The Accomplishments That Weren't

The calendar has just rolled over to a new year.

(Source: Google Images)

I mention this in case you've been taking a very long nap. It's a new year and as I take stock of the one that just passed I feel pretty good about it. Overall, I accomplished quite a bit. Except for all the things I said I was going to accomplish.

Of those I accomplished nothing.

On my birthday, just before the kickoff of 2014, I read an article about a woman who on her 31st birthday was lamenting several aspects of her life. She had just stepped outside, into a puddle, and was whining to herself when she looked up and saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. Somehow the ice cream parlor provided her with an epiphany about her own life and how it needed variety, much like the variety of available ice-cream flavors. I'm pretty sure she explained it more eloquently than this but anyhow, even though Baskin-Robbins had dropped the 31 flavors from their name some time ago, she must have been old enough to remember it, and all the whining, puddle-stepping, birthday reflecting, and ice cream flavors fit together into an idea about how to change her life. She decided to ask her friends and family for suggestions of 31 new things she could do in the coming year to broaden her life experience and perspective. I admired her sense of adventure.

I liked the idea so much I decided to write a blog post asking for similar input. Except I wasn't turning 31. I was turning 55. I also wasn't lamenting my life nor had I stepped into a puddle but I guess I just got so caught up in the idea of doing new things that I didn't think the idea through very carefully. I planned to compose a list of 55 of my favorite suggestions. Had I taken the time to consider this I would have realized that doing 55 new things would mean accomplishing more than one per week. This was highly unlikely.

As it was I didn't get 55 ideas. I got 11. And two alternates which I wasn't sure I could commit to. Even so, undertaking 11 new challenges seemed a respectable list and I appreciated the input of those who had chosen to participate.

And that's as far as it went.  Not only did I not accomplish 55 new things, I didn't even accomplish 11.

I didn't even accomplish one.

There are a myriad reasons why I didn't complete my list of eleven new adventures. Probably the most important is that I didn't create a plan for how to accomplish them. The idea was a little hair-brained from the beginning. Without a plan it was pretty much doomed.

I could chastise myself for never even starting. I could call myself a failure or feel bad that I didn't follow through. I could try to hide the fact that I made a public plea for input and then never did a thing with the ideas people provided.

I could. But I won't.

Because whether the idea was a good one or not really doesn't matter. And whether I completed some, all, or none of my list really doesn't matter. I am not defined by what I accomplish. No one is defined by what they accomplished. Not really. There are a lot of people out there accomplishing a lot of great things, but in the end we aren't defined by what we accomplish.

We are defined by how we treat others.

We are defined by our offerings of joy and hope.

We are defined by our demonstrations of charity.

We are defined by the way we are good citizens of the world.

I'll hold on to my list. There are some really good ideas on it and some day I might be lamenting my life and step into a puddle and decide to accomplish them all. Or maybe I'll never accomplish any. It doesn't matter because I'm not defined by my accomplishments.

I am defined by love.

Limes Need Love Too

Wait! Summer is OVER???

The Scream by Edvard Munch

Although the autumnal equinox doesn't come for couple of weeks summer is, for all intents and purposes...over. 

Sad.

Summer is my very favorite season. For lots of reasons I suppose. Maybe there is some throwback to childhood summers when fun and play were the order of the day. Or maybe it is that when my own children were in school, summer was our time to just goof around. I like flowers. And heat. And chirping crickets. I like it all and I set my intentions on enjoying it. Except somehow, this summer didn't seem nearly as delightful as I had hoped.

There were a number of reasons for that, really. Some were self-imposed, like taking on far too much work all at once. I forgot about that boundary setting business. Some were God imposed, like rain. Every. Single. Day. Rain is nice and all, but too much of a good thing gets burdensome. Some were externally imposed, like horrific news events that make me think everyone has gone certifiably insane.

It was a tough summer.

I wasn't entirely ready for Anna to return to school when she did; it seemed to come up far too quickly. Nevertheless, we drove her to another state, got her settled, and returned home in early August. I felt sad. In the following week I was working a million hours everyday to meet deadlines. It rained. Every. Single. Day. There were riots in Missouri and reports of Robin Williams' suicide. Russia invaded Ukraine. Ebola was ravaging West Africa and hopeless refugees were trapped atop Mount Sinjar. A friend's son had just died tragically in the prime of his life and other friends were coming to terms with their son's incurable brain tumor.

It was a very tough summer.

One afternoon that week, amid all the soberness, I stopped at the little market in my neighborhood to buy some fresh produce. Lemons were on my list and as I approached the stand where they were displayed in mounds of yellow, I saw a young woman and her two small children stationed in front of them. The woman was deeply engaged in a conversation with her son. I'm not sure what they were talking about...maybe the merits of citrus or the dangers of scurvy.  I don't know, but the little girl was seemingly unnoticed for those few minutes. Left to her own devices she did what anyone would do I suppose. Or maybe what I hope we would all do. She started singing.

To the nearby limes.

It started off as a simple little song. I didn't recognize the tune. In fact, it was rather avant garde with its dissonant notes, uneven rhythm, and lack of any discernible rhyming patterns. Before long the girl became quite impassioned and the song took on a decidedly loving tone. She loved those limes. Everybody loved those limes. Limes were the best thing in the world. In fact, all existential meaning in life could be found in those simple limes.

Okay. She didn't sing that last part. But she might as well have. I just stood and listened as she sang her limey love song with every bit of her soul. I smiled. My spirit lifted. And yes, she was in my way and I couldn't reach the lemons.

But it didn't matter. I appreciated her zeal for the limes so much that I didn't really need to reach the lemons at that very moment. Somehow, amid the fatigue and tragedy and sadness, the little lime crooner gave me hope.

No, her song didn't change anything that had weighed down my spirit that week. It didn't end hatefulness. It didn't cure cancer. It didn't make tragedy less painful.

It did remind me, however, that love is more powerful than hate. That joy is more powerful than sorrow. That all people...and all limes...need to feel loved. As long as there is love there is hope.

The little girl reminded me that we would all benefit by singing words of love to the limes.

And to one another.

September 12, a Dog, and Hope

All of us who lived through the horror of September 11th, 2001 feel the collective sadness of that day. Our hearts broke. We felt violated. Angry. Afraid. And, of course, we will all remember the moment when we realized what was happening. Life truly did change as a result of that one day. We still suffer. And we still prevail. We still grieve. And we still overcome.

The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.

On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.

It just simply was.

My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.

His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.

Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.

Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.

One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.

The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.

There was hope.

Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.