaders. They applied zero pressure yet somehow were omnipresent in their support. So, when I was home on a visit and broke down in tears (very uncharacteristic of me) with frustration, I was expecting open arms and words of encouragement. Instead, the conversation went something like this:

Me: “I’m miserable. I’m surrounded by people doing what I want more than anything in the world and I can’t do it anymore. I feel like a loser.”

Rather than console me, it’s one of the few times I can remember my dad getting angry.

Dad: “Lisa, never, ever say that. You are not a loser. What you do, is not who you are. So be who you are. And don’t confuse dreams and achievement with who you are and what you are made of.” 

I remember it clearly to this day. It was such a powerful moment. And exactly what I needed.

It spurred me into action. I joined a sorority to broaden my friend group, even moving into my sorority house for my last semester of school. Super uncommon, but I kind of did college backward. I officially quit running (until I took another scholarship for grad school, but that’s another story) and turned my attention to preparing for my career in communications. I wrote a 120 page thesis so I could graduate early. And I still had a lot of fun with my old crew and new friends.

But the lesson has been lifelong. When I consider who I am, what is my identity, it is not what I do. It is not me as a mom. Or a wife. Or a daughter. Or sister. It is not my 20 year career at Microsoft. All of these matter so very much to me.

But, they are not what makes me me. Identity is really your soul. And who you are at your core. Defined by traits that are ingrained in who you are. When I think about what defines my identity I think of a few things. Positive energy. Optimism. Creator. Writer. Curious learner. Someone who likes big challenges and takes great satisfaction in pushing to achieve big goals. Hard worker. Likes to lead. With a ridiculous sense of humor and love of fun.

There’s more to me, of course. But when I think back on my life these are enduring traits that define me – regardless of life stage.

So an interesting exercise is, what if we chose what to do, by working back from who we are?

Coincidentally, I had started writing this blog in my head earlier today and wrapped my day with a meeting where I was asked what I like to do most. Interestingly, many of the same themes I identify above emerged.

What a gift it is if you can fill your day with things that reinforce who you are. And if our days are not filled with things that help us be the best – and most happiest – we can be – why not? 

Hello blog universe….it’s been awhile.

A friend encouraged me to write today, so here we go. Tonight I’m thinking about direction. And how we all need a path in life. Otherwise we drift. Aimlessly. Wasting time and opportunity.

The path can change. But without a path, you can end up running in circles. Or into a ditch.

This blog didn’t start from a deep place though. It started in a parking garage. Literally. After I finished a meeting in a building I do not typically frequent, I had a sadly common occurrence. I got in the elevator to the garage, got ready to push the button, and then…hmmm….was it P1? Or P2? Surely not P3?

And then my stomach sinks because I know I’m in trouble. I chose door 2 and hopped off on P2. Made a circle. Nope.

P3? Walked a few aisles and then…definitely not. This cannot be right.

So up to P1. Alright. This must be it. Walked a few aisles and then literally retraced my driving path to my car. Phew. That only took 20 minutes. Of my life. That I will never get back.

And, I needed to pick my son up from an appointment. So I had to call my husband, confess the losing of car, and ask him to pick up our son – now a bit late – because I had optimistically thought, for sure, I will find my car any minute.

If that wasn’t bad enough, this has happened before. Several times. In fact, this is an actual text exchange from today:

son: who’s picking me up

me: Dad

son: when

me: soon…pls stay inside the building

son: why

me: I lost my car. We had to scramble

son: Ok

The worst part? He was not even phased. Totally got it.

So direction is on my mind. And beyond the parking garage.

Because isn’t it so important to have direction in life? So we know where each step is taking us? And our time is spent intentionally, with purpose?

Otherwise, it’s so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day shuffle and hustle of life. We plow through life but we miss opportunity, we miss experiences, and we miss joy if we aren’t clear on our direction.

In many ways, this blog started with a commitment to direction. And even if you don’t know which way you’re going, you’re committed to figuring it out.

So here’s to focusing on the path forward. Direction. I’ll keep seeking it. Even when elusive.

On that note…I was looking for a quote to help convey this thematic. I found the perfect one. For me anyway:)

Tonight I’m thinking about risks. In many ways, year #43 has been a year of risk. Project and professional risk. Real estate and home remodel risk. And a few others.

Risk doesn’t have to entail climbing Mt. Everest or leaving everything you know behind to move to India.

To me, risk is anything that challenges you. Pushes you outside your comfort zone. Makes you pause. Weigh pro’s and con’s. Consider if you are capable – and in some cases – brave enough – to go for it.

This year I’ve chosen to go for it in a few different ways. Some have worked out and others haven’t. It’s easy to celebrate the risks that work out. It’s more challenging to embrace the risks that don’t work out as part of your life fabric. The obstacles that make you stronger. Learn about yourself.

Of course, there are a million words of wisdom about risk and failure. Grit is a popular concept that I’m a big fan of (made popular by the amazing book by Angela Duckworth). If I could wish my kids any trait, it would be grit. But a lot of the short quotes are a bit cheesy and over-simplified.

One caught my eye by the wise anonymous “Take risks: If you win, you will be happy. If you lose: you will be wise.” Close….but I don’t like to think of life in terms of winning and losing. And I think you can gain wisdom from winning, and losing doesn’t have to make you unhappy. So scratch that one.

Or the thought-provoking “Your biggest risk will be the one you don’t take.” That makes you pause. And feels a bit scary. But I think you shouldn’t take risks for risk-sake alone. You should take risks when it matters to you. When your heart pulls you in a direction. When you can’t stop thinking about an idea. If you’re lucky, this happens enough to make you feel alive. 

Of course, the worst thing about risk is that you can fail. And failure, generally speaking, is really not fun. Some would say it typically sucks. But this I believe to be true – in the wise words of Wayne Gretzky, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” So I believe we must keep taking shots. Even when it’s hard. Or disappointing. Or humbling. And seek to learn from these moments. And then get back up and look for the next shot.

Ultimately, the quote at the top sums it up best for me. I would hate to get to the end of my life and not know what could have happened. Risk. The best ones are scary – but the most rewarding – whether you succeed or fail, you will know.

Recently I lost a year of my life. It may sound dramatic, but this is a true story.

My sister had a birthday and as she is 2.5 years older than me, I was doing the math to figure out which birthday she was celebrating. #45 – a milestone! Yep, I’m 42, so she would be 45.

And then I was reminded that she was actually 46. Which meant I am actually 43. What?! For some reason, 43 seems…..more old. Barely early 40’s. And more troublesome, how did I forget an entire year of my life? 

I’m sure when I turned 43 in July I knew which birthday I was celebrating. But I honestly forgot somewhere over the last months and if you had asked me my age, I would have sincerely told you 42.

So now….43? Hmmm.

A simple slip of memory. But it really made me pause.

I need to embrace 43! 43 should not be forgotten! I really do believe that every year is precious. Each day should be meaningful. So, oh no 43, you will not be forgotten. 

I asked myself…..am I doing exactly what I want to be doing with each day of 43? Am I making special memories with those I love the most? Am I surrounding myself with people who make me feel great about myself? Am I investing in friendships and girl time? Am I reading and learning and challenging myself? Am I healthy and pushing myself physically, while I still am able? Am I laughing – deeply – every day? Am I taking time to notice and appreciate the big and little things that bring me joy? Am I taking adventures and planning trips with people I love? Am I taking time each day to cherish doing something I enjoy, even amidst my responsibilities? Am I unapologetically living a life that makes me happy? 

These questions all deserve a yes at the end of 43.

So forgetting a year of your life is a good kick in the pants. Get out there and LIVE IT UP! It is #43 – and I only get one of them.

Coincidentally, while I had this epiphany of embracing 43, I read a recent interview with Oprah. If anyone is a role model for making the most out of life, accomplishing, and living an authentic life, it must be Oprah.

So image how overjoyed I was to read this quote, “I tell all women, you don’t hit it until 44. I felt the essence of being a fully grown woman at 44…..Then around 50, it’s the beginning of another phase in your life. You will know that you are no longer supposed to be wasting time on things that are frivolous.”

Fantastic! I haven’t even hit it yet. I’m just warming up. Next year is going to be a big, big year.

And I’ll look forward to the wisdom of 50 and beyond.

In the meantime, here’s to embracing – and wholeheartedly living – #43.

Tonight I did it! I actually went to hot yoga and I really liked it. Love is a very strong word, so I’ll refrain, but it definitely hit the enjoyment meter. Who knew??

It really shouldn’t be that hard to commit to an hour long class, but since my last blog on yoga, I hadn’t made the time. Yesterday I did a longish run and was tight as usual today, so I went for it.

I wanted to try a new studio that had been recommended by friends, so it required researching class times, driving 2.5 miles, and arriving early (so hard for me!) to sign up. I have to laugh at the 2.5 miles part – living in Seattle totally spoils you to the proximity of cool stuff. There is a yoga class about half a mile from my house that I have been to a few times, but it is a bit too woo-woo for me (it involved a banging drum last time I went). But for some reason, driving the 2.5 miles to the neighboring Greenlake neighborhood seemed so far. It’s funny – and ridiculous – really – I regularly commute 1.5 hours each day to work (not that many miles either, but so much traffic), but I’m daunted about driving a few miles to do something for my health and enjoyment.

But not today! I drove there! I was 15 minutes early! I signed up! I was killing it!

Until I opened the door to the class area and nearly passed out. It was like New Orleans in July. SO HOT! The air was stifling. And the room was full already. For real? I thought it would largely be empty because the Oscars had just started. Who does yoga when the Oscars are on? Die-hard’s that’s who. And me.

So I found a place to set up my mat as everyone laid still like a corpse around me. It’s actually kind of creepy. So I laid down too. Like a corpse. Who was sweating to death and we hadn’t even started yet.

And then the instructor got us going. I really tried to focus. Choose an intention (I’ll share it – it was simply “Relax”) and tried to focus on Relaxing and not thinking.

I was able to do the bulk of the poses, only (nearly) fell over once, and eventually stopped caring that I was sweating buckets. Everyone was. And then I remembered you aren’t supposed to compare yourself to others in the class. So I really tried hard not to look around. Which was just as well. Because I really am not good at yoga comparatively AND I was dressed all wrong. I wore black pants and a yellow sports bra/top amidst a sea of black and grey. My yellow top looked like a sun rising amidst dark clouds.

But anyway.

I considered it a hugely successful class. I focused and <sort of> relaxed. I stretched some very tight leg muscles and hip flexors. I actually did feel much more flexible by the end of the class. I didn’t look at my watch once. And I look forward to going back.

If you can win a yoga class, I think I did it today. For me anyway.

Namaste.

Tonight I will write a usefully bad blog. I love the phrase “usefully bad.” I use it as a guiding light at work on occasion. Tonight I will use it for this blog.

Essentially it means making a move. Even if it’s a bad move. Writing something. Even if it’s a bad something. Anything. But getting the creative wheels turning. Forward motion.

When stuck at work, I will seek to write a usefully bad blog. Or press release. Or set of messaging. Or speech material. Sometimes you have to start in a usefully bad place to end up somewhere wonderful. 

So words hit paper. I try hard to not overly edit. Or judge. Or get annoyed if the content is so bad it may not be close to useful.

The point of usefully bad is just to start. Create a foundation to build upon. Forward motion. 

I hate that I’ve neglected this little blog. I’ve missed it.

The past few weeks have directed my creative energy in other directions – a big presentation at work, researching some interesting new ideas, an aggressive design stage of our house remodel, and spending time with my mom in the evening hours while she visited. There really isn’t time to write when you can be sharing laughs over a glass of wine.

But tonight, I’m ready to get back to it. Even from a usefully bad place. Because sometimes the longer you take a break, the harder it is to get started. So this is my usefully bad blog. I’m officially back at it. 

I recently read a book by Elizabeth Gilbert called “Big Magic, Creative Living Beyond Fear.” Gilbert also wrote “Eat, Pray, Love” and while I don’t have grand plans to move to India on a spiritual quest, I’m all in on seeking big magic in my life.

There is a lot I love about this book, but one of the things I love most is the encouragement to “Say what you want to say and say it with all your heart. Share whatever you are driven to share.” Embracing the authenticity of who you are. She stresses your art doesn’t have to be overly original – in fact, it doesn’t even need to be important. She encourages creating, simply because “I do what I do because I like doing it.”

That pretty much sums up my approach to this blog. Whether anyone reads it or not, I really am loving the process. And it’s so good to be back here – on my laptop, with my favorite candle burning, good tunes playing and a great glass of wine. Someday I’ll write something more meaningful. But tonight, it’s just a usefully bad start. 

And as Gilbert coaches “Your own reasons to create are reason enough. Do whatever brings you to life, then. Follow your own fascinations, obsessions and compulsions. Trust them. Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart.” 

So here’s to finding the revolution. And enjoying the usefully bad process along the way.