The Best Show In Town

The Academy Awards were tonight.  Like many American’s, I tuned in to watch celebrities and movie stars strut along the red carpet and flaunt their feathers.  My friends Erin, Katie and Kristin gabbed about each icon who trotted into view.

Unfortunately, I had nothing to add to the conversation.  The only Oscar nominated movie I saw in 2010 was Toy Story 3.  For some inexplicable reason, the other shows I attended, like Yogi Bear and Alvin and the Chipmunks, the Squeequel, had been passed over.  It makes me wonder what the world is coming to when a picture about talking animals isn’t even considered for recognition. 

Of course, the best show I saw this past year wasn’t at the theaters.  The best show I saw was this past Saturday when Emily debuted in the pre-school version of Horton Hears a Who.  Ken and I signed Emily up for pre-school theater class about six weeks ago.  It sounded like the right mix of dance and drama to help fuel the fire of a five-year old imagination. 

When we arrived at Emily’s first rehearsal, I imagined my daughter as the star of the show.  I pictured her reciting her lines like a trained thespian.  I anticipated that a Hollywood producer, who happened to wander into the venue, would recognize Emily’s raw genius and whisk us all away to California. 

For the next five years, Emily would star in dozens of blockbusters.  She would become world famous.  Then, just after turning 10, she would accept her first Academy Award.  In her acceptance speech, she would thank me, her lovely and beautiful mother for, being the wind beneath her wings.

As it turns out, the actual production wasn’t quiet as stunning as I imagined.  Most of the kids forgot their lines.  One boy hid under a table for the whole show.  And just after they marched on stage, Emily bolted into the audience to give me a big hug.  I had a strong suspicion that my future would not hold a red carpet moment any time soon. 

Still, it was the best show I saw all year.

On Being Tormented by a Beverage Dispenser

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

I was standing in front of the Coca Cola machine holding a fresh, crisp one-dollar bill.  After aligning the corners of the bill to the currency slot, I gave my dollar a gentle push.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  The machine grabbed the top edge of my bill and tugged it from my grip. 

I inhaled deeply and held my breath.  “C’mon. C’mon.”

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  The Coke machine spit the bill back at me.  Again.

“Crap.”

I tried again.  And again.  And again.  And again. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit.  
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit.

This is getting ridiculous, I thought.  All I wanted was a refreshing beverage. But I had been foiled again.  I yearned to bang the machine with my fist and demand that it take my dollar.  I wanted to scream "Why are you mocking me!"

From experience I knew that banging, demanding and screaming would not help.  The machine held all of the power.  The machine was in control.

This is so unfair, I thought.  I had a perfectly good dollar bill.  It was legal tender.  It said so right on the front.  It was a fine and fair piece of currency and it was entitled to the same respect as every other note.  But the damn soda machine disregarded the facts and spewed my money back as if it were a something bitter and distasteful, like a bug.

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

At this point, I had some choices.  I could have offered to change.  By that I mean, I could have dug around in my purse for eighty cents in coins in lieu of paper money.  But I didn't want change.  My dollar was my dollar.  I should be able to use it.

Change wasn’t my only option.  I had other choices too.  I could have given up and walked away.  I could have stood on my principals and boycotted the whole idea.  Or I could have used a different machine.  To hell with you Coca Coal, I’ll just move over here to the Pepsi box instead!  Yes, there were options available; I knew that.  

But why should I have to change or walk away or use a different dispenser?  After all, I was in the right.  The machine was in the wrong to reject my tender.  My money was good money.  The machine needed to understand and accept the bill I was offering.  The machine needed to amend its ways!

I tried to reason with it.  “Look here.” I said.  “This is a dollar bill.  You are required to accept it in exchange for a pop.  You have no valid reason for rejecting it.  So please, just knock it off.”

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

As I stood before the impersonal beast, it occurred to me that the struggle between me and machine was a metaphor.  It represented giant institutions around us.  It represented powerful organizations that set the rules without regard for my feelings or sense of fairness. 

The machine represented mechanical bodies that would just as soon spit me out before accepting me on my own terms.  The machine held all of the power.  The machine decided what would be accepted and what would be rejected.  The machine ruled.

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

Flooded with frustration, shoulders sagging, I quit.  There would be no refreshing Coca Cola dispensed to me that day.  I had been defeated.   I walked away.

I was standing in front of the Pepsi machine holding a fresh, crisp one-dollar bill.  After aligning the corners of the bill to the currency slot, I gave my dollar a gentle push.  The machine grabbed the top edge of my bill and tugged it from my grip. 

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 


Images attributed to and reproduced under conditions stated at this image source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Coca-cola_50cl_white-bg.jpg; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Vending_machines_at_night_in_Tokyo.jpg

A Do Nothing Day

Sometimes you just need a do-nothing kind of day.  Today was that day.  I had spent the day doing nothing.  And the less I did, the less I wanted to do.  And the less I wanted to do, the less I did.

As the day wore on, I began to feel like an old fashioned wind up toy.  When my clock work finally ground to a halt, I climbed into my bed for an afternoon nap.  I might have stayed there all day if Ken hadn’t put his foot down.

“You need to get up and move around.” He said.  I gave him my “don’t mess with me when I’m tired and grumpy” look.  But he wasn’t deterred.

“You should go out for a quick run.”  He said.

If my evil look wasn’t working, I’d have to try a different tactic to get Ken off my back.  I turned my excuse-o-meter to high.  “There’s still snow on the ground.”  I tried.

“It’s almost fifty degrees outside.” He countered.

“It’s too windy.”  I whined.

“A nice breeze will feel good when you’re running.”

I groaned.  “Fine.  I’ll go.  But I’m not going to like it.”  Arguing with Ken was too much work.  So I pulled on my exercise clothes and headed out doors. 

My feet pounded the familiar pattern.  As I ran, I looked around.  There were kids playing basketball across the street.  A man walking his dog smiled at me.  A bird landed in a barren tree and chirped.

The more I ran, the more I appreciated what Ken had done for me.  He could have let me wallow in my slump.  He could have let me nap all day.  Instead, he gently pushed me out the door and into the sunshine.

I feel lucky that Ken and I have learned, over the years, how to challenge and prod each other.  I feel lucky that Ken cares enough to tell me to get moving when he knows that I need it.  I feel lucky to have someone who will think about what is best for me even when I don’t want to.

Twenty minutes later, my run was over.  I walked into the house and pulled off my sneakers. 

Ken smiled at me smugly.  “I bet you feel a lot better.” He said.

“I do.” I smiled back. 

Lessons Learned from a Whomping Willow

Eric (8) was sitting to my right.  Emily (5) was on my left.  Beth (3) sat half on my lap and half on Eric's.  Dressed in our jammies, my babies cuddled close on my bed while I read from Chapter 5 of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. 

The children sat still and listened quietly as Harry and Ron hopped into a flying car because they had missed the Hogwarts Express.  Their eyes grew wide as the car swept through the clouds and darted over tree tops.  Their mouths hung open as the engine kicked and bucked just when Hogwarts Castle came into view.  When the car dove from the sky and crashed into the Whomping Willow, Emily shrieked and pulled my blue quilt over her head. 

“It’s OK, Honey Bee.” I said as I patted the top of her head.  "Harry will be OK." 

Emily peeked her nose from under the covers.  “Does Harry get hurt Mommy?” she asked.

I paused before answering.  Should I tell her the truth? Or should I lie? “Yes.” I finally admitted. “He does get hurt.  But only a little bit.  And he gets better.” 

Emily bolted back under the sheets and squealed again.  That didn't go the way I had planned.

What I wanted to tell Emily is that it’s important for Harry get hurt crashing a flying car into a Whomping Willow because later in the story the same car will save Harry and Ron from Aragog, the giant spider.  But I dint’t want to ruin the story.  And I thought mentioning giant spiders would only scare her more. 

So instead of explaining further, I sighed, patted Emily's head again and continued to read about Ron and Harry arriving at the castle. Eventually, Emily crawled out from her den and listened with her brother and sister until the chapter was complete.

Later, as I reflected on the events of the evening, I remembered a speech by J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books.  In a 2008 commencement address at Harvard University, Rowling told the graduates about "The Fringe Benefits of Failure and the Importance of Imagination." 

Standing before hundreds of hopeful graduates and their families, Rowling talked about her own upbringing, education, graduation, and subsequent unemployment.  She talked about being a poor, single mom, scraping the bottom of the barrel just to survive.  She talked about being miserable.  She talked about being a disappointment to her family. She said, "The fears that my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew."

Failure, however, did not lead to Rowling’s demise.  Instead it galvanized her passion for writing and spurred her to success.  Rock bottom, she said, became the solid foundation on which she rebuilt her life.

Relating her experience Rowling said:

"You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default."

"Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above the price of rubies."

"The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more than any qualification I ever earned."

As parents, we spend so much time trying to protect and insulate our children.  We want them to be successful.  We want them to be happy.  Yet the hardest lesson we have to learn is that great happiness and great success come with a price – the risk of failure.  And even more important, we have to understand that there is substantial benefit in allowing our children to fail.

A few weeks ago, Eric participated in the Pine Wood Derby with his Boy Scout Troop.  Eric and Ken spent a couple of days working together to design, carve, sand and paint an eight inch long car made from a block of pine. Other than some sawing, a tool that Ken deemed too dangerous for an eight year old, Eric designed, built and painted the racer on his own. 

When he finished, Eric beamed at me and displayed his prize.  The edges were jagged and rough.  The right wheel wobbled.  Some of the red paint on the hood had seeped into the blue paint on the windows.  The look of the finished product screamed "I was made by an eight year old and I have the blotchy paint job to prove it!"

My eyes scanned the vehicle before I finally smiled at Eric. "Well, what an interesting choice of colors. I can see you worked hard on this." I said.

When derby day approached, I crossed my fingers.  My fear was that Eric’s car would crawl down the ramp at a snail's pace while his competitors' cars zoomed across the finish line.  My fear was that the right wheel would fall off and roll across the floor and that all the other Scouts would laugh and jeer.  My fear was that Eric would lose every race.  My fear was that Eric would fail.

And he did.

Well, to be honest, Eric’s car didn't lose EVERY race.  He won one - out of four.  And his car was competitive in the other three races, finishing only a few tenths of a second behind the other cars.  And the right wheel stayed on the whole time  And he did have fun with his friends.  But when Eric didn’t get a ribbon or a trophy and the edges of his smile tilted downward, I knew he was disappointed.

Later that evening Eric sat on the floor playing with his car.  I sat at the kitchen table and watched. Finally,  Eric sensed my eyes on him and looked up at me.

“Mom, I think I know what kind of car I want to make next year.”  He said as he turned his model over in his hands and examined it.

I leaned forward.  “What kind?”

For the next ten minutes, Eric described his vision.  The car would be wedge shaped, smooth and sleek.  He would put more weight in the front next time.  He would paint a hockey design on the top.  Eric told me what he would do better.  He told me what he would change.  He told me what he had seen.  He told me that he had learned.

As Eric turned back to his toy, I sat back in my chair and smiled.  It’s tough to watch your kids fail, I thought.  But it’s worth it.

See you later

Eric (8) hopped up and down and punched his fists in the air.  Then he turned to his pal, Jackson.  

“Strike!” Eric shouted as he slapped Jackson with a high five.  As the pinsetter reset the game, the boys rushed over to the ball return and watched it spit Eric’s ball back into the hopper. 

Jackson and Eric have known each other since they were four months old when they started at the same day care during the same week in February of 2003.  The boys had a lot in common right from the start.  They were both born in the the fall of 2002.  They both liked to sleep, eat and cry at regular intervals.  And they both had great smiles. 

Over the next few years, Jackson and Eric shared common interests and experiences. They started walking and talking around the same time.  They were potty trained a few weeks apart.  They learned to spell and print their names.  They went through the trucks, cars, and superhero phases - though Jackson preferred Batman and Eric favored Spiderman.  They literally grew up together. 

For five years Eric saw Jackson almost every day - until they graduated from preschool and went to separate elementary schools. After that, although the boys didn’t spend every day together, Jackson’s mom and I made it a point to set up play dates.  We even went camping together.  And, all the while, Jackson and Eric continued to grow as friends.

Last April, I felt my heart sink when Jackson’s mom told me their family would be moving to Seattle.  Jackson was Eric’s first and longest friend.  It made me sad to think the boys wouldn’t go swimming or camping together anymore. And the boys wouldn't learn to drive a car together or go on double dates.

“I guess that’s it.” I thought.  “Eric’s longest friendship is over.”

Ten months later, Jackson’s family visited Illinois over the Christmas holidays and invited Eric for an afternoon of bowling.  As the day grew nearer, I wondered how the boys would react to seeing each other after their long separation. 

After all, Jackson had changed a lot in ten months.  He had grown taller. He was living in a new town.  He had new friends, a new house, and a new school.  Eric had changed too.  He was playing ice hockey in the winter and soccer in the spring.  He had made new friends; and had grown a bit too.

I thought the boys’ reunion might go one of two ways.  Either they would rush together and throw their arms around each other or they would hang back shyly as if they didn’t know each other. To my surprise, neither of those things happened.  Instead, Jackson and Eric walked into the bowling alley, waved hello to each other, and picked up exactly where they had left off ten months prior.  It was as if no time had passed.

Over the next hour, the boys bowled, ate French Fries, spilled their pop, and laughed.  When it came time to leave, Eric pulled on his coat and hat, raised his hand and waived. 

“See you later.”  He said.

Jackson waved back.  “See you later.”

Now that’s friendship.

Find Some Shrimp for Your Rice

Recently, I was at a Training and Leadership Instituted (TLI) for my Toastmasters Club.  For those not familiar, Toastmasters is an organization that promotes development of speaking, communication and leadership skills. 

During the TLI, I met a variety of people from other clubs.  One gal, S., who struck up a conversation with me during the break, told me how her club was struggling to maintain members.  S. said they would likely need to close their doors before summer. She was desperate to turn things around but didn't know how.

“Your club is thriving.” S. said. “Do you have any advice for a club that is sinking?”

I thought for a minute and said “It sounds like you need to find some shrimp for your rice.”

S. raised her eyebrows.  I could tell this was the last thing she expected me to say. But, as S. would discover, I had a very logical explanation for suddenly turning the topic of conversation to lunch.

I like to read.  Since I have three kids, you’ll most often find me reading Harry Potter, The Magic Tree House or Knuffle Bunny.  But on the advice of a colleague, I had recently read a book called Switch: How to Change Things When Change Is Hard by Chip and Dan Heath.

In Switch, the authors tell a story about an Activist who visited a village of rice farmers suffering from malnutrition. The Activist had six months to figure out why the villagers were starving and to fix the problem.  Instead of spending weeks cataloguing everything that was wrong – lack of proper education, poor sources of daily vitamins, etc. – the Activist looked around for the healthiest families. He called them the “bright spots.” 

On most levels, the bright spot families lead their lives exactly like every other villager. They awoke at the same time each day.  They worked in the same fields.  They went to sleep at the same time each night.  And they ate rice every day for every meal.

The only difference was that the mothers of the bright spot families fed their children four small meals a day instead of two larger ones; and they mixed sweet potato greens and brine shrimp into their rice.  It turns out that the additional vitamins and proteins from the sweet potatoes and shrimp, plus the spacing of smaller meals, was enough to make a difference between healthy and unhealthy. 

After finding these bright spots, the Activist set to work encouraging the other families to make the same change.  Six months later, 65% of the children were better nourished.

Bright spot thinking is a great way to approach any problem.  Whether its how to keep your house cleaner or how to improve the way you do your job, a little bright spot thinking can go a long way.  Using bright spot thinking means that instead of focusing on all the problems, all the things that are going wrong, you step back and look for the bright spots, the things that are going right. 

Lucky for us, the bright spots are easy to find.  They are the shining stars.  They are the highlights.  They are hard to miss. 

Once you find the bright spots, you watch.  You observe.  You see what the bright spots are doing that is so right.  You ask, what makes them bright? Then you do that too. 

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I like to use bright spot thinking when I exercise.  When I work out, there are some exercises that I can do well and that I like.  And there are some that I can’t do well and that I hate.  So I try to focus on the bright spots.  I make it a point to work twice as hard on the exercises I can do.  For exercises that I can’t do or that I don’t like, I try to find someone who does them well.  I watch them.  Then I try to copy their moves.

My conversation with S. only lasted a few minutes.  After that, we parted ways.  And though I may never know for sure, I sometimes wonder whether she ever found some shrimp for her rice.

P.S.  How do the photos fit this story?  Just showing off a couple of bright spots. :-)

I Could Never Do That

“I could never do that.”

I was talking to a friend, C., and telling her about my climb to the top of the AON building. (I know, I'm patting myself on the back again.  But, hey, someone needs to do it.) “It’s eighty floors to the top.” I boasted. “It was tough, but it was worth it.”

That’s when C. cast her eyes towards the floor and said, “I could never do that.” 

I talk a lot about exercising and the things I have accomplished recently.  Probably so much that people are getting sick of hearing about it.  (There she goes, bragging again.  Roll eyes.)  Yet here I am, talking about it again and I’m sure it won’t be the last time. But it wasn't always this way.

Flash back time. 

It was less than two years ago.  I was standing in front of the mirror and surveying my reflection.  My jeans were too tight.  I was going to need a new pair, in a bigger size.  My shirt showed too many  bulges.  My arms were flabby.  My knees hurt and so did my back.

“It sucks getting old.” I muttered to myself. 

Old. That was my latest excuse.  Before that, it was taking care of the babies.  But the babies were growing up so I couldn’t keep blaming them.  Before that, it was time.  As in, “I don’t have time to exercise or eat healthy because I have to [insert something that sounds important like clean the house or wash the car].” But on that particular day, I was going with old.   That was my latest excuse.

My latest excuse was a good one.  It meant that whatever happened next wasn’t my fault.  It meant that I could keep doing exactly what I was doing without having to change. It protected me from failing by preventing me from trying. It meant I could stay in my comfort zone.  Too bad the tight jeans were making me feel uncomfortable.

A few days later, I visited my doctor for a check up.  “I’ve been trying to lose weight.” I whined.  “But nothing seems to work.” 

It was true.  I had tried all the fad diets. The one where you don’t eat pasta? Tried it.  The one where you only eat pasta? Tried that too.  The one where you only eat pasta on Thursdays in months without an R in them.  Yea, I'm pretty sure I tried that as well.

Some of the fad diets were even successful, for a few weeks.  But every time I went back to my old ways and my old weight.  Now, I could hear the scale moan every time I stepped on it.  And I could barely walk a flight of stairs without being winded.  And I felt like crap.  I could go on....

My hope was that my doctor had a magic solution - something that didn’t involve exercise or missing dessert.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. 

What he said was, “Maybe this is the weight you are meant to be at.”  What I heard was, “You’re fat, you’ve always been fat, you’ll always be fat.”  I left his office in tears.

As it turns out, nothing motivates me more powerfully than some jerk telling me I can’t do something.  The more I thought about what my doctor said, the more determined I was to prove him wrong. 

The next day I started walking.  A week later, I started running - to the end of my block.  (Hey, it was a start.)  By the end of September, I was able to run for a mile.  By the end of November, I could run for two.  The following April, I completed a 5K race.  In September I ran 15K.   It was slow progress; but it was progress.

I wish I could tell you it was easy.  I wish I could tell you that hundreds of pounds melted away.  I wish I could tell you that I found the magic solution.  I wish I could tell you that I am done.  But if I told you that, I would be lying.

The truth I found was different. It has involved hard work, harder than I imagined.  It has involved early morning exercise, too early for a non-morning person.  It has involved feeling uncomfortable, like when I had to walk into a gym full of fit people and see my robust reflection in the mirror.  It has involved pushing myself harder than I thought possible even when all I wanted to do was go back to bed.

It was difficult to be sure.  But the most difficult part wasn’t the exercise.  The most difficult part wasn’t the hard work.  The most difficult part wasn’t even the dreaded “getting up early in the morning.”  The most difficult part was abandoning my excuses.

Old? I had to give it up.  I’m not so old, I had to tell myself.  There are people older than me who do more.  Out of shape?  I had to give it up.  Well, I am out of shape.  But there are people in worse shape than me.  The kids?  I had to give it up.  They’ll be better off if their mom is healthy.  Out of time? I had to give it up.  Make the time, dammit!    

The most difficult part was abandoning my excuses.  Because abandoning my excuses meant I had to stop blaming my age.  It meant I had to stop blaming my kids.  It meant I had to stop blaming lack of time.  It meant I had to be accountable for my own actions.  It meant that whether I chose to do or I chose to do not, the blame was all mine.  

Flash forward to my conversation with C.  If I could have read her mind, I’m sure I would have found a million excuses bouncing in her brain.  And I would have recognized every one of them, because every one of them belonged to me.  So when C. looked at the floor and said, “I could never do that”, I looked back at C. and said, “Yes you can.”

I'm on the Top of the World Looking Down on Creation

Below me, I could see Grant Park. The trees were barren.  A thin coat of snow covered the brown grass.  At the far end Buckingham fountain, a Chicago landmark recognized throughout the world, was dry.  Tiny specks, either cars or people, scurried along pathways and roads.  I stood eighty floors above the city and soaked in the sights as if I were soaking up the sun. 

It had taken me six months to get to the top of the AON building in Chicago.  Six months of perspiration. Six months of practice.  Six months of preparation.  Six months of perseverance. Now, on a cold and blustery January morning, I had finally reached the summit.  I had walked up eighty flights of stairs just to enjoy the view.

This was my first tower climb. My heart was still racing from the effort and I could still feel the adrenalin pumping through my limbs. Yet I felt good; and, as I found out later, I did pretty well, placing 145 out of 908 women who competed.  Not bad for a first timer.

The route to the summit hadn’t been easy.  But, I suppose if it had been easy, it would not have been exciting.  As I’ve learned these past few months, nothing worth doing is ever easy.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been standing on the first floor with my teammates.  My heart had started to race with anticipation.  I hadn't moved a muscle and yet I was already perspiring.  I bounced on my heals, itching to go.  Like a kid strapping herself into a roller coaster, I felt terrified and excited at the same time.  

My friend Erin rolled her eyes at me.  I had talked her into joining me on my crazy mission.  Now, moments before we were about to start, she was dreading the task ahead. “Remind me again why we are doing this.” She said.

“Because we can.” I replied.  Just then, the starter nudged me on the back and I was off. 

I remember the first ten flights.  Look at me, going two at a time! I’m awesome.  Only seventy more to go. Did I just seventy?!  Seventy?! That's insane, I thought. But I kept going.

I remember stopping for a breath on the landing at the forty-first floor.  Gotta keep going, gotta keep going, I puffed.  I jumped back on the stairs and got moving again. 

I remember hearing the sound of cheering from several stories above as I neared seventy-two.  Almost there, almost there, I mumbled under my breath.  The cheers called to me and I followed their sound.

I remember seeing the crowd as I approached the door to flight eighty.  There was music and more cheers.  I wanted to collapse on the floor.  Instead, I held my hands above my head.  “I did it!”

If you had told me a year ago that one day I would race to the top an eighty-story building, I would have told you that you were crazy.  But training for this event has taught me so much about myself. 

It has taught me that so many of my limitations are merely illusions.  It has taught me that “can” and “can’t” are not facts but are choices that I make every day.  It has taught me that I am capable of more than I ever imagined.   Or, as Norman Vincent Peale said, “People become quite remarkable when they start thinking that they can do things.” 

I’ve learned that I am stronger than I knew.  I’ve learned that I if I set a plan in motion I can see it through.  I’ve learned that hard work pays off.  But the most important thing I’ve learned is that I control my limitations.  I decide which are real and which are imaginary.  I decide which ones I will accept and which I will challenge. 

I decide.

The view was beautiful, as beautiful as I had imagined.  I snapped a mental photo to take with my as a reminder of my victory.  As I turned away from the window, Erin asked.  “How does it feel?”

“Like I am on the top of the world.”




(Note: the two photos are found on http://www.wikipedia.org/ and republished here under the licenses described)