3 Words. First Word. Sounds like? Happy?

Are you happy and fulfilled in this moment?

Such was the question I once asked myself nearly every day.

Lately I've strayed away from the question, mainly because I fear the answer.

I fear I won't be satisfied with the reality.

So I stopped asking.

Further,

I fear I've lost the will to blog.

These past few weeks I've felt distracted, disconnected, and losing momentum. I've lost my momentum. Or maybe now is merely the recognition of loss. At any rate, I've simply lost my will to blog.

And the past weeks have been filled with delight: creating gingerbread houses with friends, a tradition my mother began early on in childhood, sharing laughter and late nights talking, drinking wine, decorating Christmas trees and wrapping gifts, walking in the snow at sundown, sipping cups of warm drinks, listening to the musical stylings of Joni Mitchell and the like... There has been delight here. I can see that.

Yet I've felt distracted, disconnected. I've lost my momentum.

And even further,

I don't remember creation being so hard. A process, yes. But not so painstakingly difficult. Though perhaps I've entered this phase of being far too fixated on product, on final destinations, on labels and clearly cut classifications of things. A dear friend recently reminded that I always cared more about the process anyway. It was never about some end or title or well determined place. For me, I've always gained greater insight, richer understanding, and brighter experience from the process itself... from all that leads up to wherever all of this finds itself...eventually.

Was I beginning to see happiness as a destination rather than a process? Or better yet, an experience? And why was I not allowing such delightful, simple pleasures to be fulfilling enough?

....I was working on this post yesterday morning. I'd come back to it over and over again for the past 2 weeks, allowing my backspace button to see more action than anything else. I was working on this post yesterday morning all before having one of the most lovely evenings I've had in a while.

Some good friends of mine have found their way home. Some for the holidays, some for a bit longer... I hope. They've been off traveling, studying in Law School, and publishing research in graduate programs. But they've found their way back. And yesterday I sat on this very couch, drinking wine, laughing til I cried, looking around the room at these dear friends who are back, dear friends with whom I have the awesome privilege to live, and some new friends who've started coming around more often. We played an epic game of charades, the game we've been playing since our youth.

Dee and Tom still have that amazing connection where the fewest of gestures leads to guessing clues you thought nearly impossible. Laura still puts in clues like Mary-Kate and Ashley's sing-along which makes you frustrated and want to die laughing all at once, and Drew and I can still work through Keri's clues like a dream team. It's all still there. And I sat here, playing this game, looking at the faces of these people whom I truly love, thinking, life is pretty wonderful. And in that moment, I was happy and fulfilled. Happiness was not a destination, it was an experience. It was all wrapped up in the process of letting go, of surrendering to life, and embracing the simplest of pleasures with the people who know me best.

And so perhaps it's become more difficult to blog these days.

Perhaps it's become more difficult to create and make work.

But spending quality time with the people who love you, remains just as effortless as one could hope.

daily reminders

90 percent of the time I have to remind myself to hit the power button after filling the coffee filter. Otherwise the coffee won't brew...obviously. I have to remind myself to move my laundry from the washer to the dryer, and then out of the dryer to fold. I almost always have to remind myself to put my name tag and box cutter back in my purse before heading to work. I remind myself to put the trash out on Monday night, to mail the Verizon bill each month, to not sweat the small stuff, and to eat more vegetables. But the list goes on. I have to remind myself to buy milk, to fill up the gas tank, bring the reusable grocery bags to Trader Joe's, drink more water, call certain friends, pay rent, unplug the Christmas tree lights before bed, return my library books on time (yes, I still check out library books)...

My days seem filled with reminders, though some I accomplish more successfully than others. And it feels like those reminders become more and more grand as I get older, as time passes, as life just gets filled up with stuff.

I remind myself that nothing in life is permanent. Not my job. Not my relationships. Not my passions. Not the way I feel when I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night. Nothing is permanent.

I remind myself that life truly is too short... that I should take this time to be young, have adventures and experiences, meet new people, put myself out there, embrace the immensity...

I remind myself that I have skills. I have talents and abilities and two college degrees.

I again remind myself that nothing is permanent.

I remind myself to breathe. To take a time out to sip coffee in my pajamas, catch up on DVR, and re-read Pride and Prejudice
for the umpteenth time. I remind myself to smile and to laugh, and to not dwell too deeply on those things that I cannot change.

I remind. And remind. And remind.

Then in a conversation with a sweet friend the other day, who so kindly listened to and validated my feelings, she simply said:

"Just don't do too much reminding. Don't do too much reminding."

And that proved to be just what I needed to hear in that moment.

Perhaps I remind myself too much, rather than just... being. Or living. Or making decisions and taking the rest as it all comes.

So here's to less reminding and more doing.

Though tomorrow when I come to find my coffee isn't brewing, I will undoubtedly have to remind myself to press the ON button.

Hmmm. Maybe that's a metaphor for something.