iHope.

Earlier in 2012, Apple announced an updated release of their wildly popular iPad, the iPad 2 with Retina Display. They called it "Resolutionary." Kitchy, cute. In the maelstrom of press on that release, I was struck by a conversation on NPR about how Brazil is the 6th largest economy in the world, and the interviewee kept bringing up the iPad 2. He honestly had to be reigned in by Steve Innskeep to stay on topic. Then they released the iPad Mini to compete with Amazon's Kindle and other electronic readers, and I was warned by Apple Store staffers to steer clear of visiting the store on launch day if I needed anything other than an iPad Mini. So I carted my aging and buggy iMac home with me and tinkered with it on my own. 

I have no less than 14 (!) Apple products currently in use in my personal and professional life, plus five other products that I just need the time to refurbish/update, and one that is out of commission but I'm keeping it for posterity — an original iPod. I have never once, in 25 years of owning Apple products, taken my products into the shop, with the exception of a forgotten password on my daughter's laptop. The in-product help features, coupled with the online help community, is so thorough that it makes us DIY'ers fearless. These products are reliable, user-friendly, elegant and relevant. While I am not an early-adopter (of anything really), I certainly get why the product release buzz exists. 

It's no secret to my very small cache of readers that I am 'refurbishing' my life and creating a new model. However I feel less like an Apple product and more like Windows 8, with a lot of glitches, crashes and weird user-experiences. So I'm feeling like I need to channel a little more Apple, a little more Steve Jobs.

Three years ago this spring I filed for divorce. That day in March 2010 was the last time that I sat across from my ex-husband for any extended period of time. It was the last time we talked extensively about anything. It was the last time we rode in a car together. It was the only time he said he was sorry and the last time he said, "I love you." Yes, it was a weird day. Sometimes when you look back, you really can say — that was the day, that was the moment. From that day forward, everything changed. I talked to him every single day for over 16 years and then one day, that was it. 

I'm not sure how that paragraph sounds, but let me be clear, I don't look at that day with some sort of bittersweet, poetic reflection. Three years later, it's just easy for me to look back and see that it was the turning point. It was the day that everything changed and I find that to be interesting. What do I do with that knowledge? How does identifying that day or giving it some additional poignancy really change my thinking about this path? What does that day say about what came next and how did it inform the new model? 

I've never developed a product, or enhanced a product, so I don't know what's involved in that process, but I imagine at a very basic level the designers are likely asking questions like, 'What does this function serve?" and, "What are barriers to the successful functioning of the product?" In learning about the iPad, I noted that the new one has something called an 'oleophobic coating.' Merriam-Webster defines that as, "having or relating to a lack of strong affinity for oils." Or in other words: anti-fingerprint. Seems as though fingerprints, or specifically the depositing of oils, can make touch screens less responsive. Knowing the user won't maintain it for optimal performance as well as they could/should, they developed a solution that keeps the user and the product in optimal harmony. I like it. 

My new model has something I call a 'dependaphobic coating.' I haven't found it in Merriam-Webster yet, but basically it's, "having or relating to a lack of strong affinity for being relied on for everything." The idea is to prevent overuse and therefore, auto-shutdown. I have to admit, it's still in development and I don't think I have it calibered right. Seems overly sensitive right now, but...more on that later. 

When I think back to that March day, it's bizarre to me how really fearless I was. As I sat across the attorney's table from my then-husband, he lobbed ridiculous demands that I knew would be difficult to navigate, and yet I didn't fear what was ahead. It was one of the few times in my life where I was very present in the moment and felt solid about why we were there. Then later the same afternoon, when we were alone, I stood across from him as he did a complete 180. He said he was sorry for things he knew I struggled with (for the first time ever), said he loved me and didn't want to get divorced, said he knew it could be better. When I did the obvious — which was to freak out at the Jeckyll and Hyde aspect to the day (and our life together, to be frank) — I wonder if he assumed the tears were an encouraging sign of a woman who didn't want to change her life. A woman who had too much to lose. A woman who was admitting to the vulnerability of history. This wasn't how I saw it. Not then, not now. The simplicity of it all came crashing down on me. Nothing would ever be the same and it shouldn't. It didn't work. The user-interface was fatally flawed and a new model had to be made. 

One of my favorite design quotes from Steve Jobs is, "Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple. But it's worth it in the end because once you get there, you can move mountains." Three years after that March day, I've learned that I can easily muddle my design process with complexity. New applications, new packaging (and I don't mean a boob job), new user-interactions and required functionality. Many days during the last three years I honestly felt like a flip phone trying to be smartphone. (I may even be getting dangerously close to over-complicating the tech analogies!) Bottom line, that day was more simple than it was complex and being grounded in that simplicity helped me make the tough decisions that came next. It was a day that I eventually landed on the simple, and as Steve Jobs would say, the "intuitively obvious." 

So what's happening now? Why all of the glitches and crashes? Have I lost my radar for the intuitively obvious? Am I so wrapped up in the complexity of the change(s) that I can't find the simplicity? I think it can look and feel that way, especially to those close to me, but what I really believe, as a wise friend noticed, is that I am finally in a place where I can let down a little and cry. Cry from exhaustion. Cry for my daughter. Cry over the disappointment of divorce. Cry over my credit score. I think in truth, it's just a lot of emotion that previously didn't have a place to land. I find myself overcomplicating the emotion because I didn't always feel comfortable having it or that it was acceptable to have it. Now I guess I do. And that is the intuitively obvious simple answer. I am finally comfortable having, what anyone on the planet would assume are normal, post-divorce emotions. And most importantly perhaps — the very fact that I am able to have the emotion tells me that I trust this path. 

I don't have to have all of the answers for how I will successfully navigate every step of this new life. I just need to trust that everything that has led me to this moment will ground me in the next. That my emotions and the vulnerability those bring, however uncomfortable, will simultaneously help me heal and ground me in my growth. And I do trust that in concept. That's the 'simple' that I needed to land on. This is a good design incubator for me and if I really focus on keeping it simple, maybe I can work on my version of the A6x chip — better memory with a longer battery life.

##

As always, RIP Steve Jobs. 

lyrical counseling.

I was busy in 2010. I separated from my husband, got divorced and started two blogs. This one, well...if you are here, you know about it...the other one was a music blog and I think only my neighbor might have read it. I stumbled across an entry recently and I remembered why I wanted an outlet just to talk about music—sometimes when I cannot find the words, I find them there.  

I have a laundry list of song lyrics, sometimes just one liners, that help shape my voice. As a result, sharing my list is such a window into my soul. It helps me explain my passions, my frailties, how I want to live my life, how I see myself, what I value, what I fear. I have found over the years that I need music. It helps clear my head, fosters some clarity, gives me a chance to just feel and emote, strengthens resolve, and often gives me a new perspective, and sometimes even permission to feel what I need to feel—a lyrical counseling session. I am open to these messages, I'm not threatened by them, I am totally open to what they might be trying to say and then I find my own voice lying somewhere in there. When I listen to music, often I find a synergy with what my heart and mind are trying to say to me and when it hits, it sticks. I don't think this is a unique user experience, I think we find what we are looking for and sometimes it's not even close to maybe what the songwriter intended, but I think most of us absorb it like we do poetry. Letting the words tumble over us and we hear what we need.

I just returned home from our first 'whole clan' vacation with my boyfriend ('C'), his children, my daughter and her two friends. One evening, as our clan drove back from dinner, we snaked through the sunset-lit hills of my favorite mountain town and all eight of us sang along to a James Morrison version of Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror." Two adults, three teens, an eight year old and a six year old (the 3-1/2 year old currently sticks to the lyrics in "Jigsaw" by Radiohead and doesn't seem game to learn a new tune :) all singing in unison with the sunroof and windows open and feeling whatever we each individually let come over us in that little moment of time. For me, it was joy, contentment and a very grounded realization of how different my life is...and a sense of peace about that. This sense of peace doesn't come as easily as maybe one might think and in that moment, I let the music, the lyrics, the voices of the people I love, the mountains and the air wash through me and let me exhale. Music can do that.

Later on we got to talking, the teens and I, about how we always assign a song or two to every trip. For example, the soundtrack for a fortunate trip to Hawaii in 2011 was "Pricetag" by Jessie J (no worries, I get the irony). A summer road trip through Montana, pre-C with just me, my daughter and her friend, was scored by "American Pie," and this summer's ten days in an Idaho mountain town was "Ho Hey" by the Lumineers. We also played Bon Iver, Hey Marseilles, old Tracy Chapman, The Allman Brothers, Radiohead (a 3-1/2 year old is very convincing), Airborne Toxic Event and many one-hit-wonder songs. The latter leading to an unforgettable dance party on the back of a pontoon boat with the teens and a six year old girl beaming in the center. We discussed new music, Shazam'd some more, played a full Madonna playlist to get ready for the fall concert, and snuck some N.W.A. onto the golf course. Of course Justin Bieber was also a regular guest at our party, and we unabashedly joined voices with Katy Perry and Jay-Z. It was a blast.

Back at home, I took a walk and put my iPod on full shuffle. Obviously I only got through a few songs, but the exercise reminded me that there are some lyrics that hit me through the eyeballs every single time I hear them. Many will always remind me of a specific place and time, like the 'vacation' songs, but some also ground me to a feeling, a part of my story, a way I have lived and a way I want to live in the future.  So in that spirit, I thought I would list a few of these lyrics, like lines of poetry that I could recite over and over again, and see how they looked in black and white:

After all of the dreaming, I come home again. (Counting Crows | Rain King)

Walking in the wild west end, walking with your wild best friend. (Dire Straits | Wild West End)

You've been waiting for some magic to come. You should know by know that you and I are the one. I keep on wondering why a woman like you keeps on resisting this. Can't you see that I am in love with you, it's not just that I know the right things to say.  (Renegade Saints | Know by Now)

One foot in, one foot back. It don't pay to live like that. So I cut the ties and I jumped the track. Are you aware the shape I'm in? My hands they shake, my head it spins. (The Avett Brothers | I and Love and You)

Home. Where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there. If someone asks, this is where I will be. (Talking Heads | This Must be the Place)

Did you say, 'no this cannot happen to me?' (Jeff Buckley | Last Goodbye)

One wing will never ever fly dear, neither yours nor mine. (Wilco | One Wing)

Somebody remembers the rose while the other forgets how it grows. (Whiskeytown | Somebody Remembers the Rose)

So show me family, all the blood that I would bleed...I belong with you, you belong with me (The Lumineers | Ho Hey)

Happiness, it come like a train on a track. Coming towards her, stuck still no turning back. (Florence and the Machine | Dog Days are Over)

Put your trust in me. Give me a chance, I will try. You see it's been a hard road. Just sayin' so you understand that right now, right now, I'm doing the best I can. (Tracy Chapman | At this Point in My Life)

You think I want to run and hide. I just want you to find me. I'm not lost, just undiscovered. (James Morrison | Undiscovered)

For fear of living in regret, I've changed since from when we first met. (The Ting Tings | Shut Up and Let Me Go)

All of these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I can recall, and in my life, I've loved them all. And in my life, I love you more. (The Beatles | In My Life)

Nothing panned out as I planned. Standing at the fork in the road, you can stand there and agonize until you agony is your heaviest load. When you are learning to face the path at your pace, every choice is worth your while. (Indigo Girls | Watershed)

Stay with me until time turns over. I want to feel my feet leave the ground. If I could I would and I'd take you now. (Phish | If I Could)

Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers turn around and say 'good morning to the night' for unless they see the sky, they can't and that is why, they know not if it's dark outside or light. (Elton John | Mona Lisa and Mad Hatters)

Momma once told me, you are already home where you feel loved.
      Is that bridge gettin' built, are your hands gettin' filled, won't you tell me my brother? 
     ...We can start moving forward. (The Head and the Heart | Lost in My Mind)

Wow. That was helpful. A lyrical counseling session made possible with $1 deposits into my iTunes account. 

upswing.

I have this visual in my brain about my divorce: Upside down bell curve with reasonably steep slopes on both sides. At the top of the left side of the curve is the pre-separation frenetic 'high' aka 'denial'. The fall and sharp slope downward is probably fairly obvious (exhilaration, fear, confusion and resolve). And in that low basin at the very bottom is the debris field where everything collected after sliding down the slope. Loads of paper, some ash, some rocks, some stumbling blocks, fragments of lost momentum, pools of pride and tears, relationships and memories swirling around, some heavier than others, and a dusting of shaved ego. Standing in it was almost more difficult than the slide. That was a little over a year ago. Today, I'm solidly on the upswing side. It smells better, feels better, looks better, IS better...AND (not 'but') it's a new slope. My life is very, very different. I am happier than I've ever been in my life and that is a solid, maybe over-anlyazed (insert smiley emoticon), but hard-fought statement.

When I decided to take a step off of that ledge, I made a decision that caused me to lose nearly everything that I had worked for up to that point - my marriage, my financial stability, my desire for a specific type of family life for my daughter and myself, my work momentum, parts of my well-being and health, my money. But I am still standing, and now thriving, and I have no regrets. This is an incredible thing to say out loud.

I tried to go through the process, that initially was a separation, then a divorce, with respect and generosity. I was forced to make decisions during a time of deep pain, stress, confusion and fear and I made some mistakes, but I have to say that the mistakes were often more informative than the catalysts that required the reactions. The lessons I have learned are not just fuel for this upswing journey, but the inspiration. A friend reminded me, just today, of a Grateful Dead quote that I love, "Sometimes you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right."

So in homage, here's some of the 'light' I have been shown:

I have learned that I don't have to respect my ex for "who he is" (as some would suggest), I only have to respect him as my daughter's father. This is a solid, healthy distinction.

I have learned that I don't have to regret those 16 years for the decision to be sound. I invested in that life whole-heartedly. I just have to appreciate that I was present in those years.

I have learned that time and timing matters.

I have learned that being loyal is more about giving love than taking it away.

I have learned to expand my lens. Question more, but maybe judge less.

I have learned that I don't always need to explain, but I do need to listen.

I have learned that it's ok to fail.

I have learned that I am not broken, that marriage is not broken, that my family life and commitments are not broken.

I have learned that those that know you well, love you well. That the vulnerability required to be known well is sometimes exceedingly painful, but turns out, vital.

I have learned that I am highly capable, but I need help.

I have learned that what kids need most are visible efforts on the micro level —their value on the micro becomes the macro. Let's face it, probably adults too.

I have learned that what Newton said is right - there is no new energy in the world. When you suck up all of the energy, you have to put some back.

I have learned that the biggest failure of my life was the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I am still working very hard to make peace with the experience — for me, for my daughter, for what's next. It has been a hard, but ultimately amazing journey. My life spilled out, down a hill and settled in a big mess at the bottom. I am taking all of that good, worthy stuff and heading back up the next hill. That is what an upswing is...a climb.

I have a companion now, a love, an incredibly bright light. So when I think about my visual of the bell curve, I can't resist the idea of another Grateful Dead quote, "One man gathers what another man spills." I'm most certainly being gathered and I am grateful for his love and the love of my family and friends. I know that this is the undeniable fuel required to foster a new climb, this place I'm in — the upswing. Thank you.

raw steak.

Somewhat recently, as I was standing in line at the grocery store, I noticed that Time Magazine had a picture on the cover of the $1 bill with a black-eyed George Washington. It took me back for a second. Well, longer than a second. In the middle of glossy magazines with pictures of Jennifer Aniston, Kim Kardashian and the Real Housewives of New Jersey, it was startling to see something that so aptly visually captures the current state of our being and I have to say, out of all the odd states we have been in in my lifetime, this seems like a weird place right now. It feels paralyzing. What the %$&! are we going to do to heal that black eye? What cut of raw steak do we use, how big, who is going to provide it, who is going to hold it there and who is going to check the progress?

Just in my lifetime, we've certainly had many instances where we experienced a shared consciousness about the state of our country and our world, and in the moment, they were pretty profound. I can remember waiting with my parents in long gas lines during the oil embargo, being afraid of poisoned Tylenol, and overhearing them complain about an 18% interest rate on our home. I remember being genuinely afraid of a nuclear war breaking out while I was asleep—we had an emergency plan at school specifically related to this possibility—and wondering if my odd next-door neighbor was really a Soviet spy. He had an awful lot of clocks. Like...a lot. My father, who was a radio disc jockey, interviewed me on air about how a nine year old felt about the Iran hostage crisis, with an underlying track of Barbra Streisand singing "Silent Night." (Which is triply weird if you think about it: a Jewish woman singing a Christian song as the background music on a story about an act during an Islamic revolution.) The Alar scare and law suit against CBS, John Lennon's murder, the junk bond scandal, the NYC subway shooting and gun law debate, the biggest one-day drop in Wall Street history (1987, almost 23%), the Challenger space shuttle explosion on live TV, AIDS, our invasion of Panama (huh?), the Exxon Valdez spill, Monica Lewinsky, pipe bomb at the Olympic games in Atlanta, the Rodney King riots, the first Gulf War, the Oklahoma bombing, Ted Kaczinsky, Bosnia, Somalia, Germany, Kuwait, Jimmy Swaggart and prostitutes, Nancy Reagan consulting with psychics, Jesse Jackson negotiating with Syria (double huh??), Dudley Moore in "Arthur II, on the Rocks"...we are accustomed to uneasy times.

What is it that feels so different right now?

Earlier this fall, I watched the Tea Party-sponsored Republican debates. The first real political conversation that I've had the brain power to absorb recently. Don't hold your breath, it was still tough to absorb. No matter what side of the aisle you may be on, or lean towards, I find that most often I am wondering who is really telling the truth. Admittedly, yes, there is a lot of subjective information, as well as different ways of analyzing the same data, but aren't there are also some flat out 'truths,' even if they are somewhat elusive? It's a frustrating experience. I feel like we have become a country where our top line analysis of our candidates is how trustworthy they seem. Isn't that an analysis that is frighteningly flawed? What's objective in trying to weigh the truth in their trustworthiness? Just if they 'seem' like they are telling the truth? Lots of question marks in this paragraph. Ugh. I think if applying the beef is the answer, we may be trying to buy it at Claire's.

It got me thinking about one of my favorite quotes, "Losing an illusion is greater than finding the truth." — Ludwig Borne.

Here are some examples of how I translate that quote on a (let's say) less academic level:

1. It's not that he's unattractive per se, it's that you shouldn't have to have three cocktails to find him so.

2. It's not that you are not a good poker player, it's that being dealt four aces doesn't make you so.

3. It's not that he controls you, it's that you are co-dependent.

4. It's not that she is a former NFL cheerleader and you are getting a lot of action, it's that "She is a former NFL cheerleader and I'm getting a lot of action" was only a slightly altered direct quote.

5. It's not that you can't be spirited and responsible, it's that you are spirited and responsible.

6. It's not that he has OCD, it's that he likes to have control and he has OCD.

7. It's not that #10 was the best running back ever to pose as a QB, it's that my team was the national champ a long time ago. (20 years ago this season, to be exact.)

8. It's not that the Idaho senator does or does not have a wide stance, it's that he thought he was invincible.

9. It's not that he can't make a decision, it's that that's the decision.

10. It's not that she didn't love you, it's that she didn't know how.

The biggest one-day fall in the stock market, ever, was in 1987 — approximately 23%. Numbers 2—8 in the top ten are not in my lifetime (and I'm 11 months shy of my 40th birthday), then there's another one in 1987, and then about an 8% drop in 2008 to round out the top 10. There is a 15 point spread from #1 to #10 on the list, and #10 is the only one during the years of this Great Recession, as I've heard it called. In the 1980s, foreclosure rates went into triple digits and general business failure rates rose, as did inflation, mortgage rates, etc. and yet historically, this is largely seen as a time of strong economic growth and prosperity. I'm not going to pretend like I understand the nuances of all of this, but I'm curious about what the truths (the actual numbers) tell us about our illusions, historical or present? For whom was that a time of growth and prosperity? Don't we have similar illusions today? Has everyone suffered during this Great Recession? Why is it a perceived evil to learn from those who are prospering? What truths do we not talk about in relation to those who are suffering?

In my personal life, I've had many opportunities to reflect on what illusions I have lost and what truths have therefore then been revealed. I think the greatest one is believing that my ex will learn and grow from the experience of the divorce. Not owning that illusion has allowed me to see the truth: maybe he has, maybe he will, but maybe he hasn't and maybe he won't. That truth has allowed me to manage my expectations as a co-parent in a way that I think allows for more grounding, less emotion and therefore, better outcomes. In essence, I bought the steak from the butcher and I am learning how to apply it to the wound.

I think what feels different about these times is that even with the information availability at a historical high, I think we have become more skeptical than analytical. More focused on emotion than objectivity, perhaps buying into more illusion than truth. As usual, I don't have the answers to the big questions I am asking about our government, nor our economy, but I think it feels like a balanced place to start, to question ourselves on some of these very basic ideas. What illusions do we need to lose, what truths will that reveal and then maybe we will be better prepared to say, 'Where's the beef?'

lessons learned in passing.

"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."

J.D. Salinger's first line in The Catcher in the Rye.

Thanks Mr. Salinger, I agree. I just don't feel like going into it. At least not the "whys" or the "why nows" or the "when did you knows" or the "how did you knows" or really any commentary on how it all happened, at least not right now. All of the analyzing, coping, struggling and enduring drained me. As of the very end of the year, I'm now divorced. It's over and I just need a breather.

Mr. Salinger lost his life in 2010, as did over 200 'notable' Americans that make the type of list that we see in nearly all year-end broadcast news features. I'm always a little stunned to see the list, forgetting some of the names from earlier in the year, or never having heard about their deaths at all, but mostly the names remind me of the profound impact these souls have had on our culture and our lives.

Manute Bol, the 7'7" NBA shot-blocker, died at the age of 47. I remember watching him in his early years with the Washington Bullets in the mid to late 80's, then picking up with him again in the early 90's when he was with the Philadelphia 76'ers. NBA basketball is my favorite sport to watch on television (1. NBA basketball, 2. professional tennis, 3. college football...if the official ranking is of any remote interest). Growing up out west, I preferred teams like my own Seattle Sonics, even loved-to-hate the Portland Trailblazers, the Phoenix Suns' Barkley years, Drexler's years with the Houston Rockets, the Lakers...we had plenty of things going on out here to keep my attention, but Manute was well, Manute. I think (I need to check this) he's the only NBA player to have more blocks than shots. I watched him because he was consistent in only one area, which was intriguing. Too tall, really, without the more well-roundedness of many pro-players, but he had a role and he perfected his one talent. I watched him because I knew I'd see some killer blocks. There is value in consistency.

Staying on the basketball theme, the legendary UCLA basketball coach, John Wooden also passed away this year. If you know anything at all about college basketball, you know he was an All-American player and then a revered coach that took the likes of Bill Walton and Kareem Abdul Jabbar through winning seasons. I think he took the Bruins to ten national championships, seven of which were in a row. All of this happened prior to his retirement in 1975, so at the age of three, I was hardly aware of his influence. What I do know and remember is his influence after those years. His very simple take on how to be successful, not only on the court, but in life. One of my favorite John Wooden quotes, which my mother would certainly appreciate is, "If you don't have the time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?" Enough said.

Richard Holbrooke, a passionate veteran US Diplomat that served under four presidents, died suddenly in the last quarter of the year. He most recently was serving as special envoy to Pakistan and Afghanistan, arguably one of the most difficult posts in today's environment. He was known passionately as a "warrior for peace." As a personal friend of two of my friends, I picked up that Mr. Holbrooke was an irreplaceable colleague, a mentor and a diplomatic lion. One quote that always struck a chord with me is (said upon reflection after an intense Global Initiative Conference spearheaded by former President Bill Clinton): "The controlled chaos is one way to get creativity. The intensity of it, the physical rush, the intimacy created the kind of dialogue that leads to synergy." Seems to me that maybe he understood that there is power in leveraging and working with the highly emotional tenor of complex situations.

Miep Gies, the Dutch woman who, with her husband and close friends, helped hide Anne Frank and her family from the Nazi's in a secret set of rooms in Otto Frank's company offices in Amsterdam, died in January of this past year. How could anyone possibly understand the stress that she lived with during those years — the fear of being discovered, the fear of the discovery betraying the lives of her friends? And yet, showing up to work day in and day out with this enormous secret just on the other side of a door. Yet, when asked if the worrying consumed her, I am humbled by her response: "No, on the one hand the workload did not allow any time for worrying and on the other hand, we had the satisfaction of doing the right thing."

---

So after reflecting on these "notable" deaths and what I learned from their lives, what I am interested in saying is: thank you. It was not the worst year of my life. It was the most challenging for sure, but there were many, many lessons, some that were downright soul filling, tucked into that year. It's fitting that much of the events of the entire year came together at the very end and fell on the heart and mind of a woman who feels it all. So as I sit here, mere days from it having slipped into the archives, I can say with absolute certainty that in many ways, it was the year of my life. The one where I’ve never felt so alive, so human, so scared, happy, desperate, awkward, empowered, loved and inspired.

Perspective is a powerful teacher and I’ve had more cause to reflect this year than any year prior. Just as with the reflections on the lives of the "notable Americans" who passed, the stories and moments that others have been willing to share with me during this past year were powerful. Moments that were incredibly honest, sometimes shocking, always illuminating, and always a reminder of how complex we are as humans. I was grateful to hear, witness or experience these moments, so in honor of them, I'll end by envisioning a year in which the following might have happened. I would love to sit and talk about any or all of them, whether they happened to me or someone else, because if we let our life’s stories be heard, they might tell us what’s next.

This year…

…you might spend two hours in a snowy hot pool with your pre-teen daughter and her friend, having the conversation of a lifetime, while an entire bar full of twenty-something après skiers are just on the other side of the glass and you, not being a twenty-something, might start out feeling self-conscious (maybe it’s because you are in a bikini), but an hour in, you might look up into the sky, let the snowflakes fall and melt on your eyelashes and feel very, very happy to be your age and stage.

You might sit at a dinner table with a woman who’s husband walked out on her, her boyfriend who’s daughter wanted to change her last name after he and her mother got divorced, and a husband and wife whose relationship led to the divorce from a close friend of yours (who obviously was not in attendance) and find yourself drinking champagne and talking about their crazy neighbor and too-spicy penne ala vodka.

You might have many EVCFs (Email Volley of Confusion and Frustration). So many in fact, that you might create an acronym for them.

You might receive a wildly expensive gift on a first date, making that (too bold of a move) the precursor to it being the last date, and secretly wonder if you could sell it on Ebay to pay your legal bills.

You might write your ex a manifesto on love, life, self and marriage that ends up falling on deaf ears, but you might save it and think you should present it to your next love and say, “This is what I want. Are you in?” You might think it’s silly to waste a good stream of consciousness.

The greatest two words all year might be “or not,” also known as: "not your responsibility."

You might feel so incredibly fucking excited about the life that is opening up all around you that you can't stop yourself from singing at the top of your lungs while driving down the street and wondering if the people in the neighboring cars are as happy as you are. You might think not.

You might be obsessed with all forms of electronic communication, so much so that you might experience the unfortunate event of someone accidently opening the bathroom stall and you not being sure what is more embarrassing — the texting or the partial nudity.

You might find that your already close relationship with your mother actually had room to grow. You will be eternally grateful for her support.

Your best friends might have the best timing and they might save you, over and over again.

You might find yourself in a hot tub with half a dozen singing choral opera singers.

You might lose your cell phone in a hot tub, when you are not even in the hot tub, because a man trips and knocks your wallet out from under your arm because he might have been stunned to see a woman try to kiss another woman. That might not be only time that year that you get propositioned by a woman.

You might experience the toughest moment of your life when you tell your daughter that you are separating from her father, and over the next year, she might blow you away with her transparency, her intelligence, her responsibility and her resilience. It might be the most difficult, but the most inspiring thing you will see all year.

Your funniest childhood friend might say that you are funny.

You might discover that your 20 year old college nickname is actually spelled with an 'i'.

You might not know how to tactfully change your relationship status update without sparking awkward commenting, while your ex just simply unfriends you and then posts a photo of you on his Match.com profile. It might just make you laugh hysterically.

You might find that bacon is good in every scenario, including emergency abdominal surgery.

You might believe in fate.

You might lose sleep, your appetite, your confidence, your money, your momentum, your faith in some and your confidence in others, but you might gain yourself.

You may find that some friends are necessities and some are luxuries.

You might realize you have to stop putting yourself in these situations!

A convertible ride along the lake, or a walk over the Golden Gate Bridge, or an hour and a half wait in line to eat breakfast, or a conversation on a rooftop bar, or radishes and dip on a summer's day, or racing your daughter down the ski hill, or dancing by yourself, or having your photo taken in Chelsea on a luminous night by someone who thinks you are beautiful, might be salve for your soul.

You might spend three hours with nothing more to do then sit, drink a few beers and debate the President’s handling of the economy, the concept of Jumping the Shark, inventing a leather coat life vest, is there a good Catholic democrat?, giving your children a sense of their Jewish background, and the fairness of how the snow removal debacle in 2008 lost the mayor his job. The last one might spark more debate than any of the others, but that might be due to what number beer you are on.

You might have the best and most interesting conversations of your life.

You might learn that you should put the oxygen mask on yourself first.

Your faith might be restored over a cab ride in your favorite city in the world.

You might look like a fool, feel like a fool, be taken for a fool, but not have any regrets and that includes the hysterical crying when you put the cat down and the psychics (plural), just to name two.

You might cry every day, just once.

You might find new perspective on friendship, motherhood, ambition, humility, patience, endurance and loyalty.

You might receive the birthday card you've always been dreaming about.

You might apologize…a lot.

You might disappoint, but you might inspire.

You might be disappointed, but you might be inspired.

You might be congratulated, pitied, hit on, avoided, smothered, rejected, helped, hurt and saved. It might be overwhelming at times.

You might find yourself not knowing what Florence and the Machine are actually signing about, but not caring because in the way she sings about Happiness, for the first time in your life, you might feel it coming at you like a freight train.

---

"Dont ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." — The last line in The Catcher in the Rye.

I don't know if I agree with that one Mr. Salinger. I would have rather shared, learned and then maybe lost, then never shared at all. This year, more than ever. So I think I prefer: "What'choo talkin' 'bout Willis?" Are you smiling? Me too. Rest in peace Gary Coleman (1968—2010) rest in peace.

And here begins, a new year...

for the love of madonna.

I went to church this morning on my way into work. Last night, I tried going to the small, neighborhood church that is affiliated with my daughter's school, but I couldn't get into the sanctuary, so I chose to go to a different one this morning that I thought might have a better chance of being open.

St. Joe's is a large, beautiful Catholic church built on a hillside in a dense residential area minutes from downtown. The whole site is really a compound taking up an entire city block with a large K-8 school attached. The sanctuary itself probably holds several hundred people and it's stunning with two-story high, rough hewn wood ceilings, stone walls, luminous stained glass and of course, well-worn dark wood pews. It is the church that I went to when I first moved here in college, and the church where my daughter was baptized eleven years ago. It's affiliated with the Jesuits, which has a history of social justice, so they were respectful of our decision to select Jewish Godparents, provided my mother, a lifelong Catholic, stood with us during the ceremony. I honestly, no question could feel God in the moment the priest made the sign of the cross on my daughter's head with holy water dripping down her cheeks.

I heard on the radio this morning that the other Madonna (Ciccone), is opening up a string of ultra-luxe fitness gyms around the world called Hard Candy. None of them, initially, will be in the US. Once again—way to go Madonna. Ingenious. Make us hungry for it instead of letting us be the first to trash it. The first one is opening up in Mexico City on November 29, then other places like Argentina, Russia, Brazil and of course Europe will follow. Another reinvention, she rocks. So here I was, sitting in traffic, on my way to church, reading my horoscope on my phone and thinking about two Madonnas.

The sanctuary visit was my mother's idea. About ten years ago, when trying to sell my house in the downturn after 9/11, she came over and buried a small St. Joseph figurine in the backyard, upside down. We got an offer within a week. Today, I'm trying to finally put my divorce to bed, and in light of the tears that I cried over the disappointment of it all the other night, she said, quite simply, "go light a candle." So I'm sitting in my car, the taillights in front of me glowing red in the reflection of heavy rain drops, the sound of the wiper blades cutting through Madonna's Hard Candy news report and reading my horoscope on my phone, which had the ominous advice to not let myself be 'emotionally blackmailed.' I never like horoscopes that have good advice but imply that something will happen that requires the advice. Ugh. Will someone try and emotionally blackmail me today? That sounds fun.

What would Madonna do?

I am a very spiritual woman. I was raised Catholic, my mother even taught my Catechism classes (!), and I love that I share this cultural background with 1.1 billion other souls on the planet. Ok, ok, let's be honest, it's the most culture a white girl from a small'ish agricultural community in the Pacific Northwest is ever going to achieve (well, technically I have a Jewish step-family with a Japanese sister-in-law, and I'm twelve and a half percent Cherokee, but that is definitely another blog entry...stop laughing, you know who you are).

I love that you can go to a Catholic church in a different city and the mass is still essentially the same. I believe in the meditative quality of the rituals and I absolutely believe in God. I believe in the concept of worship and the intellectual study of religion and faith. I was raised a Jesuit, which is anchored in the aforementioned concept of social justice, as well as humility. I am decidedly not the most humble person I know, but I do try and I whole-heartedly believe in the Big Idea of humility as it plays out in and around our lives. Therefore, I am not interested in tackling the issue of priests and celibacy, but I strongly respect the notion that they have humbly reduced their lives to the very simplest of devotion, and thus, this is a person that I am comfortable talking to me about God. I believe in a lifelong investment in your own spirituality, which for me means it's highly personal, grounded in the humility of accepting what we don't know, and working hard to have faith. I am on the farthest end of evangelism as you can get. So much so, that I would venture to say that most of my friends do not know how spiritual I really am. That being said, I am always interested in discussing faith, religion or spirituality, but I often listen more than I contribute.

I'm a fan of both Madonnas, having grown up with both of them, but the modern day holder of the moniker had me thinking this morning. About disappointment, about reinvention, about survival. For as incredibly strong as she is, I bet she's been emotionally blackmailed a time or two, but she survived and thrived. So did the original Madonna. Both of them are survivors and both of them reinvented themselves. Mary went from being Joseph's wife to, well, you know the rest of her story and Madonna Ciccone went from being Madonna Ciccone to, well...Madonna. How dare I compare the virgin mother of Jesus to an oversexed single mother, you ask?...humility. I think you do the best you can and I think the Virgin Mary would agree with that.

This morning, the sanctuary was totally empty and very dim. The candles previously lit by other visitors were peacefully flickering in the corner. I stood there for a minute and let the magnitude of the quiet settle over me. I've been meaning to come here and have a talk with God. I wanted to reconcile the disappointment — mano y mano. In that cavernous, dim, empty, beautiful sanctuary, I lit candles for my daughter, for a friend of mine with a child my daughter's age who had a brain aneurysm a few weeks ago, for my friend who is beating ovarian cancer, and one for those struggling with or enduring a loss of any kind, then I sat down in a pew and prayed. Prayers of gratefulness, guidance and reconciliation. I am doing the best I can and whatever drives the Madonnas' resolve and reinvention maybe we will never know, but I'm inspired by it and if someone has the audacity to emotionally blackmail me today—bring it...I'm channeling "Like a Virgin."

happy anniversary.

Today was my 14th wedding anniversary and Sunday is my 38th birthday. The last time I celebrated my birthday as a single woman, I was 23 years old (technically, I was 22 because I met my ex shortly after my 22nd birthday). Yep, that makes my jaw drop too...all the way to the ground. No longer (quite) that young woman, I will be celebrating this milestone birthday with my best girlfriends this weekend, and when telling the plan to another friend of mine (male), he laughed, saying we were cleverly disguising a divorce party behind a birthday and he's sure it will likely turn out more like a bachelorette party. (Which in our case is more of the "dance party" variety rather than the male-models-jumping-out-of-the-cake variety, just to be clear.) Of course, if that were the case, this time I am being sent out of marriage rather than into it and therefore, there are some mixed emotions. It's nearly the perfect scenario in which to use the word, 'bittersweet.'

My wedding anniversary and my birthday have fallen in the same week for all of my adult life, so it shouldn't have come as any surprise that these two milestones would once again butt up against each other this year, but honestly?...I nearly forgot. And I definitely didn't appreciate the significance of the two events until today. Five days separating the last anniversary that I will officially be married and my first birthday on my own. Surreal. I had several friends pause in their day to send me encouraging messages, and of course my mother went above and beyond, leaving flowers on my desk before I even got into the office, and I was once again finding myself grateful and humbled by their affection. But what does it all mean, all of this emotion? To say goodbye to a significant part of your life and turn around and celebrate all that remains, and all that is still ahead? What an odd paradox, but I'm also finding it oddly comforting to address both things back-to-back.

I watched a movie recently that was set in India and there was some brief discussion about Kali, the Hindu Goddess of Destruction. If you've ever seen her, she can be deemed as a fairly disturbing image. In one hand she wields a macheté-type of sword that she uses to hack off the heads of men, many of which she has strewn around her neck in a form of gruesome garland. She is standing over a conquered soul and in general, she emanates terrifying power and strength, with blood dripping from her sword. I started reading and then thinking about Maa Kali and the idea that maybe sometimes we have to endure the destruction of something to make room for something new—a better way, a more enlightened path. Like how a forest fire ravages a hillside, but we also know it's a necessary cycle to life, to the re-birth and the very sustainability of the forest.

Maa Kali is indeed the Goddess of Destruction, but she is said to represent the death of the human ego, of all that is evil, false and phony. She is depicted with four arms, two of which she is using for this great battle, and two to bless her devotees. She is seen as a mother figure and is one of the few goddesses that never married and renounced all worldly pleasures. It's said that those who look upon her image and tremble, do so because they are egotistical and attached to worldly pleasures. If you find the sweetness and compassion in her image, you can be released from your ego and can more easily reach spiritual enlightenment. But who among us divorces ourselves from our ego and worldly pleasures that easily? Exactly. Thus enters Maa Kali.

I know what has been destroyed in my life to make room for the change that is needed. Change in myself, change in my life. Some of it painful, as a proper 'destruction' promises (insert tongue-in-cheek emoticon), but not without the awakening that is inevitable from such a drumming. And this idea of Maa Kali battling it out to bring forth a better path translates to everything I can think of in the human experience - nature, death, society, science, the economy. This is a universal idea, but ironically such a tough, tough thing to accept. We fight fires, we fight death, we build stronger sea walls and bail out banks. Trust me, I'm not suggesting that we stop doing any of those things, and I'm not even pretending like I understand what we should and shouldn't fight for, but I do find the concept of accepting destruction as a means to a better thing as illuminating. Think of the incredible ingenuity that often comes from destruction, like houses being built above the high-water mark that are affordable and easier on the environment, and a return to the power of the small business operator, after the fall of large national companies, on who's backs we are re-building our economy, just to name two from recent memory.

Don't we learn more from our failures than our successes? Don't poignant, beautiful things often develop from the ashes of destruction?

I remember exactly one year ago sitting at an incredibly over-priced restaurant, arguing with my ex and eventually crying at the table on what was then, our 13th anniversary. But all couples fight. Someone ends up crying some of the time, right? I don't think that meant we were destined for failure, but it is interesting to fast-forward one year and to be sitting here at midnight, penning a blog entry about destruction. Choosing it, enduring it, accepting it and letting it unearth a new path.

I have no plans to celebrate the end of my marriage, that would be totally disingenuous to who I am as a person and what I really believe about marriage and my marriage in particular, so I am honoring today's milestone with humility and appreciation for the life in those years. For the good that it did bring, most especially our daughter. And in five days I will celebrate my birthday and be truly grateful for all the years of my life, including how good I feel today and how optimistic I feel about what is to come. That, I am comfortable celebrating and honestly, I can't wait. Maybe it would be fitting if I were to buy myself a Maa Kali statue and have THAT come out of the cake?! That would be a destruction that would be utterly painless...my friends and I would devour that cake bite-by-bite, I am certain of it, and maybe I'm onto something...

free fall.

"There is a solid bottom everywhere."

— Henry David Thoreau

The above is one of my all time favorite quotes and one that was always comforting for me. I take it as an idea that I'm not in a free fall, that there is a foundation in all experiences and that I will land at some point, preferably on my feet. In my mind, I always saw "bottom" as this spongy, pliant thing that, as much as it caught my fall, it also propelled me forward, back up towards the sky. "Bottom" meant stability, home base, grounding. Today, however, when I think of that quote, I visualize the ground speeding towards me at an unfathomable pace, hard and smooth as polished rock, and I can hear my bones breaking and my life being crushed on impact. Yes, there is a solid bottom everywhere...and I think I hit it recently. I should say that I hope I hit it because God knows I wouldn't want to do that twice.

It's been months and months since I sat in the smallest room in my house and asked my husband of fourteen years to separate. If I had had an inkling of what was to follow, I'm not sure I would have believed it, I know I couldn't have absorbed it, and honestly...thank God. Ignorance not only is bliss, but I think it is also the seed of courage. I faced many fears leading up to that moment, and there's no question that I feel I made the right decision, but I might not have been able to see my way through this experience if I truly understood all of the areas in which I needed to have courage...if I had known that I would have to face myself above all else. But in the end, thank God for that as well. It's been a gift.

Now, looking back, it's no surprise to me that the story line that I tried to live and believe in for sixteen years, is the exact same story line that I used to convince myself that we were going to have an amicable, smooth divorce. What I struggled for years to manifest in my life and my marriage transitioned too smoothly over to how I wanted my divorce and future relationship with my ex to unfold. In other words, the exact reasons I wanted a divorce are the exact reasons why the divorce wasn't going to go well, but I was still hanging on to my old rational that kept me in the marriage year in and year out.

Neither one of us liked conflict. We had so much history between us and we had suffered through and survived obstacles. We laughed enough. And of course there was our gorgeous, amazing daughter that we both love. We were at least friends, weren't we? At one point, these half-truths blinding me, I used Bruce Willis and Demi Moore's post-divorce relationship as a verb. (I'm sure the definition will show up under "amicable divorce" in the newest version of the Dictionary of Cultural Literacy). I said to my ex (feel free to laugh), "I want us to Bruce and Demi this." Wow. I've been known to say some memorable one-liners, but this one ranks up there and ironically, I think it's the tongue-in-cheek tag line of my renaissance.

I had some hard lessons ahead of me..most of them about myself. I knew who my ex was, what he and we as a couple were capable and incapable of, and I had reconciled my decision to get a divorce. But in order to survive the divorce, I needed to face myself.

Here's what hitting bottom finally showed me, and I will rely on the wisdom of Albert Einstein for this one, "Everything that can be counted does not necessarily count, everything that counts cannot necessarily be counted." When not in crisis, it's easy to give lip service to the idea of losing things that can be counted...money, professional success, financial stability, a home you own. But until you face the real possibility of losing it all, all at once, you can't as clearly see what's embedded in these things that you have built, things that can't be counted.

I spent my marriage trying to hold up all four legs of a table. I wanted to be in love, be married and I invested in the life that we were living. I remember saying to our couples counselor, that I was capable, reliable and responsible. That even though I didn't want to, I could do it all, that I could hold up the table legs. He said, "no you can't"..."Yes I can, I've been doing it"..."No you can't, you are here, aren't you?" I know, pause for obvious effect. The me that wanted to Bruce and Demi-it is the me that thought I had to hold up all four legs of the table, even in the divorce.

Hitting bottom crushed me, I can't lie. It was dark, ugly and scary. I couldn't lift a fork, or shut an eye, I was so burdened by the things that were happening to me, around me and within me. There had been a slow descent for sure, and the actual impact hurt like hell, but it shattered some walls that I unknowingly, but painstakingly, had built around myself. Crushed and hurting, I was finally truly vulnerable. Vulnerable enough to surrender to my life and I felt all the things that count rush in...faith, devotion, humility, strength, forgiveness and love. I found myself and that counts. It counts for my daughter, my mother, my family and friends. It counts for me.

These days I'm thinking of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" and remembering why I originally loved the Thoreau quote. Maybe sometimes we just need to surrender to our lives. Sit down long enough to let the sum of our experiences settle over us, let go and free fall into a place where we can heal and grow, even if it hurts.