Seven

Better than Success

After many anniversaries together, Mike confided in me that when we first married, he had some concerns over my culinary abilities. I picture him weighing the pros and cons of me, and I imagine top of the con list was my general lack of imagination and talent in the kitchen. Sure, I could whip up a mean bowl of Success rice. My salads consisting of only iceburg lettuce and Ranch dressing were legendary. And no one could touch my mastery of the Chef-Boy-Ardee boxed pizza. (I’m not kidding on that last one. Mine were stellar.)

Now, however, I love to cook. I love to be in the kitchen with four burners going, leaving a giant counter mess in my wake. Part of the excitement is the timing, the thrill of planning for three or four pieces to come together in the prep puzzle at the exact moment. Even writing this, it makes me happy. Another part is the creativity it takes. No, it’s not like I’m the next Matisse, nor will my decision of whether to use basil or thyme change the world, but it’s just fun to play with meal ideas in general or ingredients in particular. There’s a momentary surge of delight when something new comes to mind to try, or I stumble on a recipe that I could actually tackle and my family would actually eat.

I also love to play with ideas or experiment. In my repertoire, there exist a few mommy-created dishes that have become family favorites. Mommy’s Mexican Lasagna, Mommy’s BBQ Pot Pie, Mommy’s Quiche. The amount of pride that elicits in me is downright goofy. 

Now, before I invoke images of Julia Child, let me make it clear that I cook on the most user-friendly of levels. I won’t touch a recipe if I don’t recognize words in it. I couldn’t identify chard in a line-up, and I wouldn’t even know which aisle contains truffle oil. Blanching a vegetable is beyond my capabilities, as is using a simple food processor (I prefer to chop). My meat options are primarily limited to chicken and turkey because of my daughter’s recent insensitivity to beef and my family’s dislike of most seafood (a situation I try to remedy from time to time when I feel strong enough to handle the groans that come with serving it). In fact, if you have to categorize my favorite “genre” of  food prep, it’d be more “down home cooking with a healthier flare” than gourmet, for sure. Truthfully, there’s nothing special about my meals or my cooking.

It’s just that I love it. The evolution from culinarily awkward to culinarily cocky came over time, but most notably after our daughters were born. When I was a stay-at-home mom to two babies and then two toddlers, being in the kitchen to make dinner meant being by myself for almost an hour to think, use my brain, not be responsible for anything but my creativity. I fell in love with the execution of it first; the fun of planning and the need for preparation followed. Slowly but surely I learned core “must haves,” items necessary to make up something last-minute or used in the Lynch family dishes often. Through the years, my confidence grew, as did my range of standard creations. I found that cooking was fun.

But more than that, I’m inspired by one thing and one thing alone when I cook: the response of those at the table. My nephew and niece love my cooking, which propels me to try new things for them or make their favorite dish. My brother comes for dinner a couple of times a month, and I feel compelled to provide something delish for this bachelor. For some reason, and I’m not sure what empty void this fills in me, I delight when someone says what I made tastes good. Perhaps it’s the primal urge to provide sustenance for others, or dole out love through a serving of something homemade. For whatever reason, eliciting a chorus of yummmmms makes me feel solidly accomplished, good at something important, even if for just a few minutes. I guess that’s what pride is.

Lest you fancy me a domestic goddess, let me make a couple of things clear: I leave the kitchen a hot mess, which my husband graciously helps me clean. And I am a mom, after all; there are at least two, usually three (and sometimes four, let’s be honest), when I’m too tired or too busy, so it’s leftovers or Chipotle or dollar-taco-night at the nearby Mexican restaurant. Dance carpooling at all hours will occasionally necessitate a Chic-fil-A run, and of course we revel in the “Breakfast for Dinner” plan (which is really just a parent’s ruse for having nothing in the kitchen and no brain power left with which to think). But even two good meals a week makes me happy.

All of this is relatively silly in the grand scheme of the world’s problems and solutions to fix them. Mommy’s French Toast with Caramel Sauce is not going to bring world peace or end global hunger, as much as I wish it could. It’s just that for one second last night, when Mike was cleaning up the dishes and proclaimed, “That was really, really good, hon” and the girls echoed in agreement, I felt that primal, prideful joy. The kind that encourages me to keep trying, keep shopping in crowded grocery stores, spending way too much money on organic foods, keep planning and doing in the kitchen. Keep filling my babies’ bellies for as long as I can.

Six

People in your Neighborhood

For a second today, I got a glimpse of the future. Or so I hope.

After my haircut, I wanted to get something to eat for lunch. In a bustling little corner of Richmond, commonly referred to as Libbie and Grove (the primary streets that cross there), lies a perfect tiny, old-fashioned grocery store called Libbie Market. I like it so much because deep-down I fancy myself as a big-city girl, and when I walk inside Libbie Market I can imagine that I am walking inside a corner grocery in New York City. Libbie Market is bigger than that, but just barely. Packed with yummy pre-made foods, all sorts of sundries (organic and not), and local neighbors, it just feels good in there. 

Part of the reason is that the people are just so gosh-darn nice. Busy, but nice. Both employees and customers, who represent an assortment of the nearby neighborhoods and schools: preppy teens from the nearby girls’ school, sharp looking gents from the boys’ school down the road. A couple of business folks wander in for lunch and out of their small offices that are typically old, converted homes. And pristinely dressed old people. Lots of adorable, friendly old people who look like they’re out on their day’s adventure, with nowhere else to be any time soon. They linger in the aisles and in the small cafe, seated in some of the handful of tables, reading or chatting with neighbors or just sipping their coffee. 

They are my favorite customers to watch while I wait for my sandwich to be made. While I am tempted to check my phone for texts or open my email to be productive in my few minutes before I head back to work, they are not tethered to such devices or obligations. For a moment, I think of times gone by, and it makes me nostalgic for a grown-up life I never led, just observed. My grandparents sitting and talking at their kitchen table or my mom reading and watching soaps for hours on end. What would it be like to be without all of this modern technology that leads my life? To have to stay home if I’m expecting a call? To have to reach out to folks for actual conversation instead of a brief text that disappears into nothingness with a single “delete?” I imagine it would be a little something like walking into the Libbie Market.

As I hustled out, I walked through the tiny cafe area, through a crowd of lunchers. Suddenly I heard singing, and it took me by surprise. I turned to see three or four tiny tables pushed together and a group of older women, perhaps in their late seventies, huddled closely in the crowded room. The eight or so women were singing a soft rendition of “Happy Birthday” to a blushing woman who sat in the middle of the table. She shook her head in embarrassment, which caused girlish giggles from the occupants surrounding her. The ladies were dressed in their birthday-lunch finest, hair perfectly coiffed, smiling broadly. One even clapped in time. 

They were close, you could tell. How much had they been through together? How much had they seen, done, felt, worried about, celebrated, lived? In that moment, I thought of my friends, those who make up my world today--neighbors who bring a little bit of love into every passing in Food Lion or school parking lot or Friday night wine session. It made me happy to hope for future lunches with my silver-haired friends.

I walked through their party and into the rush of cold air outside, feeling a bit warmer.

Five

Since she was about two years old, my younger daughter Cammie and I could communicate without words.

Wait. That sounds a little stranger than I mean it. What I’m trying to say is that she can read my mind and I can read hers.

That didn’t help. Still sounding a bit crazy-lady.  But it’s true. It’s not all the time, and it’s certainly not to a Twilight Zone level of eeriness. It’s just really, really cool. Sometimes I know what she’s thinking just by the look on her face; that’s the most ordinary way our telepathy occurs. She knows how I’ll react to a comment, a jerk in traffic, a joke on Jimmy Fallon. I know what she’ll think about a certain movie preview, or how scared she is about an upcoming performance, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

All of that sounds pretty normal, natural for a mother and daughter who are as close as I’d like to think we are. Those kinds of nuances, moments of connection, are really just how well we know each other, how similarly we think, how deeply we feel. But the strangest part is this: our connection, our super-duper mind-reading capabilities are more complex than that. In fact, they can be downright creepy every once in a while. 

However, I love these little moments we share, and I treasure their sporadic nature. Out of the blue, I’ll ask, “Did you . . . “ and she will say, “Yes, yesterday,” answering correctly before I even asked the question. We will see something on the street while driving around the ‘hood, and it will remind both of us of something that happened in another city at another time ages ago, and we’ll both start talking about it at once.

One time, to test the reality of this zany form of communication, I asked a five-year-old Cammie, tucked in her booster in the back of the minivan, to play along with me:

“Cam, I’m going to think of someone in the world. Anyone. Famous or not. Anyone at all. Think for a second and tell me who you think of.”

I crunched my brain cells together hard and thought of her pediatrician. We hadn’t seen him in months, so I knew I was safe. No way she'd get this. I knew she’d say Laurie Berkner, the children’s singer, or Daddy, or the Wiggle in the yellow shirt.

“Um. Dr. Rowe?” she said loudly, answering in the form of a question.

I almost swerved off the highway. I can still remember the exact spot where she took all words out of my mouth.

We’ve not shared any crazy random connection like that ever since (and believe me, we’ve tried repeatedly), but you get the idea. She can read me like no one else, and she’s only thirteen years old. Sometimes, she guesses at what is making me tick at a given moment, and she’s off, but that’s rare, and she’s usually in the right ball park. Same is true for me, of course, but usually, I get it at least partly right.

Knowing what Cammie is thinking is not a mere superpower. It is a gift, even if it is one that is shared only occasionally. When that connection happens--that moment of insight when I know precisely what is worrying, delighting, antagonizing, or confusing her--I am grateful. Sometimes, it’s a lot of pressure. I feel like I need to fix or change or lighten the load or kick a bully’s ass, when really she’s just being her moody self, and I know should recognize that the moment is fleeting. When it happens the other way, and she figures out what is swishing around in me at a given moment, I feel good, understood. She will fill in my sentences or get frustrated with me before I speak, or we will crack up in absolute silence. And I just love it. It’s a soothing constant, a secret between us, a blessing. It is safety.

Last night, we shared a look. We were sitting close in a high school auditorium, watching fine arts dance students perform for rising freshmen. Our elbows touched lightly as we shared the armrest, and the room was lit only with the lights from the stage. All of a sudden, I turned to her and she to me. I could see her eyes, although their hazel was dim, and she mine. We smiled soft, tiny smiles, and in that moment, I swear I felt my heart open. I knew we were doing it, having one of those moments, one of those seconds in which we say everything and nothing at all. 

We smiled, we said it, we looked back at the stage and the moment passed. While I can’t be sure of the exact transcript, and I haven’t even spoken with her about this moment yet, I think it went a little something like this . . . 

I can’t believe you’re going to high school, my baby. I can’t believe we’re here.

I know, mom. I know.

I think this hurts a little.

I know, mom. I know.

Four

This will be a brief one, for a variety of mundane, exhausted-mommy-related reasons, not the least of which is that it’s 17 degrees outside (windchill of 4, thank you very much), and my warm bed and snuggly dog are calling my name.

Actually, it’s the dog I want to talk about, about a second shared with him today that tugged at my heartstrings a bit. I’m sure that, following my exciting life the way you must be compelled to do, you read about the cat guest we had in our home yesterday. It appears that my slightly neurotic, keenly anxious dog, Fergus, may have fallen in love. And now that she’s found her right place in the world again, he’s sad.

This morning, upon picking up the kitty at the vet and before her owner picked her up, we made a little kitty suite out of our upstairs bathroom. This bathroom gets few visitors, because it’s on the third floor, tucked around a corner. It’s big and bright and a nice warm spot for a temporarily homeless kitty. We made the mistake of letting Fergus accompany her up to her new digs (which she occupied all of 45 minutes). Because Fergus is the most intelligent canine on the planet (ask anyone), he remembered that’s where she was . . . all day.

I first discovered his lonesome pining when I got home from work and couldn’t find my sweet boy. Odd that he wasn’t greeting me at the door with gallops and spins. So I called him. Did not come running. Also odd. Went upstairs. Nothing. Finally, I heard the quiet jingle of his collar coming from the 3rd-floor landing where Fergus had planted himself, outside the closed door, waiting for his lost love. My older daughter found him up there earlier this evening, and my husband did just now. 

Poor Fergus. His lady love has disappeared. 

Just that second, finding him waiting outside a closed door, reminded me of a fact that once seemed silly to me: Dogs feel love. Perhaps in this case, it was simply intrigue (a mysterious lady all in black swooping in with all sorts of fancy smells and sounds is bound to wrap a boy’s brain in knots). But there’ve been a thousand times over the past six years when I’ve looked into his goopy little eyes and known that he loves me. Loves all of his humans. 

This amazes me. Dog lovers may be shrugging their shoulders, having known this for years, but it’s all new to me, because I’ve never loved a dog before. At the best, I tolerated them, and at the worst, their saliva created a wide assortment of hives all over me. The smell, the shedding, the licking . . . just never had an appeal. Until we invested our time, money, and hearts into welcoming our little hypoallergenic hero into our lives.

Fergus is so much a part of our family that none of us remember what it was like without him. His capacity to give and receive affection can save the crappiest day. What would we do without his crooked smile, nasty breath, and wet kisses? As all dog owners know, there’s nothing like coming home to a dog; be it a five-hour trip or a five-minute walk, the joy that awaits your return makes you feel like the most loved person on earth. 

Unless you’re a cat. Then you’ll have to settle for just knowing that a little lover is on the other side of a door down the street, pining away. Kitty, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Three

So, today I kidnapped a cat. 

It started while my older daughter and I were unloading groceries in the late afternoon “arctic megablastinator” or whatever the current meteorological name is for bitter cold. Ky, extremely cautious about most furry creatures, stated, “There’s meowing!” I had to ask her three times what the heck she was saying before I heard it too: repeated meowing coming from somewhere in our detached garage. Clearly, there was a little animal trapped inside. 

It was getting more and more blastinatious outside, so I sprang into superhero action quickly. I will spare you all the details of the stressful four or five hours that followed, mainly because there’s a lot to write and I'm still feeling a bit fragile, but they involved the following:

beautiful black kitty came to me instantly. . . she was a lover, a purrer, and a nudger . . .Fergus, the dog afraid of his own shadow, even liked her, and they followed each other around downstairs . . .panic set in as I realized, Holy Crap, I have a cat in my house and a daughter whose allergy will send her little asthmatic lungs into a state of chaotic phlegm . . . hives started forming on my forearms and legs because I guess I’m a little more allergic than I thought, too . . . sun was setting, things were closing, and I was at a loss . . . 

contacted HOA, sent them a picture, did same with Facebook. . . . feeling a little panicky, sent a more urgent Facebook request asking for advice from cat-loving friends . . . took the cat on a ride around my neighborhood to see if anyone was cat hunting in the freezing dusk . . . then, out of desperation and with the advice of a friend, took it to my vet.

I will most definitely leave out details there, because, well, it wasn’t that pleasant. The front desk folks did not share my concern, or so it seemed, and I definitely got the feeling that I was intruding. No, they could not keep her overnight. It wasn’t their policy. They searched her for a chip, then advised me to call Animal Control.

Like a mature, intelligent, and rational 45-year-old, I then begin crying with a shaking, nervous cat in my arms (hives be damned). Where was I to put this cat when I couldn’t keep her? Finally, they must’ve felt sorry for me and figured it was time for my meds, because they agreed to keep her, but only until 7:30 in the morning. They left me with a half-ass, “good luck.”

Thank God my friends on Facebook and in real life were much sweeter and could sympathize with the inner crazy cat lady I had chosen to discover as the sun set. Peeps were checking on the situation via text and offering advice on my post. One friend assured me, absolutely, that the cat could die in temps like we’re expecting tonight (below freezing with wind chill), and that was all I needed to hear. I still felt tense but had more of a sense that things were going to be alright.

My brother came over for dinner, and that was great. A glass of wine helped, too, but still, I was unsettled. What the hell was I going to do at 7:31 a.m. Could I call in to work saying, “Um. Can’t come in. Have a cat.” That didn’t seem like an option. Homework help was being requested, dishes were piling up undone, Christmas and Hanukkah gifts to open were being ignored. It all felt a tad zany. Thank goodness Facebook friends were chiming in with ideas, making me feel more normal and less like I had just stolen a cat and ruined its life. 

And thank goodness for number THREE: the second a stranger offered to help.

A text came in from a number I don’t know; she had gotten my information off the neighborhood email that was circulating about our little Kitty (now a capital K). She asked if I had found a place for her. I told her I had for the night. We exchanged quite a few texts about what I was going to do next and I started getting a little anxious all over again. Then she informed me, simply, that she’d bring me a spare litter box, kitty litter, and food, just in case I needed to keep her for a bit in my laundry room or in some Survivor-inspired tent construction I imagined myself having to whip up the next morning.

This stranger showed up just as the temps were entering the teens, wind rattling the kitty litter and food bags she juggled up the steps. Lisa lives in another neighborhood in our subdivision, one that goes to a different group of schools. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me. But I greeted her like I needed her. And you know what? I did. Her kindness, the act of reaching out to a random stranger to help a cold animal, was exactly what I knew I needed to sleep tonight. If I have to shove that poor little kidnapped cat in a bathroom or wherever tomorrow for a temporary fix, I’ll make her a comfy bed, and she’ll be able to eat and poop to her heart’s content. All thanks to Lisa.

The second we connected, Lisa showed such kindness and selflessness that, when I shut the door a few minutes later, I knew I had learned something great. 

I can’t really put it into words right now, but I know it had something to do with helping others, strangers or not. And memories of Kitty’s warm purring next to my ear made the hives, juvenile tears, and melodrama nothing more than whispers of an eventful evening.

Lisa put things into perspective. No catastrophe after all. 

(Get it? I’ll be here all year.)

Two

Two

In 2003 or so, I joined Weight Watchers for the first time. Well, not really for the first time--it’s really the only time, I’ve just been an on-again-off-again participant ever since. I lost 68 pounds of baby weight, and I loved myself. Walk into the closet and pick anything to wear? Yep! Try on size 8s and have them fit? Yep! It was a glorious time in my life. It was also quite short-lived, but that’s beside the point.

Today, much has changed in my world. But some things have stayed the same, such as my regular appearances at the beloved, cozy, strip-mall Weight Watchers store a few miles away. Another constant: the fact that I only go on Tuesdays. Tuesday is Bobbi day.

Bobbi is my first and only Weight Watchers leader. She plays many roles in my life, including counselor, comedian, friend, commiserator, mother-figure, and motivator. (I was just going to say that her heart is as big as my ass, but I thought better of it. Let’s see . . .) She has a seemingly endless capacity to care for “her” members, to make each one feel important and understood.

Yes, I’m still talking about Weight Watchers here. Remember, I’ve known this place and this wonderful woman for 11 years. She’s a little piece of my existence. An important one, because she’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. The first few years, when mid-day sitters were hard to come by, she welcomed my baby girls and made them their own nametags so they felt welcome when they were coloring on the floor. When I was on chemo, she hugged me at length each time I walked in the door. (As did her colleagues, sweet ladies like Cathy, Mary Logan, etc.) She cared about how I was feeling physically and emotionally and was my biggest cheerleader. When it was time to get rid of our girls’ crib, I was sad and thought about keeping it up forever just for sentimentality. That is, until Bobbi announced that her dream was coming true and she was going to welcome her first grandchild. Then I gave it to her.

Bobbi listens straight from her heart. We know she does. All of us. 

What do we have in common outside of the meeting walls? I have no idea. Actually, that’s not true. She loves her family and speaks of them so fondly in meetings that it fills the room with warmth. When her son went to China, her pride and fear mingled in each story. Bobbi’s multiple grandchildren adore her; she credits Weight Watchers with being here to adore them right back.

And, we both appreciate a good, down-to-the-soul belly laugh. Quite simply, Bobbi is one of the funniest people I know. Her humor is squeaky clean and omnipresent. Each Tuesday, I can count on a half-hour of laughs, and so can the rest of the room. I don’t know how she does it. How does she appeal to so many people from so many ages, races, backgrounds? She rocks at it, that’s for sure.

And it’s her humor that brings me to number TWO.

Many people in Weight Watchers meetings feel compelled to share their tips, struggles, successes. And their stories. Lord, their stories. Most are cute and touching and of appropriate length. But some go on and on . . . and on and on. This never phases Bobbi, of course (another reason to marvel at her skill). Back to the inspiring vignettes: today, a cute old couple announced that they were back, devoted once again to the process and to helping each other lose weight. I recognize them. They’re adorable and overtly in love.

After the woman spoke, Bobbi prompted her: “And that’s not it, is it?! Tell everyone about the BIG EVENT coming up this spring. An extra incentive to get healthy and look great?”

Cute old lady:  Well, this May, we’re having a big party to celebrate our 60th wedding anniversary!!! (her excitement was clear)

The room burst into a chorus of “awwwwww”s and clapping and general congratulations. We love good news. Successes. Cause for celebration.

Suddenly, Bobbi needed our attention.

“Wait, wait. Hold on. That’s assuming you don’t break up before then.” The room simultaneously erupted in giggles, more clapping. The joke was silly, but damn funny. For that brief, minute moment in time, there existed an energy that was quite palpable. The air felt lighter and thicker at the same time: light with joy; thick with happiness. We were all in the same place, true, but we were also on the same plane. 

We were joyous. Nothing else existed in that second.

It lasted only a second. Then the meeting continued, and the emotions separated and floated in their own directions, back to their owners. Some celebrated their successes, while others worried about their setbacks. Some had to run back to work and were likely concerned about being late, while others may have wished they had a job to go to. Some may have felt just tired, tired of having to work so hard to lose 30, 50, 150 pounds--a journey that can feel epic at so many times. 

Leave it to Bobbi to bring us all together for seconds at a time. 

That was a good one, Bobbi.

One

I’ve long wanted to challenge myself to a daily writing “experience,” for lack of a more inclusive word. To look at something inside and out, upside and down for an extended amount of time would mean to fully come to know it, understand it, grow from it.

But, that’s where I would always stop myself, for a reason that’s quite simple: I didn’t know what that it could possibly be. I didn’t want to be cliche, just another aspiring nonfiction writer looking for just another clever way to put things on paper (or screen). Ironically, it seems that being unique is currently overdone. There’s so much creativity out there, that keeping up can keep an aspiring writer from starting even before she begins. What if I “discover” something that’s already been discovered once, twice, or fifty times? What if there are whole Twitter accounts designed to mock cliched writers, and I’m going to end up the Subject of the Month? What if I put something on my blog with a typo or incorrect grammar, and lose all credibility as someone who has something to say? What if what I have to say means very little to very few? .  . . Well, you get the idea. Stopping before I began.

So I’ve been thinking. A lot. And late at night when I watch the vague silhouette of my ceiling fan wipe its shadows across the ceiling, I’ve come to this. I have to write just because I have to. For me. For me alone. That is my starting point. 

There. That feels better.

A long-term project would have to mean a great deal to me, have me invested to the core, because Lord knows I’m more of a project starter than a project finisher. I made myself concentrate deep into those shadows time and again. When do I feel true joy, a selfish kind of joy that fulfills me enough that I don’t even feel the need to explain it to those around me? Joy that lights me up from the inside out? 

Luckily, after a whole buncha ruminating, I found out something wonderfully surprising. The two things that bring me the most joy can actually relate to each other.

The first. Deconstructing moments through words. Slowing down life and time and looking at just a glimpse, an instance of the beauty of every day, every second. Taking simple events apart by the seams and exploring what each thread is made of. I love that type of writing. I love reading it, and I love writing it. It’s a challenge, but it’s important, because life too often goes by in blurs.

The second. These moments themselves. I’ll be damned if they’re not everywhere! I’ve always known this. Since I was a small girl growing up in Roanoke, Virginia, I have craved beauty. When I was young, I fed my craving through trees and mountains and kudzu racing alongside our Subaru. The smell of the pine tree beside our house stirred something unnameable in me, and the crown of clovers I made with my own fingers enraptured me. Today, decades later, I crave it even more, and I’ve realized, through the long years and the tough times and especially in the great times, beauty is everywhere. 

When I was going through chemotherapy for my breast cancer, I found the most beauty in people. In glances, in hugs, in meals made and carpools run. It was everywhere. And then I realized something even more exciting: I had always known that. I had just forgotten it for a while.

That was five years ago. Now, as years form a gap between the bad=sick and the good=well, I fear I’m losing my grasp on that beauty. Maybe I’m back to being the one doing the carpooling, so I’m focused on too many other things. Perhaps there truly is not enough time in the day to open my eyes and take a peek around.

But there is. There IS time to celebrate these moments, the beauty around us. We just have to MAKE it. Doing so promises outstanding rewards to not just our days, but our lives. These very teeny, tiny moments are what life is made of, where the love lies that keeps us human. And happy.

So, you can imagine my nonsurprise to know that this concept is already a “thing.” Full research and books have been written on the subject. One specialist is a professor of psychology at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her name is Barbara L. Fredrickson, Ph.D., and she is the author of (among other things), Love 2.0. I stumbled on her concept quite by accident, while I was tutoring high school students this fall. I tutor “college essay writing,” which is really a quite broad way to look at it. Specifically, I meet with kids five times to help them brainstorm ideas, come up with one, and map out what they want to say. I do none of the writing and all of the consulting, if you want to call it that. And I love it.

Two students applied to UNC Chapel Hill this fall, and the essay prompt stopped me, pen in the air, mouth open. It asked students to consider “micro-moments of connection,” as posited by Dr. Fredrickson, and write about such a moment in which they learned something about themselves.

The very thing I love in life: moments of connection, mutual understanding, instantaneous learning of something wonderfully important . . . and writing about it. Unbelievable.

Dr. Fredrickson. My hero.

So it’s in Dr. Fredrickson’s honor that I begin my project, finally culled from the recesses of my mind and of the ceiling fan shadows. I’m going to call it Three Hundred Sixty Seconds. Each day, I will, as the name of my blog suggests, OPEN my EYES, slow down, and let the beauty of the mundane soak in. Some days, I’m sure I’ll write absolute crap. Other days, one person in one location might find one thing to love.

After all, I am absolutely, without-a-doubt convinced that the connections I made, felt, and cherished during my sickness helped me to heal. Ones prior helped me to be who I am. Ones since have helped me immerse myself in the life I lead, head first. These moments have changed me. I believe with my soul that they can change everyone who opens his or her eyes.

As Dr. F says, “The love you do or do not experience today may quite literally change key aspects of your cellular architecture next season and next year - cells that affect your physical health, your vitality, and your overall wellbeing.” These moments count. 

As I write this year, I’m imagining we--you and I--will share similar experiences. Perhaps you’ll laugh at my melodrama (I tend to veer that way), or perhaps we’ll see pieces of each other along the way. I hope so.

That said, ONE second this fall, I discovered a professor who put a name to something I’ve long held precious: moments of sharing, spoken or unspoken, that change who we are in beautiful fragmented ways. 

Three hundred and sixty seconds from now, we will come full circle.

I can’t wait to see where each one takes me. Takes us.