(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

This Wednesday we’ll have an opening reception at Good to Go Café for a small segment of my work titled “Show Me Who You See in Me.”  I’m proud of the body of work, and moved by the meaning of the title.  It is something we can all do.

Several years ago, I explained to a young woman the how and why of my photographic style in trying to reveal who I see in women from my side of the gender fence, and by listening attentively to the things she says and those she silences.  She then said, “I would love for you to show me who you see in me.”  It takes courage to ask, and trust to share.  But we would all grow if we did both.

Obviously, this sort of exchange should be born in mutual respect.  Do your friends know who and what you see in them?  Do your parents?  Your children?  Do your kids know that you see in them the positive characteristics of family members they have never met, or looks of ancestors long gone?  Do your parents know that you see in them the epitome of work, dedication and balance…and, perhaps, simple humanity?  Does the stocker at the store know that you see in him the shining example of courtesy and service?  Do your employees know that you see in them the talent and compassion that will take them far?

It is much easier to tell others who and what you see in them than it is to ask.  But, it may be worth trying with a family member or friend.  Simply ask, “Tell me who you see in me.”  The results can be grounding, inspiring and affirming.  Don’t expect only answers of perfection.  One of the questions that I use in many of my self-discovery writing workshops is “the people who love you most genuinely would say you are what?”  Answers ranging from beautiful to rugged, from patient to impatient, and from sublime to smart aleck are all observations of those who love you.  They comprise who you are.  Welcome to humanity; welcome to being loved as imperfect.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

“I don’t know how long I have, but I want to make every day count.”  Everyone can say that, but the speaker was a primordial dwarf, interviewed for a television show about the disease.  His condition is marked by smaller body size in all stages of life beginning from before birth and lasting throughout the life span.  One woman featured was just over three feet tall and weighed 37 pounds at the age of 43.  Considering their life expectancy, the difficulty in managing a normal day in an adult-sized world, and all that it means, it is not surprising to see that one of the most important questions of the adult woman by a teen with the disease was, “Are you happy being so small?”

None of us know the time or the moment of our death, so making every day count is important anyway, though most people don’t take the notion seriously until they have a health setback (or someone near to them does), or they reach a certain age, or something significant happens to remind of them of their mortality. We miss out on living by waiting for the motivation or reminder to do so.  We miss out on the chance to be happy while waiting for conditions to “improve.”

These very small people provided a very large message about making the most each day and finding ways to be happy for the chance to be alive. What, and who, around you remind you to make each day count?  It has to be you.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

The noise level carries with it the sounds of conversations, whispers, crying babies and the clanking of dishes.  As I sit in the booth at Denny’s, I hear life and am thankful for the sounds more than distracted by them.  Just as electromagnetic waves can carry various layers of information, the sound waves bring with them many levels of understanding and insights.  To tune out the drone is to tune out life.

At least three distinct languages carry conversations between couples or within families, while each are enjoying their meals at the quintessential diner with the yellow hexagonal sign bearing red letters.  This is our America and our lives—inexpensive food enjoyed by minimum wage earners and six-figure salaried managers during interactions in a multitude of languages on a variety of topics, all of which we are free to talk about.  On this morning, the conversations range from church (this is a Sunday, and there are at least a dozen churches of different denominations within five minutes of my booth), to relationships (the eccentric, older redhead advising the well-coiffed blond young woman) to how to eat pancakes (I assume this by the actions of the young mother as she speaks in Russian to her child while cutting the pancakes and then turning the utensils over to her child).

This is why we are blessed to wake up in the morning—living.  The noise of living—the reciprocal necessary for balance to the deadly silence, real or created, that we find ourselves in—serves to remind us of the energy of life.  And of the interactions within it.

While much can be learned by listening to specific words or conversations, there resides an important lesson in apparently confusing blends of conversations and activity.  Listen. The noise says you are live.  Join the noise.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

New Year’s Eve.  A busy cross street in Houston, near the Unity Church to which I was heading where old friends were waiting to introduce me to their service in which old burdens are written down and burned in a communal release.  As I waited at the red light, considering the things I wanted to discharge before I headed into a new year, and as I considered my re-reading of “The Four Agreements” by Don Miguel Ruiz in spiritual preparation for this night, a panhandler on the median caught my eye.  His white cardboard sign with handwritten black letters prompted a laugh and a serious thought.

“Why lie?  I want beer.”

I figure he made more money that night than any other beggar on the streets because of location, mood of the night, and integrity of word.

The bearded, bundled beggar brought a lot of wisdom to those who watched him that night.  One, if you’re called to do something, do it; two, be smart enough to think about where you act upon your ideas; three, consider the receptivity of those who you must count on to succeed; and, four, be forthright about your motivations.

The first of the four agreements in the book by that name is “be impeccable with your word,” meaning, according to the author, do no sin with your word by being true with what you express with your words.  The beggar could not have been truer with his words, and it was up to each driver coming alongside him on the street to decide what to do with what the man had to say.  We cannot change our word, our message or our clarity in order to better position our intention against what someone may say or do in response.  A former boss’ secretary used to ask at times, “are you trying to say something without saying something?”

We must say what we have to say and be clear with it.  We cannot strive to change our message, our minds or our conviction as a strategy to avoid upsetting others, hurting others feelings (within reason, of course), protecting our image for image sake, or to minimize any possible negative reaction.  If our goal is to minimize intensity of response, we can be sure that both positive and negative responses will be dulled to a boring medium.

Did everyone like the beggar’s honesty?  No.  I’m sure many thought “See!  The bum is going to spend his money on booze.”  True, but he was honest about it.  Better that than using his words to play on others’ emotions during the holidays, I’d say.

The Unity service was wonderful; the beggar’s lesson profound.  Already we’re through the first month of the new year and I’m trying to keep my burdens from resurrecting from the ashes so I can refresh my life, and I pay attention to my words while taking my desires to places they can thrive with those who can help me achieve them.  I hope you are doing the same.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

The older man stood by the check stand as I rang up his groceries.  I always enjoyed engaging customers in conversation, and the man and I were talking about a subject that I am not sure of now, more than 30 years later.  I remember distinctly the lesson, which was his response to my comment “I can’t wait until I’m 18.”  He said, “Don’t be wishing your life away.”

Every day offers us a chance to experience something new and intriguing, familiar and comforting, or simply sublime.  Every day.  And when we wish to be at some point in the future—whether it is a week, a month or a year or more—we wish away part of our life.  Why would we want to fast forward our lives to some desired new time—the weekend, the end of the semester, the beginning of summer, or retirement, for example—when each day between now and then presents us an opportunity to experience happiness, joy, laughter, love, smiles and tears?  Why would we choose to pass them by?  Perhaps because we don’t leave ourselves open to those opportunities as we plod along toward the future we believe will be better than today.

To this day, when I think “Gee, I wish it was Friday” or “I can’t wait until this project is over,” I think of the older man who talked patiently with a then-immortal young man who bubbled with enthusiasm and conversation.  And then I stop my thought of “time travel,” and look forward as a middle-aged man to the next discovery or familiar moment.  I can only hope there are enough moments to hear the songs, see the images, watch the growth of my sons, feel the rain and taste brine tears.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

“Thank you for borning me,” the little boy told the woman.  She had been the surrogate mother who brought him to life just a few years ago.  At each opportunity, he thanks her for giving birth to him.  His simple language is a lesson to us all:  each of us can give life to others, and we each owe gratitude to those in our life who give us spirit, hope and a sense of being alive…of being born anew.

There are many ways that we can give each other life and the scary-exciting-sometimes painful sensation of being born.  The muse does so for the artist; the teacher to the student; the supervisor to the employee; the mentor to the protégé; the coach to the athlete.  The reverse in each of those relationships is true, too.  Just as each person I photograph brings me new life of various levels, I hope that I give each some of the sensation, as well.  The same is true for the people who influence or inspire you in some way.  We also have opportunities to give life by loving and challenging and supporting others who we encounter in our lives:  children of friends, strangers, relatives, and so many more.

As we were created, we are also challenged to create, if only a short burst of hope or exuberance in someone we encounter in our daily routine.  That burst may dissipate, startle or give life to that person.  We have that opportunity to give and receive every day, and we have the need to say thank you to those who somehow have “borned” us in their lives of life givers.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

“I was thinking in the end, does everything end up in a box?”  My friend asked this question in an e-mail to me that was detailing boxes in her recent days:  Those that contained the life of a friend of hers who was moving to Florida to be taken care of for Alzheimer’s, and the one that held a former colleague of hers who recently died of breast cancer.  Basically, she is right.  I also have to wonder about how often we place ourselves and our lives into boxes while we are alive, and how little share from what is in the boxes.

Don’t put yourself in a box too soon.  The end will come soon enough when your remains will go in a box, or an urn or get scattered to the winds, so why place yourself and all your talents and potential to feel and experience in a box any sooner than necessary?

We bury ourselves alive by choice; we choose to inhibit our potential, restrain our ability to think and act, restrict our senses of curiosity and discovery, or deny our right to a full life that harnesses our talents, abilities, faults and foibles.  These are not good choices.  Those decisions manifest themselves in our choices of jobs, relationships, hobbies, volunteer activities, education and more.  Are we making choices in all those areas that put us in, or keep us out, of boxes?

Consider the other things we put into boxes, particularly the papers and items that comprise our life through letters, notes, cards, photos, memorabilia.  How often do we share those things, and their stories, with people around us?  How often do we give from those collections to others who can appreciate them, like our children and old friends?  We put our lives into boxes and then hide them until our bodies are put in boxes and our relatives rummage through containers before the estate sale:  treasures are lost.

I conducted a journal/photography workshop for Girl Scouts in Albuquerque a few years ago for girls 14-16.  At the stage where they had beautiful books with photos and stories and hand art that revealed their lives, I asked them how many wished their moms could hand them a similar book with “this was me at your age.”  They all enthusiastically responded yes.  Are we so caught up in “providing for” our children with money—current needs and through our estate—that we forget to enrich them now by revealing who we were and who we are?

One last thought on boxes, brought to you by Malvina Reynolds.  Her song, “Little Boxes,” was sung by the likes of Pete Seeger.  Woody Guthrie did a Beatnik version revealing how all the nonconformists all sounded the same, too.  As my friend questioned whether everything ends up in boxes—our bodies, our stories, our possessions—we’re also reminded by listening to others that perhaps our minds end up in boxes as well.

Little Boxes

by Malvina Reynolds

Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of tickytacky
Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same
There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses all went to the university
Where they were put in boxes and they came out all the same,
And there’s doctors and there’s lawyers, and business executives
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course and drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children and the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp and then to the university
Where they are put in boxes and they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

About a decade ago, a woman who worked at the same university as me was sharing her need to make changes in her life. She had ideas, and a plan…sort of. The plan did not remove doubt, and it was doubt that kept the gears-large and small-from turning. A few days before our conversation, I had heard an expression, and shared it by passing it to her on a sticky note. As of a few years ago, she said that she still had the note on her mirror. The message: leap and the net will appear.

There are all sorts of encouraging phrases, from both secular and religious perspectives, whether it is the scripture about feeding the sparrows, or the popular “footprints on the sand” story. Secular adages include “you can’t get to second base with a foot on first,” and many more. All this tells me an important lesson:   doubt and fear about how to affect, or deal with, change in our lives is as human as breath, and since the dawn of time we have sought answers on how to deal with the struggles and doubts.

The common thread to all the “answers” seems to be a two-fold, universal truth: let go, and have faith. That wisdom has survived the ages and has been carried forward in lessons, parables, plays, scripture, books, poetry…and instinct.

I think often about the importance of the words to my friend from a decade ago, even though they weren’t mine and they simply shared a universal truth in a different way. “Common” knowledge is often obscured by common fears, concerns and doubts. The reality of that sticky note sitting on a mirror somewhere reminds me of the common truth-let go, have faith-and how important it is for people to encourage and inspire others to remember what they know naturally in their hearts.

(PS: Happy birthday, dad. He would have been 100 April 14. In his simple ways, he regularly encouraged me to “do what you gotta do.” I suspect he believed the net would always appear, some way, somehow.)

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

“I’m excited about succeeding,” he said.  This came from one of my sons one day after I heard from another—his older brother—about his exciting plans for his business.  It was refreshing to hear their true enthusiasm for success.  But, isn’t everyone excited about succeeding?  Not really.

Most people enjoy the trappings of success, whether they are possessions or fame.  For many, success, the noun, is great, but the verb, succeeding, is too much work and too uncertain.  I believe that is what I enjoyed most about the calls with my sons.  They both were looking forward to the verb, the process of succeeding, including the failures, lessons,  uncertainties, challenges, accomplishments, reactions from others, and churn in their guts.  To succeed requires optimism, courage, persistence, focus, vision, risk-taking, openness to learning, and confidence.

It doesn’t matter whether the actions of succeeding are undertaken for jobs, school, community service or personal development.  It doesn’t matter whether the goal is magnificent and long-term, or sublime and in the moment.  The issues remain the same.  The process of succeeding comprises many other processes and actions, each requiring energy and enthusiasm.  Each requiring doggedness and focus.  Each being a potential source of enjoyment, and excitement.

To be excited about succeeding is to be excited about the entire process and not just the conclusion.  Those who are so reveal themselves with their energy and attitude.  You can plug into people like that to be recharged. You can feel their passion when you walk in the room.  To be excited about succeeding means to be excited about life.

(This is part of an ongoing series of highlights from past Listen to Life newsletters.  Many readers and subscribers were not following when this came out.  Enjoy.)

No talk of new year’s resolutions here.  Sometimes New Year’s Day is merely the first day of a new year, nothing more and nothing less.  Which is a good thing.  It is nice to reflect on what has happened, and good to look forward to what awaits, but there is little we can do about the past and almost as little that we can assure about the future, except that we’re headed into it, God willing.

How we get through the next 24 hours, 30 days, 12 months or next decade can be acts of simple survival or complicated strategies mapped from the process of charting personal matrices ad nauseum.  A friend related a story of her youth that holds a simpler, more profound message that cuts through just about every self-help book on the shelf, and touches the heart of truth.

As a young girl, she and her mother were going shopping as mothers and daughters are wont to do.  Mom, not wanting to lose her child in the store, particularly because this independent-at-four daughter clearly exhibited much self-direction, said, “Hold my hand” as they got the cart ready for shopping.

“No.  I’ll hold my own hand,” the child replied matter-of-factly, and then clasped her own hands together and said “Let’s go.”  She kept her hands together while she stayed close to her mom for the duration of the trip.

As we look into our futures, whether that is making it from breakfast to lunch, or from now until retirement, or whatever time frame becomes the measure, let’s not look to everyone else to be the guide.  A simple thank you to the motivational speakers, the well-meaning friends, the loving partners, the supportive children, the attentive therapist or the unmet authors is sufficient; at the end of the day, all you have to get you through is you.  As others reach out within their capabilities to help, the only hand that you can count on, day in and day out, is yours.

Others seek out your hands for support, touch, healing, and creation.  If all of them can count on your hands, why can’t you?  We all need others, and our lives are richer in contact, communication and communion with other people.  But sometimes, on our journeys and treks, we need to pass on the offer to hold hands, and grasp our own tightly with surety and confidence:  “I’ll hold my own hand, thank you.”