You like wooden boats and flaky salt and having dahlias at your desk. Sometimes you tell yourself mean things when you run. You feel calmer when you go outside at lunchtime. If you don't sleep well one night, you usually do the next. Having a whole mystery series to read makes you feel safe. You always thought you weren't tough, but you are. You really do believe failure goes on some sort of permanent record. You can get weirdly absorbed in cleaning out a drawer. You try so hard to be good at things you don't actually want to do. You never ask yourself if maybe you should just stop doing them.~Kristi Coulter (From Exit Interview--The Life and Death of My Ambitious Career)

My husband has more than once accused me of being "too nice." Guilty as charged. A lot of the time, I just want people to like me. People pleasing. Yes sir, that's me. I feel guilty if I say no to others. I feel responsible for others' emotions. I want things to work out. I believe it's up to me. I don't practice this upside-down behavior all the time, but frequently enough so that I'm capsized in a world that demands so much attention. I'm working on it. But I'm not trying to be meaner or increase callousness. No, not that. That's even worse. 

I finished a book by Kristi Coulter last week. I opened this post with her quote. She worked at Amazon for twelve years. She was competent, intelligent, creative and productive. And nice. Yet throughout her career, she experienced many of the same feelings that I have. She often ignored what was important to her, denied that her preferences and thoughts and talents really counted. She gave so much attention to others that she suppressed herself. The pain of diluting who she was finally grabbed her attention. She decided to became kinder to herself. But is there really a difference between niceness and kindness?

Choosing to remain present with your friends, to take the dog out, to listen patiently to your coworker even while your mind is screaming and you want to hide or pound your head until it stops--such things are small offerings, small sacrifices, little acts of defiance against your suffering, that may mean the world to them. And anyway, those small offerings are all that God asks of you.~Alan Noble (From On Getting Out Of Bed, The Burden And Gift Of Living)

As 2023 ended, I didn't have much motivation to look back and evaluate the year. I looked in the rearview mirror and felt wistful, in a way, that I'd lived another year. These years vaporize before me now that I'm older. Very old, some would say. Closer to seventy than sixty. Yet I don't feel much different than I did in my thirties. Sometimes better, because in my thirties there was so much to do--kids and career and making enough money. Marriage and church. So much on my mind.

During the holidays, I listened to a song by Joni Mitchell, I Wish I Had A River I Could Skate Away On. It's a melancholy song. The singer wants to get away from the pain of her life. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on. I wish I had a river so long. I would teach my feet to fly. 

As I have for most of my life, I felt that I was on the cusp of getting it all right and just needed a little more time.~Katherine May (From Wintering--The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times)

I stayed up late and watched The Late Show with Stephen Colbert a few nights ago. Jon Batiste, Colbert's former band leader, made an appearance. Batiste said the last few years have been filled with a lot of uncertainty. He explained that in the midst of winning multiple Grammy awards and writing a symphony (now a documentary film, American Symphony), his wife had a recurrence of cancer. Batiste said in an attempt to help her feel more relaxed while in the hospital getting treatment, he wrote lullabies for her. "I just knew with all the monitors beeping and hospital staff coming and going she needed to receive a frequency of rest, and the lullabies helped her stay calm and keep anxiety away." 

The definition of grace is that it's not deserved. It does not require a good night's sleep to give it, or a flawless record to receive it. It demands no particular backstory.~Leslie Jamison

I drove at night, the rain streaming down the windshield. Red and blue and green--and even purple this year--Christmas lights blinked on and off as I whisked past homes and stores. I wanted to feel cozy in the warm car, my mittened hands on the steering wheel. Instead, I felt blue. Sad. Karen Carpenter sang on the radio, "It's that time of year when the world falls in love..." I said out loud, "Oh, Karen. You sang like a bird. And then you didn't recover from an eating disorder. Your heart stopped beating. You must have been sad too, even though you made so many people happy with your songs." I even thought about a church I'd attended years ago that had a "Blue Christmas" service for those parishioners who had terrible memories of Christmas. Childhood traumas. For those who'd lost a loved one. Those who mourned a divorce or a suicide or who suffered clinical depression. Sometimes green, fragrant wreaths and red bows can't touch pain. 

All I wanted to do was find a bench to sit on and watch it snow. There is no snow in South Carolina. I decided to write a letter to God. 

What Gorgeous Thing~Mary Oliver

I do not know what gorgeous thing the bluebird keeps saying,

his voice easing out of his throat, beak, body into the pink air of the early morning.

I like it, whatever it is. Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world without dark thoughts.

Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world that is without questions that can't and probably

never will be answered, the only thing that is entirely content with the pink, then clear white 

morning and, gratefully says so.

They are forever etched in my mind. Bob and Louise. They came over to my childhood home every Christmas Eve. Louise brought homemade fudge and a basket of gifts. When I was about four, my mother asked me what I thought God might look like. I said, "I think God might look like Bob." Bob was blond and fair skinned. His eyes evolved into blue crescents when he smiled. He puffed on a pipe when he listened to my childish pattering, nodding and laughing, occasionally reaching out to touch my shoulder. I felt loved just being near him. And Louise always seemed to choose the gift that felt individualized and personal, though she couldn't have known what I wanted. One Christmas, when I was 13, I unwrapped a bottle of Windsong perfume from Louise. I thought I'd never smelled anything better. I kept uncapping the top and holding the bottle to my nose. The scent of Windsong followed me throughout adolescence. 

Birdsong. Yes. What a glorious thing. I walked this morning around my condo complex and tilted my face up to the honeyed blue sky, listening to a bird perched on a dark, wintery tree limb. A few orange leaves still clung to the branch. The sky and birdsong seemed to pour into my heart. I liked it. I felt better. "Keep on singing," I said out loud.