I Said There'd Be Days Like This

I try to be a reasonably productive person. At a few points, I've even been described as "high capacity." Those moments went something like this:

Me: teaching four college courses, raising three children, and painting a bedroom over a random weekend.

Random Person: "You're high capacity."

However, in more recent years — this post-pandemic era, if you will — I've noticed varying degrees and instances of capacity loss. How much decline am I talking about, you ask? Well, on certain days, I still fire on all cylinders. Other days, I imagine a narrator speaking as if I were starring in a prescription drug commercial, "Are you suffering from moderate to severe capacity loss?" Cue camera panning as I shuffle despondently down my hallway while wearing a blanket draped over my shoulders.

That was the case yesterday, a rare obligation-less Tuesday. I had no classes to teach. No office hours to host. No work meetings to attend. No children were at home. I had one brief morning appointment, then a refreshingly light amount of grading earmarked for the afternoon.

You would think I'd enjoy the day immensely. That I'd knock out my work early, then fill the remaining hours with other fulfilling tasks or happy moments of leisure. That's why I was so surprised to reach the end of the day and have nothing to show for it. Nada.

Brain: "We had a day off. We must have been used it productively."
Me: "No."
Brain: "Well, then we must have rested."
Me: "Somehow, also no." 

What did I do? How did I fill the day? It still eludes me.

I putzed, but without pleasure. I dabbled on the computer, yet didn't manage cross off a single item from my to-do list. If I had ended the day feeling more refreshed than when I started, I'd count it as a success. But, sadly, that's not the case, either. I received no checks in any win column, neither rest nor achievement.

Did I read a book? No. Grade assignments? No. Exercise? No. Watch a movie? No. Clean a closet? No. Enjoy the fall day with a pleasant walk? No. Prepare a nice dinner? No. Connect with a friend? No.  

There are days like this. Blurry days, squandered days. Days when you exist to recover from earlier days. Days when you wither like you're suffering from a Victorian wasting disease. Weird days when you ironically have all the time in the world, yet no gumption or verve or plan.

Today, however, the sun rose again, as it reliably does. Things were different. I exercised. I taught three solid classes. I met with students, caught up on email, finished yesterday's grading, and planned an upcoming lesson. I made strombolis and assembled a salad. My kitchen already is cleaned for the evening. Apparently, my capacity has returned.

In light of these adjacent experiences, I need to remind myself of a few core truths:

One, there will be days like this. Both versions. High capacity and low capacity days are two sides of the same coin. Nobody — I mean nobody — always can function at full throttle.

Two, worth doesn't change depending on the version. Yesterday's version of me, while not ideal, was just as loved, just as valuable, as today's more productive version. God's love doesn't waver based on how much I achieve. His love is contingent on His faithfulness, not my own. It's a constant force, hearty and steadfast and underserved and inherent, regardless of my performance and productivity, or lack thereof. This is hard to fathom, yet good to remember.

And I said I'd love you though all those days.
-- God

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Geese, Golf Carts, and Unexpected Laughter: A True Story About Depression

For a fair stretch of time a few years ago, I was depressed. I still functioned in the ways that you're expected to function when you're an adult. I worked. I parented. I showed up. But I was a shell of myself.

I'm a positive person by nature, and I have strong faith in the Lord. These factors aren't mutually exclusive from depression. With every bit of resolve and emotional fortitude left in me, I tried to not appear like I was struggling, even to myself.

I still remember the afternoon when I realized how long I had been lurking in the shadows and how dark those shadows had grown. My husband had invited me to ride along in the cart when he went golfing. (If golf were a love language, Joel would speak it fluently.) I accepted the invitation.

I don't recall if he played all 18 holes or just 9, but I do remember that we encountered a flock of geese wandering the course, which apparently is common on a golf course. Flying rats, Joel had called them. Then he steered the golf cart toward the next tee box, cutting through the middle of the gaggle of geese so they parted ways, honking and lifting a few feet off the ground, as we drove through their midst.

Something about the scene, I'm not exactly sure what, struck me as comical. I smiled. It was a genuine smile. Then, inexplicably, the situation morphed from mildly comical in my head into oddly, irrevocably, ridiculously comical. I mean, all those flapping geese wings! The honking! The random way they scattered! My smile brimmed over into a laugh, and the laugh wasn't forced or fake. I couldn't stop my shoulders from shaking and my chest from heaving in laughter simply because Joel had driven our golf cart between some geese.

While Joel walked to the tee box and I wiped tears from my eyes from my weird display of laughter, I noticed the blue of the sky and the green of the grass and the pleasing way the fence edged the side of the golf path. My breathing felt fuller, as if my lungs had been released from constriction. More than I could express in actual words, I felt something in my heart: I'm feeling a real feeling right now, and that feeling feels happy. This feeling had been absent for so long I hadn't known if I was capable of feeling it again. 

That's the moment I realize that I had been depressed. The resurgence of a normal feeling — in this case, happiness — even from such a peculiar source (honking geese, really?), highlighted that I hadn't had normal feelings in quite some time. I had been wrung out, hollow, numb. But here I was, shoulders shaking and tears brimming from laughter.

None of it made sense, but it was something, and something felt better than nothing, which had been my default.  

Since then, life hasn't been all rosy, of course, because life is messy, and people are messy, and circumstances can be hard. But I confidently can say that it's much better — or, more aptly, that I'm much better. I talked with my doctor to address the physical elements of depression. I sought guidance from a trusted counselor. I'm in much closer community with an amazing group of faithful friends than I was then, which has been invaluable. (Good friends love you through your things, and in turn, you love them through their things right back.) 

And God. Oh, the care and goodness of God to handle all my feelings and prayers, all the chaotic emotion and numbness that I flung his way and cast at His feet. What healing he's brought to my heart. Along with the psalmist, I can testify that the Lord is the lifter of my head.

The void of feeling, the numbness, the dearth of happiness — it wasn't permanent. It was temporary. I'll never forget that first glimmer of hope, one that came in the weirdest of ways: geese, a golf cart, and unexpected laughter.

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Just Go to the Concert

Have you ever listened to the band NEEDTOBREATHE? Even after over twenty years of incredible music, they're sometimes described as the "biggest band you've never heard of."

I've always wanted to see them in concert. A few months ago I had the chance. My oldest daughter texted me when the band released their upcoming tour dates, asking if I'd be interested in going with her and two college friends to see them. The catch? The concert was scheduled for a Wednesday night in a city three hours away. Even so, I checked my work calendar. It was the worst potential Wednesday of the semester to do such a thing, but after a few minutes, I texted her back:

"Absolutely. Get the tickets."

Was it a long day of work, followed by six hours of round-trip driving? Of course. Was I tired the next day? Undoubtedly. After gushing for a half hour about the concert, did the three teenagers with me fall asleep in the car on the way home, leaving me alone with my own thoughts for the rest of the long drive? Yes, they most certainly did.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Even now a few months later, I occasionally reflect upon that night. It's the only Wednesday evening of the entire fall semester I specifically remember. It would have been easy to skip if I based my decision on convenience alone, but really, how could I have passed up the opportunity? 

Of course, I've missed other opportunities, like one night in college when my roommate asked me if I wanted to go Christmas caroling at Joe Paterno's house, which was slightly under a mile from our dorm at Penn State. Of course I wanted to go, but it already was late and I had been studying for a final exam I had at 8 the next morning.

I still remember how my roommate and friends stomped snow off their boots as they entered our dorm two hours later. I hadn't moved from my desk. "How was it?" I asked.

The group was so excited that each person talked over the others:

"It was amazing!'

"We were so nervous to ring their doorbell that we stopped at three other houses to practice."

"Sue Paterno opened the door and she was in her bathrobe. She stepped outside in her slippers to plug in their Christmas lights!"

"Coach Paterno asked where we were from and we all said, 'Penn State' at the exact same time. He laughed and said, 'I gathered that. Where are you girls actually from?'"

"I can't believe it started snowing as we were singing. It was magical!"

This took place over two decades ago, but I still remember particular details, like how Joe draped his arm around Sue's shoulder as they stood in their front doorway, backlit from the warm glow of light in their house, and snow started to fall while my friends sang Silent Night.

For the life of me, the one thing I can't remember is what class I was studying for.

Sometimes you need to choose the less convenient, but better, option. I don't remember the final exam that happened then, and I won't remember run-of-the-mill Wednesday nights that happen now. But I'll always remember this one particular Wednesday night when I traveled to Pittsburgh to watch NEEDTOBREATHE in concert with my nearly nineteen-year-old daughter and her two friends. 

If there's ever another opportunity, I hope I'd do the exact same thing again. Just go to the concert.

Never heard of NEEDTOBREATHE? It's high time to remedy that. They've released too many incredible songs to list even a fraction of them, but you can't go wrong with this sampling of seven. Seriously, pause everything else you need to do today and do this first. Do it. Do it now.

Brother (perhaps their most widely-known song, for good reason)

West Texas Wind (sung poetry that'll make you feel all the feels)

Banks (a love song with a growl at 2:56 that's absolute perfection)

Hard Love (amazing vocals, amazing lyrics)

Carry Me (sounds like a prayer I want to pray daily)

Lay 'Em Down (one of their oldest, but what a wildly satisfying drop at 2:15)

Multiplied (also from the archives, and one of my personal favorites)

Actually, let's make it a sampling of eight songs, with this incredible, stripped-down, ruggedly live version of Survival (featuring Drew and Ellie Holcomb) that, as the kids these days say, absolutely slaps:

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Frozen Shoulder, Why Hello Again.

Once again, I'm going to have to put my dreams of competing on American Ninja Warrior on hold. I've been diagnosed with frozen shoulder. Again. 

My first bout of frozen shoulder occurred pre-pandemic, five falls ago to be exact. It started with minor pain and stiffness, but within two months, I had lost all ability to raise or rotate my right arm, making daily tasks like getting dressed, washing my hair, or sleeping a painful challenge.

For the sake of diversity, this time my left shoulder is affected. In good news: I'm right-handed, so I can still use my prominent arm freely. This is a plus, although with my left arm out of commission, I'm unable to normally reach for my seatbelt or, as I discovered last week, to pay the hourly fee at a parking garage kiosk without first opening my door and climbing out of the car.

Over the holidays, I had a conversation at a college football function with friends of ours, a former NFL player and his wife. He shared how he recently strained his shoulder while lifting heavy equipment into his truck bed. I winced, asked what his diagnosis was, and told him that I had frozen shoulder. He replied, "Frozen shoulder? I don't know how to say this, but that sounds not real."

I get this. The phrasing sounds benign, but saying adhesive capsulitisis, the official term, not only sounds fake but also pretentious, so I'll stick with the colloquial "frozen shoulder," as if Elsa accidentally "let it go" with a chilly blast toward me.

The internet hasn't made me feel better, either. A quick Google search on "frozen shoulder recovery timeline" shares depressing things like this:

Stage 1 (Freezing): Slow onset of pain last from 6 weeks to 9 months. As pain worsens and radiates down the arm, the shoulder loses motion, hindering mobility and daily activities.

Stage 2 (Frozen): Slow improvement in pain, but immobility remains 4 to 9 months.

Stage 3 (Thawing): Shoulder motion slowly returns to normal over a 5 to 26 month period.

Essentially, given where I currently am in this freeze-thaw process, if I level out immediately, I could "return to normal" as soon as November or at some point 39 months from now, which will be right around when my college freshman is a college graduate. 

Give or take, of course.

When I saw an orthopedist last month, he asked if my pain stemmed from a sports injury. I was tempted to quip, "More like a sports bra injury," but given that he was a young male doctor, I didn't think he'd find my womanly perimenopausal humor funny, or even understandable, but gah, have you ever tried to put on a sports bra with frozen shoulder? Impossible.

So now I stay the course. I move more gingerly than I'd like to move. I see an excellent physical therapist twice a week, do exercises morning and evening, and have a nightly appointment with a heating pad before awkwardly propping myself up on pillows to attempt sleep. I also I remember the valuable lessons I learned last time and sweet moments of care, knowing that all things, including frozen shoulder, are temporary.

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Staring at Nothing in Particular

I've recently found myself walking into rooms in my house and just staring. Staring at what, you ask? Most often, nothing in particular. I'd open the pantry and stare, wondering why there was a canister of oatmeal and a bag of egg noodles on the same shelf where we stored our batteries, super glue, and a bin of assorted pens.

I'm generally an organized person, but this didn't make sense. I didn't have energy to make it make sense, either, so I'd just stare. Occasionally, I'd deliberate if the partially used bag of marshmallows leftover from a summer campfire should be thrown out, or if I should buy Rice Crispies to make Rice Crispie treats. But then would I end up with a partially used box of Rice Crispies? Would I ever get the ratio of cereal-to-marshmallows exactly right, or would I always have some annoyingly small about of one or the other left over?

I'd shut the pantry. 

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are a slog, work-wise, and I feel the effect of this cumulative fatigue at moments like this when Rice Crispie treat contemplation is too much to manage. 

Over the past 13 weeks I've spent so much time sifting student work through criteria. It's constant weighing, considering, and evaluating, My last task was reading a batch of 75 student topic proposals. This takes about 6 or 7 focused hours, plus break times where I stand to stretch, change the laundry from the washer into the dryer, or open a closet and stare, wondering vaguely if I should upgrade my hangers.

I suspect that I think more carefully about my students' topic ideas than they do. This isn't for true all students, but it seems to be true for some. During these points, I stare out the window into my yard contemplating all of my life choices. 

Once I finished commenting on the final proposal, I shut my laptop and put it aside so I wouldn't see it. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then I let myself fully sink into Thanksgiving break, and great things happened. 

I watched a movie and read a book. I put away fall decorations and put out Christmas decorations. I went through the pantry to organize all the contents, then the closet, then the bookshelves. Joel joined the action. Together we sorted, tossing unneeded boxes from old phones, random cords that had no discernable purpose, and obsolete paperwork. We spent hours raking leaves and working in the yard.

I realized that I hadn't been tired of working; I had been tired of thinking. 

You might be pleased to know that our oatmeal is no longer stored beside our batteries. In fact, I'm so happy with my newly organized pantry and closet that I keep inventing reasons to open them, just to appreciatively gaze at their sensible arrangement.

Life makes more sense when you take a break from thinking so you can think about other things. 

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The Start of May

Ah, May has arrived. I like the month of May. I like that the semester ends. I like that peonies bloom, that I can smell lilac in the breeze, and that the world comes alive. I like that I get to start cutting the grass, that we mulch our flower beds, and that living spaces spill over onto back patios and front porches. 

With all that said, that's currently not what May feels like. It's 40 degrees outside. It's also wet. A will-anything-ever-feel-dry-again? wetness. There have been multiple daily torrential downpours, intermingled with slow stretches of lackluster rain, punctuated by moments of hail.

Welcome to May.

If I had my druthers, the start of May would be vibrant and sunny, fresh and fun, comfortable and carefree. But, as we all know, we don't control the weather. 

There's so much we don't get to control. I recently was talking with a friend who's facing some serious challenges in her personal life. I understood. Same here. Even though the particulars of our circumstances are different, she and I share a similar bottom line: we both have chapters in our lives that we hadn't envisioned and wouldn't have chosen for ourselves.

This is universally human. We wouldn't have chosen illnesses and cancer diagnosis. We wouldn't have chosen hardships in marriage. We wouldn't have chosen infertility or miscarriages, heartbreaks and bullying, wayward children or job termination, addictions or anxiety disorders, house fires or losing loved ones too soon. We've all lived life events we never would have written into our own stories willfully, but those stories have come nonetheless.

If we had our druthers, things would be more vibrant and sunny, fresh and fun, comfortable and carefree. But, as well all know, we don't get to control all the twists and turns of life.

So today, on this second day of May, I accept the blustery temperature, the rain squalls, and the cloud coverage. I'll work inside and choose contentment, rather than lamenting that I can't work outside. I'll steal a moment to sit and read, curled up under a blanket on my couch, instead of in the wishing I was reading on my porch with my sunglasses on. I'll remember that these few rainy, cold days in May are temporary. It's not going to stay this cold and damp forever.

That's the same with life. When we face hard times, they feel immersive, as if there's 100% circumstantial cloud coverage. But hard times don't last forever. I love this advice from Kristina Kuzmic:

So here's a tip: add right now to whatever is frustrating you about parenting or life in general so that you're not putting a permanence on it. You're realizing that whatever is difficult right now doesn't have to be difficult forever. So, for example, 'I'm not getting enough sleep right now. My toddler is throwing daily tantrums right now. My teenager acts like he hates me right now. This divorce is so excruciatingly painful right now.'

This is right now. This is not forever. You are not stuck. A bad year or two or five doesn't equal a bad life. It equals a bad year or two or five. Hard parenting days won't last forever. Hard life days aren't permanent either.

It's not permanent. It's right now."

Sure, the start of May has been wet and cold. But it's not permanent. It's just right now.

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Just Start

It's inevitable. Each semester I reach a point when it feels like I have grading to complete all the time. And when I say it feels like "all the time," I mean All. The. Time. In perpetuity. Unceasing. Continual. Never ending. Forever and ever and ever, amen.

Last night, I actually dreamed that I was providing feedback for students on an assignment. I was terribly disappointed when I woke up because, apparently, grading completed during a dream doesn't actually count for anything. Come on, man! I worked all night long but have nothing to show for it.

I'm tired. Assignments pour in like a deluge. Yesterday's to-do list bled into today. I suspect today's to-do list will bleed until tomorrow. My shoulders are tense, my brow is furrowed, and my resolve is weakening. I want to either (a) take a nap so I can temporarily forget about the grading, or (b) clean all my closets so I can temporarily convince myself I'm being productive, even if it's not productive in the right way.

I've been in this place before. I'm no stranger to a semester's cumulative fatigue. Grading is time consuming and laborious, yet it's an essential part of my job that I take seriously. Still, it's hard right now.

Even so, I do one entirely unglamorous thing that always helps: I start.

I just start.

I don't need to grade all the assignments tonight. I don't need to complete them all tomorrow, either. Right now, I simply need to start and grade one. Then I start again, and I grade one more. Then one more. Like putting one foot ahead of another, eventually I'll cover some distance.

I'll likely succumb at some point over these next few days and take that nap. It'll be a healthy coping mechanism. I've already organized my pantry. (That was yesterday's diversion, and yes, if you're wondering, it was wildly satisfying up until the point when I conceded to myself that having my spices perfectly lined up wasn't actually my most pressing task.)

Even so, regardless of how many diversions might crop up, I keep reminding myself to start. 

Just start.

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Words We Never Forget

When I was nineteen years old, I had a professor I respected deeply. Her class challenged me. It was a 400-level rhetoric course, and I, as a third-semester sophomore, was the youngest student enrolled. All other students were seniors. 

I felt this disparity keenly. Although I had no tangible proof, I sensed that my older classmates analyzed more deeply, summarized more succinctly, and understood more easily.

In my mind, they sauntered through the readings while I trudged. They breezed through the weekly synopsis papers while I clawed for each word. During the first weeks, I faithfully attended class, but I didn't contribute to discussions often. I didn't want to reveal that I was an imposter.

It's been 25 years, and I still remember the fall afternoon when my professor returned graded essays at the end of class. Mine had a handwritten note asking for me to see her after class. As we stood on the sidewalk directly outside Sackett Building under the shade of the iconic elms that lined Penn State's mall, she asked if I'd permit her to share my writing as an example for other students who were struggling.

I was floored. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Then she uttered this sentence: "Robin, you're so smart that you make my teeth hurt."

I've never forgotten those words. Especially because she said them to a person who, at the time, didn't even believe she was smart enough to be enrolled in the class. I wanted to respond, "Well, I make my own teeth hurt, too, but that's because I grind them as I painstakingly chew my way through your assignments."

Quite honestly, I didn't even know that I needed to hear that she thought I was smart, but once I knew, it sure helped. My confidence grew that day.

It's amazing how much power words possess. Now that I'm in a reverse position — teaching college students, rather than being a college student — I consider my own words thoughtfully. I want my feedback not only to be helpful and constructive, but also seasoned with grace and encouragement. 

I hope I've spoken words over students that they'll never forget in all the right ways. I hope that one day, a student will be able to recall the exact location where they stood when I said something they didn't even know they needed to hear until they heard it.

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Just Lint on a Sweater

An unexpected obligation sprung up in my schedule today. I already had packed the day to the brim, so over my cereal, I vainly attempted to adjust my schedule to make it all possible. No matter how I configured things, nothing seemed tenable. There simply were too many pieces in the puzzle. 

Within a minute I get an email: a long meeting in the center of my day unexpectedly was cancelled. Just like that, everything suddenly fit into place.

I don't know why I even get ruffled anymore. Time and again, I've witnessed how the little details work out. I mean, not to brag, but I've survived one hundred percent of the worst days I've had so far -- and if you're alive and reading this, so have you. So, why do I still sweat the smaller details?

I remember my dad once using an expression about a problem he was facing. It was a legitimate issue, but not one that held life-shaking consequences, and he maintained proper perspective. He told me, "Robin, this just lint on a sweater." 

Just lint on a sweater. Maybe annoying or irritating, and worth dealing with, but certainly nothing that deserved to be escalated or worried over. That quirky phrasing stuck with me.

My early morning mental gymnastics turned out to be unnecessary because the problem, like lint on a sweater, wasn't all that significant or permanent.

Today, let's brush off, not fixate on, what just amounts to lint on a sweater.

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On Being Awkward in Social Situations

Have you ever left a social situation and thought, "Mmm, that was not my best work"?

Last night my husband and I attended a party for his work. There was ample food, loud music, and mingling. So much mingling. Perhaps I'm revealing my age, but mingling can be hard enough on its own before you add loud music into the equation. 

As much as middle age might be my liability here, it's also an asset. Many years ago I learned a principle about social situations that I still apply today: Instead of wondering and worrying whether people will like me, I flip my focus and enter the situation intent on liking them. 

They want to be liked, too. They might feel awkward, too. They might cringe at the thought of mingling, too. They might have just held a one-sided conversation in their head where they told themselves, "Don't be weird tonight," before they walked in the door, too.

Truth is, everybody wants to feel noticed, valued, and appreciated.

I'm not perfect with this, but I changed when I stopped looking for love and acceptance from others and started showing it to others. I mean, as a Christian, I know that I'm loved, accepted, and valued by God. Because of this, I can be secure anywhere I go. Despite my own limitations (or even my inability to hear conversation over loud music), I can be secure enough to focus on what really matters: not mingling perfectly, but loving well.

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Stacking Wins

I once read about a special needs teacher who habitually celebrated victories, even if those victories seemed small. Did a student successfully tie his shoe? For some, this action might be inconsequential, but for this student, it's a profound victory. I imagine her classroom being joyful. Spontaneous celebrations and compliments would ring out as that community noticed all the things going right.

Today, I feel like celebrating something. At the start of February, I challenged myself to write here each day for a full month. It's now February 15, and this is the 15th post of the month. I'm doing what I set out to do! I'm proud. The significance isn't based on the size of the audience. The significance isn't whether a post goes viral or not. (In case you were curious: they don't.)

The significance is that I'm doing it.

You see, during 2020, which is a year that needs no explanation, I wrote only 14 total posts the entire year. The next year, 2021, wasn't any better. Again, I wrote just 14 times. Those were hard years. While there were good days and moments, I struggled with depression. Words didn't come easily.

So, today I celebrate this 15th post. Fifteen posts in one month! That's more posts than I wrote in the entirety of the train wreck that was 2020. It's more than I wrote in 2021. This 15th post is a marker that shows progress. And, as I learned from a wise special education teacher, it's important to celebrate progress.

My husband directs a ministry where he's the chaplain of a college football program. College football is a highly niche, highly competitive, and highly driven community. They need to be. The whole point of the program is to win. During his years with the team, he's adopted some of their terminology. One phrase used by the coaching staff is the concept of "stacking wins." This doesn't only refer to a literal win on a Saturday afternoon in the fall, although these Saturday wins certainly are the goal. It's referring to a good practice, followed by a good lift, followed by a good session reviewing tape, followed by a show of good teamwork.

You stack the wins. Small wins build into larger wins. Wins of character, wins of discipline, wins of personal growth. This is the type of win regularly celebrated in the special education classroom. It's the type of win I'm celebrating here with you today as we share this 15th blog post of February.

It's easy to focus on when we fall short. It's easy to notice when we stumble or when we don't meet the expectations set by ourselves or others. But today, let's celebrate a win. Let's notice a victory, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, and give thanks for it.

Let's stack the wins.

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Introducing Chip (Love at First Sight)

We did it. My family adopted a second cat. Let me introduce you to Chip.

As of today, Chip has been with us for exactly one month. He had been abandoned under a trailer and was brought to our local PAWS. The moment we walked into PAWS with intentions to adopt, our youngest daughter saw Chip and put her hand up to the window of the room where Chip was housed. Chip, in response, placed his paw against the glass at her hand.

She immediately fell in love, and with the full confidence that comes from being twelve, she announced, "If our family doesn't pick that cat, I'm coming back here tonight and rescuing him myself."

We picked that cat. No thievery was needed.

Looking back, I'm not entirely certain how this adoption took place. I mean, I grasp the process: I filled out forms, we scheduled a visit, we showed up with our cat carrier, and we left with a new cat. But I don't fully grasp the decision process that led us here. We already had one cat named Peanut. And two jobs. And three kids. Wasn't life full enough?

Over the course of many months, though, maybe a year, the kids kept mentioning getting another cat. They'd offer logical reasons. "Peanut probably would like to have a friend," they'd note. The next time they brought up the topic, they'd try another tactic, "Mom, it's clear that Peanut favors you. If we got another cat, the new cat could be ours."

After being worn down for some time, instead of noncommittally answering, "Maybe we'll get another cat someday," it shifted to, "Yes, we'll get another cat." Then, finally, we took the plunge and got the cat.

Chip is still a kitten. He's curious, delightful, and interruptive. He's absurdly friendly. He's playful. He's also slightly klutzy, which is surprisingly adorable in a cat. He eats all of his food. He tries to eat all of Peanut's food. He shows strong inclinations that he also wants to eat our food. (He likes food.)

I didn't know how Peanut would adjust to having another cat in the house. Turns out, warily at first. But, slowly, a bond is forming. They're starting to play with each other. They nap near each other. Peanut seems determined to keep Chip in line, and Chip seems determined to teach Peanut bad habits.

 

I've enjoyed watching my kids witness this process. When we were new parents and brought our second baby (and then a third) home from the hospital, we observed how the inclusion of a new sibling impacted family dynamics. There was shuffling. There were feelings. There was adjustment. In the midst of those sleep-deprived seasons, we had concerns whether the older children would feel just as loved, just as secure, and just as special, even though the new baby was demanding immense time and attention.

Now, my kids are undergoing a similar process as they watch the new dynamics with the cats. "I love Chip so much!" someone will say. "I just want to make sure that Peanut knows we still love her so much, too."

In these moments, I see in their hearts what I understood in own heart many years ago: when you add someone new to love, instead of diminishing your original love, it simply expands your capacity.

The house feels fuller with a additional cat. Fuller of movement, fuller of the clickety sound of cat-feet patter, fuller of little tumbleweed tufts of cat hair on the floors, fuller with another food bowl, water bowl, and a few more cat toys strewn along the floor. But it's also fuller with even more love.

Welcome to the family, Chip. We're so glad you're here.

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In Case of Emergency

I tapped out yesterday afternoon. It had been a long week, made a bit longer due to an unexpected pipe leak, and a kid home sick, and a hefty grading load. When I woke up yesterday, I immediately sensed that I was on the brink of total immune system collapse. (I blame my three kids, who each have been sick off and on for weeks like a weird whack-a-mole game where one finally gets healthy, but another pops up with an illness, and my college students, who, by week 5 in the semester, are a bit ragged.)

Although it felt somewhat selfish and irresponsible, I cleared my afternoon schedule and did exactly what my body needed: I took a nap. I slept for several hours, which, apparently, was just long enough to not entirely know where I was, or who I was, or what month it was when I woke up. Now that's needed sleep.

It reminds me of the proverbial "put on your own oxygen mask first" instruction. A dragging, exhausted, miserably sick Robin wasn't going to be of any usefulness to anyone else, much less myself, so I might as well do what it takes to stop that disastrous train in its tracks.

I already felt better this morning. Not perfect, but better. Functional. This is good, because all the things I put off yesterday are still waiting for me today. The importance difference is that today I'm feeling well enough to tackle them.

In case of emergency, put on your own oxygen mask first. It's good advice.

 

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Be Like George

I receive a group text yesterday afternoon from a neighbor. She explained that her young son, George, had left "love notes" for us. She included a picture of George, bundled in his jacket and bright blue hat, chalking on someone's driveway.

As soon as I get home, I check my own driveway to see the love note George left for our family. It's perfect. Right to the point.

Then came the string of replies from neighbors in the text thread:

       "Awe!"

       "Can't wait to see it when we get home! Tell him thank you!"

       "I'm very excited to check out my driveway! He's so cute!"

       "We love our love note!"

       "Thank you, George. Your note made me smile!"

What a simple, childlike action, and yet such a beautifully profound one. George wanted the neighbors to know he loved them, so, with chalk in hand, he made his heart known. I don't know anyone who wouldn't be moved by this kind gesture. Personally, I hope it doesn't rain anytime soon so I can keep enjoying George's love note for many days to come.

Let's all be like George today.

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Wisdom from The Glass Onion

It's a dangerous thing to mistake speaking without thought for speaking the truth.

- Benoit Blanc, The Glass Onion

I've enjoyed both Benoit Blanc mysteries: Knives Out and more recently, The Glass Onion. (If you haven't already seen them, watch once for the surprise plot twists, then watch again to catch the subtle gaps you missed the first time.)

One exchange particularly stood out to me in this newer mystery. It was when Detective Blanc cautions Birdie Jay (played by Kate Hudson) after she glibly praises herself for her cutting edged truth-telling.

Birdie Jay: I'm a truth teller. Some people can't handle it.

Benoit Blanc: It's a dangerous thing to mistake speaking without thought for speaking the truth. Don't you think?

Both times I watched, this line impressed me. So many heated conversations and nasty social media comments could be avoided if society adhered to this succinct wisdom when communicating. Maybe we all need a Benoit Blanc reminder: speak with thought and with truth.

Not everything that comes across our mind needs to be said. It's wisdom to know when to speak and when to hold our tongue. Certainly, our goal is to tell the truth, but it should also be to speak with love, thoughtfully consider the well-being of others.

As for speaking stupidly but excusing it with the guise that we're just telling the truth? I imagine Blanc shaking his head, remind us of this:

via GIPHY

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Drowning in Monkey Arms

I'm happy to report that today I completed a half-hour task that I've been avoiding for two months.

This task had been written on not one, not two, but three separate to-do lists. For two months, I've dodged this task like a ball and skipped it like a stone across a smooth lake. I've avoided it the way I sometimes avoid people in the grocery store when I'm wearing my glasses and socks with sandals, and I just want to dash in, grab my milk and overly-priced eggs, and dash out without any human interaction.

I've managed this avoidance for two months, across three to-do lists, but not today. Not today, I tell you! Today I Did The Thing.

I realize that the tendency to procrastinate is a universal human ailment that besets even the best of us at times. Years ago, I wrote on this blog about a very simple task that I had been avoiding: sewing the arm that had torn off one of my daughter's stuffed animals. A monkey, to be specific. For weeks, that one-armed monkey sat on my dresser, regarding me mournfully with its beady stuffed animal eyes, silently pleading for me to sew its dismembered arm back onto its body.

It took me under five minutes to finally stitch that monkey's arm back on. Practically no time at all.

What amazed me was the comments from others who could relate. One woman wrote, "Most days I feel like I am drowning in monkey arms." (I assume she meant this figuratively, not literally, or it would have been an even more concerning and unsettling issue.)

So today let me offer a small word of encouragement: As you already know from experience, it feels really good to finally Do The Task. From one imperfect delayed monkey-arm-sewer to another, take those five minutes (or that half hour) and just sew that monkey's arm back on already, whatever that means to you.

Right now, I'm flying high. Perhaps I'll tackle another item that's been long buried on another to-do list that I've previously dismissed. And maybe, just maybe, by the end of this day, most of my monkeys will have arms.

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The Rougher Path

 

Yesterday I visited a beautiful walking trail. The path was clearly defined, making it an easy route. After walking a brief while, I noticed a clump of mud caked on the edge of my boot, likely leftover from our weekend trip to get our annual Christmas tree.

I scraped my boot against the smooth grass multiple times, but it didn't remove the mud. Then I stepped into the rougher section next to the easy path, an area riddled with reeds matted to the ground and low, weedy jagger bushes. With one definitive boot-scraping swipe on that surface, the mud was gone.

I'd like if there were no life lessons embedded in this story. I'd love to report that my current life paths are all easy and smooth. But that's not quite true. As soon as I saw that mud removed -- that exact moment the ugly clump dislodged itself when I applied some rough friction -- I sensed God's nudging:

Robin, the rough paths you walk often do the best job of cleaning you up.

The current struggles I'm facing? They're not for nothing. Hard times have a way of developing faith and building fortitude. I'll be honest: I like smooth, easy paths. But when I have to walk rougher ones, then I pray God will let them do the important work of removing some crud from my life.

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Beating Yourself Up Over an Unproductive Day?

I've been productive the past few days. In the late evening hours, I've folded laundry when I rather would have gone to bed. I've tamed the beast of my email inbox. I've graded speeches like it was my job, which is useful, because it is my job. Today, I even took a break from grading by emptying the dishwasher.

If you just look at a snapshot of this singular day, I've been a medalist in the To-Do Olympics, a machine, a girl on fire.

But there are plenty of days unlike today. There are days when my greatest accomplishment is reaching the end in one piece, days when I don't have much to show for myself.

When I'm firing on all cylinders, I keep a mental tally of hurdles jumped and tasks completed, no matter how insignificant. I finish the day satisfied: "Look at how much I've accomplished!" Subconsciously, I almost automatically couple this thought with another: "Aren't I a good person?"

This is a problem. If I feel like I'm a better human on productive days, the logical corollary is that I feel like a worse human on unproductive days.

And as we all know, unproductive days are like bad pennies. They periodically turn up.

This afternoon, I'm making a choice not to link my worth with my level of productivity. I'm more valuable than just my output, and the same goes for you. Your worth can't be lessened by an unfolded basket of laundry, or an unfinished project, or that kitchen sink full of unwashed dishes unless you let it.

If you're beating yourself up because you haven't been productive today, would you be kind and let yourself off the hook? You're worth more than your output.

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When You Can't Shake It, Replace It

 

The other morning I woke up with a song stuck in my head. (To make sure it doesn't get stuck in your head, I won't tell you what it was. You have enough things going on.)

I don't easily get rid of a song in my head, apparently. It lingered, playing on endless loop in my mind as I got ready for work. The only way to stop the cycle was turning the radio on while driving to work. I couldn't seem to shake the song on my own, but I could replace it.

This seems like good life advice. When you can't shake it, replace it.

I'm trying this premise to help me with what I eat and drink. For example, when I struggle to shake a Dr Pepper craving, instead of relying on willpower, tenuous as it sometimes is, I try to replace it with a large glass of water.

I find this premise good for my thought life, too. When I'm worried about a bad outcome, I replace worry with prayer. When I'm discouraged, I try to replace those downward meditations by remembering something I'm grateful for.

It's not avoidance. It's strategic. Just like I can't hold two songs in my head at the same time, I can't simultaneously drink Dr Pepper when I'm drinking water. I can't simultaneously dwell on something negative when I'm focused on something positive.

Think about how lifeguards call out walk! when someone runs on the pool deck. They're not calling out, "Don't run!" They don't even mention the undesirable behavior. Instead, they simply call out the good behavior they want to see: walk!

That song stuck in my head? I didn't get rid of it by willpower. It left my thoughts because it was replaced.

When you can't shake something bad, don't just try to muscle through it. Instead, replace it with something good.

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When the Grocery Line Gets It Right

Some people are skilled at picking fast lines in the grocery store. I don't have this gift. I'm gifted at picking a line that looks like it would move quickly, only to find that the person ahead of me is paying by check, but they forget their pen, and once the cashier hands them a pen, they drop that pen, and after they slowly pick up the pen, they pivot course and decide, "Oh! I meant to pay in cash. With pennies, actually. Let me count them out for you. What's the total again? Thirty five dollars and sixty three cents? I have that exact amount. I think."

Such was the case when I ran to the store to pick up one last-minute item recently. My lane looked like it would move swiftly, but after a minute or two, I realize that we weren't going anywhere. Nobody had inched forward. Nobody was any closer to the register.

That's when I noticed the woman at the front of the line. She repeatedly swiped her credit card, only to be met with angry beeps from the register that the transaction wouldn't process. A man ahead of me began tapping his foot. The woman behind him made eye contact with me and shook her head. Mild frustration was settling. These people, like me, had places to go.

But that's when something wonderful happened. One member close to the front of the line stepped forward. "I think you're inserting your card upside down."

The woman glanced at her card, flipped it over, and tried once more. Success! As the receipt printed, she turned to the line behind her and line and said, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hold you up!"

The toe-tapper smiled and said, "Not a problem." The woman who had been shaking her head changed her countenance and said, "It's okay. We've all been there!"

And the woman at the front of the line went ahead with her day just as she should, without judgment, without anyone behind her adding another layer of frustration in response to an inconsequential mistake.

My grocery store line? We weren't the fastest, but we did get it right.

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