Think Small

I’m miserable at goal setting, but I do it anyway.

Every coach I’ve worked with; every personal development book I’ve read; every self-improvement workshop I’ve sat through, has driven home the same point: if you have no goals, you’ll achieve nothing of value in your life. So I dutifully set goals. Fail to achieve them. And rinse and repeat.

A sane person might wonder why I keep doing it. I’m well aware that the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome. But I seriously want to leave this world feeling at peace with how I spent my time. So I keep at it in hopes that I’ll make some headway.

In my own defense, I do mix it up a bit. I’ll change the goal-setting process. Or try different implementation approaches. And there are plenty of times when I’ve hit the jackpot! Without a plan, I’d never have gone to art school. Moved to New Jersey. Started my own business. Completed a triathalon. Or met Jim.

The problem I’m having now is that the goals I’m dancing around aren’t as clear-cut or sexy as “get married” or “hike the Grand Canyon.” They’re more along the lines of “rekindle my creative fire” and “successfully manage my money”. Just writing them down leaves me feeling overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at once. I make matters worse by coming up with outcomes that are a recipe for disaster: Change a lifetime of overspending in 30 days! Paint a masterpiece on the first try after not picking up a brush in 10 years! Launch a blog and have dozens of followers overnight! Yikes! No wonder I just want to pull the proverbial covers over my head.

As luck would have it, my current coach, Becky Rodskog, is just the woman you want in your corner when you step into the middle of this ring. She's incredibly positive, energetic and accepts no excuses. And I'm sure it's no coincidence that last night, when I was feeling so discouraged I wanted to trash five months of painstaking progress, she reminded the group of us that she’s working with about a little thing called the Kaizen principle.

Kaizen (Japanese for "change for the better") refers to a set of specific business practices that focus on continuous improvement. You can Google it and read about its applications in the world of personal development (Robert Maurer’s “One Small Step Can Change Your Life” is a sort of guidebook.) But as Becky deftly summarized it, the Kaizen thing is about focusing on one tiny step you can take each day to move toward your goal. There it was: my life preserver!

This morning I got one of those random inspirational emails that talked about how messages come in all forms. It advised me to pay attention to the stuff strewn across my path. So I did one minute thing to inch closer to a seemingly impossible goal: I wrote this post instead of diving under the covers.

Ticket to Ride

I had a massage the other night, and before I left I booked the next one. You might ask how this falls into the realm of amazesurprisedelight, and I wouldn’t blame you. But I’ve actually never done this before—set a definitive date in advance for indulging in this relaxing and restorative experience.

Why the change? I blame it on Ann Tardy. I sat in on one of her motivational talks back in January, and to my surprise, some of the things she touched on have stuck. Ann has dubbed her business LifeMoxie! Enterprises, and she is the embodiment of everything I imagine “moxie” to be. She has a sort of “get out of my way” style that perfectly blends boundless enthusiasm and total fearlessness. It’s so infectious it’s a shame she can’t bottle and sell it. She’d be set for life.

So she has these nine strategies for creating your own damn moxie, and many of them aren’t news to me. But you know how some stuff just sounds better coming from one person vs. another? Well that’s how it was for me. She got me right out of the gate with Strategy #1: “Beat the Alarm Clock.”

I’ve been wrestling for some time with rediscovering a sense of passion in my life, and I latched on instantly to the notion of drilling the whole thing down to something for which I’d gladly set the alarm to 6:00 a.m. instead of 7:00 a.m. I remember rolling my eyes at Ann’s over-the-top excitement about this concept, but by the time her hour was up I felt determined to find something that fit the bill. That I looked forward to that much.

Then she told a story about how her mother “always has a ticket in her hand.” I could have walked out of the room right then, because I knew this was an image that would become my talisman for doing things I feel excited about. I love the idea of literally having a ticket in my hand (or pocket or wallet): to a concert or movie or museum. Or a trip by train or plane. But a metaphorical ticket will do just fine. A date for dinner with good friends. A haircut. A walking class. A weekend at the beach. An evening dedicated to sketching instead of turning on the TV.

My friend Maryanne’s husband always has their next vacation planned before the current one has ended. I used to think that was akin to wishing your life away and not allowing yourself to be fully present in the moment. But now I understand that it’s about giving ourselves the gift of knowing that we’ll do things that make us happy. It’s more than just a reason to get out of bed in the morning: it’s about living with passion and the commitment to diving in to life's limitless possibilities.

I shared the “ticket” story with my sister Deborah that day we were in Ocean City. And in one of those inexplicable moments of synchronicity, she told me she had made a birthday card for me that included a “Ticket to Ride.” I keep that ticket, with it’s shiny ribbon trim, on my desk. The same desk where, for the past two months, I’ve been sitting down to write in the extra hour I’ve gained by changing the time on my alarm clock to 6:00 a.m. It may not be a plane ticket to Machu Picchu, but it’s a start.

Female Bonding

When was the last time you shared an intimate detail of your life with a group of people you’d just met?

If you’re a woman, chances are you’ll say, “Last week.” Or even, “Yesterday.” Women have this amazing ability to connect with virtual strangers – often in the blink of an eye. And on a deeply personal level. I’ve experienced this phenomenon several times in the past few months: At a detox retreat in Vermont in October (that's some of the gals above). A birthday dinner in a chic Manhattan restaurant last week. And in my own living room on Tuesday.

I’m one of those women whose emotional baggage is chock-full of painful memories of adolescence. Of the relentless competition, sniping, and betrayals that were so prevalent in the relationships I had with my (supposed) girlfriends. I’m guessing that’s why I often marvel at this instantaneous—and shockingly authentic—female bonding. It seems to happen between women who come together for a common cause. Or unite in a shared purpose. Whether it’s celebrating the longevity of a great friend or marshaling our collective energy to support the intention of manifesting positive change.

You know how the universe has this annoying habit of beating you over the head with messages it wants you to pay attention to? This month it’s been reminding me that women place a high value on relationships—often to the point where we’ll sacrifice personal gain rather than risk losing someone we love. In some ways this isn’t a good thing. The “experts” say it renders us unable to ask for what we want. It leaves us lagging behind men in the workplace. It prevents us from leading fulfilled lives.

But I’m choosing to believe that said universe is asking me to focus on the positive aspects of this trait. How reassuring it is to know others are thinking and feeling and agonizing over the same things as you. How much fun it is to share and learn and laugh with like-minded spirits. And what a relief it is to feel understood and supported. To know you’re not alone on your path.

Our conversations with other women may begin with a superficial, “Love those shoes!” But by the time we’re saying our goodbye’s, it’s not surprising to find that we’ve connected on a soulful, lasting level. For me, that’s worth a whole lot more than a few extra bucks in my paycheck.

Turn Back For Pies

Jim and I do a lot of back-roads driving. It’s one of our “things” – getting up in the morning and saying, “Looks like a great day for a drive!” I’m not big on heading off aimlessly, so we’ll usually come up with some sort of destination. But one of the things I like best about our drives is our more-or-less unspoken agreement to just stop wherever and whenever we like.

For me, the biggest lures are sketchy-looking antiques shops and hand-lettered signs that direct you down dirt roads for things like fruit, wine, pottery and baked goods. If the road we’re on winds through a cute little town or farm country, chances are I’m emitting a fairly steady stream of requests to “pull over” or “turn around.” And I’ll often pout a good long while if Jim’s driving and he blows right past an artist’s studio or vegetable stand that looked promising. I mourn the lost opportunity, wondering what treasures we might have missed.

Today’s excursion was to Warwick, NY. The excuse was lunch at a little French bistro we like. We’ve made this drive probably half a dozen times in the past two years, and it usually involves a stop at the Bobolink Dairy, a few miles south off of Route 94. It’s a working farm that makes and sells an array of delectable artisanal cheeses (raw milk from grass-fed cows) and rustic wood-fired breads. As we drove up past Greenwood Lake we debated whether to stop at the dairy or not. I wasn’t keen on it: I love the cheddar cheese and rosemary bread, but am trying to cut back on dairy and carbs. Jim was thinking we could pick up a few things to snack on the next day when our friends Tom and Maryanne came to visit. After lunch we agreed that was a good idea.

On the way there I noticed a few signs along the road that said “Pies” in big red letters. Jim, who never met an apple pie he didn't try, showed an unusual lack of interest. Despite my urging, we kept going. Then I saw the sign that said, “Turn Back for Pies.” Always one to appreciate good marketing when I see it, I said, “That’s it, we’re going back.” But we didn’t. Jim’s face made it clear that given a choice between the two, he was going for the known entity. That old familiar feeling came over me: Damn! What if they were the best pies on the planet? And this was our one and only chance to find out?

Ten minutes later we squeezed into the tiny space that serves as Bobolink’s retail shop, tasting something called Foret and agonizing over whether to choose the medieval rye with olives or the cherry/walnut breadsticks (we got both). As we loaded our purchases into the car, Jim started chatting up a guy driving by on a large green tractor. “I’m looking for someone who might sort of be in charge,” he said. “That sort of might be me,” said the guy. In that moment, a quick pit stop turned into our most memorable visit yet.

The guy on the tractor was Jonathan White, head cheesemaker and clearly the man in charge. He asked where we were from, then said we’d be happy to know he’s bought a farm near Milford, NJ and is moving his entire operation there in a few months. He saw me snapping a few farm pics and eyeing a large group of cows gathered near the fence behind him. Next thing I knew he was introducing me to a two-day old calf, Sarastro (he names all of the cows, this one after a character in The Magic Flute.) His passion for what he does was evident as he spoke about the animals, especially when the little calf began to nurse and he explained that what was once a natural instinct is now something he has to teach the babies to do. As I traipsed through the mud and snow to take the pictures below, Sarastro’s mom Ernestine, a gorgeous Guernsey-Hereford mix (and quite the helicopter parent) followed my every move. It was an amazing, surprising and delightful turn of events.

P.S. We did go back for pie: Jim got apple, I got cherry and they were so delicious that we’ll definitely be adding Noble Pies to our Warwick itinerary. But I’ve learned a valuable lesson: it’s possible that the things that happen when you don't turn back are the things you won’t want to miss.

Snow Day

Is there anything more delightful than a snow day?

I remember feeling giddy whenever a snowstorm led to an unexpected day off during the school week. Unlike kids today, whose initial response is often to whine, "So what are we going to DO today?", I don't recall ever wondering how best to take advantage of that freshly minted freedom. Assorted siblings and friends would struggle into snowsuits and drag our banged-up Flexible Flyers up the big hill on Glen Avenue; then sled down to Sylvan Road and pray no cars were crossing below. When we couldn't feel our fingers and toes, we'd head indoors for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup (if it was lunchtime) or hot chocolate (if it wasn't.) Before our ice-caked socks and mittens had thawed, we'd be off again. We never seemed to tire of making snow angels or tunneling into the biggest drifts and lying, entombed, in the eerie silence. At night we'd fall into bed and sleep like the dead.

It was just starting to snow this morning when I left for work. I went anyway, knowing that predictions called for a foot or more by tomorrow morning. Yesterday it was all everybody talked about, kvetching as if a snowstorm was a rare and devastating occurrence in North Jersey. In February. Anyway, at noon my boss announced that the building was closing, and as I drove home that old familiar feeling came over me: SNOW DAY! After whipping up a grilled-cheese-and-tomato-soup lunch, I ventured out to measure: 9" and counting! The cat stood at the open patio door, meowing with annoyance as she repeatedly touched a paw (gingerly) to the snow. I watched as frilly flakes collected on her nose and whiskers, and thanked Mother Nature for giving me this afternoon off. I don't own a sled anymore, and these days hot chocolate upsets my stomach. But I'm letting any and all adult worries wait until tomorrow--and going outside to make snow angels!

Making Waves

My sister Deborah and I spent the day in Ocean City, NJ on Saturday. We love the beach. We really love the beach in winter. Nature tends to challenge our resolve by turning ugly when we plan a seaside get-together. But it was sunny and close to 40 degrees. Perfect for walking and talking.

We talked incessantly. We always do when it's just the two of us, cramming months of thoughts and feelings into a few hours. The experience is often dizzying. Sometimes gut-wrenching. Always exhilarating. We are only a year apart in age and grew up in each other’s pockets. It’s tempting to say that I know her better than I know anyone except myself. But it’s less cerebral than that. I sense what’s going on inside her. Standing next to her, I feel our energies blend together, effortlessly, like two flavors of soft ice cream swirling out of the machine. When we were kids, our mom used to dress us alike and people often asked if we were twins. I always thought it was a dumb question, since we didn't look at all alike. But sometimes, looking directly into her eyes, the connection is so powerful that I wonder if they were onto something.

Ocean City is where we connect most often. We spent countless summers there. Spreading our wings in the sun while the song of the sea taught us about love. These days our ritual involves meeting at Who's on First? for superb coffee and fresh-baked scones, followed by an excursion to buy jewels at The Flying Carp. When we have time and expendable income we'll stay for the weekend. And sometimes our guys join in. But mostly we just spend a day together and make the most of it. Which means walking the beach—no matter what.

The pull of the ocean was strong for me on Saturday. Deborah and I had talked at length about her desire to "live big". She spoke of endless skies and open spaces, of living unconfined, of being paid to travel and teach what she loves. I kept thinking about Georgia O'Keeffe. How she'd simply take off in a desperate search for breathing room. For her, the ocean and the desert offered one and the same thing: expansiveness. I realized that was what I craved on Saturday: space to breathe. Winter is always a time when my life contracts, shrinking against the cold and the dark. Lately an insane work load and limited finances have heightened the effect.

But there, on the shore, the gilded thread of horizon stretched unbroken. Waves gave in willingly to gravity's irresistible pull, breaking once, twice, three times before reaching their destination. The winter sun glanced off random shells that puckered the sand like dark buttons on a suede pillow. Over and over, the ocean drew itself up and released its energy with absolute abandon. Again and again, without apology. Faithful to its calling. Unwavering in its purpose. As we stood watching, I felt my breath deepen. The tightness in my chest ease. My soul open.

Deborah said she loves the ocean because it's ever-changing. What I love most is its unwillingness to compromise. The ocean makes waves because that's what oceans do. And regardless of what we call it—living expansively or refusing to be "small"—that's what she and I are after. Knowing our reason for being and pursuing it passionately. Without apology.

I Need a New Drug?

Jim and I met on Match.com seven years ago—back when it was still a somewhat novel (and effective) approach to finding love. The other day I came across the profile I posted and was surprised by how much of what I’d said about myself (and the guy I was looking for) still holds true. In fact, there was only one line that rang false—and it happened to be my opening salvo!

“My guilty pleasures are chocolate chip cookies, pedicures, cheeseburgers, Access Hollywood…” I began. Hmmnnnnn…what a difference seven years makes! Cheeseburgers have taken a back seat to tofu and broccoli as my cholesterol has crept steadily higher. A toenail fungus turned me off to professional pedicures. And then—there’s trashy TV.

I’ve been a media junkie my entire adult life. I’m in marketing, for Pete’s sake, so it’s my job to know what’s going on out there, right? Okay, maybe that doesn’t explain my lifelong obsession with celebrity gossip—but the point is that lately I’ve been finding myself bored, and more often, annoyed, by the very thing that used to be a pleasant diversion from life’s harsh realities.

I don’t watch much TV to begin with, and when I do I want escapist entertainment. Soapy dramas like “Grey’s Anatomy”, old-fashioned sitcoms like “Old Christine”, offbeat stuff like “No Reservations”. I simply can’t comprehend the popularity of reality shows. When Jim recently sent me a link to Mitch Albom’s list of new rules for 2010, my favorite was “Jon + Kate = gone.”

For as long as I can remember, watching “Access Hollywood” has been my guiltiest of all pleasures. 30 minutes of mindless, often cheeky, commentary on the latest celebrity shenanigans was all it took to make me forget about difficult bosses, demanding friends, and disappointing men. Now it appears to be taking its cue from the mainstream news media, spewing a relentless stream of negativity. Lying, cheating, violence, weight issues, financial problems, illness, death—jeez, it’s like escaping right back to real life! So what’s a girl to do? Bury my head in a 500-page biography of Georgia O’Keeffe. Whip through my Netflix queue. Follow Martha Stewart’s instructions for making mice out of pinecones.

Wait. Who is this woman who’s traded Brangelina for a glue gun and glitter? Who needs more than Billy Bush's ironic grin to distract her from her troubles? Who agrees with Mr. Albom’s rule that “Tiger Woods cannot do ‘Oprah’”? All I can say is it’s a damn good thing I’m still addicted to chocolate chip cookies.