An exhalation, slow and disappointed, comes from behind. I don’t have to turn around to see who it is. I know it’s my long dead grandmother, Reta, watching me beating a pie crust into submission with her ancient wooden rolling pin. Why did she have to show up right when I’m obviously failing pie crust, her specialty?

“And you claim to be my granddaughter,” she says, looking out at the muddy creek below the kitchen window, bloated from snow melting in the mountains.

Like so many times before, my imagination has her dropping by to revisit her favorite place in the cabin that she and my grandfather, Malcolm, built in the late 1950’s. A spotless apron, freshly ironed, covers her good Sunday dress because my mother’s family, her daughter, was considered company. Silver hair waves past her ears but doesn’t make it to her shoulders. She stands as if her back is held upright by a wooden spoon.

She glares at the mess being made in her dream kitchen, a domain that was once hers alone before it passed to my mother and then onto me. She tries to cross her arms over her massive bosom but they settle instead somewhere underneath, close to her small waist. I’m a child again, underfoot and failing to live up to her expectations.

“But I can explain,” I say. “I don’t want to make a heart attack disguised as a pie so I didn’t use lard and white flour like you used to do. I’m trying to make it out of whole wheat pastry flour and olive oil instead.”

She looks at the hard-packed glob smashed like a cow pie over the worn spot on the counter.

“It’s suppose to be healthy.”

Her eyebrow raises in a doubtful curve. “Healthy doesn’t necessarily mean edible,” she says. “But, I’m sure the squirrel will like it.”

I follow her gaze to the platform nailed to the side of the pine made especially for him. It still holds the soggy remains of last week’s fermented muffins. Even the magpies are giving it a wide berth.

“Actually, he’s getting tired of my cooking too.”

She leans on the scratched and pitted porcelain sink that holds the last of the apples picked last fall from the tree that my grandfather planted over 60 years ago.

“Maybe the squirrel yearns for the good ol’ days when I was the one cooking in this house,” she says. Softly, she adds, “Just like me.”

In her day she was considered one of the best cooks in this Wyoming mountain community. She was a master at pies and a champion with flowers. And yet here I am in her kitchen, acting as if I have the right to be here.

“You can’t tell it by this piecrust, but actually Grandma, I’m a pretty good cook. I just cook entirely different than you.”

I haven’t the guts to tell her I’m a vegetarian and that I won’t be trying my hand at a mince meat pie, roast beef or corned beef hash, some of my favorites when I was a child sitting at her table. I say instead, “You’d be proud, I think, if you gave me half a chance.” I’m sounding braver than I am. I’ve never talked to my grandmother this way. In a rush not daring to look at her, I continue, “For instance, I don’t cook with white sugar. Not even for a pie.”

I’m still holding onto the hope that the piecrust will fulfill its destiny, in spite of my grandma’s doubts. “I’m going to use agave nectar.”

I brave a look in her direction. Confusion furrows her brows. I burst out laughing and a rare smile blushes her lips.

“Weird, I know, but look.”

I reach down to open the two built-in drawers my grandfather made to her specifications. Long ago, the top one was filled with white flour poured directly from the sack she bought from the Best Out West mill in town. The bottom was filled to the brim with white sugar. A battered tin cup was half buried in the middle of the white mound. These two drawers, when she dictated what was put where, were uncluttered and pure.

Now that I’ve moved into her kitchen, I was careful not to break the tradition of flour in the top and sugar in the bottom, but with major variations. In the top, no white flour. Instead tins of whole-wheat pastry flour, brown rice flour, spelt, rye, buckwheat, quinoa and a bag of kamut elbow for room in the deep drawer.

In the bottom drawer, there’s no white sugar. Containers of raw sugar and date sugar fit securely in the corners while jars of rice syrup, unfiltered, locally grown honey, and agave nectar from the tequila plant leave sticky rings on shelf paper since the 60’s.

“Well, good luck with that,” she says, turning to go.

“Wait, Grandma,” I say, reaching out and touching her muscular forearm. The sensation surprises us both. My mother’s family was not demonstrative. I don’t recall my grandmother ever touching or hugging me, but surely she did, didn’t she?

The other day I came across a photo of the two of us. I’m standing in eight-year-old awkwardness in front of her, my hands placed stiffly on my thighs. The difference in how tall the spruce trees behind us have grown marks the years between. Our hair is almost the same, aged silver and innocent blond, falling to our shoulders in soft curls.

I’ve looked at this photo many times, but what I never noticed until now is that my grandmother isn’t touching me. It would have been so natural for her to rest her hands on my shoulders since I was standing so close. Instead, her arms are clamped resolutely to her sides.

“And I’m good at gardening and growing flowers too, just like you,” I say, looking for approval 42 years after she can no longer give it.

She looks toward the table where her old glass flower vase can barely hold the vibrant colors of spring tulips and yellow daffodils. Her gaze continues around the knotty pine walls, noticing what changes I’ve made to make it my own.

My collection of blue antique jars filled with grains, seeds and beans are stacked in righteous rows on a shelving unit I found in the garage. I’m curious if she notices which jar is hers – the one I found discarded in the basement as if it held no value.

She lingers longer on the photo of an 18-year-old Reta, newly married to Malcolm, framed in ornate chrome salvaged from an antique cook stove.

“Was I ever that young?” she says so quietly I barely hear her over the raging of the creek – a creek raging against growing old in this house, and for the growing seed of dementia that tangled her thoughts the last years of her life.

I make myself recall her in better times. “I remember watching your hands work as if on automatic pilot making the cinnamon rolls I had requested and looking out at that creek.” We both look out the kitchen window at the only thing that has not changed drastically in the intervening fifty years.

“And the smells coming from this kitchen– oh my, Grandma, it was the smell of my personal heaven.”

“Mine too,” she confides. “This is where I was happiest.” She pats the worn Formica counter. “This is where my heart still lives.”

“And I honor that every time I step into this spot.” I don’t tell her what an honor it is for me to stand here, or how it has grown to become a sacred spot in the old house. My grandmother wouldn’t cotton to sentimentality, but I gather the courage to add, “I intend to do it justice for the rest of my life.

“I know you will, Janey,” she says quietly. I smile. Calling me by my middle name instead of my first was her term of endearment for me even though I didn’t realize it until years later. It is as personal as my grandmother ever got with me, this secret between us, until I took it for my real name in the 6th grade.

She looks down at the forgotten piecrust.

“Start over.” A firm demand but the right choice.

She won’t let me subject my husband to this glop even though he bravely eats whatever I cook and doesn’t complain. I scrape it up with effort and plop it into the compost can. I doubt if the deer will even eat it.

I start over, but lard is out of the question and I can’t bring myself to use shortening, but maybe I can splurge this once and use butter.

“How about butter?” I ask, turning around.

But she is gone.

I set to work. As if Grandma is guiding my hands, they move swiftly and with confidence measuring the flour and salt, using the pastry blender to mix the butter, and dribbling in the ice water. In no time, the dough is not too wet, not too dry, but just right. A miracle. I pick up her wooden rolling pin.

“I think I can do this,” I whisper.

I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, reassuring. I smile and the creek laughs.

I go turn up the stereo until the harmony of the Eagles rocks the walls, breaking old traditions and setting a new precedence. I dance my way across the small kitchen floor where my grandparents once waltzed and my parents sashayed a two-step. I feel the aging floor creak and shift as the old gives way to the new. I step into the treasured spot, claiming my rightful place with no apologies, but with great reverence and gratitude.

I. Am. Home.

I didn’t grow up in an overly demonstrative family. I don’t remember my parents ever saying to me, “I love you.” But the thing is, I never doubted their love for me. They didn’t have to say it. Instead, they showed me on a daily basis how much I meant to them.

I was shown in numerous ways – in the way they spoke to me, in the way I heard them talk about me, in the way they took care of me, and in the way they touched me.

The phrase “I love you” gets said with such casualness at times, that it is rendered meaningless and impotent. Such as, an automatic response in saying goodbye on the phone. The salutation at the end of an email or letter. The quickly said and-I-love-you-too, as if in a race to get to the obligatory response so that we can get on with our lives.

Words are sometimes inadequate when it comes to expressing love. More people than not find it difficult, and in some cases, impossible to say how they truly feel. So what else will work? It doesn’t take much. Give me a loving touch on the shoulder, a simple kindness or a heartfelt smile any day over the impersonal gesture of an expensive gift or flowers.

Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. And not in a sensible, oh-aren’t-they-pretty kind of way, but in a rather fanatical kind of way. They jazz me to my very core just to look at them. Tupelo knows this, but in over three decades of being together, I can count on one hand the number of times he has given me flowers.

His style is more subtle. Instead of an occasional tsunami wave of garishness, I get small reassurances of his love on a daily basis, as if coming from a constant babbling brook. And after all these years, that is much more to my liking.

To make this life sweeter, all we need is just a little love around the edges to soften, protect, and make us feel good. It can come from friends, co-workers, children, family, life companions, Aunt Minnie or the mailman. It can be a tiny kiss, a tender hug, a good deed, or a “random act of kindness” from a stranger. I see them on the edge of my life as little bursts of light, firing like an endless string of firecrackers on a Chinese New Year. The spark they ignite in me makes me feel good.

If we love the world and the people in it, the world will love us back. If we embrace our place in the world, get ready to be embraced back. The trick is to tune into and notice the myriad ways we are shown. Feel good about it and then reciprocate in kind.

If we enjoy having love expressed around the edges of our life on a daily basis, chances are, the person next to us does too. Get crackin’ and see what happens.

Everyone loves to laugh (well, almost everyone) . . . so this message is a reminder that it’s good for us.

I wrote a song a while back to help me remember the wisdom of this favorite quote . . .

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.” — Oscar Wilde

Here’s a link to the song . . .

http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15

Here are a few great ideas about humor, and then an actual example of humor in action:

“Humor is by far the most significant activity of the human brain.” – Edward De Bono

“True humor is fun – it does not put down, kid, or mock. It makes people feel wonderful, not separate, different, and cut off. True humor has beneath it the understanding that we are all in this together.” – Hugh Prather

“A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.” – Clive James

And now (drum roll please) an example of people wise enough to appreciate the humor in their everyday lives . . .

After every flight, UPS pilots fill out a form, called a ‘gripe sheet,’ which tells mechanics about problems with the aircraft. The mechanics correct the problems, document their repairs on the form, and then pilots review the gripe sheets before the next flight.

Here are some actual maintenance complaints submitted by UPS’ pilots and the solutions recorded by the aircraft mechanics.

(By the way, UPS is the only major airline that has never, ever, had an accident.)

PILOT: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
MECHANIC: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
*
PILOT: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
MECHANIC: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
*
PILOT: Something loose in cockpit
MECHANIC: Something tightened in cockpit
*
PILOT: Dead bugs on windshield.
MECHANIC: Live bugs on back-order.
*
PILOT: Auto pilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute descent…
MECHANIC: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
*
PILOT: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
MECHANIC: Evidence removed.
*
PILOT: DME volume unbelievably loud.
MECHANIC: DME volume set to more believable level.
*
PILOT: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
MECHANIC: That’s what friction locks are for.
*
PILOT: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.
MECHANIC: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.
*
PILOT: Suspected crack in windshield.
MECHANIC: Suspect you’re right.
*
PILOT: Number 3 engine missing.
MECHANIC: Engine found on right wing after brief search
*
PILOT: Aircraft handles funny.
MECHANIC: Aircraft warned to be serious, straighten up, and fly right.
*
PILOT: Target radar hums.
MECHANIC: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.
*
PILOT: Mouse in cockpit.
MECHANIC: Cat installed.
*
PILOT: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
MECHANIC: Took hammer away from midget.

Life is Too Important to Be Taken Seriously This is just plain fun . . . an unlikely love song and reminder of the importance of making it a point to deliberately live life in joy, reverance, and with a light-hearted spirit. A good sence of humor always seems to come in handy too! http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15 Celebrate Life Create your own personal celebration of life by your choices, rather than allowing life to be something that merely happens to you, or around you. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescHB.html#Anchor2 Preacher and the Bear I always appreciated the refreshing attitude of faith coupled with a healthy attitude of self-reliance demonstrated by this adventurous preacher’s style of prayer. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor11 Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff About all the stuff you’ve been keeping that’s not good enough to actually use, but it’s way too good to throw away. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor4 You Gotta Have Fun Our moments are fleeting . . . and finite. Too few to squander on “bad news”. We must steer our attention deliberately in order to attract the kind of life we were born to live. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor20 Songs by Tupelo
The Six Mistakes of Man We share the journey, even though each journey is unique. It’s encouraging to know others are also interested in the mysteries of life. It’s inspiring to see others dedicated to living life to the fullest, in spite of the fact that humanity has been making some of the same mistakes for centuries. Your Passion as Your Compass Allow your passions to stretch their wings and the direction of your life could surprise you – in a good way. Celebrate life with passion! Being Present through Sensuality The idea is to occasionally turn off the senses in order to better tune into the aliveness that lies beyond them. The realization that there is something beyond the world of the five senses can provide an “aha” experience, especially at first. With the senses turned off (or even turned down), there remains a vibrant sense of aliveness – the world of feeling and the realm of being. Articles by Tupelo
Why wait for inspiration to strike? Be proactive, and go get it. Better yet, this newsletter brings it to you. “Inspired on Purpose” newsletter by Tupelo Kenyon contains articles, reviews and resources to supercharge your personal development, inspiration, productivity, abundance and joy. FREE e-book Instant download – when you subscribe. Personal Development Supercharger 101 Tips and Techniques by Tupelo Kenyon It’s FREE. Subscribe now. Enter name and email address below: Name: Email:
Privacy policy: Your email address is secure. I will not sell, rent or trade your information to anyone for any reason. Period. – Tupelo Kenyon

It’s New Year’s Day and we’ve parked Bailey, our RV, out here in the desert. There are a few other road warriors scattered like dice across the cactus and brittlebush but they are far enough away to make it feel like we are here in this arid vastness by ourselves. I’ve found a good spot to write in my journal this morning, out in the kind sun but sheltered from the cruel wind. Yesterday, on New Year’s Eve, I filled my latest journal with one last entry, and then put it away. Today, my journal is a new one. I write #60 in the top corner of the inside cover and turn to the first page, all crisp and new like a freshly picked apple.

The page glows white in the glaring desert sun, blank of thoughts, ideas and aspirations. It looks like a magic page – as if I could write anything I want and it will come true. I try to focus, but I’m dizzy from all the possibilities as my imagination runs wild. I’m an unsupervised kid in an amusement park. I take up my pen and smooth the paper down with my other hand. I am literally turning a new page for the coming year.

Chances are you’re not reading this on the new year. But let’s pretend for a moment, it is. A new year can start at any time, like right now. Especially right now.

Okay, so right now is the first day of the year, agreed? If so, hopefully interest and introspection spike and we immediately evaluate our life. Are we happy? Do we like the direction our life is heading? What can we do to better ourselves? We assess where we stand and look to see if our next step is moving forward, is stagnant, or trying to step backward.

It’s a good day of the year to be completely honest with ourselves – tough to do but important if we are going to realize the changes that need to be made.

Today we bask in possibilities. Standing on the rim of this coming year, we dream of the best possible outcomes. We dream our dreams coming true. If the past year was difficult, hope dances on the horizon.

Today’s the day that we can consciously turn the light on to illuminate what we want most. Light it up from the inside. Everything seems alive, all rushing toward us as fast as the speed of thought.

I write on my magic page, my heart pumping. I’m thrilled to know everything I write is coming into my life at exactly the right time. It’s like writing a letter to Santa and he is nodding kindly and taking notes.

I suggest you do the same. The universe is listening. Happy New Year.

Tupelo and I are in Mexico on a second-class train streaking down through the Copper Canyon. But we’re not inside the stifling passenger car, sitting on torn seats with our shoes sticking to the grimy floor and looking out a smudged window. No. By a very quick series of events, we have found ourselves outside, clinging to a skinny rail at the very front of the train, directly above the cow-catcher. Jagged rocks slice by inches from my cheek. The deep canyon is a breath away from my precarious footing. Knuckles white, hair plastered back, my screams are sucked away as if freefalling into the valley below.

I’m having the best time of my life! My situation is dangerous beyond description. But here we are, Tupelo and I, standing on the edge. We’re ecstatic.

We’re in Costa Rica, barreling down a white water river. Untamed, unpredictable, the water is impassioned as it boils its way to the ocean. Class 4 rapids tumble and churn. Our guide speaks quickly and succinctly, giving us instructions as to what we need to do to get our tiny raft through the giant turbulence. There’s no time to lose. With cascading water on each side, boulders the size of small houses, our tiny helmet and life jacket are a joke. I’m not screaming this time because my heart is lodged in my throat.

I’m blissed out.

I saw a woman wearing a T-shirt that read: I want to be used up when I die.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

Playing it safe is not written in my genetic code. I’m not saying I’m never terrified. Quite the opposite. Massive heights tend to freeze my heart, like the tallest and longest zip line in the world, but still, I jumped. Birds scattered and monkeys took cover for miles around because of my scream.

Sitting numbly at home, watching other people having an adventurous life on my TV screen is something I don’t chose to do. Why should they have all the fun? Why should they get all the friends with the witty dialogue? Why do they get to go on all the great adventures? Where’s the good in that?

I say we must get our own life and then use it up. If we don’t spend it, no one else will. Can’t reuse it. Can’t recycle it. Can’t cash it in for a refund. What a cosmic waste.

Life is a complex tapestry. Each small fiber holds the promise of love and fear, hope and despair, angst and elation, sorrow, beauty, but most of all, joy. We have the choice to twist and turn our tapestry to the light or to the shade. We either cower under it or we wear it upon our shoulders like wings.

You can probably guess the condition of my wings by now.

I know of many others. Like the only blind man in history to hike the entire Appalachian Trail by himself with just the help of his dog. And the man who broke his back in a severe car accident and was told he would never walk again, who we met in Guatemala, as he was bicycling his way from Seattle to Chili. And the blind-since-birth, 24-year-old woman who sings like an angel and plays the piano, performing all over the country to hundreds of very appreciative audiences. Each one is not afraid to wear their tapestry like wings.

I have to ask, have you looked at your life’s tapestry lately? It’s never too late to take it out of the box, let it fly, and use it up!

When I open the door and step into my studio, it is like stepping into a warm hug of a close friend. Comforting. Joyful. Always patient for my return, never admonishing me for my “never visiting —  never calling –” Whenever I need my studio, it is there, welcoming me with loving arms.

I usually have a few promised stained glass commissions to get done before we leave on our six month tour, so when the countdown begins, the energy to get things done speeds up. The glasswork always takes me longer than the time I have allotted, so I find myself putting in extra hours out in my studio.

But every time I’m there, I’m reminded of how much I love it. It is full of light and love and music and creative vibrations. It feeds every molecule of my body and rejuvenates me. Every time I’m there, I wonder — why didn’t I call? Why didn’t I come visit every single day?

Tupelo and I, with the help of our friend, Patrick, built my studio in 1995. It is the ultimate artist’s dream. My own creative space. All the counter tops are my height and the tools of the glass trade are in easy reach like a well-designed kitchen. A picture window looks out over a postcard-perfect creek and the piney woods beyond. A skylight allows creativity to drip from the sky, like a faucet that can’t be turned off. It is a glorious space where I turn up the rock and roll and dance because no one can see me. It is a slice of heaven.

When I’m there, gratefulness overflows, and at times I can hardly believe my good fortune. It is a comforting place where I can do whatever I want, be whomever I want. I get my best ideas out there because it is a space I have created just for this purpose. It is hot wired into the creativity of the universe.

Tupelo has his own space too. A few years after we built my studio, we built him a recording studio right beside mine. He filled it with electronic gadgets, computer widgets, and surrounded himself with musical instruments. He relishes the solitude of his space on a daily basis.

When people visit us for the first time, they comment how lucky we are because of our incredible studios. We look at each other. Lucky is not the word we would use. Fortunate, yes. Lucky, hum. Our studios didn’t materialize up from the earth while we slept. We didn’t wait around for them to appear. We donned our bib overalls, strapped on our tool belt and made our dreams come true with sweat and desire.

Now we each have a place of renewal. A place of rejuvenation. A place of inspiration. Oh, if only everyone could be so lucky.

I encourage you to create a place of renewal, a place of comfort, a place of creativity that will help you live how you want to live. Carve out a place in your busy life where you can go to be by yourself. Make it simple, but make it a priority. It could be a studio like mine, or a spare bedroom, a chair in the corner of the den or a rock by the lake. It doesn’t matter where.

Not every one wants to be alone, but alone time is crucial in the quest for personal development.

When we are alone, we separate ourselves from the confusing chatter of the world and have the opportunity to settle into who we really are. We give ourselves permission to better understand ourselves. We go deeper. We realize what makes us happy, what makes us sad, what makes us feel energized, what has disappointed us, in ourselves and in others, and most important, what to do about it.

If everyone made an effort to create a space of their own, not only would their own life improve, but the consciousness of the planet would as well. Imagine what our world would be like if we allowed ourselves to be in a place of solace that betters our life. If we tap into the power of becoming more joyful, it is like throwing a pebble into a pond. That one pebble makes many ripples, affecting many shores. We can bring peace to the world by finding peace within one person at a time.

I have a lot more to say on this subject, but my studio is calling.

I’m seven and it’s the summer between 1st and 2nd grade. I’m standing in line for my chance to try out for the swim team. The only trouble is, I don’t know how to swim. Minor detail. The only prerequisite at that moment was my desire to be on the swim team.

A giant man stands beside the pool with a whistle around his neck, telling us what to do. When our turn comes, we’re to dive into the shallow end and then swim to the far end of the long pool. He warns us not to touch the bottom at any time or grab onto the side. We have to go the distance without stopping if we want to make the team.

My turn. I step up to the ledge. “Dive” he had said. I don’t know how to dive, so I basically fling myself at the water, arms wide, belly first. When I hit, water gorges my nose and mouth. Coughing, my feet hit bottom. Dismayed, I look up at the giant man. He gives me a second chance and motions for me to keep going.

Like I said, I don’t know how to swim, so I basically flail my way to the far end while he walks along side, holding a pole in front of me should I need it. I don’t need it.

He helps me out of the pool. “Did I make the swim team?” I ask, breathlessly. He smiles, “Yes,” he said. “But first we need to teach you how to swim.” I’m thrilled. I made the team! All I need to do is learn how to swim. How hard could it be?

I never missed a practice that summer because I lived right across the street from the pool. I not only learned to swim, but was on a competitive swim team until I graduated from high school. The tenacity born on that first day served me well.

Now I’m older, but this trait of flinging myself into the unknown, with little knowledge of how to get myself out of it, hasn’t left me. I wasn’t afraid then, why should I be afraid now?

I believe it serves us well to jump into the deep end before we know how to swim. Arms held wide, heart open, flinging ourselves into situations before the outcome is known gives us the thrill of unpredictability, opens us up to surprises, and brings us life experiences we are desperately needing. It places us on the edge where we learn who we really are.

Predictability is boring. I, for one, didn’t come here to live a boring life. How about you? When the time comes, I urge you to step to the edge. Be courageous. Keep your sense of humor. And then jump. Flail yourself to the other end if you must. Perhaps spitting and coughing on the other side, you will be amazed at the person who rises out of the water triumphant. Only at that moment will you realize it was all worth it.

But first you have to jump.

A beautiful, young woman from Brazil sipped her beer as we sat under a thatched roof in Costa Rica, dabbling in small talk. We had just met that morning. It had been one of the best days ever – a full day on the river, shooting Class 4 rapids. I was sunburned, tired, and content.

“How long have you two been together?” she asked.

I said, “Almost thirty years.”

We looked at each other. It’s always a shock to hear it said out loud. Surely, we’re not that old. But, yes, it’s true. Our new friend looked shocked too.

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re so kind to each other. You act like you’re really in love.”

Imagine that. Still in love after all these years — and treating each other as if we like each other too — what a concept.

She told us about her lost loves and disastrous relationships. She had given up on finding a true life mate, thinking it was an impossible dream. She were the first couple she had met that had given her hope that it was possible.

“How do you do it?” she wanted to know.

“I believe I have a good theory,” I said. (Don’t I always?) “I think that when you’re with someone, you not only have to love and like them, but you also have to love and like yourself in that relationship.”

When two decide to come together, we are no longer two individuals co-existing side by side. A large part of each of us melts to become one. One may be more dominant, but still the combination becomes something else altogether. In that combination, we must ask ourselves,

“Do I like who I am in this combination?

If you truly like who you have become, then the partnership becomes deeper and more enduring. It is never suffocating or demeaning. It magnifies your good. It brings out the best in you.

Together, you are stronger. Together, you are more balanced. Together, the years fly by so fast, you age as if you are dancing a slow dance, and the two of you are the only ones on the dance floor.

Dance with grace. Dance with respect. Dance with kindness in your voice. Love the dance just for the sake of the dance and who you are becoming.

I woke up this morning with sunshine filling every corner of the bedroom. Before looking out of the window, I could tell it was another glorious summer’s day. I turned to look at Tupelo. He was sleeping soundly, mouth slightly open, snoring gently, and I began to mentally sing the Carly Simon song, “These are the good ol’ days.”

Within the hour, I was sitting out in my garden, writing in my journal. I made a list of why I woke up singing that tune. It didn’t take me long to fill the page. Like the garden, joy was blooming in every aspect of my life.

This is nothing new for me. I’m grateful every single day. But how often do I take all of this for granted? Most of the time, actually. I hate to admit it, but I do. That song made me look closer and helped to bring me into the moment. It helped me to appreciate and realize that right now, something extraordinary is happening.

I tend to realize after the fact that I was in the right place at the right time. One winter I was on a Greek Island when less than ten foreigners lived there. I had no idea at the time that within two years, 10,000 kids would soon find out about it and transportation to the island had to close down to keep them from coming.

Tupelo and I were walking on a secluded beach in Mexico, enjoying the sunset, when we met up with a woman walking the other way. A fascinating conversation followed. I had no idea at the time that she would become such a huge influence in our life and a very close friend.

Reflecting back over a joyful evening of having friends here for dinner — remembering the fine wine, the laughter, everyone pitching in to clean up. It’s then I think, “This was one of the best dinners out on the deck we’ve had all summer.”

Why don’t I realize it at the time — in the moment? Sometimes I do, but I need to do it more.

Like right now, I’m having a blast writing all of this down – and I’m appreciating what a exceptional drop of time this moment truly is. Hey, I must be getting better at it. These are the good ol’ days, indeed.

Before our main winter tour begins at the end of November, Tupelo and I have made a tradition the last four years of stopping by the Grand Canyon on our way south.

We have visited the Grand Canyon many times, and each time has been a unique experience. One Thanksgiving, it snowed. The beauty was astounding. Layers of white drifted down, settling in waves along the red and blonde cliffs. The primordial and bent cedars stood black against the fog lifting up from the depths below. Ancient voices could be heard in the silence. Magical.

One evening, after a fabulous afternoon of hiking the rim trail, Tupelo and I were heading back to catch our musical friend’s show at the Bright Angel Lodge. The shuttle was packed with the sunset crowd and now it was growing dark and chilly. Like us, everyone was tired and hungry.

The shuttle stopped to let on more people. Everyone gave way to a man with a white cane, and a young man graciously gave up his seat. As the shuttle continued down the darkened road, I couldn’t help but think of what it would be like to be at the Grand Canyon but couldn’t see it. What kind of an experience was this man having? We had just witnessed a spectacular sunset. I hoped I appreciated it enough. I hope I didn’t take it for granted. Then I felt guilty, because until that moment, I had. I was fascinated thinking about the sightless man and what being here was like for him.

At the next stop, more people crammed on. Kids got up and gave a couple the seat behind us.

When we were underway, the man said to his wife, “I don’t know– I guess I was expecting more.”

She didn’t comment. Perhaps she was as astounded as I. Expecting more? The Grand Canyon wasn’t enough for him? I immediately looked at the blind man across the way. He was smiling. Was the Grand Canyon enough for him? I ventured it was. But the guy behind me, with good eyesight and in full capacity of his mind and limbs was disappointed.

This blew me away.

And then I thought of how the natives of the Pacific islands did not see the tall ships on the horizon as they sailed in with Captain Cook at the helm. The image was so foreign to them, their brains could not comprehend what their eyes beheld. The synapses didn’t connect, therefore, the ships were invisible. Only when the shaman saw them and described the image could they finally see the ships. They did not understand what they saw, but they could at last see them.

I’m thinking now that this man could not see the Grand Canyon because his TV-trained brain didn’t comprehend what was there at his feet. He was blind to the fact that it was so magnificent. He expected more, because he was unable to grasp the magnificence.

This made me feel better and I immediately gave him some slack.

I turned my thoughts inward. I wondered what I was missing because my eyes, unable to send the right messages to my brain, skewed my perceptions and gave false images. I wondered, what is right here now, a mere breath width away, but invisible to me? Hashing this over kept me occupied for the rest of the bumpy ride to the station.

I came to this conclusion: In life, if we use all the senses we are given and throw them wide open, perhaps we may see some astonishing, unexplained things along the way. If this happens, surely, life will never disappoint.