On my back terrace is a baby bird that fledged the nest too early. Or so we think. He wound up back there two days ago when he was spotted in the street, just sitting there, blinking, easy prey for cats or cars. Thus we scooped him up (gently, gently) and brought him to what we hoped would be a safer spot.

Since then, he’s proved an excellent sprinter, a decent hopper if the perch isn’t too high off the ground, but the jury’s out in the flying category. I’ve tried any number of ways to get food into him - dog kibble soaked in hot water, a piece of fig, a scoop of melon, some bird seed - but I’m finding that you can bring food to a bird but you can’t make him open his beak.

My little feathered friend reminded me of this blog, in a way, a lovely creative project that I put out there, but pushed out of the nest, hoping it would fly with little effort. Once other matters demanded my attention, I lost sight of it, and the poor thing has been starved. As with nature, I guess, shit happens.

In retrospect I realized I couldn’t have picked a more ridiculous time to launch this blog (prior to a huge life transition, a.k.a. my move to southwest France). More importantly, as time has ticked on I’ve realized that I’m just not that into it. (Talk about a first-hand lesson in rumpled self-awareness!) So while I know I could revive it, I don’t want to. Instead, I’m giving it a send-off. Rest in Peace, 334 Days. And thanks for the good times.

I’ve realized that I missed the creative project that started it all, 31 Days of Self-Congratulation. More self-directed positivity is a concept I’m passionate about. I think the world would be a better place if we were kinder and more forgiving and positive about ourselves, that we’d project more of all that outwardly if we injected it inwardly…first and sincerely. That’s my philosophy. It’s worked for me. While I can’t quote a stellar example of somebody else who’s had the same experience off the top of my head, they’re out there.

Energized by epiphanies, I’m reviving 31 Days and plan to relaunch it sometime in July. Maybe August. Not to be too loosey goosey, but I’m not so keen to spout specifics until I get back from our trip. We’re hitting the road for a week to visit the Atlantic coast of France and Northern Spain. After all, the ken to travel was one of the reasons for moving to Europe in the first place!

By the end of the summer, 334 Days will get the full shuttering. Till then, hope whoever stumbles upon it likes what you read. Also hope you will sashay over to 31 Days and join the positivity party.

And just in case anyone’s really gutted about the birdie, I discovered today how he’s managed to stay alive. I watched as an adult bird flew to the terrace floor and dropped some food in his mouth. Maybe that’s his momma, maybe it’s another bird’s momma being a good Samaritan. Either way, it’s a positively sweet ending.

This poor blog has been sorely neglected as of late.  Between all the preparations for the move and coming down with the mother of all colds, my brain hasn’t been in blogging mode.  It still isn’t, so I’ll be cutting this post short.  Hard to believe, but departure day has come.  Tonight we fly to Barcelona.  Tuesday we’ll be in Roquebrun.  Those sentences feel surreal to me right now.  And I have the urge for one of my Agnostic prayers, which is to cross my fingers and my toes and simply say that I hope the universe looks out for us, that it let’s arrive safe and sound.

Á la tienne!

It’s T-20 and counting until I move many thousands of miles from my home of nearly 12 years.

Don’t get me wrong, I am excited about this move. I am. But, I’m also afraid to be so far away from friends and familiar terrain. It’s a natural thing to fear. Yet, despite my well-honed self-awareness and delightful mental shampoos and the respite that comes from clearing the decks and turning my Tibetan singing bowl into a daily show, I’ve still managed to turn into…Movezilla.

Snappy and crabby and on edge, Movezilla’s been picking fights and showing her ass. She’s no picnic to live with, either. Which she knows but still feels somewhat powerless to set aright.

When every tool in your tool box and every trick in your bag of tricks have no effect, the options seem very, very limited indeed. And it’s tempting to think that there is no other option but to surrender to Movezilla madness, to tear down everything around you, to beat your chest and roar as loud as you like, to say to hell with everyone else, and to just have a field day with being a thundering, pissy brat.

There’s a part of me that likes the sound of that, but another part of me does not. That’s the wiser part who reminds - with rising urgency bordering on panic - that there will be repercussions if Movezilla does not move out.

I wish I wish I wish there was a clear prescription for what ails. Since there isn’t one, I’m going to make up a cocktail.

• 1 heaping helping of saying Ta-Ta to Movezilla before I lay me down to sleep. I keep reading about how information roots more deeply when planted before shut-eye. So, we shall see.

• 1 heaping helping of count to 11 before Movezilla is about to implode (or even mid-plode). Why 11 rather than 10? I like odd numbers. All the lucky numbers of legend are odds, not evens.

• 1 heaping helping of mood pampering mixed into my early morning contemplations. I like to get up when it’s still dark (or less dark), make a pot of tea, and let my mind wander. Normally this is a lovely way to start my day, but lately it’s been not so fun because I wake up on edge and that isn’t conducive to dreaming and scheming.  Then I get even more irritated.  As with children who inform Mom they have to pee at the most inconvenient times, scoldings don’t make them have to pee any less. So, I think the name of the game is to swap irritation for compassion, to swap “I’m sick of you” for “I understand.”

• Shake, stir, pour.

The million dollar question, of course, is how to make good on these intentions.  Sometimes giving yourself the choice to act or not act is a good thing; other times not so much because demons of doubt will exploit the little pores that choice creates.  Then ambivalence and excuses seep in.   So, I’m relying on my ability to act as if, my value around commitment, and some very public accountability to be my tough love buddies.

Obviously, I’ll have to let you know how well I do.  I need positive flares, people, positive flares.

I’ll often have a client begin a coaching session with a “clearing”, a chance to ventilate about the little irritations or distractions that are sticking to the fore of their minds. This helps them focus on the more important stuff.

Well, I’ve got to clear my own decks, because they’re riddled with debris.

• I’ve been struggling - mightily - to keep up with my blogging responsibilities as of late. I love to blog. I love to write. But it’s been a hard slog which means I’m not feeling the love quite so much.
• I’m so focused on the move (30 days and counting), that it’s difficult for me to be anything less than fidgety with the day-to-day.
• I can’t stand the way the dollar continues to decline against the euro. Of all flippin’ times for this to happen.
• I’m tired of all the shopping I’ve been doing to stock up on some of the basics that will cost us nearly twice as much if paid for in euros.
• I’m tired of fretting about how we’ll avoid blowing our budget given the wimpy dollar.
• I’m tired of being tired.
• Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Now this may sound like a bunch of gratuitous complaining and whining…it is. Frankly, I see those as just another form of mental shampooing. Not the most noble kind, but still they’re an emotional release that serves a purpose. Otherwise, the inner rumblings would grow and probably get strident. I’d have a meltdown over something ridiculous and unrelated — potentially around someone who doesn’t deserve to be around me in meltdown mode — and then I’d have remorse to contend with as well.

Sometimes I employ my little Tibetan singing bowl as an aid and abetter. I’ll give it a good whack so that it sings for a while, kvetching at top speed until the singing stops (or I run out of breath). Or, I’ll herald each complaint with a tap, continuing to make that old bowl chime until the complaints are spent.

I do love that bowl — it’s coming with me to France. I hope it loves me back, but I understand if it doesn’t because it’s not being used in strict accordance with its intended purpose. Some say singing bowls are meant for meditation; others say they’re for transforming the self.

I don’t know where a bitch fest fits into either schema, but if I got creative I’m sure I could concoct a way to connect all the dots.  And now that I’ve had this week’s mental shampoo, I’m in a much better position to have some fun doing just that!

“I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools — friendship, prayer, conscience, honesty — and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they’re enough.”

– Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

I adore Anne Lamott, but I think her list of tools is at least one short: the prowess of a mental shampoo. Which can but doesn’t involve warm water and a name brand hair potion. Which must involve acknowledging what’s on your mind and forgiveness for whatever that is.

So, my mental shampoo goes something like this…I had intended to stash Traveling Mercies as a future salve, for I imagine that after I move to France in April I’m going to have a day (or ten) when I’m feeling low and lonesome and lost. Anne Lamott’s writing is the perfect antidote for bouts of self-pity. Dross is dross, she’ll show you, but she’ll make you laugh about it all the same. Somehow, her honesty nails but it doesn’t hurt.

Perhaps from instinct, perhaps by luck I pulled this book from the rainy day stack and read it daily like other people read the Bible daily: for comfort, for perspective, for moving outside of my box.

It’s my “too close for comfort” box, you see, that gave me trouble. For a good bit of this week, my parents and I have been at my sister’s house which is in need of some TLC. We can’t fix everything, but we can patch and paint and plan for the future when she’s once again flush and able to afford the bigger fixes.

Historically, I’ve always been an independent soul when it comes to family. Historically, too much “togetherness” renders in sharp relief all the ways in which we’re diametrically different: beliefs, behaviors, aspirations, choices, the whole astonishing shebang. It rouses my edges, which after a while protrude like hives, hard little bumps with an evil itch. I’ve never figured out how to hide a case of the hives. Then my smart mouth kicks in. Feelings are hurt. Retorts ping pong. Old grudges — those nasty little menaces — erupt, their lava flows, singeing everything that sprouted in the aftermath of the last eruption. In short order, everybody’s unhappy. Hardly an idyllic family gathering.

I decided that this week I wanted to be different, to bypass my edges and their effects, to be more intentional in my responses (i.e. don’t), to in effect release the doves. So, I read my book in the mornings and was comforted and moved, cuddled my intentions like they were puppies, and opened the dovecote door before heading to my sister’s house.

Hell yes, these intentions were put to the test, like a litter of puppies with upset tummies. The doves flew crookedly, like they were drunk. All it took was one harmless little trigger to set old ways in motion. I like to work in quiet, to the white hum of silence; my mom likes to work to the music of non-stop chatter about anything and everything. She can contentedly converse about a speck of dust. I can rattle out her sort of chit chat for a little while, but if I don’t get a break from it I start to go bonkers, and those dang edges wake up with a vicious start…honoring one’s intentions can be hard enough. Replacing an old habit with a better one can tear muscle.

There’s no easy way to change an old habit unless you decide to do what seems the most impossible thing you can do to support that decision. Namely, to act as if the change has already occurred, as if the hard work has already been done, and the muscles long healed are toned and wonderful to the touch. It’s a paradoxical ruse, but it’s effective. But you cannot be stingy as you wend your way through all this acting; you cannot mind that your buying into a big, fat fib.

My friend Susan and I nattered on about this last night over dinner. Thank God the pasta dish on the table was perfection, because acknowledging the difficulties you create for yourself can leave a bad taste in the mouth. A good dinner and vino and friends with which to share both helps to cut through the residue lingering on your tongue. But before the tongue is ready to receive dessert, before the plates are cleared, and the goodbyes said, and the evening is over, don’t forget the flask of forgiveness yet to be poured. You have to pour some into your own glass and drink however much you poured like a frat house superstar, because it’s not the same thing at all when the forgiveness is funneled by somebody else. (How would they know how much is enough?)

Only then will the old habit know you’re serious about this vetting, that its shelf life is limited, that you’re going to act like it’s dead before it’s dead, that although you might revisit its grave from time to time, you’re going to act as if it’s a fuzzy, distant memory when compared with the new habit now full grown and thriving and beautiful to see, like puppies matured into magnificent adult dogs and doves spreading peace with each flap.

Ever dreamed of taking a sabbatical from your day-to-day to sail to some exotic destination? Haven’t we all? How many of us, though, have actually done it?

Well, say howdy to Lara Lowman, who did. She’s a freelance marketing communications consultant based in Atlanta who checked out for three and a half months to sail from Florida to Tahiti on her uncle’s catamaran, the Queequeg II (www.queequegtwo.com).

She’s also my neighbor, which is why I had no qualms about hitting her up for an interview. (Luckily, she’s very obliging.)

MG: So, Ms. Lowman, dish about this sailing trip to Tahiiti! Who, what, where and when?

LL: My uncle, who sailed around the world forty years ago, decided to sail around the world again.

MG: You don’t say.

LL: Yeah, and I’ve always wanted to go with him. He’s taken numerous sailing trips in between. I had thought about taking a couple weeks vacation to join him, a fly-in fly-out sort of thing. But I was never able to make it happen. So when this next around-the-world trip showed up, I thought, gosh, I’d love to join him. He would stop over in Atlanta on his way to Florida from Illinois– he was spending two weeks every month getting the boat ready – and Bard {her fiancé} and I would say wouldn’t it be great to do a one-two week leg with him. And then we started saying, why don’t we just go! Let’s do the Florida to Tahiti segment. My uncle was only asking for us to chip in for expenses – food, gas, port fees that sort of thing, may be $7-10 a day. It’s nothing.

MG: What was the tipping point in your decision?

LL: I had already scaled back in certain ways. I had cut back from 40-30 hours a week to see if I could make a living as a freelancer. And I had already stepped back from climbing any sort of career ladder and was more focused on how I wanted to live my life. Bard is a self-employed photographer so he has flexibility. I don’t know that I would gone without Bard because it’s just nice to have someone on the trip with you. We’re a good support system for each other.

MG: How did you know what to bring..,or not to bring?

LL: My uncle said to bring shorts and t-shirts.

MG: That’s it?

LL: Well, when he’s on the boat he’s barefoot except when in port and then he just wears flip-flops. So, that’s what we brought. Shorts and t-shirts, flip flops, and a lot of suntan lotion. I had a fleece for cool nights and a decent dress I could wear to a restaurant while in port. Bard and I each had a big duffel bag for clothes and one for books and DVD’s and suntan lotion. I brought duplicates of everything – sunglasses, glasses, contacts. I asked myself if I lost something what would be really, really inconvenient to replace, hence the two pair of flip flops. And did I mention lots of suntan lotion?

MG: You most certainly did. I never leave home without mine…actually I say I’ll never leave home without and somehow always forget it. And I would also assume I could stock up at a port, which might be wishful thinking? Which leads to my next question. Where and how often did you stop?

LL: We—there were five of us total on the boat–sailed from Florida to Belize to San Andreas (a Columbian island) to Panama through the canal to Sua, on the Ecuadorian coast, then to Galapagos , the Marquesas Islands, the Tuamotus, and then Tahiti. It was 25 days from Galapagos to the Marquesas. All the other stops were 8-11 days in between.

MG: 25 days…at sea? Not a square inch of dry land?

LL: If I had known it was going to be 25 days I don’t know that I would have done it. We had hoped that leg would take 18 days but that’s dependent upon the winds. Once you’re out there for a while…well, by then you’re in this routine. Life at sea has a rhythm. So, I was fine. Everyone had their bad days, but everyone had their own room or would find a private place to go if you needed to get away. It’s a 43-foot boat but there were plenty of places to tuck in. We had breakfast together every morning and dinner together every night. We spent a lot of time just reading and talking about the clouds and stuff like that.

MG: Until you’re there you can’t imagine how you’re going to fill your time, I imagine.

LL: God, no! You can’t That’s why it’s hard for me to describe how I filled time for those 25 days and was never bored or restless or antsy or claustrophobic. I was never desperate to get off this boat, though it was nice to see the volcanic peaks of the Marquesas that 25th morning. I look back on it now, and I miss the days spent reading. I miss the pace.

MG: You almost can’t think too hard or you’ll always find a way to talk yourself out of it, especially if it’s a little scary.

LL: Somehow the vastness of the ocean wasn’t so scary. We were becalmed for a couple days and the ocean was like glass, not a ripple. I remember looking down and you could see the jelly fish floating by and it was perfectly clear and glassy. No wind. That was surreal to be floating in the middle of this vast expanse of clear, glassy water. Just floating. It was fun! I would do it again.

MG: What about encounters with critters?

LL: We saw lots of dolphins, pilot whales, sea turtles and fish, a lot of fish – flying fish of course, and then barracuda, snapper, sail fish. In Galapagos, we saw all of the amazing Galapagos stuff – the sea lions and land tortoises and the blue-footed boobies, the iguanas. On the boat, we’d be thousands of miles from land and we’d see birds. Birds would land on the boat and they weren’t scared of people. They’d land on your knee. So, the critters entertained us as did a lot of other things. Like clouds.

MG: Really?

LL: Yes, so did sunrises and sunsets. Seeing satellites scamper across the sky at night. The flying fish that we found all over the boat in all sorts of weird crevices. Our running joke about the green flash at sunset. We had a how-many-miles-did-we-go-today pool. The falling stars every night were unbelievable.

MG: Ahh…the simple life.

LL: Exactly. I was really struck me by how comfortably we could live with so little. I became so aware of the basics and consumption. What we consumed in terms of power, water, cooking fuel, and the trash we create. We were very intentional about all of those things. We didn’t waste anything and when we were restocking supplies we considered the packaging it came in. Packaging becomes trash and we didn’t want trash sitting around until the next port and we didn’t want to junk up the ocean.

MG: Has that intentional thinking carried over now that you’re back home?

LL: Yeah, actually. I’m even more conscious about how much trash I generate. Sure I recycle, but what if I just didn’t generate it in the first place. And,

MG: What else is different for you as a result of this experience?

LL: I don’t have my head around this yet, but there’s something about being on a boat, about being on water that’s unlike any other experience I’ve had. It’s different from renting a cabin in the woods for 25 days to get away. Somehow being on the boat and being so connected with nature and the forces of nature…it’s a unique experience. I’ve also become more conscious about how that I create expectations that lead to anxiety when there’s no reason. If I have no worries in my life,, I will find something to worry about.

MG: What do you mean?

LL: For example, on the boat everybody had a job and mine was cooking. About two-thirds of the way trough the trip,I woke up one morning overwhelmed by whether I was going to fix eggs or oatmeal for breakfast. I was lying there in bed tormented by what felt like a life or death decision. Meanwhile no one on the boat was a picky eater, had ever complained, had ever been anything but appreciative and grateful about what I had cooked.

MG: I think you’re about to say you had a come-to-Jesus moment…

LL: I had a moment, certainly.

MG: Was it an epiphany with legs or was it more an epiphanal blip?

LL: I’m definitely more aware of my ingrained tendencies. Like a lot of people I thought that if I could just get away I wouldn’t worry about anything anymore. Ha! Here I was on the ultimate getaway and still these patterns were creeping in and spoiling things. Now that I’m back, I’m better at sensing when mine are emerging and I’m learning to nip it in the bud. The best I can do is try to remember and manage.

MG: Will this be the underlying premise of your book?

LL: Um, no. But I have all of these notes about the trip and I want to coalesce them in some way. I’m trying to not put too much pressure on myself to produce “something” or to set a deadline around it, because, well, that would be my pattern. I want to enjoy doing my coalescing.

MG: You say coalesce with great feeling.

LL: Really, do I? Well, that’s what seems to be important.

MG: Where have I heard the name Queequeg before?

LL: Moby Dick. He was the harpoonist.
For 20+ years, Lara Lowman worked in fundraising and communications, primarily in independent schools. She also had a brief stint in corporate America as editor of a magazine for business customers at a large telecom company. Since returning from Tahiti at the end of December, Lara has been busy with freelance marketing communication and corporate event projects. Though raised in Texas, she has lived in Atlanta since 1994. She can be reached at laralowman@hotmail.com.

To follow the ongoing adventures of the Queequeg II, visit the website complete with an online diary: www.queequegtwo.com.

The small remembrances from grade school that stick in our brains!

Back in second grade,  my teacher, Mrs. Gardner, launched the first day of March by posing this question to us:   would March arrive like a lion or lamb? Then she had us make some new artwork for the classroom walls by drawing pictures of whichever version of March we preferred. I can’t say with 100% certainty that I chose the former — fat-cheeked clouds with eyes squeezed tight as they strove to unleash a mighty bluster, a little figure below them clutching a hat as they were pitched forward from a gust of wind — but I’m 99% sure that was my pick.  That’s my M.O.

I’ve always loved that question (lion or lamb?), and it’s become one of my little rituals. February was such a blur of busyness that I almost forgot it. I like to think that I’m impervious to whatever life throws at me, or whatever I throw into my life — it goes both ways. My porous spots, though, invariably reveal themselves. It happens. I’m human.

Today, however, is a fresh day, and it’s going to be a beee-uuuu-tiful day at that: 70 degrees and sunny, warm and soft as lambswool. Just like yesterday. It seems, thusly, that March has declared it’s 2008 debut.  Which just so happens to be  contrary to my customary vote for a dramatic entrance,  with great billowing gusts that roar through the trees and rattle the windows.

It seems, too, that Mother Nature is using her noggin, hand-delivering to me on a gilded platter the very thing I need (my preferences be damned): less drama, more calm.  So, I think I’ll refrain from doing anything impertinent, like looking this gift lamb in the mouth, and instead take my tookus outside and enjoy it!

Holy guacamole it’s already the end of the month and - let’s face it - I haven’t spent much time in the rumpus room. My theme of inspiration didn’t ultimately, well, inspire me quite to the degree I had anticipated. (Who would have thunk?) After a while inspiration arrived more like drizzle, with just enough oomph to wet the bottom of my creative bucket but not enough to fill it. After a while getting inspired, staying inspired, noticing when I was inspired became work…and then it stopped being fun.  Bummer.

But I have no intention of closing out this month on a low-ish note. No way. Instead, I’m sharing with you one of my favorite sites in Atlanta: the boiled peanut/tomato/firewood/beans stand that’s been on the corner of Ponce and Moreland for as long as I can remember. It’s an intersection known for backed up traffic because it doesn’t have the turning lanes or turning lights that any city planner with half a brain would know needs to be there. So, I’ve spent some time at this intersection as you may already inferred, stewing and fuming about traffic, that is until I look up and see the peanut/firewood/tomato/beans man’s bright banner.

And, the same thought always crosses my mind: they deliver? Peanuts?

Yesterday as I was waiting at the traffic light in Virginia Highland, I noticed a homeless man sitting on a bench outside of Moe’s & Joe’s, holding a take out cup of coffee like it was gold.

Something about the way he wrapped his hand on the cup and balanced it on his knees, the way he huddled in a heavy jacket and sweatshirt with the hood pulled close to his face on a relatively warm and sunny day, the way he seemed utterly isolated on this neighborhood bench while cars drove past him and people ate hamburgers and fries behind him, stuck with me.  So still. Eyes fixed upon the coffee.

I don’t know why the image of this man echoes.  Words flutter in my head, but they hang in their separate orbits, not ready or not inclined to organize and assemble into something articulate.  I’ve learned something from this scene.
All I know was that today when I stopped to get a cup of coffee, it tasted different, felt different in my hand, looked different on the counter.  Instead of taking it for granted, it was good luck in a cup.  My good luck.  Shaken and stirred, I drank every drop.

“I learned what every dreaming child needs to know- that no horizon is so far you cannot get above it or beyond it.” 

– Beryl Markham

What happens when three women who love to brainstorm meet to brainstorm?  The ideas nearly blow the roof off the conference room they’re meeting in…but for the best of reasons.  (The big bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts didn’t hurt the energy levels either.)

Today I took part in a mastermind session convened by a friend who’s ready to play a bigger game and take her brainchild (an online community for multi-tasking women) to the next level.  We spent over four hours dishing openly about ideas, opinions and options.  It’s such a privilege to be a part of a friend’s evolutionary process.  And although this conversation was inspired by the needs of one, we were all moved a bit closer to our respective horizons.

Having a group of people with whom you can engage in some blue sky thinking is one of the things I cherish most, protect the fiercest, rely on avidly to help me grow.  It reminds me, every time, that I’m not alone, that I “have people”.