AFTER NEARLY a week of postcard-perfect weather, it is raining on the Outer Banks, a good, hard, steady rain, the kind that leaves no doubt about what kind of day it is. It’s a day to read on the couch, nap on the bed, play cards on the coffee table, and think with gratitude about a restful vacation in one of the world’s nicer corners. We’ll be home soon, back to camp schedules, work email, and household chores. But we’ll have this glorious week to take out of our back pocket when we need a reminder that it’s necessary and possible to flee the real world once in a while and live without alarm clocks, to-do lists, neckties, and morning commutes. | DL
The Exquisite Joy of Rediscovering a Lost Love
THE SPEED with which it came back astounded me. The jitters that seized me with each possession; the small explosion of pure joy with each made basket; the blazing pride I took in the accomplishments of a team of young men I’ve never met.
For though they are strangers, the name they wear on their jerseys is the same that sits atop both of my diplomas.
As they slipped through the Atlantic 10 tournament — an eked-out win over Dayton in the quarterfinals, a stomping of St. Bonaventure in the semis, and the final, nervy TKO of Virginia Commonwealth in the title game — the Saint Joseph’s Hawks rekindled a love affair that had gone dormant, all in the space of a single weekend.
A Smack in the Face About the Need to Be Creative
THE THREE gifted storytellers spoke with passion, eloquence, good humor, and conviction about how they do what they do, and why it matters, and when they were done–no, even before they were done–I was reminded of why it’s so damned important for me to find the time to tell my own stories.
I’m in Hershey for the annual conference of a professional organization I’m fortunate to be part of, and the same thing happened at last year’s gathering. I had encountered a couple of folks who work in my field and chatted with them about the struggle of creative work outside the office. The conversation had turned to blogging, and one of my new friends confessed a desire to return to it:
Like me, she wants to write beyond her job; like me, she’s had it fall by the wayside of late. And so we exchanged contact info and pledged together to get back on the horse.
I can’t say it happened for me. Too many other things have gotten in the way–the job, the commute, the house, the family–but the truth is that one needs to make the time for these things if they are that important.
And they are, at least to me.
Yesterday, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a college communications director and freelance writer, and an alumni magazine editor addressed more than a hundred people rapt with attention in a crowded meeting room. Their topic was “Telling Your Story: Good Writing Is Still Good Writing in Any Media” and was meant to inspire us to be as creative as possible whether in a tweet, a 2,000-word feature, or anything in between.
Inspire it did. (Search for “#CUPRAP14” on Twitter and bask in the accolades.) For me, though, it did more than that.
Hearing this diverse trio talk of telling your story, no matter who’s listening, no matter who’s telling you not to bother; hearing them exhort us to write with honesty and fearlessness; hearing them urge us to find truth in the universal as well as the minute; hearing all of this and so much more was a smack in the face that got me thinking about my own calling. Not my job, but what I consider my calling.
My gift is the ability to tell stories–I have no doubt of this. Stories can be told in many ways, to many audiences, across many platforms, and I am doing it to a small degree, but not nearly enough. I have no doubt of that, either. I have more stories to tell–my own stories, in my own way.
I need to start telling them. Not want. Need. | DL
A Volcanic Exhibit Arrives Not With a Bang, But a Whimper
ON THE walkway that leads to the entrance to its current traveling exhibit, “One Day in Pompeii,” the Franklin Institute has proudly erected banners commemorating similar blockbuster shows of recent years. This afternoon, as I waited for the doors to open to the Pompeii exhibit, I spied flags for Body Worlds, King Tut, Star Wars, and other prior attractions. I was reminded of my long-ago days as a science writer, when we ran stories questioning whether such show business sullies a museum’s mission or serves as a hold-your-nose necessity in order to bring paying customers through the turnstiles so that the study and celebration of actual science can continue.
I’m sympathetic to both sides, but in this case, the Institute has whiffed.
Why January 1 Is Such a Crappy Day
AND JUST like that, on the final day of break, it seemed to hit us all at once. Tomorrow, the girls will be back at school. Tomorrow, J. and I will be back at work. Tomorrow, real life returns.
So we spent today kind of grumping around, being snippy with each other and cranky at life in general. It’s not that real life is bad. It’s just that break life — sleeping in, trampolining, gathering with friends on weeknights (!) — is, well, better. And now that all of that is about to end, we’re a bit tetchy about it.
We’ll settle back in and get our respective mojos back, hopefully before we devour each other. Until then, here’s a prayer of gratitude to the calendar gods that we’re going back to a two-day work/school week. | DL
Why Linus Van Pelt Deserves Coal in his Stocking
CHARLES M. Schulz gives us Linus Van Pelt as the moral center of his seminal holiday special A Charlie Brown Christmas. Especially compared to his sister, Lucy, a sociopathic bully (“I oughta slug you,” “I’ll give you five good reasons,” etc.) if ever there was one, Linus — gentle, counseling, scripture-quoting Linus — is the one who sets all of us on the right path. Linus is the voice of gentle, moderate decency, the single soul among the consumerist gaggle gathered in the schoolhouse auditorium who can see Christmas for what it is — and what it should be.
Except Linus is a douchebag.
I’m Thankful That I Have Many Reasons to Give Thanks More Than Once a Year
THE FOLKS who research happiness say that regular reflections on gratitude improve one’s mindset. I wouldn’t mind an improved mindset, so I probably ought to think more often about what I’m thankful for. Many of my Facebook friends have spent each day this month posting about the things for which they’re grateful. But the best I can do right now is to offer this list today, Thanksgiving Day, about my gratitude, as I did last year.
Every Once in a While, I Get This Dad Thing Right
THE HOUR had grown late, and the All-Star Game had yet to see a Phillie appear, when R. noticed that Fox had cut to the National League’s bullpen, where Cliff Lee was warming up.
As the fourth inning ended, long past her bedtime, I looked to R., already fading on the love seat, and said, “You want to see Cliff pitch?”
The Elusive But Vital Pursuit of Balance, Part 571
THINGS WERE proceeding smoothly, until suddenly they weren’t. Everything blew up.
Work exploded, as the calendar moved into my department’s busiest time of the year and we took on a major new project on top of our usual other duties.
Home exploded, as the girls added play rehearsal and spring sports to their already lengthy litany of activities, as I tacked t-ball coaching to my bulletin board of commitments, and as J. and I delved further into the planning stages of a big-time renovation initiative.
And I exploded, as months of wintertime consumption and hibernation had me feeling heavy and dull, my clothes uncomfortable and my body looking decidedly middle-aged.
Seriously, Was There Anything Ever Better Than Beating Your Dad at Something?
WHEN SHE heard that her final indoor soccer game had been switched to a players-versus-parents scrimmage, R. uncaged her inner trash talker almost immediately.
“What do you think?” I wrote in forwarding her coach’s note about the change.
“4 words, Dad,” she emailed back. “I will cream you.”
That’s how I found myself yesterday morning wearing a t-shirt and shorts, standing inside an enormous complex of basketball courts and artificially turfed soccer fields, and hoping not to pull anything so severely that I couldn’t drive home.
Dadlibbing 