Yesterday was my birthday. I turned sassy sixty-two. That’s a lot of years...and a lot of candles. It got me to thinking: what do all those candles represent?
So let me start with some of the good stuff. I think that’s apt. Thanksgiving, after all, is right around the corner. I’ve never completed a daily gratitude list in November, but if I did, here’s how it would start. The things I’m most grateful for include:
(*) My soul mate. Yes, Rice. He bugs the crud out of me at times. But I’m truly happy we found each other all those years ago and that we’ve been blessed to meld our life journeys.
(*) My adult children and their partners. They get up every morning, continue to fight the good fight, and make me proud. Here’s to them...Daniel and Lauren and their Winston...Quinn and Patrick and the beautiful grandbabies they’ve given Rice and me...Alex and Sierra and the 800 strays and rescues to which they open their hearts and home. Couldn’t love any of you more!
(*) Love. I’m grateful for love that’s unconditional. But I’m also fond of love that’s romantic. Then again, love can be affectionate. Enduring. Familiar. Playful. And let’s not forget self-love. But maybe let’s pass when it comes to obsessive love.
(*) Laughter. Do you remember the song, I Love to Laugh, from the original Mary Poppins movie? Well, being sixty-two, I do. And I get a giggle out of it still because it pretty much nails it. Some people do laugh through their noses. Others honk. Then there are those who hiss or squeak or blast or twitter. (And I don’t mean Twitter as in tweeting.) My favorite part of the song right now: “I love to laugh. It’s getting worse every year.”
(*) Wine. I’m grateful for a dry red with a jammy afterbite. The kind that comes in a box works.
(*) My body. Ironic, I know. I’m not crazy about it, but I am thankful for it, ever since a shopping trip for a bathing suit waaaaay back during my junior high years. It was a painful outing during which I actually cried in the dressing room. Damn me and my freakin’ fat legs! I left the store, lumbering in self-pity, and promptly crossed paths with a man in a wheelchair. He was young with long unkempt hair. His eyes lacked any spark, and his lips turned in a slight snarl. I don’t recall his clothing. There was something way more remarkable about him than what he wore. I tried not to stare but to keep moving and not show any pity—or anger or confusion or grief. Yeah, me and my freakin’ fat legs just kept on walking—yes, walking—with nothing to fret about compared to this Vietnam vet, who’d returned home without any legs, fat, skinny, or in between.
(*) My senses. I fear my vision is worsening, and then there's Rice’s hearing, which is grim. (Sorry, m'man, but you know it's so.) Still, I’m grateful for all the senses I have and what they allow me to experience. There’s not much that compares to hearing squeals of laughter from the grands or feeling the water they splash on us...from a lake, a pool, a tub. Any of those will do. If you’re like me, you love seeing the water-colored change of leaves each autumn and breathing in the crisp air that smells of earth and pinecones and bark. Maybe you, too, enjoy a frothy hot chocolate out by the firepit this time of year. I can almost hear the fire crackle and feel it warm me just thinking about it.
(*) My health. Am I the healthiest 62-year-old around? Oh, hell, no. Do I find it fun to count carbs, give up smoking, cut back on drinking, and get in more exercise? Ha! Do you think I get my jollies from scheduling countless appointments for dental procedures, chiropractic adjustments, thyroid and blood sugar checks, and full body scans to rule out recurring melanoma? Why, no, no, I don’t. But so far, I've been mighty thankful when I've gotten my results. They give the word “negative” such a positive spin. (Knock on wood for more years of negative feedback to come.)
(*) Art. I’m grateful for painting, sculpture, and literature. Architecture, music, and dance. Theater, photography, and films. Anything that pleases the senses and helps people grow their creativity, that’s art in my book.
(*) Nature. I’m not sure I’m thankful for creepy crawly things, and I abhor rodents. Otherwise, I consider myself quite a nature lover, especially in places where the seasons change.
(*) My parents, sibs, and ancestors. I’m grateful for my mom, who stayed strong after being widowed three times. I’m thankful for pictures and sweet stories of the birth dad I never knew, but also for the step-dads who treated me kindly, the siblings—step- and half—who loved my cranky soul, and the ancestors who, in some way, played a part in getting me to who I am today.
(*) Delight. Have you ever seen a child’s face light up while watching a Walt Disney World parade in process? Well, that’s the kind of delight I’m referencing. Sheer delight. Not rehashed, ho-hum, been-there-done-that pleasure. Fresh delight. Maybe vicarious delight? It may be elusive at times, but it’s out there.
(*) Faith. I don’t show or share mine enough, but I’m grateful for the comfort it brings me and the freedoms it represents.
(*) Kindness. I wish people would stop dissing this trait. Kindness is not a weakness, folks.
(*) My home. It’s outdated, in need of repair, and in the freakin’ suburbs. But I love it.
(*) Creature comforts. Does anything compare to reading a good book in front of a cozy fire while wrapped in a fluffy blanket? Unless maybe it’s reading that book to a grand who’s snuggled up beside you?
(*) My work. Yes, I grouse about my work. Yup, I’m ready to retire. Yet I’m grateful that, over the haul, I’ve had the ability to get out of bed every day, report to a place where the people are mostly good, and sit at a desk to crank out work that matters. Grant-seeking’s not for wimps, but it has its rewards. Pun intended.
(*) Technology. I’m thankful when technology works for me, which it does more often than I tend to admit. It’s a love-hate thing, you know.
(*) The sun, the moon, and the stars. Light from the sun promotes health and growth. Softer light from the night heavens promotes rest and rejuvenation and dreams. I’m grateful for all these things.
(*) Good neighbors. Nuff said.
But I have candles of regret as well. Many of them need little explanation. They include:
(*) Not being as good a sister as I’d like to be. I’m bad about staying in touch and always vow I’ll call, or even text or email more. So Heidrich sisters, beware: I’m thinking we should do something like the Ogram sisters and plan a girls’ getaway weekend. Lynne, Susan, Tina, Lisa...anyone in??
(*) Never truly bonding with Rice’s family. No animosity here. Just not the connection you see in all those Hallmark Christmas movies...that have started already...and sometimes make me want to suck on a lemon to chase away all their sweetness. Sometimes.
(*) Not reaching out more to my birth dad’s family. He (Douglas Putnam) died when I was a toddler so I never really knew him. His family--my family—is warm when they reach out. They’ve opened the door. I’ve peaked through and liked what I see, but I still stall at the threshold. Meanwhile time passes. Damned introversion.
(*) Having to wear ugly shoes for the rest of my life. (Screw you, sciatica.)
(*) Not being a better friend.
(*) Not being a better wife.
(*) An occasional bad haircut or color job along the way.
(*) Not recognizing my own value.
(*) Not speaking up more.
(*) Not taking better care of myself when I was younger. (Young people, bend your knees when you lift things.)
(*) Worrying too much.
(*) Making decisions guided by fear rather than inspiration.
(*) Giving up on myself too quickly.
(*) Not being a better mom.
(*) The fact that my head sweats when my adrenaline kicks in. This is not a joke. People fret that I’m ill or nervous. (I’m not.) On top of that, in every freaking picture at any important life event, there I am: the wet rat, center-stage. Even in winter. (A brief P.S. to those tempted to offer advice in an attempt to help: meditation, relaxation, mindfulness, Propranolol...none have eased the situation. Air movement hasn’t hurt. But not everyone enjoys an arctic breeze the way that I do.)
(*) Not being more photogenic. (Only partly due to the wet rat situation outlined above.)
(*) Losing my singing voice after my thyroidectomy.
(*) Being too self-conscious to sing in front of others when I still had a voice. Karma, anyone?
(*) Being too self-conscious, period.
(*) The fact that this part of my candle list was the easiest to complete. (Attention mind: you need to re-set!)
Yet there are also the candles that represent myhopes. Here are some things I most certainly hope:
(*) Not to be a cranky old person.
(*) To discover retirement is as sweet as I’ve anticipated.
(*) To finish my book in progress ... because it can’t seem to finish itself.
(*) To discover that vocal exercises will bring back my singing voice.
(*) To stay curious.
(*) To stay strong enough to bear inevitable sorrows but soft enough not to let them break me.
(*) To grow a splendid vegetable garden.
(*) To have ample resources to keep me comfortable for as long as I have.
(*) To live long enough to see my grandchildren become adults.
(*) To be happy with the 2020 Presidential election outcome.
(*) To nurture my creativity more each year.
(*) To see my adult children and their partners continue to thrive.
(*) To add value (through my presence) to the lives of my family and friends.
(*) To pare down my schtuff before I die (so the kids don’t have to deal with it).
(*) To walk more.
(*) To embrace change. (Because it’s ineviable.)
(*) To travel and share more laughs with Rice.
(*) To seek the good in people and situations.
(*) To remember: wrinkles mean I laughed; grey hair means I cared; scars mean I lived.
(*) And finally...not to haunt Rice’s ass if I die and his second wife is younger and prettier and he buys her a writers’ studio.
Whew! That’s a lot of candles.
If you noticed they only add up to sixty, have no fear. I’ve saved the utter best for last. The twobiggest sparklers on my sixty-second birthday cake would have to be my grands:
(*) Britton and
(*) Charli
Lucky me. All those candles shine mighty and bright. They represent a lot of living and loving. You might be wondering, what more could this gal possibly want out of life? If granted just one wish on my sixty-second birthday, what would it be?
The answer is simple: More, please. My wish is for more of the same.
Cheers! Jan
(NOTE: This post is dedicated to Agnes F. Brown, who will retire on 9/30/19 after 20-plus years of work in public service. The lady is classic, mindful, and caring. I have no doubt she seeks—and finds—happiness each and every day. But Agnes is also an achiever, and I sense a frustration in her for not having an answer to a well-meaning question many have recently asked: “What’s next?” So I say this to you, Agnes, with respect and love: “Stop with all the achieving already! Take time to breathe. Regroup. Say ‘NO!’ And when asked ‘What’s next?’ maybe reply with a smile and a shrug. After all, isn’t taking time to enjoy our own happiness one of the biggest achievements of all?”)
As a lad in school, the late John Lennon was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. Lennon wrote down, ‘Happy.’ “You don’t understand the assignment,” he was told. “No,” he countered, “you don’t understand life.” Whether the exchange between Lennon and a teacher really occurred as outlined above, who knows? I imagine it could have, and I smile at the thought of the bad boy Beatle saying such a roguish thing.
In the Midwestern protestant pocket of my youth, happiness wasn’t pursued. It came to us, so we were told, as a result of serving others with a joyful heart, turning the other cheek, and understanding that it is better to give than to receive. (Oh, yeah, that worked.)
The pursuit of happiness these days is less frowned upon, not perceived so much as self-centered and shallow as once upon a time. The pursuit of happiness is a US Constitutional right, after all. Maybe even a divine gift. For those reasons and more, people in this day and age are on a quest for what Lennon wanted to be sixty-plus years ago: Happy.
The most recent World Happiness Report, published in March 2019, ranked 156 countries by how happy their citizens perceive themselves to be. And you know what? In this year’s report—the 12th ever produced by the United Nations Sustainable Development Solutions Network in partnership with the Ernesto Illy Foundation—the U.S. came in at #19.
Nineteen! That means the residents of 18 other countries in the world perceive themselves to be happier than those of us here in the U.S.
(A few writer’s notes here...just in case you’re wondering. Note1: The Scandinavian countries kicked some big-time booty with their high happiness rankings. Note2: Yes, I do take this report with a grain of salt. Note3: I still find it interesting.)
So what are some of the possible reasons so many of us see ourselves as less than happy? For starters, how about worsening health conditions, declining social trust, cynicism toward government, addiction, behavioral health issues...and don’t get me started on social media. (I mean, does your life ever look as rich and splendid and pulled together as the filtered goings-on of your Instagram friends?)
Because so many of us in the U.S. are unhappy, guess what? Happiness continues to be BIG BUSINESS. A recent search on Google for “happiness influencers” turned up a list of 7,142 individuals. Goodreads shares a list of 288 of the best happiness book titles. BOOK RIOT lists 100 must-read books about happiness.
It doesn’t stop with programs and books and blogs. A search for happiness products on the web produced items such as supplements, planners and journals, adult coloring books, essential oils, light therapy lamps, meditations, plants, luxurious bedsheets, sex toys, bath bombs and salts, self-improvement regimens...the list goes on.
Hey, who am I to complain about people making money trying to help others feel happier? I myself am guilty of feeding the happiness consumption craze. In fact, if I were more of an entrepreneur than an artsy fart, I might even try to monetize it myself. I mean, what’s wrong with that? As long as you’re doing it legally and ethically, of course.
For now, though, my words are coming to you at no cost and without a blast of citations regarding the science and evidence-based research behind them. (You get what you pay for, no?)
Contemplating my own level of happiness, I happen to believe what many psychologists say: Happiness is 50% determined by genetics. (You do the research on proving this true or false. I’m too busy damning my ancestors for an overdose of melancholy that made it into my gene pool and surfaces when least appropriate.)
That said, if each of us comes to this earth with our own predisposition toward happiness, are we each doomed to be a complete cackling hyena or serious Sol? I doubt that. But neither do we have to deny our underlying nature. Some of us are just more naturally joyful.
To an extent, we are what we are, right? And I’ve already confessed that I sometimes wear an unflattering shade of melancholy. But I’ve also mentioned finding a list of 7,142 individuals out there known as “happiness influencers”, remember? Well, I happen to follow one, Gretchen Rubin, who, with her sister Elizabeth Craft, hosts a free podcast called “Happier with Gretchen Rubin.” And now that I've shamelessly plugged them (for no reason other than simply choosing to do so), please allow me to share a happiness hack passed along by these sage sisters.
In late 2017, Gretchen and Elizabeth issued a challenge to their listeners. In lieu of the usual new-year’s resolutions so many of us make and break, they suggested we identify—and write down—18 things to accomplish during 2018 that would add to our level of happiness.
For some reason, I found the “Eighteen for ‘18” challenge appealing. In my mind, this shed a positive light (enhancing happiness) on a practice that had repeatedly delivered me negative results (failing at self-improvement). I appreciated the variety of the tasks—some ongoing, some one-time deals.
So how did I do? Well, remember, I’m someone who really hates to keep score! Yet in spite of that, I hung in through 2018, kept some and changed some up for 2019, and am contemplating a repeat once more in 2020. So perhaps that’s telling in itself?
Whatcha think?
If you find the challenge above silly, so be it. But if something about it appeals, why not consider making a short list for the remainder of 2019? Better yet, start mapping out your own “Twenty for ‘20” happiness goals for next year.
(Pssssst, Agnes, you can do this exercise again, but only if you’d like. And maybe ease up and don’t worry about making all your goals so SMART?)
Remember, all: Never chase happiness. Seek it. Find it. Relish it. And if you’re so inclined, drop me a line and let me know what it looks like to you.
Cheers! Jan
Updated: Nov 23, 2022
OMGahhhhhh! The 2019 AJC Decatur Book Festival is upon us, and I. AM. GIDDY. Why? Because I love, love, love books.
What kind of books, you ask?
Well..., I like fiction, especially thrillers but also tales that examine contemporary issues or stories that plop a fictional character into an historical event or time or place. Then again, I also enjoy nonfiction, including memoir, true crime, biography, humor, slice-of-life essays, books about writing, travel guides…. You probably get the gist. (Pictured below are some of the recent selections my book club has read.)
The simple truth? At the risk of offending some, I’m what you might call a book slut.
When it comes to books, I can’t seem to get enough. There’s almost always one or two lying in wait on my night stand. But then I’ll hear or read about another recommendation, and temptation will rear its head. I don’t mean to be so fickle, but the library’s minutes down the street, and there’s a bookstore just a bit further. Don’t even remind me of the immediacy of a Kindle purchase. I’m already sunk. You’ve heard of compulsion? Addiction and insatiability? Those words describe me when it comes to books.
As long as I’m already blushing, here are a few more personal admissions.
Confession #1: I suffer from something called bibliosmia. That is the affliction of loving the smell of old books. Only my bibliosmia doesn’t stop with the olfactory sense or with only old books. When it comes to books, I enjoy new ones, too. They can be hard-covered, paperback, geared toward children, oddly shaped or textured, filled with pictures, or plain as slate. There’s just something magical about books. (I found the book below at Target and couldn’t resist getting it for my granddaughter. Isn’t it great?)
Confession #2: The first chapter book I attempted to read was a Nancy Drew mystery that I checked out from the school library in first grade. Granted, for today’s first grader that may not be a huge accomplishment. Seems like today’s first graders are solving algebra problems and tackling 20-word spelling lists. But in my day, first-grade reading assignments evolved around Dick and Jane and their dog Spot, whom they liked to see run. I probably didn’t comprehend great chunks of that first Nancy Drew book, but know this: I carried it between school and home for days, I turned the pages one by one, I poured over the words as best I could, and I fell in love with the mystery genre. To this day.
Confession #3: I’ve never been a literature sophisticate. In high school, I used Cliffs Notes. A lot. My reading comprehension scores were decent enough, but somehow I didn’t always get what I was supposed to glean when reading a classic. Take Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway. As a young reader, I thought I knew what the man in the story meant when he recommended the girl have an operation that was “perfectly simple” and “not really an operation at all.” Still, I appreciated confirmation that I was reading about terminating a pregnancy. And I definitely needed help to infer that the white elephants of the title referred not only to cast-off items but to female fertility. Confession #4: I’m not very savvy about poetry either, but I try. My personal teenaged tastes leaned toward Rod McKuen and Susan Polis Schutz. High school and college classes brought on Dickinson, Yates, Stevenson, and Poe. Later still, I read the poetry of Ted Kooser, Rita Dove, and Joe Hutchison, and I started to get it. It may have been Hutchison’s poem, The Artichoke - “O heart weighed down by so many wings” – that convinced me. Confession #5: I love, love, love cookbooks. But I hate, hate, hate to cook. Go figure. Confession #6: I’ve never met a book club I didn’t enjoy...although I think my current club (some of the members pictured below) is my favorite.
The Bad Girls Book Club meets every other month. We’re a melting pot of black, white, biracial, and Asian-Indian women, and our ages range from thirty to sixtysomething. I’m not always sure how I feel about a book I’ve finished until I have time to process it. That’s where the Bad Girls’ discussions come in. Our views will often differ, our voices may even grow loud, but that’s okay. Everyone gets their say about our books’ scenes and characters, outcomes that caught our breath, structure or phrases that appealed or appalled. The loudest voice doesn’t get the prize. All the Bad Girls win, as we continue to listen and learn. About ourselves. And, more importantly, about things much bigger than ourselves. (Below are some more of the books that we’ve been reading.)
Confession #7: Some of the younger Bad Girls have me enjoying something I never thought would be possible: audio books. I know: shut up! My struggle was real enough adapting to Kindle. Yet here we are. Audio books may not smell or feel like the real deal, but they fit in well with today’s busy-ness. While audio books don’t depict words on a page, they allow me to read on the road. With some headphones and an iPhone, I can now enjoy books while tending to house and laundry, prepping meals, weeding the garden, walking...exercising...closing my eyes to relax and listen. I admit, audio books have their upsides. One audio book I’ve enjoyed recently is An American Marriage (hardcover pictured below), narrated by Eisa Davis and Sean Crisden, whose voice is, dare I say, oh, so sensual?
Confession #8: Not only am I a book slut, I’m also a geek over most things bookstore- or author-related. One of my favorite possessions is my female authors umbrella (below left), purchased in the independent Eagle Eye Book Shop tent at the AJC Decatur Book Festival several years ago. And, at the risk of sounding like a stalker (which I’m not, really), I admit I hollered “Stop! Detour!” to Rice as our rental car neared a certain exit on Interstate 95 during our 2017 summer road trip. Yup, I’m one of those people who had to stop for pictures of what is reportedly Stephen King’s house in Bangor, Maine. If it’s not his house, it should be. Just check out that three-headed serpent on the fence post (pictured below right).
Confession #9: It’s a source of delight to me that my children and my grandchildren all seem to love books, too. (Below left, Britton started reading to Charli shortly after she was born in spring 2018.) I don’t take credit for it, but I do feel an extra surge of connection when the boy kicks it to the absolute next level to share his geek side over books (below right).
Confession #10: I’d love it if our paths crossed at the AJC Decatur Book Festival— https://www.decaturbookfestival.com/, Friday, August 30 through Sunday, September 1. It’s one of the largest independent book festivals in the country held each Labor Day weekend in downtown Decatur, Georgia. If you’re not able to make it this year, mark your calendar for another year down the road. It truly is an incredible event.
Take it from me, a self-professed and unabashed book slut.
Cheers…and happy reading! J