the umpteenth time
ALTERNATE TITLES:
stupid pills
a zincing ship
kvetch me if you can
Somewhere in the middle of 2015, life changed.
Prior to that, I had just released my first book, The Best Advice So Far. I still remember the day I typed the period after the last word of the last sentence of the last chapter. It was exactly one year to the day after I’d started, at 3:18 AM. I was so into what I was writing, that when my fingers stopped typing, it was a minute or two before the thought followed: I just wrote a book. I didn’t know what one should feel or do on such an occasion. All I could think to do was to drive to the all-night convenience store, buy a Nestle Quik strawberry milk and drink it in the aisle as a sort of toast to the occasion.
Shortly after, I met with a New York Times Bestselling author who had read my book and was genuinely excited. He offered to provide an official endorsement. Soon, I was communicating with a VP from Google who’d also read the book and was impressed, offering her endorsement as well.
Things were gaining momentum. It was all a little heady. The possibilities truly seemed endless.
Sometime that summer, however, what I’d thought was an allergic reaction turned out to be a tenacious and mysterious rash. It spread. I saw specialists. They tested me for everything. I took heavy medications, just to rule things out — medications that gave me other side effects, like nightmares, anxiety and more. And the pervasive itching alone was enough to induce Mother Teresa to swear like a sailor.
Soon, my insides weren’t right. I wound up in the ER. I’ll save you the details, but it was distinctly un-fun … and it never went away.
Headaches set in next. And then my asthma — which had lain dormant for years — kicked in, followed by persistent canker sores.
In February of 2016, I lost a cousin to suicide, which required my stepping in to care for her teenage son.
Then there was the car accident that brought back migraines and set my back out of whack again.Read more
our gang
Today’s post is a tribute to some of my very favorite people in the world. But it’s a tribute with a point and a challenge for us all.
In my writings, I talk a lot about the many interesting and cool people I meet day to day by taking positive social risks. Today, I want to tell you about a different group of people – an inner circle of friends that make for a pretty wonderful life.
Our little gang centers around two sisters, Holly and Dib. Their real names are Charlotte and Olivia, which adds to the atmosphere somehow, because they are truly classy, classic and traditional while at the same time being entirely down-to-earth, modern and cool.
Gatherings typically happen at one of their homes in Marshfield, Massachusetts. Holly’s home is right on the actual marsh of Marshfield – the house where she and Dib grew up. It holds a rich history of personal stories, with new ones emerging all the time, even after the decades some of us have spent together there. Dib’s home is near the sea wall, where you can hear the ocean and smell the salt in the air the moment you step outside. Everything from the lighting to the hand soap feels like a beach escape, yet without the slightest hint of pretentiousness.
Both are gardeners extraordinaire. You’ll never see such personal and beautiful spaces as their gardens; and while dropping in, it is likely you’ll be offered an artisan salad made with their own herbs and tomatoes in an array of colors.
But Holly and Dib aren’t the only members of our hodge-podge family, nor the only ones with interesting pet names. Spanky, Alfalfa and Froggy had nothing on our gang, which includes the likes of Fluffy, Tipster, Pinky and Richie Rich.
I’ve spent twenty holiday seasons with this group of friends. Though there have been additions along the way, it is difficult to imagine a time when we all weren’t there together. The Christmas tree is always perfectly imperfect, and laden from stand to star with decorations spanning a hundred years: bubbling baubles and tiny trains that run their tracks on heat from the bulbs. Food is made from scratch with old family recipes, and we all clap when it is at last presented by our host, Holly, who is beaming and covered in flour. It’s as close to stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting as anyone will ever get.
It would be hard for me – even as a writer – to describe the feeling when we are all together. On the surface, we couldn’t be more different. The age range spans 40 years. Some are single and some are married with kids. Some are tech geeks. Some are connoisseurs of cigars, wine and spirits. Some get serious about Magic: The Gathering while others discuss Nietzsche. Some are boisterous and others as quiet and reflective as I imagine Abraham Lincoln to have been.
and then there was
The power and wonder of personal creativity is as stunning to me today as ever. Whether you view yourself as a creative person or not, you are creating all the time. Don’t believe me? Read on.
Now, please know that I realize that the babies we create are made out of “us,” who are in turn made out of meats and grains, which were in turn made out of dirt, which was made up of rock and trace chemicals, which are composed of base elements. Likewise, I’m aware that there are a limited number of sounds and letters in the English language with which every poet or writer or speaker creates words, as there are only so many notes from which all songwriters and composers may choose. But let’s not ruin the moment with Spock-like ponderings. Instead, rather than quibbling over technicalities of definition, consider in this moment that to create is essentially to make something out of nothing.