yearSelf

“Who knows where life will take you, the road is long, and in the end... the journey is the destination.” – One Tree Hill

My sunglasses are down, the roof of the car is open and all there is ahead of me are two lanes divided by a double yellow line. This is a sort of freedom that I've come to know really well this year...

I look to my left- I look to my right. I check my mirrors and I smile. An Usher song is blasting but because of the wind, I can barely hear more than a bassy beat echoing through the car. I love it: the disorientation, my hair blowing from side to side. I feel my hamstrings begin to sweat from the humidity that is inescapable. I check myself out again (hehe), and I think about how I got here-to Houston- in August- in this mustang convertible.

This is pretty amazing.

I decide that I got here by focusing on what I call “yearSelf”-- yes “yearSelf”. Many people have often said to, "focus on yourself more Libs" so I made "yourself" into a yearlong quest. A yearlong open road with, a yearlong road trip—where I am always in the driver’s seat, only envisioning one lane—the one that goes forward, rather than back.

A lot’s happened this year—but to look back on it—to be nostalgic about it—would be a bit hypocritical of that last line. But sometimes, in writing, it’s okay to be a bit hypocritical—and why? Because in writing, we can make our own rules (and why? Because I said so). So here goes:

I started taking acting classes in January and made an incredible group of friends that I now consider family.

I took up a yearlong challenge to try one new thing a week—starting in February, that I pre-conceived in January.

I’ve dated—and had a break up.

I’ve called home more.

I've worn bright colors (and yes this makes a huge difference in life)

I’ve ran my second half-marathon—this time with a good friend.

I’ve meditated.

I’ve written more.

I’ve taken time for me.

I’ve had dizzying discoveries, and beaming break-throughs.

I quit my job in July.

I took a freelance job in August.

And it’s ONLY August.

That’s how I got here. To this moment. In this white mustang convertible, that we’ve rented for work. That’s how I got here—to this open road ahead, both literally and metaphorically. And I’m not so worried about any forks, because I’ve made some tough decisions this year too. Ones that I have yet to regret—and don’t for-see regretting anytime soon or ever--cause *Life is too short to have regrets.*

But the only decision that’s mattered—truly mattered, is the one where I decided to take the year—to focus on myself. To make 2012, my open road—my metaphorical road trip—my journey--my “yearSelf.”

I challenge you to take one of these yourself—without any destination in mind—because really—the only destination—is the journey.

Wedding Bells--Wedding Bells--Wedding all the way

Some days, you wake up, you brush your teeth, you turn on the hot water, and you go through the motions. And some days, you wake up, you brush your teeth, you turn on the hot water, and you smile about what's ahead, what possibilities the day may have, and even what possibilities the future may have.

This is the experience that I had on the day following my brother's wedding in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. Beaming with happiness, Ted and Katie walked down the aisle together as Mr. and Mrs. Segal at nearly 4:45. Their arms were linked in one another's and their smiles extended past the end of the longest pew. Nothing was going to come between them on this lovely, beautiful day that provided an abundance of sunshine, and scenery.

The ceremony, the reception, and the after-party all reminded me of a song that I recently heard at a songwriter's night down at the Duplex in New York. The man sang of how he hoped his wedding day, which was a pretty glorious day, was actually going to be the worst day of his life, so that all the moments afterwards were ones he could only look forward to with joy in his heart. And he's right--just think, if a day as good as your wedding day is the worst day of your life, as of forward, then it's going to be a pretty wonderful ride.

I hope like Ted -- and Katie, her parents, my parents, and sister and her husband, I can only find someone to spend that day with.

Here's to love...and weddings...and happiness.

"There's more to life than being cool, athletic, and popular"-The Wonder Years

"There's a lot of pressure in high school--you know? Like--lots of stress. If I said let's each name the 20 most popular people, from high school, we'd probably rattle off a majority of the same names, but they were popular, only because they were given that role. They probably didn't ask for it, we just held them up on a pedestal."

A good friend of mine, who I recently became reconnected to, via a five year high school reunion, said this to me during the afternoon portion of the party. Looking back--he's right. We all cared so much what people thought of us, and once we reached a certain status, we stressed about about maintaining that status--rather than just enjoying the ride, for ourselves.

The truth is, that being cool--athletic--and popular--aka fitting a stereotype--only matters for such a short period of life--barely even 1/25 of it. But we make that stereotype that people create for us, for such a short period of time, into such a big thing--something nearly consumes us. We think that if we are athletic--we will automatically be popular. We think that if we are the cool kid, more things will come easily to us.

So...it's five years later. Does any of that stuff matter?

Here's my answer:

No. We don't have the pressure now.--There's no "most popular" in the real world. If someone likes you--they like you. If they don't, they don't--and you just move onto the next one. There's no superlatives in life. Your status isn't being voted on and stamped into a yearbook forever. Five years ago, we focused way too much on who we believed would be the "most successful" instead of asking ourselves what would make us each individually feel successful--instead of worrying about the one person who mattered: ourself. Who's to say that someone who is happy with three children and a husband isn't just as successful--or even more successful than the head of multi-million dollar cooperation. No one.

At the end of the day, it's time to forget the stereotypes--it's time to forget the outside vote; join the independent party--the "me" party...and just live life so at the end of the day the only vote you are casting is on yourself and your own happiness and your own success.

At 5, we search for eggs, at 22, we search for dreams

Easter has always been and always will be one of my favorite holidays. It combines the food aspect of Thanksgiving, the basket (gift aspect) of Christmas, and the childhood game of hide-and-seek. Only instead of people, we hide eggs, and instead of seeking all over the neighborhood, we seek all through out our homes. This was always my favorite part.

My brother and I would compete until there would be one or two eggs stranded in some desolate location that my mom would surely be laughing about as she hid the egg there. Despite always taking an extremely long time to find the red or blue or green colored egg, it was always my favorite egg to find---because it was the challenge.

Like Easter, I now find myself seeking on a life-time egg hunt. Only this time I'm not searching for the red and green striped egg or the polka-dotted one, I am searching for the full-time job, the man that will give me the most wonderful and loving family, and the opportunity to be on top of the world. I am searching for that TV pitch that gets accepted, that movie script that wins an Oscar, and that book agent who helps sell my novel as a number 1 best seller at Barnes and Noble.

Yes, at 5, we search for eggs, and at 22 we continue that egg-hunt, only our eggs are bigger, and withstand more cracks. Because At 5, we search for eggs, but at 22--we search for much more--much more that can't be found behind the pillow of a couch, or beneath the living room chair. Much more that can't be hidden behind the leg of a piano bench, or the head rest of a bed. Much more that can't be found in the corner of the refrigerator or stuck between love seat cushions like a remote control. No. These things can't be hidden in book shelves or cupboards of our homes, because we are no longer searching for something that we soon forget about after we find it. We now search for much, much more.

We search for dreams, and passions and opportunities that are dyed with perfection and beauty. We search for the right words and the right answers that are dyed with consonants and vowels. We search for a home, a business, a family, a life--all dyed with hard-work and faith. We search for money, once-in-a-lifetime chances--all dyed with longing and hope.

Above all, we search for happiness.

I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles

“Tag you’re it,” a boy yells as he touches my shoulder on the elementary school playground.

‘Damn,’ I utter in my mind before I continue the game by chasing anyone who I deem slower than me. As my feet touch each patch of dirt, each strand of grass, each piece of the pavement, my white and blue kicks began to blink a red glowing light. The collage of black, green, red, and orange shoes that I chase around also light up the playground in a similar fashion. Eventually, the monkey bars, the red fire truck, and the silver smooth slides have a better light display than Macy’s at Christmas time.

Light up shoes.

I think it was around my ninth birthday that I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles—when I went from chasing kids and stringing blinking Christmas lights on the four square boxes and dodgeball circles to causing a contagious strands of smiles, ones as big as the acre of land that stretched from the fence of the playground to the back parking lot of the school.

When I was in fourth grade, I won the egg award for my smile. And when I was a freshman in college, the assistant athletic director said to me, “Smile more. You have a wonderful smile.”

I think it was around my sixteenth birthday that I first traded in that light up smile for a look of angst as I became a broody teenager who suddenly thought not smiling was the cool thing to do—who believed that an angry look far exceeded the power of a happy one. I was pretty emo. (Ha)

But near the end of college, like the time I traded in my light up shoes, I found a way to trade back my angst and broodiness for my light up smiles. I found ways to make the Rhode Island athletic fields look like the exterior décor of the Empire State on a clear night—I found a way to light up the world again with that brilliant smile that I once bared in the cafeterias of my elementary and middle schools—on my first day of high school softball practice, and on that last day of high school in which I went from smiley to broody.

As I took a seat on the train, just the other day, a child sat across from me with furry, calf high boots, that blinked that brilliant red light I recognized from the playground. I smiled with each blink the young girl’s boots made. And with my smile—I took a look around the train, and made “smile contact” with a stranger, and just like that a strand of shining smiles began to blink on what would normally be a dull tooth ache of a subway ride. Smiles—the light up shoes of adults.

With each stride I take, I’ve got another smile for another purpose, for another person, for another memory, for another reason. For each step I take I light up from cheek to cheek, and like yawns…it catches. And for that thought, I smile again.

How do you light up the room? Do you have a billion smiles? I bet you a pair of light up shoes that you do.

"These tears are just a disguise for happiness"

His story lingers in my mind, his tears the dessert to our meal that had just ended. His words echo. His story is strong…his tears are stronger—they are for joy, not sadness. His tears are for the past, the future, and the present. And just a week ago he was a stranger to me, to all of us here in Italy. Just a week ago, I would have never known him, or this story, the one of the love he had for his grandfather, the one of the last record he played by his grandfather’s bedside, the one of strength and what it truly means.

Strength in tears.

As I sat and watched my new friend shed tears about the past, over a final glass of wine with six of us sitting at the table, I thought to myself, how strong of a person to let the tears just roll out, to just let us all the way in, to let us learn a bit more about him and his past—to let us know him.

I often cry, but most times the tears are hidden in embarrassment, because they tend to be tears for nothing, sadness, or emptiness. But I realized recently how much I actually enjoy crying, letting it all just flow out, letting the droplets just drip down my cheek.

My friend Hannah has pointed out the importance of gaping wallows in the past, and it is in this moment, at dinner, that I see the gaping wallow in progress. Though his stream of tears doesn’t fill the restaurant like a bathtub, it does offer a release, an escape. It is in these moments that I realize the importance of our tears and the importance of sharing those tears with or without stories. It is in this moment I realize the importance of letting people in—the importance of letting ourselves out.