Amy Lu's View

I’m overinvested in a story about people who wanted to be pirates. (Not actual pirates, but Disney “Pirates of the Caribbean” type pirates). 

I don’t know these aspiring pirates personally–I learned about them when I recently watched a 2012* episode of “Bar Rescue.” I don’t usually play in the reality TV show viewing space, but I watched this with my niece during a family visit. 

I don’t want to get bogged down into reviewing “Bar Rescue” or focusing on the actual folks in this episode and what happened to them during and after the show–I’m sure if you’re interested you can find anything you want to know on the internet. (I’ve definitely spent some time doing just that and will likely spend even more.)

Setting aside all the “plot” and “character” questions this episode raises, I think I got a bit obsessed with it because it made me wrestle with the idea of following a dream. The heart of the pirate bar story seems to be “Should you follow your dream or choose financial success and stability?”

Like many people, I’m a sucker for a “follow your dream” story. And my first response to those tales is an enthusiastic, “Hell YES! Follow your dream!” There are a bazillion dream pursuit stories, and for me, none are more mythic than my beloved Muppets. Kermit, Fozzie, Miss Piggy and the gang–they are all about following their dreams despite setbacks and people telling them they can’t succeed, and making good friends and heartwarming mayhem along the way. A devoted Muppet fan like myself HAS to support dream following, right?

I also just recently listened to “Actress of a Certain Age” by Jeff Hiller, a delightful and inspiring memoir about an actor who finally realizes his dream of having a substantial role in a big network TV show (HBO’s AMAZING “Somebody Somewhere”) in his late forties (an age which now seems relatively young to me). Hiller advocates the “dreams don’t have deadlines” philosophy so I feel renewed inspiration to be on Team Follow Your Dream.

But…the Bar Pirates. One thing that seemed clear from their tale as portrayed on “Bar Rescue” is they couldn’t live their dream in an economically tenable way. Am I soulless to think that they had to give up their dream and find a way to support themselves financially? Afterall, my response when I saw “Rent” all those years ago was, “I don’t feel that bad for these young starving artists, they really should all just get a job and pay their rent.” 

I guess the real question isn’t “Do I think the Bar Pirates should have given up their dream?” but “Have I given up on my dream(s)?” I don’t think so–I don’t remember any burning desire to do something that I haven’t. But maybe that just means the REAL real question for me is: “Have I ever had any dreams?” 

Is the only reason I’ve never given up on a dream because I haven’t had any?

Yikes, that feels bleak. So it feels like it’s important to back up for a moment and define what I mean by a “dream.” I’ve had hopes, aspirations, and goals, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt like “I MUST do THIS!” in a big picture, “this is my life’s calling or mission” sense. 

In many ways I am not a flexible or adaptive person. I don’t generally go with the flow. But I think I’m flexible about my dreams. Performing is a good example of this–if you know me at all, you know I crave the spotlight. My interpretation of “spotlight” is pretty loose, though. I’ll act, sing, drum, read one of blog posts or a children’s story–basically whatever opportunity I get, I’ll take, but I don’t have my heart set on a certain path. I’m even a little uncomfortable with the very common question, “What’s your dream role?” That question makes me twitchy because I feel locked in…what if I don’t ever get that role? What about all the other roles that I don’t even know are possible that might be out there for me? So I definitely have a desire to do something rather specific–perform–but I try to be open to what that might look like. 

And what does it really mean to embrace the idea that dreams don’t have deadlines? I think that only works if we’re flexible and willing to adjust what fulfilling a dream looks like, especially if a dream depends on our physical skill and abilities. Unless we are non-aging muppets (and even muppets are in some ways affected by the passage of time and societal and cultural changes) how we are able to do things can be pretty different at 25 vs. 75. 

A narrative of “Dream vs. Despair” makes for compelling entertainment, but it can be a false dichotomy. Just because I’m not a Broadway star doesn’t mean I have to be miserable. If a dream is thwarted, or worse, never even dreamed, because of racism, sexism, classism, ableism, or any other type of oppression, then that is an injustice we should all fight against. But sometimes our dreams just aren’t a good fit for us, or aren’t a good fit for us anymore, so we can reimagine them. 

Back to those Bar Rescue Pirates: Did they set themselves up for disappointment and failure by narrowly defining their dream and the options available to them? I’m not an expert on pirating or bar ownership, but maybe they could have had a moderately successful restaurant that wasn’t pirate-themed (without the awful corporate theme the Bar Rescue host tried to force on them) and performed as pirates at a local renaissance fair? Or regularly held a pirate role playing game where they drank fruity drinks? These are just a couple of ideas I’m throwing out there, but I think they needed to consider what it was they loved about dressing as pirates and having a bar to try and figure out if they could meet those needs in other ways. 

Maybe I’m just vague and not overly ambitious when it comes to dreams. There are experiences and feelings I desire to have, but I’m open to how I’ll get there. I want to be loved, and happy, and not create too much havoc. Hopefully I’ll get a little praise and affirmation (and a few blog readers) along the way. 

*https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2264672/

I lied in church. In front of the whole congregation. 

I arrived at church late (as I usually do) but not too late, just a few minutes after our start time. As I entered the sanctuary and walked up the aisle to select a seat that wasn’t conspicuously in the very back but not too far up front, the service leader spotted me and asked me a question from the pulpit. A question that caused me to panic and lie. 

Did she call me to account for a sin I had committed (which in our church is most likely to be a sin of omission like not recycling or not donating to public radio)? Did she ask me why I hadn’t signed up to volunteer with the local food shelf or help out with our upcoming service auction?

No, she merely asked me if I would come up and light our chalice. Our chalice lighting is a lovely little ritual that we use to open every service, and I’m sure she thought it was a benign request that I could easily fulfill. But the thought of lighting the chalice, especially when being asked on the spot, filled me with anxiety. 

So I lied and said, “No, I don’t like fire.”

It’s not a lie that I didn’t want to light the chalice, but it is a lie that I don’t like fire. I do like fire, but I don’t like to make or light fires, even when all that is required is using a simple lighter wand. The full truth is that I don’t like to use tools of any kind, or anything that requires even the teeny tiniest amount of technical skill or dexterity, especially in front of other people. 

I have many theories about why I struggle with simple tasks that require any tool wielding or manipulation of the physical world. Primarily, I have limited body awareness–I don’t fully experience or understand how my body operates in the world so I don’t really get how it can manipulate my environment. I’ve lived a lot of my world oblivious to my surroundings because I’m wrapped up in my own head (my dreamy/self-involved Picses nature at play?) Plus, I don’t like figuring out puzzles or following directions or thinking sequentially through a process–everything that seems to be involved in a task like using a vacuum cleaner attachment. Perhaps most importantly, I have very little patience with “things” and get frustrated easily, so if I have to do more than press one button, I’m likely to give up. 

I could have just said “No” and left if at that, but an answer that concise felt rude and weird. I thought I needed an explanation, but going into a long  (or even medium length) explanation about how I’m embarrassed to use tools in front of others seemed even more awkward (and our services always run long so I did not want to hold up the show). So I went with the shortest explanation that I could come up with in the moment: “I don’t like fire.” 

The service leader was unfazed by this and quickly found someone else to light the chalice. The service moved on. I’m sure most people barely registered that this little exchange had happened.

But of course I spent the next 5 minutes (or was it 5 hours?) obsessing about what everyone was thinking about me and my stupid response. Would I be peppered with questions after the service about why I was scared of fire? (I was not).

I WANT to be someone who doesn’t worry too much about what others think of me (as long as it’s not because I’ve honestly caused them some harm). Yes, I am a people-pleaser who actively (sometimes pathologically) seeks affirmation, but still I like to think I’m someone who doesn’t get embarrassed because I do unusual or silly or dumb things. I embrace my nonconformity: “Hey, I’m me and I’m proud I’m unique and quirky.” I’m not bound by conventional bourgeois social norms. I’m not trying to impress anyone with my achievements or my jet-setting lifestyle. 

“We all love ourselves more than other people, but care more about their opinion than our own.”–Marcus Aurelius

But I’m not actually a person who easily goes through life not worrying about the impression I make or if I’m living up to expectations. Maybe I wouldn’t have worried about people thinking I was a weirdo for not liking fire if it was true. Or maybe I wouldn’t have worried, or at least not as much, if I hadn’t been surprised by the request and had a chance to tell the whole truth that I don’t like making fire (Chad just read this and said I am actually not allowed to make fire, even a tiny fire to light a candle, because I can’t be trusted. I can’t really argue with him). 

And of course, I wouldn’t have felt I needed to lie about not liking fire if I wasn’t embarrassed to try and operate tools in front of others. 

My life lesson from this little incident is to accept that I worry about what other people think of me, just like most humans do, and I’ll try to remember this and be less judgmental when I see others worrying about the impression they are making. We may be overly self-conscious and silly, but well, that’s how most of us make our way through our social world.

Or maybe I just need to learn how to lie better on the spot and come up with interesting excuses more quickly. 

“It won’t be long before this looks pretty…”

That’s a thought that kept running through my head during my first hiking excursion of the year at Afton State Park. It was early March, and while I was thankful for the unseasonably warm weather (mid-50’s) and sunshine, the scenery wasn’t exactly inspiring. Everything was brown. And muddy. And brown. 

I wasn’t surprised by the lack of picturesque views. I’m hardly a naturalist, but I understand that early March is simply too early to see signs of spring (or at least any signs I would recognize). I wasn’t disappointed and was just happy to be able to hike without worrying about it being too cold or slippery (it IS easy to slip in mud but still not as hazardous as ice). 

I loved the feeling of anticipation as I imagined how the world would soon be transformed by greenness and growth. The transformation spring brings is miraculous, and I think immersing myself in the before of spring will help me better appreciate the after. 

I don’t want to lose the sense of excitement and expectation of thinking “soon this will be pretty”…but is there a way that I can also think this brown muddy mess “IS pretty” or at least “KINDA pretty and/or pretty in its own atypical and unexpected way”?

The still frozen river was pretty by most common standards, especially with the sunlight sparkling on it. But all the dead flattened prairie grass and bare trees? Um, they presented striking and bold vistas? But what about the mud? Yeah, I’m still in the “mud is just mud” phase of my quest to enjoy nature in all its manifestations.

Obviously, I’m not just talking about the literal, actual early March environment in Minnesota. To spell out the metaphor: Can I learn to be more appreciative of experiences, and people, and my life as they are in the present moment, without fixating on what they will or could be? Or lamenting what they used to be and no longer are (I’m talking to you–my crooked fingers and squishy face!). I don’t think I tend to wallow in “the good old days have passed me by” thinking, but it’s still hard sometimes to not indulge in a little “I’m much older than I used to be and therefore essentially diminished” resignation. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fully appreciate the aesthetics of mud and dead grass. But I just found a quote in the picture book “Last Stop on Market Street” by Matt de la Peña that I read at church today (and how cool is the timing of that discovery–synchronicity!) that inspires me: “He wondered how his nana found beauty where he never even thought to look.”

I might not find visual beauty in a brown early Minnesotan spring day (or its metaphorical equivalents), but now I at least try to look for beauty in places that aren’t obviously or typically lovely. That feels like a powerful step that opens up possibility. 

I am going to be careful, though, so that step doesn’t lead to me falling in the mud, even if that would be pretty funny! 

I am full of grace. 

This doesn’t seem very accurate to me, but who am I to argue with a poem/nursery rhyme from the mid-1800’s? That wouldn’t be very graceful, after all. 

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living.
But the child that is born on Sabbath day,
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.

According to the poem in question, which assigns people characteristics based on the day of the week they are born, I’m full of grace since I was born on a Tuesday. 

This year my birthday was also on a Tuesday, which means it’s a “true” birthday, according to Gemini (Google’s AI). I’m not sure if a True Birthday is really a thing or just a harmless AI hallucination, but having my birthday once again fall on a Tuesday gives me an excuse to blog about how graceful I am (or am not). I briefly tackled this question in a blog post in 2015 on another true birthday (https://peppersprout.blogspot.com/2015/03/tuesdays-needy-picsean-child.html). Back then I declared that I am in no way physically graceful and not surprisingly, that hasn’t changed in eleven years. 

As words have multiple meanings, I proposed that I could have grace if it was defined as “an attractively polite manner of behaving.” Really? I appreciate that I was being positive and aspirational, but “polite” isn’t one of the top adjectives I’d used to describe myself. I’m not usually obviously rude, but “pleasantly non-offensive” seems like the most I ever obtain on the politeness scale. 

Luckily for me and my quest for blog inspiration, “grace” is more widely used in a way that it wasn’t back in 2015 (or at least I’m aware of this different use). Now I often hear people talking about “giving grace” to others to encourage having patience, understanding and kindness—a flowery way of saying “cut some slack.” It’s all about giving people the benefit of the doubt and not judging too harshly. 

Oof. It’s almost like this birthday rhyme was designed to point out my failings and shortcomings. This is yet another definition of grace that I’m noticeably lacking. 

I often catch myself being annoyed by and impatient with others, and grace often feels like a difficult thing to give. Many times a day I find myself being critical with everyone from strangers to friends, and frequently indulge in “How could they do/not do that?” moral outrage. (I’m not talking about real moral outrage against something like ICE atrocities—that IS justified and we should all feel and act on that).  

I do try to stop myself before acting on or speaking out of my irritation (although Chad would say he can often hear a telltale tone in my voice) so maybe I am giving grace, at least in small amounts, at least some times. Just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean I’m not doing it. “Grace” implies something that’s easy or effortless to me, but I’m realizing that could be a simplistic understanding of grace. All these ways that I’ve considered grace—physical coordination and prowess, social charm, and generous kindness—probably only usually seem effortless because the person demonstrating them has put in the work to develop them.

Sometimes I worry that I’m more impatient and irritable than I used to be. Is this because I’m aging and getting crankier, or is it because smartphones and the state of the world are making all of us more distractible and easily offended? Is it some combination of all these factors or more? Perhaps I’m also more aware of the value of giving grace, and more self aware so I realize how snarky I am. I might even be maturing enough to know that there are other ways to be in the world besides my disdainful Gen X default. 

Today in church we had guest musicians that performed a jazzy version of “Amazing Grace” in a minor key in 5/4 time (it sounded fantastic but I’m not prepared to wrap my mind around 5/4 time). As I was in the midst of my internal struggle with this blog post about grace, it seemed especially significant that they provided me with this different way of hearing “grace.” Like these musicians, I can give my own interpretation to grace and find a way to play with it and make it meaningful for me. 

I’ll have another True Birthday eleven years from now, in 2037. That seems like a space-age date impossibly far in the future, but I know those years will go by quickly. Hopefully I’ll still be in this earthly realm, still blogging, and will have made some progress in being more graceful. There may even be a new way that “grace” is popularly used that will give me some new blog materials. 

That would all be amazing.  

I conducted an experiment and asked AI (Google’s Gemini) to write our 2025 holiday letter. The results were…interesting. Yes, I mean that in the most Minneostan way. The letter I got was annoyingly chipper and over-the-top, and weirdly wrong on some points. Yes, I know that in part this was because I didn’t give Gemini great prompts, but I don’t think I’ll be handing over my blog to Skynet any time soon. 

The AI lies presented in an aggressively perky voice made the holiday letter quite entertaining, at least to me, so I’m sharing it with my editorial comments. I will also admit I did use some AI content from a revised version in our actual letter. Hey, writer’s block is real.

Our Holiday Letter courtesy of Gemini:

We hope this card finds you cozy (I like “cozy” I kept that!) and joyful as the year winds down. It’s been a truly momentous (that’s a bit extreme) year for us—full of robes, resolutions (what?! Gemini really wanted alliteration), and quite a few roles!

The biggest news is that Chad officially graduated from seminary (not sure bold text is called for) in April and is now an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister! We’re thrilled (and perhaps a little surprised he kept the lawyer job, too–we are NOT AT ALL surprised). He’s currently navigating the exciting world of “guest preaching” (like a rock-n-roll roadie, —What? I’m not an expert on being roadie but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing like that— but with more theological introspection) while looking forward to hopefully finding a settled ministry position this fall. In the meantime, he continues to serve as a volunteer chaplain at a low-income housing unit in Minneapolis, somehow balancing that with his continued work as a lawyer—we call it his “Clergy-Counsel” routine. (We absolutely do NOT call it that).

I’m still enjoying my life as a Hennepin County Librarian, managing our public website, staff intranet, and the customer service teams. I essentially get to live the dream: working from home, wearing fuzzy socks, and battling rogue commas. (I was mostly with Gemini until the “rogue commas” bit. Gemini clearly needs some more input about what librarians do. Commas are definitely not a top concern for me). 

In June, we escaped to Baltimore for the UU convention, which meant I got a mini-vacation and managed to sneak in lots of sightseeing while Chad was busy networking.

We spent a decent amount of the year on stage! I had a hilarious and poignant “dream role” in the play Calendar Girls (yes, the one with the calendar—it was liberating!— This is actually a little scary…I know I didn’t give any prompt about being scantily clad on stage or how it felt, but it WAS liberating. How did Gemini know?) —and Chad once again directed a fascinating History Play for the Landmark Center, where I also got to play a small part. I also kept busy acting in two different one-act productions and had some small character roles in a play that went to a community theater festival. We promise next year we’ll just focus on being audience members… maybe. (Gemini definitely pulled this commentary out of its virtual ass. I have never, not ever, said or thought I want to focus on being in the audience. It seems like Gemini has some opinions on how I spend my time). 

We hit a huge milestone and celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary! Where did the time go? We’re so grateful for the journey and all of you who are a part of it.

Life’s other highlights include:

• Becoming great aunt and uncle to our first great niece, Veda (named after my wonderful grandmother!).
• I spent a lot of time playing at open mics—dusting off my guitar (NO, I do not play guitar and resent the assumption that guitars are THE open mic instrument) and testing the patience of Minneapolis coffee shop patrons (I go to breweries, but that seems like an honest mistake, but ouch, Gemini. True, but ouch…did you watch my YouTube videos?)
• I did a lot of hiking and photography in the beautiful MN State Parks, proving that the woods are indeed lovely, dark, and deep (I don’t think I’ve ever felt I need to prove that!)

Wishing you and yours a wonderful holiday season and a New Year full of peace, laughter, and maybe a few well-deserved naps! (I wouldn’t have thought to add the nap bit, but I guess you can’t go wrong with a nap. Maybe having AI overloads won’t be so bad afterall).

With much love,

Chamy

On Christmas Eve we attended a lovely service at the Unitarian Universalist church in White Bear Lake. Some youth participated in the service by reading inspirational writings. Their voices definitely added to the service, and they seemed to enjoy being a part of it. But it didn’t look like they received any paper sacks filled with hard candy after the service in exchange for their efforts. 

When we were kids, we received paper lunch bags filled with hard candy and peanuts after the Christmas Eve service at the little rural Luthern church we attended. I don’t know if the treat bags were intended to be a reward for fulfilling our duty of reciting a bible verse during the service, but that was always my impression. Of course, I was more than happy to get up in front of the congregation to show off my memorization and recitation skills–I was always happiest if I got a long verse. I was drawn to “the stage” from a young age and the front of the church may have been one of my first artistic venues.

I don’t remember exactly what type of candy we got, but I don’t think I was ever that excited about it. I think my brother and sister and I actively laughed about how bad it was. And as a kid, I didn’t really like nuts, so the peanuts were no prize for me either. But still, I remember that I liked getting my little paper bag filled with treats that didn’t appeal to me. Maybe it was because, like my urge to perform, my drive to get free things also manifested early in life. Maybe I enjoyed the opportunity to share in some mockery with Jenn and Charley. Maybe I liked the bags for what they represented, that in their small humble way they signified that Christmas Eve was a special time.

Getting those bags was a holiday tradition. I don’t know if it was a long standing tradition–I don’t know how many years we got those bags, and it’s definitely not something that’s part of any current holiday celebration I have. But thinking about those bags makes me smile and makes me warm and fuzzy. 

I’ll disclose that I’ve been known to get a little grumpy about holiday traditions. Not the traditions themselves–if a certain food or movie or decoration or practice makes people happy or makes them feel connected to the past or to loved ones, that’s great. But sometimes I feel like people forget that a tradition isn’t a mandate, and that there isn’t anything inherently meaningful about a date on a calendar. Sometimes life requires some flexibility. I think not stressing ourselves and each other out is more important than “shoulds” or “this is the way we do things.”

It’s probably now clear that I’ve sometimes felt on the wrong side of someone else’s holiday expectations. Am I defensive because it didn’t seem like our family had that many traditions? Did we have traditions, but it didn’t seem like it because we just didn’t frame our holiday activities that way? We definitely didn’t have traditions that were passed down from “great grand whoever,” and I think we mixed things up from year to year depending on whatever little life dramas we were dealing with. 

We may not have had many traditions in the traditional sense, and my memories of childhood Christmases are fuzzy and jumbled and likely incomplete and inaccurate (a recent reminiscing session with my brother really highlighted my faulty memory). Thankfully, there isn’t too much riding on the veracity of my holiday recollections. It doesn’t really matter how many years I got a paper sack with hard candy of dubious quality, or if the angel hair my mom strewn seemingly all over the house was as prickly and slightly dangerous as it seemed, or if my brother and I spent many Christmas Eves playing monopoly while we waited for our exhausted mom to complete a whirlwind of present wrapping (maybe this just happened once). My memories are more or less factually true and the feelings of nostalgia and wistfulness that accompany them are definitely true. 

I don’t want to be a kid again, and I love the life I have now, but sometimes it just astounds me that those times are gone and I can’t ever go back to them except through memories that sometimes seem to transcend and collapse time (and maybe time travel or alternate realities or something like that but that’s another post). 

I stand by my declaration that it’s healthy not to get too worked up about the “shoulds” of the holidays, or any time. Still, I could look for small and simple and hopefully stress-free opportunities to make me stop and realize how special life is. I’m creative, right? So I should be able to find a few contemporary equivalents of hard candy–little artifacts and habits that will make me take a moment to laugh and appreciate what’s happening. 

And encourage me to more fully appreciate who I’m sharing something with.

*Shout-out to Counting Crows and their song “Hard Candy”

I recently realized it’s been 35 years since I was an exchange student in Winchester, England. 

I took a circuitous journey down memory lane to arrive at this startling realization. The first step was when I heard the Kate Bush song “December Will Be Magic Again” playing on the Current (our amazing local public radio music station.) “Aww,” I thought, “I first heard that song when I was studying abroad in England.”

That led me to reminiscing about music I listened to during this big adventure. (And it WAS a big adventure for 20 year old Amy to be living in another country for three months–up until then I had barely been outside the county I was born in). And I thought, “Hey, wasn’t there a song I really loved that I could never track down when I was back home?* What WAS that song?”

Then it came to me like a flash and I was getting ready for bed…”Wasn’t there a prominent line in the song ‘We share memories’? And didn’t the song have something to do with Ruby Blue? Can’t remember if that was the band or the song title…”

Luckily, I didn’t have to remember exactly, because those few pieces were enough for Google to track down the song: “Can it Be?” by the band Ruby Blue. 

I can’t describe the powerful feeling of remembering (even partially) that song after all these years, seemingly out of nowhere, and then the thrill of Google being able to tell me what the song was (there is even a Wikipedia article about the song and artist). I didn’t actually try to listen to the song until the next day and although it isn’t on Spotify, I was able to find it on YouTube music. As I first started listening I wasn’t sure it was the right song, but soon I heard the “We share memories” bit.

Since I only really remembered the chorus of the song, I was a little nervous about listening to it again: Would I still like it? Would it still speak to me 35 years later? Happily, the answer is “yes”. I don’t remember why I loved it in the first place. I definitely loved the sound–at the time I couldn’t believe it wasn’t a 10,000 Maniacs song, and I was (and still am) a big fan. I also wonder if it was partly because I was struck by the line “Can it be that you’ll wait for me?” I can imagine Young Amy pining for Young Chad and feeling like that line spoke to our then long-distance relationship. When I was twenty, three months sometimes felt like an eternity to be apart from my new beau. 

Anyway, in the midst of rediscovering this song, I actually stopped to think about how many years ago it was when I was a student in England. Even though there isn’t any intrinsic meaning to zeroes or fives I always regard anniversaries that end in them as more significant, so it feels a little cosmic that the strings of the interwebs and the universe let me back to that song now. 

“Cosmic” is just my lazy way of saying that this all feels special and important, although I can’t really articulate why. It’s a combination of reminiscing about a special and unique experience I had, being rocked by the passage of time, marveling at the power of music and technology to help me time travel, and pondering how Chad and I are still together and how we and I have and haven’t changed. 

It also seems rather meta that I was able to find the song because I remembered the line “we share memories” and then the song triggered all these memories about my experience as an exchange student. The memories are warm and fuzzy (due to the passage of time and likely also all the snakebite and black I drank) and all jumbled together. I have memories of incredible historic sites I saw, and lovely friends I met (okay these memories are definitely aided by photos) and quirky memories, like those of the pants I wore several times a week because I tried to pack light. When I left Winchester I gave those pants away to make room in my suitcase and because I was soo sick of them I never wanted to see them again (of course I would love to see them now). 

I’m also thinking about how sharing memories means so much more to me now than it did when I was twenty. I have almost three times as many to share (assuming I can remember most of my 55 years) and I appreciate them more now, especially those of my mom and my sister and others who I can no longer create new memories with. 

Thankfully I’m still getting to experience big and little moments with wonderful people that will add to my store of memories to be nostalgic about.  

*This was pre-internet, and once the internet was a thing, I think I tried to find it but didn’t have any luck and then eventually forgot about my quest. I’m not sure why I didn’t just buy a cassette tape or CD when I was in England–maybe it was too expensive for me?

I was feeling harried.

Now it doesn’t take much to stress me out when I’m shopping, and this was a prime irritating retail situation. I was running late for an appointment (totally my own fault for bad time management) and I was waiting in a checkout line and it was taking longer for the customer in front of me to check out than I had anticipated. I THOUGHT I had chosen wisely when I picked my lane (she didn’t seem to have that many items) but I miscalculated as her checkout process was mysteriously complicated. 

So I was anxious, and annoyed, and grumpy, but knew I had no one to blame but myself (which of course made me more irritable). But finally, the young woman in front of me seemed to be wrapping up her payment, when another woman passed by and handed a gift bag to the cashier.

The cashier was caught off guard. “What is this for?” she asked. The two women had a brief exchange I didn’t hear and then the gift giver went on her way. 

Our cashier was visibly moved and paused for a moment. “She gave this to me because my grandson was born premature and he is very sick,” she explained to us. 

“Would you like a hug?” the customer in front of me asked. And when our cashier nodded, the young woman walked around the counter and hugged her, and then her adorable young daughter (around 5?) also hugged the cashier. 

My heart didn’t exactly grow three sizes, but I did stop fixating on my own self-inflicted problems, if only for a moment. 

I was particularly struck by the compassion of the young woman in line ahead of me because she appeared Somali, so I can only imagine the stress and fear she must be currently living with. But this young woman, this young mother, didn’t let the cloud of danger she’s living under (even if she isn’t Somali just the appearance of possibly being Somali makes her a current target of the Trump administration) get in the way of wanting to reach out to a stranger to offer comfort. 

I didn’t hug anyone at Target that day (or probably anywhere–Chad and StanLee aren’t big on hugs, although StanLee likes to wrestle). But I did make an extra effort to be friendly to the cashier when I was being checked out. I didn’t bristle when the cashier (Connie, I learned once I saw her nametag) chatted away about the Starbucks Peppermint Mocha coffee I was buying (I generally don’t like commentary on my food purchases). I sincerely congratulated her when she told me she has recently lost 120 pounds (wow!), and told her I hoped her grandson came home soon. I added that we had a nephew who was born very premature but that he is now eighteen years old and healthy and happy.

I don’t expect that I will ever know how Connie’s grandson is doing (although I could have her as a cashier at Target again) or know if the young woman and her daughter are accosted by I.C.E. I do expect to think about them, at least in passing, whenever I make my Peppermint Mocha coffee, and to feel grateful for witnessing such a fragile moment of connection and compassion. 

I don’t expect to get any better at time management or patience.

*This is the second time I’ve used this title for a post, which I’m pretty sure no one else would notice, but I feel compelled to acknowledge this. I guess it’s good I’ve written about seeing kindness in the wild at least twice!

I wrote a song–my first ever–and I like it. 

This is rather surprising.

I’ve never had any serious aspirations of writing a song, beyond thinking it would be cool, and would be a good way to have a song that I could ensure was in my vocal range. But when Chad signed up for a songwriting class at Sarah Jane’s, a local music school where I’ve taken voice lessons and been in band camp, I thought, “why not?–this will be a good opportunity for Chamy Together Time, right?” I was a little concerned that the class would be too advanced as it was songwriting TWO, but Chad said he’d help me fake my way through any music theory stuff. 

During the first class, I quickly felt like I was WAY in over my head. If Chad hadn’t had our car keys, I may have bolted at about 10 minutes in and just went home. But I was brave, and I stayed, and in what may be a testament to my acting abilities, I don’t think any of the other students could tell I was on the verge of hyperventilating. 

I think not feeling like I was qualified to be in the class actually ended up as a positive for me because it allowed me to have a beginner’s mind (at least as I understand that concept). I didn’t get in my head about writing “good” songs. My goal was just to be a successful class participant–to show up, to try, to do my best, and not burden the other students or the teacher with my self-doubts and recriminations. 

And thanks to my wonderfully supportive teacher and students (including the one I happen to live with) I wrote a song, a real song! It’s nothing that I expect to be a chart-topper, but it’s something that I can take out in the world–I’ve even performed it at open mics a couple of times (and yes, it’s in a range that I feel good singing in). I even wrote more than one, or at least have a really good start on some other songs. 

My song is called “I Don’t Know About You” and it’s inspired by one of my mom’s favorite sayings. We got the assignment for the song around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, so I thought it would be nice to write something based on one of her (many) sayings, and Chad suggested “I Don’t Know About You.” Of course, Chad is the person I want to understand the most but often feel the most confused by, so my song took off from there. 

I didn’t set out to write a Chamy confessional, but I did try to ground it with specifics (I’ve often heard and read that the more specific writing is the more universal appeal it has). So my song opens with a reference to a real “incident” when I was startled by Chad coming home when I didn’t realize he had ever left the house (and yes, our house is not that big) and includes a tad of grumbling about Chad telling me I’m not curious. 

I really appreciate that Chad was okay with me mining our relationship for material especially as the song does end up being rather romantic. 

Most mornings I get up, let StanLee (our dog) out and then feed him, and then I make coffee, clean up the kitchen a bit, and make our very simple breakfast. 

I’m on autopilot and I don’t have to think too hard about these tasks, so I appreciate them. I know what to do without any soul searching (except for sometimes deciding what type of coffee to make or if it’s a cereal or eggs day) and I get to feel purposeful and productive for the first half hour or so of my day.

I’m writing this little ode to my morning routine in response to a journal prompt in the Strange Planet Existence Chronicle: “What responsibilities do you most enjoy?”

Initially I was quite flummoxed by this. Enjoy? Nobody enjoys responsibilities, right? That’s why they are called “responsibilities.” The question is even accompanied by a cartoon with the caption “Responsibility saddens me.”

But of course, I need to define my terms, and think about context. What is a responsibility? Is it the same as a chore, or an obligation, or an expectation? Who am I responsible to, and what are the consequences if I shirk a responsibility?

When it comes to my morning “responsibilities,” StanLee definitely does need to be let outside and fed, and everyone in our little household would eventually be sad if these things didn’t happen. But do I NEED coffee and breakfast? Well, it certainly feels like a need to me, but I’m really only responsible to and for myself to make it happen, and I could get my caffeine and sustenance in other ways. I could just grab a Diet Coke and a Cliff bar, but I wouldn’t find that as satisfying. 

So my little morning rituals may not count as responsibilities, but I do feel like I owe it to myself (and StanLee) to accomplish them, so I’m counting “StanLee care and feeding, making coffee and breakfast, and cleaning up and puttering around in the kitchen” as my first answer to that question. 

In no particular order, other “responsibilities” I most enjoy include:

• Weekend morning “lie-ins” with StanLee and Chad (as in lounging in bed, not in protesting)
• Giving the cats lap time in the evening while we watch TV (and I eat Halo ice cream and drink “a bit” of bourbon)
• Learning and practicing songs to play at open mic
• Booze shopping
• Making plans with friends, buying tickets for concerts and plays
• Putting commitments on our Google calendar
• Posting hiking photos on Facebook and Instagram
• Sending e-mails and texts to friends (and occasionally real letters and cards)

Admittedly, this seems like a questionable list, or at least a list that really stretches the definition of “responsibility.” I’m tempted to defend or at least explain my choices, but it’s bolder and more interesting to let them stand as is and let my dear reader(s) contemplate their validity. 

Afterall, it goes without saying, that my most cherished responsibility is to entertain, inspire, and challenge the world with my blog.