2014 february fun

It is February again tomorrow, that least favorite month of mine, and I'm attempting once again to force it to be enjoyable with a February Fun list: 28 small things in 28 days that will bring a little delight to every one of those days.

I am not unaware of the fact that 28 days is the typical length of an addiction-breaking cycle. Perhaps I am trying to break the winter doldrums, not that I'm addicted to doldrums. But this is the rut time of winter, and you either need to break out of it—or it will break you.

For this year, I modified previous years' February Fun lists based on some brainstorming session with friends. {That's another thing about this Fun: Everyone is invited to participate, but some of the days are pretty specific to me. Run 10 miles, for example. If that doesn't sound fun to you, I won't make you do it, shouting at you the whole time like a maniacal drill sergeant: "Are you having fun now?!??"}

Other people came up with ideas like: go to a movie, go to a new place for brunch, go to the Art Institute.

Meanwhile, I came up with ideas like: buy a new book, make sure all your pictures are up to date, bake brioche, clean out your closet {and donate what you don't need anymore}, and buy new underwear.

Broadly speaking, I'd say that other people have fun ideas of things to do together, while all I want to do is be alone with my food, books, and organizational tendencies.

In an effort to "grow as a person," though, I've incorporated some of those non-solitude activities {a less awkward way to say that: social activities, although that does sound like I'm on a cruise and the purser has planned fun things for us on the Lido Deck}.

Here's to a fun-filled February. Please report back and tell me, on a scale of 1 to 28, how fun your February was.

2014 February Fun

1. retreat far, far away (and off the grid): I'm going on a partially silent retreat with my church. Doesn't quiet sound fun?
2. wear fun earrings
3. buy a new CD
4. find a Zooniverse project to work on: I read about this in the Tribune the other day. You can help! With science! Just by using your computer! Look at the projects—I'm most intrigued by the one to help catalog soldiers' diaries from World War I.
5. make something out of my new Downton Abbey cookbook: Or since you probably don't have this same cookbook, you can just make a new recipe.
6. schedule coffee with a friend {or dinner or whatever—basically, schedule quality time with someone. Good friends don't count—this need to be someone you don't see much.}
7. buy flowers
8. bake brioche
9. clean out your clothes and donate the ones you don't need anymore
10. re-organize your books {or whatever else you want to organize}
11. read a short story
12. buy new underwear
13. eat dark chocolate {good for the brain, you know}
14. write a postcard to Java: I read about this in Oprah while I was at the gym one day. To help students in Java learn English, you can send them a postcard telling them a little bit about who you are and where you come from. If you include your address, they may even write you back. Learn more about it.
15. go to a movie
16. write to your nieces and nephews, if applicable: Otherwise, just write a card to someone, anyone.
17. bake for your neighbors {or a friend}
18. re-read a favorite childhood book
19. write a poem
20. host a craft night {or go to one, preferably the one I'm hosting}
21. school spirit day: Remember back in high school when you got to have different Spirit Days, such as Wear Your Pajamas to School Day or 70s Day? We don't get Spirit Days in the Grown-up World, so I'm declaring a personal Spirit Day. For me, this means I could wear something purple and gray in support of my high school team, the Grayhounds—Fight, Purple! Fight, Gray! Fight, fight today! Yes, I still remember my cheerleading chants.}
22. Glen Ellyn Style with friends: I'm sure you have no idea what this is, but all it means is "hang out with your friends in downtown Glen Ellyn and wander through a bunch of shops. Getting coffee is also a good idea."
23. run 10 miles
24. make something out of my new Simply in Season cookbook: I'm sure you're thrilled that I've gotten two new cookbooks just before this February Fun began.
25. go to Starbucks and pay for a random person's stuff
26. paint your nails
27. be a wine-o {or just have a glass of wine}
28. make hot cocoa. Like real hot cocoa, not Swiss Miss

breaking the rules {part II}

To get the full effect of me breaking the rules, you may want to start with Part I.

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There were hundreds of us—thousands of us—who'd all gotten up before 5 to make it here to O'Hare for early morning flights.

I wanted to stop a random sampling and ask, "Where are you going? Did you also set your coffeemaker to auto-brew this morning so that you'd wake up to the smell of coffee? Are you excited for your trip? Is it vacation or work or something else entirely? Have you ever seen so many people here this early?"

Sometimes, the thought of the stories going on around us can be overwhelming. Do you ever look around a crowd and think—everyone here has one memory that always makes them giggle. Everyone has a heartbreak, and everyone has a favorite book or song or movie.

It sounds naive, but the wealth of stories can make me feel both incredibly small and blessedly in awe. It also reminds me of a quote I have written somewhere: "Be kind to everyone you meet. They all have troubles and joys of their own."

But faced with hundreds upon hundreds of people in the security line at O'Hare, I didn't want to consider anyone else's trouble. For the moment, it was all horribly, selfishly about my trouble: even though I'd done everything just as I should—checked in online, printed my boarding pass already, packed just a carry-on, worn uncomplicated shoes {read: easy to take off}, and arrived 75 minutes early—there was no way I was going to make my flight.

Hundreds of people literally stood in my way, each of them with their own giggly memory or whatever else I was just waxing lyrical about, not that I was thinking about that crap just then.

I was more thinking: if I get a good enough running start, can I hurdle over these people and what would the TSA think of my ninja move?

Because I'm not a ninja, I did the next best thing: I talked to an airline employee.

Me: Why, good morning, Sweet Airline Employee (SAE)! Gosh, lots of people here today. I wonder why that is.

SAE: It's because a lot of people bought plane tickets to fly today.

Me: Oh, yes, a very astute point. You're quite clever and a little sarcastic. I like that about you. Also, you look very sharp in your uniform.

SAE: [blank, bored stare, as if she hates her uniform] Can I help you?

Me: I sure hope so! [flash former cheerleader smile, hold for a few beats] Now, my flight is at 7:15, and I've been in this line for about 20 minutes. I'm a little concerned about how the line stretches from here to Iowa. I mean, look at that! There should be porta-potties and benches along there.

SAE: 7:15? Oh, you just might make it, honey.

Me: [encouraged by how she called me honey] Ok, it's that "just might" that has me worried. I have a lunch meeting at a very good pizzeria in Montclair, NJ, and I'd like to be there for it. You'd love this pizza, especially the salsiccia, I think—all their pizzas are cooked in an incredibly hot kiln sort of thing. Tastes just like Italy. But this line is in the way of my pizza. [flash cheerleader smile again, although I'm starting to get the impression that maybe this lady didn't like the cheerleaders at her high school. They must've been the snotty mean girl variety.]

SAE: Well, honey, maybe you should've planned ahead better.

Me I know you don't know me very well {beyond that I like pizza}, but that's the thing—I did plan ahead, and I never ask for exceptions, but...oh, you're walking away. And laughing. I see how it is. Bye!

My boss called just then, saying that he was at the gate and wow, there were a lot of people flying today and where was I?

"For how far I am from the gate, I may as well still be at home in bed with my little pug snoring away in her little bed," I told him as I eyed the unmoving line.

"You can always try going through the Priority Access line. That's what I did," he offered.

"Yes, but you actually have Priority Access. I have an American AAdvantage credit card: do you think I could flash that as proof that I'm special?"

"It's worth a shot."

"Flashing my credit card? That'd be like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill trying to get into a press conference by showing his Blockbuster card and saying he worked for their in-house magazine."

"No, not flashing your credit card. Just walk through Priority Access like you know what you're doing." As he said that, I stepped out of line and walked toward the empty Priority line.

"All right, I'll see you soon. I hope. If I don't get on the plane, assume I've been banned from the airport for life for breaking the rules. And maybe also beat up by all these other people in the security line who are obeying the rules."

I briefly considered keeping the phone at my ear as I handed my boarding pass to the TSA guy.

I'd pretend to be on an Important Call and say things like, "You let Frank know that his proposal is laughable. As if the ROI he's promising is even possible. Tell him to be realistic and get me a revision by the time I land. Yes, I'll be in the office for lunch. Get me that kind of pizza I like from the place I can never remember the name of. And a salad, but not with the funny kind of lettuce. Also, make sure my schedule is cleared for a 5-mile run at 3:30. I hope you know where my running shoes are. On second thought, tell Frank that was his last shot. He's done."

By the time I finished pretending to be Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada {is it bad that I was imagining being so many movie characters all in one morning?}, the TSA guy would've checked my boarding pass, overheard that I was an Important Person with a Schedule, and waved me through.

But I didn't do that, of course.

------

Coming tomorrow: Part III, aka The Ending When I Actually Tell You About the Sandwich and the Sick Baby

baby jesus is naughty

I don't remember how I broke baby Jesus.

Most likely, I was playing with him. There was a lack of toys at Grandma and Grandpa Walker's house, and my options were: wooden blocks or paper for drawing/hat making/confetti making.

Baby Jesus, as I called the statue when I was a 3ish-year-old, was always out in the living room, looking a lot like a little porcelain doll and therefore a lot like a toy. He wasn't actually Jesus as a baby—more Jesus as an angelic-looking toddler, which may be why my grandma kept him out when I was over: to give me an example of a good little child.

I may have been only 3, but I'd already provided my family with enough stories of "the time Kamiah showed off her strong will and intense personality" to last a lifetime. Certainly enough to last my lifetime, seeing as these stories are still brought up at many a family gathering:

• The time Kamiah screamed every five minutes for no apparent reason on a several hour car ride—aka, the time the family wanted to attach me to the roof of the car
• The time Kamiah threw a temper tantrum at a soccer match at the 1984 Olympics because her dad wouldn't buy her—little 2-year-old her—a king-size Snickers bar all for herself
• The time(s) Kamiah screamed without stopping for a breath—and then passed out, only to wake up a few minutes later the picture of contrition, a cuddly little thing who rivaled Beth from Little Women for sweetness

Most of these stories end with the summary: "My gosh..."

{This usually said in the very Iowan accent of "My gaish"}

"My gosh, she was a little hellion."

As a 3-year-old, I already had a bit too much of the hell-raiser in me, so my grandma probably encouraged me to play with baby Jesus; perhaps his general heavenly character would rub off on me.

Or maybe I'd want to start imitating his sweetly innocent face—smiling as if he had never thought he deserved a candy bar that was bigger than his head—and then for once in my life, I'd have my mouth shut and I wouldn't be screaming.

So I was playing with baby Jesus. Given my obsession with cheerleading and gymnastics at that time, I was probably making him do triple back flips with a double twist. This meant I was throwing him in the air and then hoping my chubby little fingers would catch him, iffy hand-eye coordination notwithstanding.

Or maybe I was making him be the top of the pyramid during the cheerleaders' big halftime routine. Maybe his teammates were St. Francis of Assisi and the Holy Mother, and they, I'm sorry to say, let him down, not supporting baby Jesus well enough while he gave a big "GO, TEAM!"

Down down down our Lord and Savior tumbled because his cheerleading squad didn't have very good spotters, people positioned to catch Jesus, should he ever fall. Peter was probably his spotter, but it maybe would've been smart to make Mary the spotter, seeing as she did stay at the foot of the cross until they lowered his body. She totally would've caught baby Jesus the cheerleader who took a tumble from the top of the pyramid.

Regardless of how it happened, I broke baby Jesus. His head came right off, and my grandma walked into the living room to see me standing there with his body in one hand and his head in another.

I looked up at her and then hid baby Jesus' head and body behind my back. If she couldn't see him, then he didn't exist, right?

"Kamiah! You broke baby Jesus! You are a very naughty girl!" My grandmother stood with her hands on her hips, the time-honored posture for angry grandmothers. A finger-wagging may have also been involved.

I glared right back at her and snapped, "Baby Jesus is broke; baby Jesus is naughty!"

At that, I'm sure my very, very Catholic grandmother crossed herself and started going through the rosary in an attempt to make God forget what her next-door-to-a-heathen granddaughter had just said.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, and I'm sorry that girl is being raised Pentecostal and not Catholic and that she just said your son is naughty after she decapitated him.
Blessed art thou among women, and if you forgive her, I promise I'll try to make her become Catholic, especially in about 20 years when she starts to attend an Anglican church.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, who, just for the record, I don't think is naughty.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, but mostly for that little hellion who just killed your son.

Amen.

my international driving permit

"No! Less smiling!"

It was 7:45 in the morning, and I was being chastised about my smile in Walgreen's. Saleem was trying to take my picture for my International Driving Permit, and I did what I always do when a camera is turned on me: I smiled like it's the final play of the Homecoming game and my smile and cheerleading skirt is the only thing that will guarantee us a win.

More than a decade after my last fight song dance {Go get 'em, Grayhounds! Come on and fight with all your might!}, I still have some lingering remnants of a cheerleader in me, these automatic responses that will not go away.

One. When someone says, "Ready?" I think in my head—and sometimes say out loud—"Ok!" That was the beginning of every cheer, followed by this resounding, all-squad thigh smack. To reinforce the readiness, ok?

Two. I have the urge to do spirit fingers at every kick-off, even if it's just on TV and even if I'm just walking past the TV and not really watching the game. I still have to will my fingers to not wiggle, to not do that small-scale sparkle of a dance that brings good luck.

Three. I smile when a camera is turned on me. Big. Showing the teeth. Crinkle the eyes. Let them know you're happy. Smile.

In other word, cheerleading made getting my International Driving Permit a process this morning.

I'd stopped by Walgreen's on my way to work to get some passport-sized pictures to take to AAA, where I'd get my Permit. I'm going to France next week, and for the first time ever, I'll be driving there.

When I read in my guidebook that it's strongly recommended—but not required—to have an International Driving Permit, I started planning immediately for how I would fit this into my pre-France week.

You see, I live by the motto: Better safe than sorry.

And I wanted to avoid this scenario {translated from the French for all you non-Francophiles}:
Moi: I have the driver's license. License of driver—of driving. How do you say that? Um...I can drive the car in the United States. See?

{Please note: I translated my part in this imaginary conversation that I just made up into broken English. Because I'm sure my "I swear I used to speak French relatively well" French will go through some cranky, non-grammatical adjustments next week.}

French Person Working at the Car Rental Agency: Yes, but mademoiselle, your driver's license is in English. And this is France, land of pastries and intense pride in the language. Why should we accept your American driver's license and reward you with a car?

Moi: But there's a word that is a little looking French on there! Illinois! A little like French, no? Is that enough?

French: That is not at all like French.

Moi: {muttered} You're not at all like French.

French: Pardon? Mademoiselle, may I remind you that when you lived here {Side note: This French person has become omniscient, which is kind of frightening, but if you've ever talked to a French person working at a store or a ticket window, you'll know that they have the ability to appear omniscient and just in general, more in the know than you.}...May I remind you that we made you fill out 37 forms, just to get a bank account?

That you had to bring your passport and visa to get a cell phone?

That to run a half-marathon in Paris, we made you get a signed doctor's certificate swearing that you were in good health?

That to end your cell phone contract, you had to send proof that you were, in fact, no longer living in France—and that proof had to be a job offer letter, translated into French? {And we know what you did: we know you had your father "offer" you a job at his accounting firm and that you then translated it, simplifying the language where you needed to. We know this.}

What, in your experience with la belle France, has led you to believe that we will give you a rental car, simply because you reserved it and you're smiling your big American smile in your driver's license from Illinois?

Moi: Le sigh. I remember.

With that possibility in mind, I went to get an International Driving Permit.

In France I live by the motto: Be prepared for bureaucracy. And charm. And a beautiful way of life. And days that you don't want to end. But also: for the bureaucracy.

At 7:45 this morning, I was told to smile without showing my teeth. I actually had to cover my mouth with my hand and look away from Saleem—standing there with his camera—for a minute to actually do this, this no-teeth smile.

When I looked back at him, he said, "No!"

And then he walked up and fixed my hair. This 50ish man from India {he called it the "sub-continent" and I suddenly felt like I was in The Secret Garden} thought my side-swept bangs needed a little help.

He said, "You need to show more forehead. They like that, the government people. You need to be more serious and have more forehead."

This guy could be working the Glamor Shots booth at the mall.

I covered my mouth again, looked away, tried to expand my forehead, then stared into the camera with this prim smile that I imagined was used at afternoon teas on the sub-continent during the British Raj.

I tried to communicate to the camera: Dear French person working the counter at the rental agent, please give me a car. I want to see more of your country and maybe even speak my broken French with people in small towns way off the main roads.

I think it worked.

Or at least it worked for Saleem, who told me afterwards that I took a very nice picture and that I should enjoy myself in France because I seem like a nice girl who deserves a nice trip.

i was still at a bar

I wrote the beginning of this bar story {one of my few bar stories} the other day, so if you want to read all the build-up {and why, for example, I'm talking about poetic effusions below}, you should read that.

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I was about to make one of those poetic effusions to my friend Anna. It was probably going to be along the lines of, "This bar makes me feel like a 20-something who has a place." Over-the-top, I know, but poetic effusions aren't known for being low-key.

But before I could say that, a boy appeared at my side, a different boy than the one who had offered to buy me a vodka and Red Bull.

"I saw you playing that basketball game. You look more like you belong on the sidelines in a cheerleading skirt," he said, leaning in to whisper and slipping an arm around my waist.

Truth can be so ugly coming from the wrong mouth.

I turned to look him straight in the eye, which wasn't hard because he didn't go much above my 5'2". I had a clear shot into his brain—a brain considerably muddled by alcohol—and all I found there was me doing a defense chant in his apartment, an impossible dream on his part. "So how about we go somewhere else to get to know each other?"

You may think this guy destroyed my pre-nostalgia glow, my reverie of thinking about how much I was enjoying this particular moment. And it is true that I stopped smiling so encouragingly and widely at the world in general, but everyone at the bar in specific. I've learned that my pre-nostalgia smile, when sent in the wrong direction, can look like, "Hey, you. Come on over here and say things that make me blink in shock."

Actually, this guy increased my pre-nostalgia because even as he was talking, I thought, 'I got hit on! In a bar! In Lincoln Park! This will make a good story!'

I neatly removed his arm and said, "I saw you playing that basketball game. You look more like you belong on a soccer field."

He laughed.

Said something about my acerbic wit.

Tried to get me to leave with him again.

Eventually, he got the hint that I was staying right where I was, at the bar that had sent me into a pre-nostalgic spin. I was staying with my friends, listening to bands in a back room draped in twinkle lights. It took him longer than it should have to get the hint.

But I got something, too: another good story—one that begins with, "I was at a bar, and..."

i was at a bar

This is the beginning of a story I've been trying to tell for over a week. I've been on a work trip in Miami, and as glitzy as that sounds, it turns out you never have as much free time as you want when you're on a work trip. And all the free time you do have, you want to spend lying down not talking to anyone because you're a bit social-ed out.

So I didn't spend my free time writing; I think I knew in the back of my mind that I wouldn't have time, but I always have hopes that I'll wake up early, go for a run on the beach, and then write by the pool before getting to my first meeting at 8am. I don't know how I thought that'd be possible.

In these few moments I have before I board my plane back to Chicago, I'm going to get the beginning of this story out. Finally.

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It was Friday night, and I was at a bar.

I realize this is a completely normal statement for a 28-year-old to make, but not for this 28-year-old. I probably have less than five stories that start with, “I was at a bar.” Maybe even less than three, and most of them take place in a foreign country: “I was at a bar in…Barcelona.” That’s because people do abnormal-for-them things while studying abroad, all under the guise of learning more about the culture. (Helpful tip: don’t point out to anyone who studied abroad that most of their pictures and stories are filled with other Americans studying abroad.)

To put this in perspective—in case I need to prove more that I am not a bar girl—I probably have 117 stories that with, “I was at a museum.” And I have maybe 562 that start “I was at a café.”

This would be a non-exciting Venn diagram (are they ever really exciting?), but there’s most likely a sizable intersection of stories that feature both a museum and a café. Arty coffee makes for a good story.

But this one Friday night in October, the day before Halloween, I was at a bar in Lincoln Park, which is a trendy part of Chicago.

A sidetrack of a geography lesson, for those of you not familiar with Chicago’s neighborhoods and the stereotypes associated with them: Most fresh-from-college kids move to Wrigleyville, the neighborhood around Wrigley Field. They go there, I presume, because you drink to celebrate a Cub victory and drink more to commiserate a Cub loss—and of course, the latter happens more often.

It doesn’t hurt that there are also lots of hot dog stands in Wrigleyville, places that stay open way past my bedtime and are known for yelling at you if you want ketchup on your hot dog because everyone knows that a true Chicago hot dog comes with relish, onion, pepper, and mustard—and never, ever any ketchup. The yelling bit is part of their character and fame, and I bet it’s a hilarious experience at 2am—to be yelled at over cased meat product.

After awhile, though, the extended Greek life, all this excessive partying as if they were still 21 and could start the weekend on Thursday night, this starts to wear. This is when people move to Lincoln Park, which is classier. More grown-up feeling.

There are still bars, yes, but they’re more upscale: there are more wine bars and fewer bars with a floor that makes you wish you could levitate because you can’t stand the idea of touching it, even with your shoes.

Lincoln Park is more refined, but it’s also like your cousin who pretends that she’s no longer from a small town just because she’s been in the Big City for a minute. You know that under the overpriced skinny jeans is someone who drops her g’s, hangs out at the Dairy Queen, and went to parties in cornfields when she was in high school.

And like your cousin, Lincoln Park still knows how to party, especially on a Friday night.

I was not in one of those classy wine bars. I was in a neighborhood bar, the kind where you could set a sitcom about late 20-somethings trying to figure out how they’re going to make it after all. This bar would be where they come every Thursday night after work to sit at the corner bar and to play darts.

Not that this bar had a dart board, but I’m sure the props department could take care of that for the show.

The bar—called The Store, I’m guessing because it used to be a store—had one of those arcade basketball games, the kind where you have 45 seconds and a lot of small basketballs to make as many baskets as you can. There’s a soundtrack of cheering and whistles and buzzers, a soundtrack familiar to me from Friday nights in high school.

I wasn’t at the parties that took place in cornfields; I was on the sidelines of a football field or a basketball court in a short purple skirt shouting from my diaphragm: “Defense! Defense! Get that ball!”

A band—a French gypsy jazz band—had just finished their set in the back room, which was decorated with twinkle lights and Halloween stuff. There were fake cobwebs stretched across the windows and decals of ghosts on the mirrors. It's difficult to feel that you're in an edgy bar when it's decorated like a second grade classroom on the day of the big Halloween parade.

I am easily enamored by places that burst with quirks, places that feel like conundrums, and this place qualified.

For starters, it had a small town feel sitting squarely in a neighborhood that puts the chic in Chicago. Then there was the French gypsy jazz that transported me to this little cafe I used to go to every Tuesday when I lived in Normandy—but in reality, of course, I was still standing in Illinois, holding a rum and coke, a fake spider dangling next to my shoulder.

At The Store, there were people in costumes and people still in work clothes (which is kind of like wearing a costume, I guess) and then there were the people all dressed up to go out, tall heels and small shirts.

I felt, standing there next to the arcade basketball game, that anyone could feel at home in this bar, and I felt so—part of something larger—just by being there.

I get this swirling excitement about a seemingly ordinary place or event or object a lot, and it usually builds up to expressing my general love of humanity in a way that would make Anne of Green Gables proud: a poetic effusion on a diner or a city park on a Saturday afternoon or two thick-handled coffee mugs on a table between two friends.

When this happens, I tend to get this big shine of a smile that doesn't show my teeth, making my face all cheek. My eyes dart everywhere, as if I were trying to categorize and file away every detail about this memory. Well, that's what I am doing.

I become a stalker of my own experience at times, and I came up with a term for the reverie I fall into: pre-nostalgia. I feel nostalgic for a moment before I'm done living it.

You know when you're in a good moment, don't you? When you look around at the people with you and the arcade basketball game beside you and think—I have a pretty okay life. I get to laugh, dance a little to French gypsy jazz, and that boy just offered to buy me a drink.

Yeah, this is more than okay, and that's when the pre-nostalgia sets in. While you're in the moment, you start thinking about how you'll describe the moment later on, how you'll tell the story so that other people feel like they were there, even if they've never been to a bar in Lincoln Park.

Perhaps this is just a problem for writers. Or—and I hope this isn't true—just for me.

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I do actually have a story from this bar—not just poetic effusions on how it was one of those quintessential nights. My newest story that starts with "I was at a bar" is coming soon. Perhaps even tomorrow.

a sunrise on my way to orlando

I'm in Orlando right now at the American Diabetes Association meeting, where I'm learning about continuous glucose monitors, how health care reform will impact diabetes prevention and treatment, and how close we are to creating an artificial pancreas.

{I like how I say "we," as if I'm in the lab with the researchers.  As a medical writer, I'm really more of a cheerleader, if cheerleaders exist in research labs.}

That may all sound very dull to you, but it's not to me, which is good, considering it's my job to be excited about it.

On my way to Orlando on Friday, I made this list called Thoughts I Had on My Way to Orlando.  A very clear name for a list, as list names should always be.

Thought #1:

Actually seeing the sun rise makes my heart and mind do the same thing:  rest in thankfulness for a moment of the divine.  In the car to O’Hare, I got to watch the sun shoot over the horizon.

It didn’t matter that squat buildings—auto shops, Dunkin’ Donuts, Target, a strip club—were in the foreground, blocking part of this bright fire of a morning routine.  You think perfect sunrise moments are on lakes or oceans, in mountains, or with you family.  But in reality, with the sun climbing over the horizon one more time, every sunrise is its own perfect, no matter where you are.

The sunrise, no matter where I see it, makes me think of Mary Oliver's "Morning Poem."  Read it.  Actually, I'll put it in here.  It's that important of a poem.  To me.

And maybe someday, I'll write a poem that makes me feel the way this poem does:  hopeful, bursting with imagination, in awe of the great and small details of our world.

Morning Poem 

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.