This past week my family traveled to Chicago. I never really know what to expect when I venture into a city that is wholly unfamiliar. In this space, I often muse about how much routine and predictability offer a cadence that I grip so tight I prevent myself from letting go. There is a comfort and certainty in staying in one place. It comes from a place where you internalize the curve of the road, the way one particular cactus shoots up in the sky, and the exact time when the sun will set behind the mountains.

What you know, I am learning, has two dimensions, comfort and ignorance.

On Saturday, we decided to catch a train out of the city. When we do travel, we always explore public transportation because it is usually accessible and almost always provides a very different perspective to the superficial layer of a city. As we settled into the blue bucket seats, I watched as a middle-aged woman pushed a grocery cart full of 5 garbage bags, some were transparent, while others were pitch black. As she boarded the train, she blocked the door with two of her bags and grabbed the cart with her other belongings and pushed herself next to the doors. The conductor made interrupted her reality by announcing that the doors would shut. She pushed her cart toward the pole and with one hand grabbed a red scarf to tie the car around the metal railing. Strapping her cart like a little baby, she sat down. Dressed in all black with a knit cap on her head, I kept glancing in her direction. The bag that protruded out into the aisle kept staring at me. I noticed that in it was tiny little other bags, aluminum foil, and various other papers. My mind wondered what her story was and what propelled her to seek comfort in collecting and transporting all these bags across the train stops. Did she have a home? Was she mentally ill? Did she suffer from OCD? These are questions that kept flashing off and on as we jostled in our places.

She eventually ventured off the train, making certain her companions followed. As she exited, a mother with three young children boarded. A little girl who looked the same age as my daughter sat across from her. Her outfit disheveled, her focus was on the orange popsicle that she licked. My head ping-ponged back and forth like a tennis ball from the little girl and to my daughter. There were so much about them that was the same. Both wore flip-flops, butterfly pins in their hair, smiled wide when the train moved more like a rollercoaster, and I heard both whisper the words “Momma” at least 3 times as we sat in our seats. I wondered where this little girl called home and how hard the mom had to work to keep up and support her children. I realize that there are many holes I am filling in with my observations that may or may not be true, but I know that somehow each my daughter and this little girl were probably not confronting the same roads.

These two intersections led me to pose this question: Do I live in a bubble? The obvious answer is yes. I think to a certain degree we all live in our own bubbles. What we do, where we live, who are friends are, where we travel or don’t travel, our judgments and perceptions keep us plugged into the familiar. Of what we know. And I think we forget that our reality is much different from many others. Intellectually I’ve always known this, but when you move outside of your own habitat and thrust yourself into someone else’s reality, you realize how solid your bubble becomes.

I know that I don’t do enough to venture out of my bubble. It involves risk. The older you get, the more comfortable you become in your own reality. And you forget that there are so many stories, so so many that are far different from your own.

I know that I am going to try harder to pierce through my own bubble.

Reflection In A Soap Bubble Via Flickr by Jim Trodel

The tears were unexpected. This morning I made my daughter’s last lunch of her first grade school year. As I zipped up her lunch box, in a whisper, I told my husband that on her next birthday she will be eight and later this year she will enter second grade. Everyday I realize how much she is turning into her own person. Her questions center on ideas outside herself. A few days ago she asked about Betsy Ross and the Statue of Liberty. She is curious about geography, time, and space. The more she wonders about the world, I realize her center is expanding. As she discovers her own footing, it magnifies the tunnel in which I view time. The cadence is so fast, all of it pointing to one truth: how to let go.

Letting go is everywhere although we don’t always witness it. Near our house, in the cradle of a cactus, there is an owl’s nest. It is a popular attraction in our neighborhood. There are two baby owls nestled in their home, while the mother and father watch over them on the rooftops of  opposite homes. Anytime anyone nears the nest, their eyes narrow, waiting, protecting, and ensuring no harm comes to their babies. We all watched as the owlets, who first looked liked baby pups, grew to little mini versions of their parents. For almost 2 months, they cemented themselves to the nest, while the father owl brought food to nourish them. Yesterday, for the first time, the owlets took flight, their parents teaching them how to hunt and survive.

The intersection of my daughter finishing first grade and these owlets leaving, magnified what I already know. As I watched Les Miserables this past weekend, I was struck by one line uttered by Jean Valjean when looking at Cosette from a distance, realizing that his daughter was never his to keep.

I think that is what letting go is all about. Your children are never yours to keep.

Where I come from originates from my mother, sister, and daughter.

My mom is unassuming and quiet. When she laughs, it is memorable. She always encourages me to look for the best in others, especially when I find it difficult. She’s taught me the importance of adjusting to less and the power a homemade meal can carry.

With my sister, there is an ease that feels natural. She knows and gets me. I’ve learned through her to laugh a little more, to not reach the worst conclusion, and to realize that imperfection is enough. She’s my connection to a past that only we both know.

My little girl, for the last seven years, has offered me so much unconditional love. Her ability to forgive, to laugh with abandon, and her constant wonder about the world helps me strive to become a better person.

These are the ladies in my life. This is where I come from.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.

“You don’t have to get a job that makes others feel comfortable about what they perceive as your success. You don’t have to explain what you plan to do with your life. You don’t have to justify your education by demonstrating its financial rewards. You don’t have to maintain an impeccable credit score. Anyone who expects you to do any of those things has no sense of history or economics or science or the arts.

You have to pay your electric bill. You have to be kind. You have to give it all you got. You have to find people who love you truly and love them back with the same truth. But that’s all.” 

― Cheryl Strayed

I discovered this quote over the weekend. It resonates with me on multiple levels. As a little girl growing up in an Indian household, good grades, a hard work ethic, and becoming a professional were emphasized as mandatory pursuits. A small part of me understands why it was so important to my parents to raise children who achieved. I believe, from what I observed in my childhood and now as an adult, that this philosophy is anchored in one word: status.

Status? How do you define it? Is it important to you? Does status define your choice of employment? Do you buy things based on how others react to it? Do you believe status really means anything at all? These are interesting questions to ponder. I must confess that in my twenties, my goals centered around this status driven concept. Introducing myself as an attorney became a pathway to tell people, yes, I made it in the world. Almost fifteen years later, the word status means something very different to me.

When I left my legal career almost 6 years ago, an immediate identity crisis simmered. How would I introduce myself now? Mother? In-between jobs? And why did I care so much about how others viewed my choice to step away from the law? Did my value as a person decrease because my answer to the cocktail question was much different?

As I get older, I am less and less impressed by the material.  What I own or what others possess fades into the background. That does not mean that I dislike nice things. Like most, I splurge on the things that I love. Here’s the difference: I make those purchases because I enjoy them, not because I am looking to raise my status by impressing others. I am pursuing a career that does not carry dollar signs or huge bonuses. Writers are rarely motivated by monetary goals.

Mid-life is marked by reviewing notions of status and who you are at the core. I am more conscious of who I am inside, rather than a professional title that sounds like I am a successful person. Do I still crave the need for achievement? Yes. I think we all do. But the difference is I am doing it for myself.

I’d like to hear your thoughts on status. What do you believe about it? And how does it shape you? 

An ordinary afternoon. Cloudless, the sun rays hit the window of my car. Climbing temperatures in the desert mean that spring is ending and that one hundred plus degree days are preparing for arrival. I picked up my little girl from school and headed to the grocery store to buy a few items for dinner. As I slammed my car door shut, I extended my arm and grabbed my daughter’s hand. We walked toward the grocery story and she spotted the yellow and red buggy  attached to the grocery cart.

“Momma, can I ride in the yellow car? Please, Momma, can I?” Her voice drowned the car traffic around us.

“Um, I don’t know. Are you certain you will fit in it? It is hard for Momma to move the cart because it is so big.” In the past I’ve discouraged her from scooting into the colorful buggy because it adds almost twenty additional minutes to my grocery shopping time.

Before I had a chance to think about it, my daughter climbed into the seat.

“Look, Momma. I fit. I still fit into the car.” With a wide grin on her face, her excitement set the tempo for the remainder of our grocery excursion.

I tried to steer the metal contraption in and around the various aisles without bumping into the various displays. At one point, an older woman with brunette highlights in her hair, helped push one of the stands from our path. Grateful for her assistance, I thanked her. She said, “No problem. Your little girl is having such a good time.”

This ordinary errand to the grocery store lingered in my mind during the evening. It is all moving so fast. In another six years, my daughter will be a teenager. She will not hold my hand and will definitely not fit into the grocery buggy at thirteen. I am struck by how many moments will never happen again. This picture of her with her long limbs extending out, her smile, and her knees touching the steering wheel is one of those moments. I made it a point to pull out my phone to snap this picture because I want to remember this little girl’s excitement and the significance of a simple errand.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.” Henry David Thoreau

The last few weeks my days are filled with thoughts of the future. Wrapped up in what will happen next, I sink into forgetting what is right now. An abundance exists in the moments as they are happening. Here is what I love about right now.

Right now I love when my daughter tiptoes into my office and wraps her long, lanky arms around my shoulders and squeezes me from behind. A backward bear hug punctuated with “I love you” is the closest I will come to receiving unconditional love.

Right now I enjoy my daily phone call to my mom. She is the only person who has called me everyday of my almost forty-year-old life. That simple realization stuns me into gratitude.

Right now I sink into the poetry of the earth during my morning runs. As I gaze at the mountains, I realize that so much of their echos, lines, and beauty are a part of my own internal landscape. Sunrises and sunsets create a compass of light and dark. The reminder that time moves forward, but that the glory is in this moment.

Right now I vacillate between my disdain and joy of technology. I find comfort in checking emails, bantering with friends on text messages, and playing a midnight game of Words With Friends. At the same time I dislike, that sometimes, the Iphone is the only way to pacify my daughter during a long car ride.

Right now I know that my husband supports and cheers every professional and creative venture I decide to pursue. The freedom to be and find yourself is one of the best gifts one spouse can give to the other.

Right now I delight in making lunches, dropping off my daughter at school, and collecting every little love note and drawing that she makes for me. Right now she’s built her own treasure chest that sits atop my book shelf. It reminds me that right now are the days of her innocence and in her shire, the waterfalls drip butterflies, hearts, and peace signs.

Right now I am stronger because my connection with my sister. We share a childhood only we know and understand. And she not only loves me, but gets me.

Right now I am overcome by words. The ones I read in books, blogs, and that I discuss in my writing group. The written word is what I call home.

Right now. These days are fleeting. I grasp what I can. For that I am grateful.

IMAGE: TIME BY ALAN CLEAVER VIA FLICKR CREATIVE COMMONS

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you lived. This is to have succeeded. Ralph Waldo Emerson

This morning I tuned into the coverage of the President George W. Bush dedication to his library. Southern Methodist University, the location of this library, carries a part of my own history. Sixteen years ago, I stepped on the same campus. My first day did not start well. Running late to my first class as law student, I remember sliding into my seat, just as the Professor introduced the class and his requirements. The next 3 years, I teetered on all states of anxiety trying to balance a part-time job as a bank teller and a full-time legal student. On a sunny day in May, I graduated with my legal degree and practiced law for the next 6 years.

In my twenties, I believed my legal roots and what I did for a living carved out a portion of my legacy. Prior to my twentieth high school reunion, I flipped back to the pages of my memory book and in my curly cue writing, I wrote that becoming a lawyer was my career of choice. Looking back, I tied my self-worth in what I did, with less emphasis on what my core values, thoughts and behavior revealed. Caring more about status and the automatic credibility that the title offered, I spent many days, restless, frantic, and committed to a “legacy” I convinced myself to follow.

With the passing of my father, birth of my daughter, and struggling as a wife and mother, my original “legacy” plan required a vast overhaul. I quit my identity as a lawyer almost 6 years ago. Giving up what I wanted for so long proved humbling. But enduring crisis, watching one life pass as another takes birth, offers a perspective that really distills the meaning of the word legacy. Letting go of the only identity I really worked toward stirs a long sigh sometimes. What if’s creep up from time to time and I question choices I made and my misplaced drive.

On the question of legacy, I think we all alter and define and shift our plans to accommodate the present moment. I am stumbling to figure out that definition for me, but I do know this: Living in the present moment makes the legacy question irrelevant.  We can work toward what is right in front of us. What we leave behind will differ depending on who you ask. Legacy is transient, the present moment is not. On the question of legacy, as I write this, it occurs to me that it may not be that important at all.

This weekend I felt scattered and pensive. This tension arose from some unexpected personal news and the residual feelings of what happened in Boston over the week. Every time I turned on the television these images kept playing like a scratched record on a turntable: news that one brother died in a gunfire battle, another brother alive, captured, but unable to talk, lying in the same hospital building as those who were victimized by him, and the face of Sean, the MIT officer, whose Mona Lisa smile will never be seen again by his parents and siblings.

Closely following the barrage of news, tweets, Facebook updates of the Boston tragedy left me exposed in a way I do not understand. Much of my own life stayed the same, while another city shut down. I took my daughter to school, exchanged a few hello’s with other moms, returned home to my office where I wrote a post, had lunch with a friend, and laughed during dinner with my own family. In another corner, others were grieving, picking out caskets, a set of parents flying overseas to bury their only daughter, and mothers and fathers and siblings comforting those who lost limbs.

I know this is a part of life. This tug and pull between grief and moving forward and repeating the cycle again. I will never be comfortable with this dichotomy. These overwhelming unforeseen events pushed me to think of my own losses in the most unexpected way. My daughter loves Taco Bell, especially the bean burritos. We decided to make it a Taco Bell dinner night. I waited on the seats while my husband and daughter stood in line. My daughter ran to where I was seated and began to swivel in her chair. Her excitement about the tiny pleasures in life always give me pause.

Once we got our order, I unfolded the white wrapper that covered my burrito and reached for the hot sauce packets. At that point, tears streamed down my face. One of my father’s quirks was collecting Taco Bell hot sauce packets in a mason jar at home. He absolutely loved their hot sauce and would always gather a few handfuls like they were precious souvenirs. At this moment, I realized how much my life’s move forward since his passing, but how an unforeseen trigger can unleash grief.

My daughter and husband tried to comfort me, but for that single moment, inconsolable, I let the tears stream, wiped them away, and acknowledged how much I missed my father. And in the very next second, my daughter made a funny joke and I laughed.

Loss and love. On moving forward and going back. We learn to navigate the space between grief and happiness. Even if we stumble.

The events in Boston this week left a lingering dull ache in my heart. When I learned of the Chinese parents who lost their only child, I settled into a deep sadness. I keep asking, why? I know there are no answers to these senseless acts of violence. I sit in silence. No words provide a balm to help soothe the restlessness and anxiety I feel over this week’s events. When I am in this state, I often look to the words of others. This quote by Mahatma Gandhi, provided me with some solace. I hope you find some peace in his words, too.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history, the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible but in the end they always fall. Think of it. Always.”

- Mahatma Gandhi 

* A special thanks to my friend, Kristie, for directing me to this quote.

In the last few days, the images of the Boston tragedy keep flipping on and off in my mind. I learned today that the victims that passed were young: an eight year old boy, a twenty-nine year old young woman, and a twenty-three year old Boston University graduate student. So young. With their entire lives ahead of them. Each one was waiting for a loved one to cross the finish line.

The news of amputated limbs, blood splattered on the streets, and the abandoned sandwiches at outdoor restaurants are visuals and sounds that echo in my core. As the television displays headlines of what happened, my daughter asks, “What is so special about this report, Momma?” I tell her that something bad occurred at a race and the newscasters are telling us about what happened. With a straight face, she tells me, “Momma, special is supposed to be MAGICAL, not sad. Special is not sad.” I let her words hang and felt helpless in offering an explanation to her words.

My thoughts, her comment, and the parade of what I know about what happened on that early Boston morning are difficult to reconcile. Trying to grapple with how to move forward, I stumble. How does the mother and father of that little eight year old boy move forward? How do parents who live halfway across the world in China who mourn the loss of their beautiful daughter move forward? How does that grandmother who lost her granddaughter, who moved to Boston to care for her, move forward? We are a society obsessed with moving forward. But there are instances where it is difficult to know how to do that.

I am learning that as I get older, the less I know about everything.

I don’t understand why this happened. I don’t understand why there are people everyday in all parts of the world who live with the kind of brutality that happened in Boston. I don’t understand people and their motivations to hurt others. I don’t know how to explain any of this to my daughter.

Really, I don’t know how to move forward.