Divine Imperfections

Ready-or-not, Set, GO!

There were plenty of reasons for panic to shoot through my veins as I waited to hand over my yellow tickets, and to pass through the slouching metal gate.

 

Would my very adult-sized butt fit in a seat made for small children?

Would my legs fold up enough for my feet to reach the green and red pedals?

Would I make it around the curvy, tire-lined track without spewing the queso I’d had for lunch?

 

These were the pesky questions that raced through my mind as a mustached 15-year-old amusement land worker came up to give me a 30 second safety/pep talk.

 

His single question, “You know how to drive, right?” didn’t exactly set my heart at ease, particularly since I was surveying my fellow “drivers,” the median age of which had to be eight.

He also didn’t check my seatbelt, the way the dedicated Six-Flags employees do (by yanking at a flimsy piece of cloth meant to protect you should your bucket seat remain upside down longer than intended).

But I didn’t get long to entertain these worrisome thoughts.

 

 

There was no checkered flag, or a flashing green light to signal the start of what I suspected might be the a dance with death.

Instead there was just the kid with the mustache, making minimum wage, slouching near the front of the line of vehicles manned by third-graders.

 

“Go,” he said.

 

And without fanfare we were off, the elementary students, my husband and I.

 

 

I don’t know when the last time you drove a go-kart was, but I hadn’t been behind the strange, padded wheel of one since high school at least.

That’s been more than ten years. TEN YEARS!

A lot happens in ten years. Muscle atrophy. Most of your favorite musical groups split up or retire.

And a whole heck of a lot of fear can accumulate if given a decade to fester.

 

In my case it felt like all I'd done since high school was grow afraid of a great many things, not the least of which was go-karts.

But, that makes it particularly amazing how fast those fears flew out the “window” when I determined to do something that scared me, then hit the gas. Hard.

 

Sure, I shrieked a little as I headed into my first corner, unsure how my shiny yellow kart would handle.

And I wondered, as I used all my might to slam the gas, trying to get more than 35 miles per hour, which would come first: the finish line or a nasty Charlie Horse in my right leg.

 

But by the second turn I had determined to catch up to my husband several karts ahead.

And with that goal spurring me on, I was able to barrel past any remaining fears as I finished my first lap, and then set out to drive the second as if I were Jeff Gordon/Mario himself.

 

 

For those of you unfamiliar with go-karts they are basically a poor man’s tank. They’re nothing special to look at, but they’re practically indestructible.

They have a much lower center of gravity too, giving their “drivers” the ability to make tight corners without slamming on the brakes.

 

 

This was something I learned while attempting to pass a small, red-haired boy of about seven, who looked back at me through his large glasses with both disgust and terror in his eyes.

I had bumped him ever-so-slightly in my attempt to keep my speed going through the curve, and while I had a tinge of guilt (the way any reasonable adult would) I also determined in that moment, this was no place to let guilt slow me down.

 

So I shrugged my shoulders at him as I passed that poor kid, and then another, and another… ‘til eventually I had not only passed but lapped my husband (who granted; had one of the oldest, slowest karts out there) and made my way successfully towards the front of the pack.

 

When I spotted dozens of parents standing in the distance I knew they probably thought I was a monster, barreling past their small children, mouth agape and shouting “woo hoo” most of the time.

(Heaven only knows what they thought when I shot an “I Love You!” sign to my husband, a sign language standby that probably looked a lot less wholesome, much less romantic, from a distance.)

 

But, quite frankly, I was having too much fun to care a whole lot about what they thought.

And I've got to tell you, what a glorious, foreign feeling that was!!!

 

 

It turns out they don’t pass out trophies at the Go-Kart/Batting Cage/Paintball/Mini Golf/Arcade off the highway.

Not even ribbons. Or stickers. (And man, a sticker would have been nice.)

 

But I didn’t really need one to leave that track feeling like a winner.

The second my brown ballet flat hit the gas I knew I had accomplished the stuff of dreams.

 

I had conquered a fear, then blown past it with the wind at my back.

And it felt good; it felt so good.

 

 

I hope you won’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to advocate merciless driving here.

In fact, I applaud all the parents in the world with more discipline, self-constraint than I displayed behind that tiny, padded wheel.

 

What I am realizing, and trying to say, is that I think a great many of our fears - be they getting stuck in a bucket seat or worrying what other people will think about us - are probably unfounded, or at the very least worth conquering.

 

 When this year began I held off on sharing one resolution I secretly made with myself.

It was a resolution to do more things that scare me, to start saying “Yes!” to some things that are frightening.

 

And frankly, I kept quiet about it 'cause I was scared I wouldn't follow through.

 

Clearly I’m not an expert on conquering fear.

In fact, I’m relatively new to doing anything brave ever.

 

But I hope that doesn’t disqualify me from sharing this story with you, or from preaching the value of getting past or over the things that hold us back.

'Cause I feel like it's important. At least I know it's become very important for me.

 While I haven’t booked a Bungee Jumping excursion, or decided to vacation in some war-torn land yet, I have already conquered some fears I’ve been harboring for years:

 

• I used a food processor unsupervised for the first time a few weeks ago. And I didn’t lose a finger, catch the kitchen on fire, or even ruin dinner, the way I suspected I might.

 

• I also sang in public with my husband’s band, in front of people that aren’t related to me or obligated to tolerate/like my voice. It wasn’t a roaring success, but it wasn’t a disaster either.

(For the record I'm using the following definition: a "disaster" is me literally throwing up anywhere other than a bathroom stall. This instance was a narrow victory, but a victory nonetheless.)

• And then I drove the go-kart, instead of sitting it out the way I was very tempted to do. I could have used my camera as an excuse. “Oh I’ll just take pictures this time.” I could have explained the queso situation, and I’m sure everyone would have understood.

But instead of grasping at some lame excuse, I timidly said “okay.”

And because I choked back the fear, and put on my seatbelt, I ended up having a really great time.

In coming months I hope to conquer fears in even more practical ways.

Like saying “yes” to some freelance opportunities that it’d be easy to turn down.

And saying “yes” to some chances to forge friendships, even though it’d be easier to stay in my comfortable little bubble.

‘Cause while I know some fears serve a purpose…

For instance, it’s good I thought twice about ordering a hotdog from the concession stand at an arcade that smelled of B.O. and bowling shoes. (Particularly since there was not a bowling alley in sight.)

It’s also good that I don’t drive our 1994 Jeep Cherokee the way I drove my go-kart.

… I also know that most of my fears are not based in wisdom.

 

They’re the silly kind that serve no function whatsoever. And I’m sick of letting them control me.

 

I don’t want to live my whole life afraid of go-karts. Or kitchen appliances.

And I don’t want to let the fear of failure or embarrassment keep me from pursuing my passions.

 

So this year I set out to say “Yes!” more.

And I really hope some of you will join me on this journey.

 

I hope you'll start saying “yes” to some things that scare you too.

 

Together we can push outside our comfort zones. We can commit to trying new things, to silencing fears.

We can learn to be braver. We can aspire to overcome our fears.

And, we can have a heck of a good time doing it.

 

Now, let's hit the gas!

A New Dream: Be Hugh Jackman's Wife

Recently I went to bed thinking about how much I’d like to be Hugh Jackman’s wife someday.

And I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t we all?

He is, after all, a Broadway star, half man, half wolf, 100 percent Australian dreamboat.

 

But that’s not what I’m talking about, though the man does look good in a suit.

 

To explain what I mean we must first make a short trip back in time. All the way to January 13, in fact.

January 13, 2013.

 

 

I was watching the Golden Globes that night, mostly for the hosting genius but also to see all the gorgeous dresses.

 

Right away I fell in love with Ann Hathaway’s sparkly white ensemble. And I was pleasantly surprised to discover that her unfortunate haircut had grown into a pretty cute pixie by then.

I also figured Tina had to be proud seeing one of her protégés strike it big in Les Mis (Mean Girl to It-Girl). And so, though I’ve yet to see the film, I didn’t mind that there were frequent camera pans to the table featuring the musical’s biggest names.

 

But each time they zoomed in I spotted one very unfamiliar face. A face that would have seemed just as fitting at a PTO meeting, or selecting tomatoes at a Tom Thumb, as it did at an awards gala.

 

Each time they showed her I was taken aback, trying to figure out who it could possibly be.

 

Director? Producer? Screenplay adapter? I couldn’t figure out who it was, or what she’d done so right to be sitting at Jackman’s right hand. But I knew she must be important.

 

And thankfully it didn’t take too long (relatively speaking) to find out how she scored such a place of honor.

 

 

When the good news was announced, that Jackman had won Best Actor in a Motion Picture - Comedy or Musical, his initial reaction was to kiss that unidentified (ever-so-slightly matronly) blond by his side.

 

And when he took the stage to accept his award, speaking in that charming accent of his, he shed further light on the mystery guest - the one with the Fox newscaster haircut.

 

 

The woman I didn’t recognize, the one at a table filled with A-list actors… the one given kisses from the man of many women’s dreams…

 

Was Jackman’s wife. Of seventeen years.

 

Deborra-Lee Furness if you’re Google. Mrs. Jackman if you’re nasty.

(I sure hope at least one person gets this absurd reference.)

 

 

While it was somewhat (and very pleasantly) surprising that Jackman hasn’t traded in his devoted wife for a model-of-the-month club, like so many celebrities of his caliber do, it was far more astonishing to me what he had to say about her on that brightly-lit stage.

 

 

It’s pretty standard to thank a current romantic flame, sure, along with a whole bunch of industry execs no one’s heard of, maybe God or some higher power, the military and beer (if it’s a country music awards show).

Honorees looking for bonus points might also thank the fans, a deceased relative, or the other nominees in their category; those are always crowd pleasers. (Military personnel, hit or miss in that kind of crowd.)

 

But when given a microphone, Jackman did something pretty remarkable (especially for Tinseltown).

 

He dedicated a good chunk of the very small amount of time he was allotted to publicly thanking his wife.

You know, my mystery face. His right-hand woman.

 

Not only did he call her “the greatest woman in the world,” he said she was the one that convinced him to stick with Les Mis, even when it was really hard. She was frequently the one to talk him down from a ledge, he said.

And then, he chuckled, declared in front of the world that she was always right, and said “Babe, I love you.”

 

His dedication couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two. Yet, by the time the music had played him off stage I had learned a great deal about Jackman’s better half:

 

She found ways to see him through his worst, while coaxing his best out of him.

 

She developed the ability to speak words of affirmation, but undoubtedly worked much harder at the difficult art of shutting up as needed.

 

And most of all, it was clear that at some point she must have count the costs, and chosen to go all in for and with the man she loved and loves still.

 

 

Because she believed in him. Because she wanted the best for him.

And because she knew the best thing would be giving him the freedom and space to chase his dreams.

 

 

In rewatching the speech as “research” for this post it’s even more clear to me how close their bond must be.

Because even before reaching the stage, during the quick exchange they shared when the good news was announced, you could see something special passing between their eyes.

 

And yes; Youtube kept getting stuck on that very spot.

But I think if you watch it for yourselves you’ll see I’m not just grasping at straws.

 

I think you too will notice what I did on the second and third and sixth replay.

 

While the other nominees looked out at the audience, or smiled sheepishly at the camera, Jackman’s immediate reaction was to look straight to his wife.

And when he did she was looking right back at him.

Both of them were beaming from ear to ear. At the nomination first. And then at the win.

 

 

I think what made that moment so special, one worth watching at least once more, and one actually worth dissecting (the way I do so many other foolish things) is that in that moment – that exchange – what you witness is two people sharing a victory together.

 

You see a couple experiencing the kind of multiplication of joy that only happens when you have committed to spend your life with someone, and then, even bigger, choose to stand by that commitment.

 

 

If you strip away the fancy gowns and the TV crews and tables filled with tabloid fodder, what you’ll catch in that moment, that speech, those stolen glances and kisses, is a person reaching a great pinnacle of success, genuinely wanting to share the credit – the achievement – with his spouse, of all people.

His partner. His champion. His plus one. His friend.

 

 

Please don’t get me wrong here.

 

I know. I know; no marriage is perfect.

 

Every couple goes through up and downs.

And I don’t want you to misunderstand me.

 

I’m not saying the Jackmans’ marriage is perfect, or that I want it, or that I want him.

(At least not anymore than the average woman does. Let’s be real.)

 

 

What I am saying, what I do want, is to learn to be a better system of support for my own husband, the one I’ve got.

My partner. My confidante. My friend.

 

I want to be a more tireless encourager, a more patient listener, and a more gumption-y pep talk giver for him.

‘Cause I know he needs those things. And I want to be a source of them. (Unlike every sitcom wife you've ever seen.)

 

I also want to be there to tell him not to give up, even when a dream seems impossible, or an obstacle insurmountable (or another trip to Guitar Center seems entirely unreasonable.)

And that’s not always easy, but I think it’s important.

 

 

I want to pick up the sweaty towel that was thrown in yesterday, wipe his brow with it and tell him to try again. (While somehow still managing to wash the thing at some point. Sweaty boy cooties – gross!)

 

Most of all, I want to do all this supporting out of love, not obligation.

Because my chips are all in, with the man I married. The one I love.

 

 
When I see my husband on the stage at the Grammy’s, or strapping on his guitar at his first sold-out concert…

Or accepting his Master’s Degree, autographing his first book, or holding our first child…

 

… I want to know that not only was I a part of that, but that I did everything in my power to make that moment happen.

 

What I learned while watching the Golden Globes is that I want to be my husband’s right-hand woman.

I want to do my best to help him accomplish his biggest dreams, the way Jackman’s wife obviously did for him.

 

I want to be my husband’s teammate. His faithful companion. His supporter and friend.

His newscaster haircut. His quick kisses after victory.

His beaming wifey, and his biggest fan.

 

 

*Thanks to the internet for letting me borrow/alter the image above.

And thank you to my hubby, for graciously approving this message.

That Old Addage About Fear

You know that old saying, "Do something that scares you, everyday."

I've thought about that a lot over the last few months.

I've thought about it, but refused to do it.

And the result, is that...

 

I'm a 28-year-old woman who's afraid to drive through Dallas.

Or to talk. At least loud enough for people to hear me.

That's the raw and ugly truth of the matter.

 

 

It's a scary state, being afraid of everthing, most of all living life.

But it's where I've found myself here lately.

Most notably on Sunday, while traversing the interstate between Fort Worth and Dallas...

Wondering all the while how I ever got a license... that and how many times in our lifetime my husband will have to say "What?" after I've mumbled something under my breath so faintly only a mouse from Cinderella could hear it.

 

 

After much soul searching, the plain and unfortunate fact I'm facing is that I still don't know how to overcome all the fears I have.

And I don't think I'll wake up one day unbelievably brave, wanting to skydive, or audition for a musical or something.

 

But I do think I can consciously choose to actually do something that scares me, everyday, instead of just thinking about it.

Dreaming about it.

While dying slowly, refusing to take any chances.

 

And the important part in all this - the part I keep coming back to - the part that seems to matter most.

Is the choosing to act part.

 

Do. Try. Attempt. Fail.

 

 

These are the verbs that have alluded me far too long.

I must step out now - even if it's hesitantly at first.

I must give it a shot. Scared and all.

As if my life depends on it, because, as it turns out, it does.

 

 

Since learning what #YOLO means, I've heard a lot of stories about people being idiots, using the fact that life is short and "You Only Live Once" as an excuse to be, well, idiots.

They act wrecklessly, with little regards for their own safety or anyone else's, because they think they have the right, or maybe the obligation to their Facebook friends.

 

They drive like lunatics. Break hearts as a hobby. Eat sushi from gas stations... all for the story. For the thrill.

 

And personally, I think it's a sad shame to waste your life in this way, just because you can.

To play as if the "odds are ever in your favor" and immortality only effects all the other men that have ever lived, is foolish.

Living like you're some Nintendo character that can buy extra lives with cashed in gold doesn't mean you're going to be the one that beats the system.

It just means that you're sadly mistaken (at best) and, a plane old idiot (at worst).

 

But, on the flipside, sitting everything out isn't the answer either.

Even a person holed up in her home, surrounded by emergency supplies, and constantly watching CNN, is not going to avoid ultimate catastrophe, in the form of a last breath.

There's a timer clicking on each of us. Our lives will end at some point.

And try as we might, we don't get total control over when that time comes.

 

What we do get, are choices.

Thousands upon thousands of choices.

From what cereal we eat when we get up, to what car to drive and how fast to drive it.

We can choose where we live, what we do to pay the bills, and who we're going to share our days with.

We can be wonderful human beings. Or pieces of crap.

We get to choose that. And for better or worse, we do each day.

We choose what our lives will look like, by choosing what our days look like.

 

We don't, however, get to determine by sheer willpower how many days there will be.

 

Whether we are the guy sending the #YOLO tweet as we crash to our death, or the 68-year-old woman that dies surrounded by piles of unread newspapers and cat fesces... we all go at some point.

Life, then, I'm coming to believe, is all about those choices... the ones we make between the being born and the dying.

 

As one of my favorite films puts it, "It's the middle that counts."

 

And however old we all are, we're in the middle now. In the thick of it.

In the beauty and chaos and heartbreak and unexplainable joy that life entails.

 

We can choose to participate actively, or let the days expire passively.

But ready or not, terrified or thrilled, here we are. In it.

Life.

 

 

The last few months the few times I've dared to get behind a wheel I've been the girl being passed by grandparents iin Cadillacs.

And even though it scares me to step on the gas a bit, I'm sick and tired of watching life pass me by.

 

I don't want to sit on the sidelines for the next 28 years.

I don't want to isolate myself, imprisoning myself with stuff and fear, all the while losing all that really matters...

Not safety or comfort, but connection.

Relationship, with one another, and with the Creator that put us here, to figure stuff out. And to struggle. Through this messy, complicated thing we call living. But also to enjoy. One another. His heart. Time.

 

As far as I know Time is a blessing and a curse that humans are the only ones to experience.

And I don't know about you, but I'd like to use it up.

 

I don't know how to get over all the fears I live with now.

But I do know how to get rid of one. And that's to face it. Head on.

To kill the spider. To take the car for a spin. To say what's on my heart, even if I'm scared I'll be called a "fool."

 

To refuse to live any longer in the cage I've rented for myself; the one with the bars on all the windows and the piles of stuff blocking every exit... the place where glimmers of light slip in but only wasted breaths escape out.

It's time to unlock the door (from the inside) and walk out into the fresh air.

It's time... quite simply... to try!

 

It's time to set aside the excuses, the fears, the shame and regrets, and simply TRY.

 

 

One truth I know about life is that we probably won't wake up remarkably different people.

But we can choose each day to go to bed changed.

 

We can make mistakes, and get bumps and bruises along the way, but be thankful for the opportunity to live and breathe and love and lose and seize the opportunities we're given. Scary and all.

And we can choose to take chances, calculated ones that we think are worthwhile.

 We can straddle that line between being self-indulgent idiots and overly-cautious prisoners.

 We can.

 

 

Last week I was watching a coming of age movie that began with the following line.

I think it might just be the inspiration, the reminder really, that I need, for finding the nerve to break free from my bubble.

And maybe it can be a little nudge for you too - if you need it - to try something scary for yourself.

 

And for those of you that might have wondered, I'm not ignoring your birthdays or Farmville requests (ok, I am ignoring the Farmville requests).

Either Facebook hates me or God doesn't want me wasting so much time on social media. Either way I haven't been able to access my account for about three weeks now. And I've sent a report but it may be a while.

All that said, you can see what I'm up to on Twitter (@friendlyreport) or better yet, we can go get coffee.

What I Learned About Life While Writing Other People's Stories

What does it take to write a good story?

After college, and a series of odd jobs, my degree proved useful when I landed a “career” at my hometown paper.

Nevermind that I was making less than the Sonic carhops down the street. I was finally legitimately employed, as a reporter/photographer/editor/web updater/social media specialist/coffee maker and receptionist all-in-one.

I could finally hang up my laminated “Substitute Teacher” badge once and for all, and in its place I donned a similarly laminated badge, only this one said "Staff Writer."

It seemed very official at the time, and it merited me free access to the state fair, so basically, life was good. Very good.

 

All my “hard” work had finally paid off. I had a cubicle, an old Mac computer, a closet-filled with notepads, and an infinite amount of material to write about.

From elementary school musicals to really old trees in the "forests" of North Texas, I was ready to write about it all.

 

One of my first weeks on the job a coworker commented on how joyful I seemed. (We were at Sonic giving a big chunk of our paychecks to those carhops I told you about earlier.)

Having never heard that before I was taken aback. “Really?” I asked her. (I'm usually the type to have "Worrier" written across her forehead, in extra-fine Sharpie, with pretty perfect penmanship.)

“I’m just really excited to have gotten the job,” I confided. And I was.

I was so nerdily excited I almost didn't mind the 3-hour-long council meetings, or sleeping at my desk nights before deadline.

I think part of my excitement stemmed from my absolute shock at getting the job.

Even filling out the application I never dreamed I’d get it. Not because the paper had such a large workforce to choose from, mind you, but because I felt that underqualified. I sort of botched the interview by telling a lame story about my car alarm going off at a Kohl's, I had a PR degree, not one in journalism.

But most importantly, I didn’t feel nearly brave enough for the job. (Even if the sharp-looking vest I wore for the interregation said otherwise.)

 

Talking to strangers, taking pictures at city events… I wasn’t the type of girl that did that. I was the type of girl that hid out at the back of those events... if she bothered to leave home at all.

But the editor thought I had promise (or that I was the only one stupid enough to work for that kind of pay) and next thing you knew I had the job.

 

Being the people pleaser I am – and wanting to do all I could to ensure I never again have to enter a junior high classroom as a sub – I drowned out my fear with an eagerness to learn. So learn I did, for about two years.

 

I learned to be objective enough to share both sides of every story, and to give just the facts, not my opinions on them.

This was a point I learned so well that picking lunch spots became a nightmare... "Where do you want to go?" "I don't know. Where do you want to go?" (My husband hates that this is still a common occurrence.)

I learned not to “bury my lead."

So instead of starting at the very beginning, “a very fine place to start,” instead I would write the body of the story then come back to formulate the beginning.

I often left long blank lines in my stories, so I'd know to come back and fill in those parts later. (Only occassionally the lines would print, and I'd spend a week hiding my head around town.)

This was a way to make sure the readers always knew the important stuff upfront. There was no point holding the good stuff for last, when we all knew most readers would jump to the Sports Page instead of finishing the story about the Four Car Collision on 4A.

I learned that white space is good, too much text is bad, and that pictures truly do speak a thousand words.

Plus I learned that our patrons often preferred “reading” those kinds of stories to 1,000 word essays about the latest city council meetings. Especially if the pictures were of cute kids Easter egg hunting, and the council was talking waste management.

I also learned that deadlines are not to be messed with, nor are publishers.

And that editing is imperative, as are coffee and chocolate.

(Spilling coffee is optional, but I did it pretty frequently.)

Basically, I learned about what constituted a good story, and how to write one.

 

And in good and bad ways, those story lessons really started to shape me.

They gave me a heightened sense of awareness, a newfound tenacity for asking questions and a desire to put my best foot forward. I began thinking in story form, editing as I went along, to the chagrin of my friends I’m quite sure. (Though lots of people do the same thing when they update their statuses, just with more creative spelling.)

The stories I wrote started to shape me too, especially the rare encouraging ones, the ones about everyday people doing extraordinary things.

One in particular, that really stayed with me, was about a teacher who organized a charity drive for earthquake victims. Her students were so ignited by her excitement, that with limited funds and a small platform they collected hundreds of items to send to the victims.

Everything from toiletry kits to teddy bears lined the halls of their elementary school the day I went to visit. And along with their collections were marketing posters they had colored for the drive. Something about the hand-drawn teddy bears and the misspelled "Huggs for Haiti" on the signs tugged at my hardening heart's strings.

Though it did my heart good to see people committed to making a positive difference in the world... though I was glad to see tangible evidence that every little bit counts... that drive, that teacher’s efforts, also stirred in me an increasingly nagging sense that I needed to move out of the shadows and start participating in life.

I needed to be doing good, instead of just reporting on it.

So, after two years of writing hundreds of good, bad and boring stories, about world-record holding horses and feuds over water costs, I decided to do something completely crazy, impractical and uncharacteristic.

Instead of spending my next twenty years learning to report better and better stories, I decided to set out to write my own.

 

I really can’t reiterate how un-brave I feel most days (and believe me, that's an important part of my story). I’m not the kind of girl that just up and quits her job.

Throughout my schooling I was the kid that did exactly what the teachers asked, then went up and asked for extra busywork.

But something about seeing so many people doing so many great things, compelled me to let go of what I knew – people pleasing and keeping a safe distance (behind a camera lens and a reporter’s pad) – in favor of slowly stepping into the story that had already begun.

 

Up until that point I had spent most of my life waiting for something incredible to propel me into my own story.

I kept waiting for the climax of my life to hit me upside the head, just so I’d wake up and start enjoying it.

Maybe it’d be romance, maybe it’d be cancer,; I only knew it would have to be something big to shake me from the stable-ish track I was on. Whatever it took, only then would I know it was time to get started writing, and really, living.

But being at the paper, getting my first grey hairs while writing other people’s stories, stories of heroism and tragedy, love and loss (the engagements and the obituaries ran on the same page, by the way), I realized that I couldn’t wait any longer for life to happen to me.

I was going have to dive in, or wade in at least, if I was ever going have any kind of story worth telling myself.

Ready or not, headline prepped or not, I just had to get started. So, I did.

 

It took lots of prayer, and prodding, and I still druggggg my feet, but eventually I did "quit" my job.

And instead of discovering that my life was over, 'cause I'd reach the end of my designated journey, I realized that some of the best stories are totally unscripted and unpredictable.

 

I think it’s really easy to assume that great stories have to do with great adventures, big life changes, bold moves, extreme bravery… but I think most stories begin, end and center around seemingly small choices.

Choices we make everyday. Choices to be faithful. Choices to trust. Choices to be grateful. And brave.

Choices to initiate a toy drive. Choices to show grace even when we really don’t want to. Choices to share… our stories, our hearts, our testimonies, our love of coffee!

 Climbing uphill.

A few weeks after putting in notice at the paper, against my “better judgment,” and with miraculous provisions from family and friends, one of my very best buds and I embarked on a two-week, half-country winter roadtrip.

As coffee lovers (and Texans oblivious to the perils of driving up snow-covered mountains) we picked the East* West Coast, Oregon specifically, as our destination. But we picked Portland by way of Oklahoma and Colorado and Utah and… all in a tiny two-door sedan.

We were enamored with the idea of drinking lattes in Donald Miller-land, maybe even running into him at a dog park or something. Plus neither of us had been to Portland, and we liked the idea of rainy streets and Christmas lights. So we headed out, with only a starting point, a GPS, a list of must-stop-at-diners we'd seen featured on Food Network, and a vague idea of what we were getting ourselves into.

 

It really was magical being there, walking through a Farmer’s Market along the river, sipping lattes at Stumptown, failing miserably at dodging puddles in ballet flats that did not survive the trip… it was so exciting to be in unfamiliar territory, and to stay in a hotel room for three nights instead of just one.

But looking back, I believe we could have picked most any destination for that trek, because (cheesy as it sounds) what impacted me most during that journey wasn’t the destination at all. It was all the wonderful stops – and memories – we made along the way.

We had incredible burgers at a tiny “joint” in Oklahoma City, and got funny looks from a gas station attendant when we showed up in a town with three feet of snow and a population of two.

We slept on top of the covers in a sketchy hotel (or two) and listened to Christmas carols sung by a world-famous choir.

We got low on gas, low on patience, and seriously low on money.

But eventually we got to Portland. (And later LA. And then Las Vegas. And… finally home again.) And what a worthwhile journey it was.

 

Not surprisingly, it rained (at least a little) every day we were in Portland. But God knows it was glorious, cloudy skies and all.

And one day, while my friend waited for a curtain call, I decided to go exploring, in spite of the rain.

There I was, in my light coat and flats without socks, jumping around puddles as I hurried along Portland’s downtown streets. I was so woefully unprepared. I was practically a foreigner in a wet and sophisticated land, far from the small town to which I was accustomed.

I was nursing a heartbreak. Jobless. And running dangerously low on souvenir money. But none of that mattered… ‘cause I was alive. I was present, for once. And I was finally choosing to enjoy my life, moment by moment, instead of waiting for something remarkable to happen to me.

Instead of waiting for some flashing neon sign telling me to “Dive In,” I was choosing to do the next best thing.

I was taking babysteps, by getting my feet wet (literally) on the cold streets of Portland (and at every pitstop along the way).

What does it mean to live a good story?

I think it has something to do with getting started, instead of waiting around.

‘Cause unlike with writing, if you wait for the end to get started, you’re gonna miss a lot of really good stuff.

I also think it’s about making choices, and making the most of them, even if we realize some of them were wrong. Because you don’t get to go back and edit your life. (Even though sometimes I really wish I could.)

 

For me, the first baby step to living a better story meant letting go of what I had been taught about life and daring to learn some things firsthand.

It also meant walking into uncertainty, timidly at first, but then slowly learning to embrace the journey.

 

Packing up and hitting the open road helped me with that. Watching the sunset over different states, listening to Bebo, and having long talks with a wonderful friend helped put things in perspective for me.

Driving up a mountain in a snowstorm so thick I could only see brake lights in front of me, and getting my feet wet in Portland helped me see the beauty in living more bravely. Living more fully. Living more freely.

But I don’t think you have to go away, looking for some grand adventure, or experience some great tragedy or achieve something monumental to live a fuller life or to tell a better story.

I think you just have to step outside your comfort zone, even just a little.

'Cause tackling things that scare us, that’s what good stories are all about, right?

They’re about rising above. And taking risks. And daring to roam a bit, from time to time.

 

And I think they're largely about being grateful for it all.

The surprises. The scares. The seemingly impossible hurdles we must get over.

To me, living a great story means looking at a blank page and not letting fear stop you from starting.

I think it means looking at another day, and choosing to do something with it.

 

But what do I kow, I'm a 28-year-old "retired" reporter, that just can't seem to retire my pen.

 

 

P.S. Thanks hubby for being better at geography, having common sense and cooking than me.

Oregon = West Coast. You're absolutely right! I knew I should have paid better attention in those classes taught by coaches.

Also, this must have been what God had in mind when he talked about iron sharpening iron. ;)

Rx: For the Monday Blues

Today I desperately want to talk about my birthday weekend, and how blessed I am to know such incredible people (and bakers!).

I also want to share the dozens (hundreds!) of pictures I took over the weekend, of everything from margarita cupcakes to MORTS (Mom shorts, in case you were wondering).

I want to talk about dreams. And change. And how on earth I went to bed 19 and woke up 28?!

And I want to talk about marriage four months in. (Happy day-late anniversary Babe!)

 

I want to ask if anyone knows why I get the circus theme song stuck in my head while I'm at work.

I want to ask for prayers and support as Mikael and I prepare for some pretty big life changes.

But, alas, I have LOTS to do before I can truly sit down and blog all that out.

 

So, instead of spending my WHOLE lunch break typing frantically and racking my brain for the right words, how 'bout I just leave you with some advice I doodled a while back... (I've got a date with a chicken wrap I'm already late for.)

It's not an advertisement for Northern&Nye (a local print firm) by the way. They just happen to give out really great sketch pads. My favorite is one that happens to look a lot like a perscription pad.

 

Sometimes while I'm on the phone, or waiting for something to print, I find myself writing "perscriptions" of sorts for myself. Stuff I need to be reminded of. Stuff I'm mulling over.

Here's my "Rx" for today:Yea; I stole it from one of my favorite Disney movies. But so what?

Good advice sometimes comes from strange places. Right?!

 

*And on that note, what's your favorite advice from a favorite film, friend, or an unlikely source?