This time of year, I especially miss my mom. Truthfully, I remember only a handful of times during our lives that we didn’t spend Christmas together, so I suppose it’s natural to feel a void. If we can’t be together, I wish I might at least call her up to hear her voice, but sadly acknowledge this possibility disappeared with her passing ten years ago.

Perhaps I should have moved on by now, but, nope, I still feel that same empty place in my heart. Over time, I have created another way to feel a closeness—I call her up in a different way, by conjuring her voice in my head. “We” carry on an internal conversation and I realize this ability to “talk” with her is limitless.

A feeling of comfort settles around me, as I imagine her voice speaking soft words of endearment, during this season of love.

Steps are steps, right? Well, maybe not. What appeared as a series of steps to my husband and me had transformed into a magical destination for someone else.

Perception. Imagination. What one person perceives as utilitarian — a means to move from here to there — another person imagines as a work of art, worthy to be the stage for the most important question he’s ever asked.

Those steps have never again been “just steps.” I now see them through a different lens, a lens which opened my eyes to a different possibility that had never crossed my mind. The view from the young man’s lens enriched my appreciation, believe it or not, of those steps.

How dull the world if people came off an assembly line one after the other, all identical, with everyone only seeing steps! But, no, we each view life through our own unique lens. That different lens provides the world with remarkable diversity.

Note to Self:  Recognize there’s more than one way to approach, understand, or view life. Appreciate diversity.

A week later, at the appointed time, my husband and I watched discreetly through our front window as the young man kneeled upon the magical steps before his girlfriend and proposed. At that moment, their world expanded, a new threshold revealed, ripe with potential. Tears in my eyes, I recognized all of us are actually presented with this fresh beginning each morning we open our eyes to greet a new day. I admit there are days my lens turns cloudy and I fall into the rut of my daily routine, forgetting to savor life, which tends to pass us by in a blink of the eye.

Note to Self:  Each day is a gift. Treat it as such. Embrace possibility. Stir the imagination. Do one thing differently, outside the routine. Learn the name of a new flower, sing a song out loud, greet a stranger when out walking. Be present.

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

I remember being admonished as a child for acting “too inquisitive” or alternately, “too sensitive.” As an adult I’m sometimes told that, in conversations, I either give too many details or ask for too many details, depending on whether I’m telling the story or listening to one. Or worse, I confess to interrupting someone else’s story (my husband) to add more details when I don’t feel he’s imparting enough information. Okay, so I like details! Watching movies, it’s not uncommon for me to be so engrossed in the details of the room decor or the characters’ clothing in period piece dramas, that I forget to listen to the dialog. My husband might call a movie a “yawner,” while I found it completely captivating in its minutia. And yes, I can be a bit on the obsessive side when it comes to journaling, particularly when traveling. I’m driven to record the details of our travel days, which actually sometimes comes in handy when we’re trying to remember the name of a particular place or where we stayed in any given city. While other people seek entertainment on their iPad, I’m busily recording the day’s events.

I’ve long collected family memorabilia, particularly photographs. Some of these photos date back to the mid-1800s. I thoroughly enjoy studying the details in these old photos, imagining myself in that time period. My current work in progress is a fictional biography of my great-grandmother Maggie. For inspiration, I’ve immersed myself in this branch of our family’s photographs, studying every element of each photo. There’s a particular photo of the farmhouse in Michigan where Maggie grew up, with 2 men and a horse standing near the house. If only photos might speak. The best I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I might transport myself into the picture by force of will, if only to ask questions and learn more about my family that came before. Throughout my life, I’ve had an active imagination, described by some as “over active.”

It’s easy for me to empathize, and over the years, I’ve often joked I could hire out as a “crier” at funerals and weddings. Labeled “overly sensitive,” I remember my mom telling me to “toughen up” when I cried over events or situations she deemed unworthy of tears. I believe she hoped to make me “strong” and strong women do not cry. How did I acquire all these seemingly “negative” traits?

Not everyone enjoys the details as much as I do, and most people aren’t as “overly sensitive” nor are they identified by their “overactive” imagination. And, we all know what happened to the cat that was too curious. We are who we are and diversity makes the world go ‘round. Still, I experienced a truly “aha” moment recently, reading a blog about the way writers think. With genuine surprise, I realized this author had not only described me to a “T,” but that there are other people who also love detail as much as I do, and are both inquisitive and sensitive. They are called “writers.” And, as a bonus, none of these labels are considered negative. At long last, I believe I may have found my tribe.

SaveSave