Boxing Day 2016 – The Great Delay

Sorry for my delay. This annual missive has morphed from an update I luxuriated over – complete with a decadent creative process summoned only by inexpensive alone time and multiple nights of uninterrupted sleep – to an update I whip together whenever a window of opportunity opens. (Current status = blurred haze powered by Christmas cookies, coffee, and the urgency of impending chaos.) But tradition is tradition. And this year is year 12, so you better believe that even though my coffee is cold, my husband is not even feigning subtlety with his I-could-reeeeeeeally-use-your-help-over-here side-eyes, and my strong sense is that the leftover ham will be picked over before I can indulge in the year’s second-best sandwich, I will get this email out today. Or maybe tomorrow. Definitely Probably before 2017. I’m perfecting the art of picking my battles. 

If Boxing Day evokes a visceral response this year, it’s probably because 2016 punched us in the collective face. Don’t get me wrong, on a personal level, 2016 has been up there with the best of 'em. Theodore Asher joined the party in June (the day Muhammad Ali died #thanks2016) and while we loved the prospect of having an Oz and a Taz, this chilled-out, joy-filed, love-lump is most definitely a Theo. If Owen is a cat – particular, ritualistic, opinionated, observant, not above peeing on pillows to prove a point – Theo is a dog: happy, easy, happy, easy, hungry, happy. Luckily, Ozzie’s fierce loyalty manifests itself as a protective and nurturing big brother and, while I stand by my claim that parenthood feels like treading water and being thrown a baby, Theo’s addition has only added sunshine and margaritas to that analogy. 

I left my long-term relationship with an incredible company (the love's still there, but the passion had faded), and after a sexy consulting rebound, I settled down with startup Duolingo. Haven't heard of it yet? You will. Passion doesn’t begin to describe my day-to-day – providing opportunity in the form of free education to the world – and I can’t help but think that the personal boundary shift that comes from learning a foreign language, the empathy developed by botching conjugations and brandishing ridiculous accents, is more important than ever. What if in this moment of rising intolerance, nationalism, and xenophobia we could all put ourselves in another person’s tongue? Could we then see that the world looks completely different depending on where you stand and what you speak? Also, Duolingo HQ offers massages and infused water, sooooo… 

We capped off 2016 with a move to Seattle, a city I haven’t lived in since the year 2000, but a place we all feel home. We’re renting a beautiful house in the ‘burbs, and while we’re short on the exotic carrots we used to dangle like stunning beaches and 12th-century castles, we do have more space than our last five apartments combined and we love visitors. Plus, we have an anthropomorphic cat and dog whom you really should meet.

Okay, let’s do this. 

As I sat down on Boxing Day, conditions perfect for penning a fiery takedown, or a rousing rallying cry, or a comforting hope piece, I gathered my thoughts, took a deep breath, put my hands over my keyboard, and started crying. So I topped up on the aforementioned Christmas cookies and coffee, tried again, cried again, and so on and so forth until other humans in my house began crying and I had a valid excuse to stop and pretend I couldn't smell the dumpster fire’s smoke. Through some creative trial and error, I’ve learned in times like this that David Attenborough’s Planet Earth voiceover is a foolproof remedy. Thus, over the last few days, I've been reminded (in transcendently buttery British narration) that in the Namib desert, the darkling beetle ascents a massive sand dune, inverts into a headstand, and remains still until a thin fog condenses on its body. Then slowly, using grooves in its casing, the water rolls into its thirsty mouth. I meditatively repeated “this is how life is sustained on earth” until I was forced to acknowledge Netflix’s passive-aggressive banter (yes, I’m still watching, stop judging me Netflix) and by then, my personal equivalent to blowing into the Nintendo cartridge was complete. Needless to say, I’m back now and I’m ready to go. 

I felt Hillary’s loss like a death in the family. And as I look back, I realize that her ultimate defeat should not have come as a surprise. The sickness that caused it has been slowly, yet plainly, metastasizing for years. I had simply learned to readjust to the warning signs, just like I readjust as a lefty in a world of right-handed can openers and serrated knives, or I readjust as a woman attending an executive meeting or walking alone at night. These conditioned adjustments are so subtle that I don’t even notice making them, but every lefty knows precisely what I’m talking about. As does every woman. And we’ve done this as a collective whole; we’ve ignored warning signs, subtly readjusted, humored untruths, normalized chaos, all while the world watched horrified at the bizarre pageant of our nation pretending these two contenders were equivalent.

Barbara Kingsolver was right when she said “Pain reaches the heart with electrical speed, but truth moves to the heart as slowly as a glacier.” and only now am I unpacking how we arrived in this post-accountable world. As much as I want to shame Trump supporters for providing, if not explicit, at minimum, tacit support to his ceaseless vulgarities, the truth is that I too am complicit in supporting exploitative and damaging systems when they don’t directly affect me. (How many of you are reading this on an iPhone?) Ultimately, all of our shit stinks, and getting beyond that is going to take incredible work. What this does not mean is that it is okay, or that we should accept this as the new normal and readjust. Yes, I acknowledge that Donald Trump will be the President. I understand, intellectually, that he won the election. But I reject the notion that we must ingest this victory for smallness, for xenophobia, for misogyny, for racism, for wall-building and humanity-banning, for this particular brew of American ugliness that tops off the hatred-swirled slop pile he serves up on 140-character platters.

I am raising two sons in a country where I do not want them emulating our President-Elect. Let the gravity of that sit for a moment. And when the opportunity comes for me to talk with them about this, I will not shy away. I will not excuse how or why those who voted for him ignored his vileness, because while I am self-aware enough to understand that I too am guilty of complicity, this does not make it okay. 

Instead, I will tell my boys that our President-Elect is everything they should abhor, and fear, in a role model. I will explain how humans are inherently tribal and why actively fighting that tendency is so important. I will teach them to be kind to those they disagree with and to show dignity in the face of undignified behavior. I will show them my victory pantsuit and not trivialize the fact that inexperienced men get promoted ahead of qualified women every day. I will explain that patriotism is not the only way to love a nation. I will teach them to care for the full breadth of America’s diversity, not just the smallest sliver of it. I will reinforce that America is great and that openness, diversity, humility, progress, grace, and science make it better – not worse.

Most importantly, I will demonstrate accountability. I will admit that Mom and Dad and our entire generation royally screwed this up. But reinforce that after a devastating loss, the solution isn’t to quit and move away, or to hole up waiting for things to change, or worse still, to subtly readjust and go on like nothing happened. The solution is to acknowledge this reality, then reject it. To find a way to fight it, to overcome it, to defeat it. Yes, sometimes I will need a break to have a buttery Attenborough detox, but then I will come back refreshed and will do literally anything but accept this as our fate.

If 2016 was a punch to the face, my initial numbness came in waves of overwhelming powerless and insignificance. How can an ordinary person stop intolerance, ISIS, lunatics driving trucks into crowds, fake news, Tucker Carlson... But as the numb wears off, I realize that I can be extremely powerful in living accountably, by offering the small generosities of listening, by standing up against the casual utterance of prejudice, by letting daughters know they are no less than sons. And also by exiting the insulation of my bubble and experiencing a wider world. 

When Planet Earth ends after an hour (or 10), I think the strangest thing: This world is so much bigger and more powerful than any small moment in time (or small hands it may temporarily find itself in). We will be okay. Well, maybe not the darkling beetle. When it descends the sand dune, plump and hydrated, sometimes there is a Namaqua chameleon waiting, who casually flicks its tongue and eats the beetle for breakfast. No matter, the beetle has to reach the top of the dune, it has to drink water, it has to take its chances, it has to make that journey to survival. Like us, you see, it is a hopeful beast.

Thanks 2016, it’s been weird. And thank you to all of you, who continue to hold me accountable and make me hopeful each and every day. Bring it on, 2017. 


-------------------------------------------
Incredible writing came out of 2016, and I would be remiss not to mention the inspiration I took from so much of it. These are my most impactful and influential sources:

End This Misogynistic Horror Show. Put Hillary Clinton In The White House
(Barbara Kingsolver, The Guardian)

Revenge Of The Forgotten Class
(Alec MacGillis, ProPublica)

Sweet '16, Notes On The US Election
(Benjamin Kunkel, Salvage)

My President Was Black
(Ta-Nehisi Coates, The Atlantic)

Hillary Clinton vs. Herself
(Rebecca Traister, New York Magazine)

A Letter To America From Leslie Knope, Regarding Donald Trump
(Leslie Knope [aka Parks and Recreation Staff Writer], Vox)

The Trouble With The Liberal Arguments Against Third-Party Voters And What To Do About It
(Josie Duffy Rice, Daily Kos)

Choosing A School For My Daughter In A Segregated City
(Nikole Hannah-Jones, The New York Times Magazine)

Jon Stewart Finally Went Long About The Election And Donald Trump
(Todd Van Luling, Huffington Post)

Trump Changed Everything, Now Everything Counts
(Barbara Kingsolver, The Guardian)

Fear The (Boxing) Day 2015

Breathe a sigh of relief (or besetment; who am I to tell you how to live), you were not left off this year’s distinguished Boxing Day list! 

I’ve responded to a handful of texts this evening with this copy/paste reply: “No, you weren’t cut from the list. No, I haven’t started yet.”(And I’ve subsequently gained a newfound appreciation for my time abroad when you hadn’t yet figured out that texts were free.) But now the boy is sleeping, the guests are gone, the emails are answered, the dishes are done, so at long last, I can celebrate Boxing Day the way it’s meant to be celebrated… by penning yet another rambling missive that you likely won't receive until well after the day has hung up its gloves. 

So here we are again dear readers, you’ve come back for your 11th serving of what I can only assume has become an email you eagerly await, only to put off actually reading until an exceptionally long public transit commute, DMV line, or bathroom sesh. If you’re new to the list, welcome! Take it from the vets, my feelings won’t be hurt if you passive-aggressively unsubscribe (read: hit delete). You do you – whether you scroll, scan, and bow out now, or dive in with the fervor of a Star Wars zealot renouncing the prequels – my work here is done until next year.

Speaking of years, 2015 has certainly been a doozy. We started off finding Donald Trump entertaining despite his asinine antics, and we now find him a deplorable retrogression of humanity. (Which, I’d be remiss to exclude, is the reverse trajectory of Justin Bieber’s public perception pendulum.) And while it’s tempting to fixate on the humanitarian horrors, the senseless tragedies, the civil and social intolerances the year witnessed (don’t you worry, I’ll get to those soon enough), there were also incredible advances worth celebrating. It was undoubtedly a year of progress. Progress in science, diversity, and diplomacy, in wildlife conservation, health care, and feminism, in international climate agreements and Justin Trudeau… And while incremental, progress can be seen in terrible things getting less terrible, like homelessness, high school dropouts, and infant mortality, all of which have dropped. Where reckless pomposity over pyramids and guns in classrooms persisted despite overwhelming scientific evidence, there was breathtaking, radical progress for LGBTQ rights. So all in all, hope is not lost. However, with election season just heating up, I can’t help but think it’s going to be a schlong 2016. 

On a personal note, there are a few life-altering slices of progress to serve up: after an incredible 9-years, I decided it was time to move on from Yelp and pursue opportunities that would allow me to help another burgeoning start-up no one has heard of (yet) expand throughout the world. And to do this, a temporary move to San Francisco is in order, so that’s happening. Oh, and we also figured this would be a perfect time (please bask in the italic typography’s dazzling sarcastic glow) to grow our family, so baby boy #2 is joining the party this June. 

Okay then. With cocktails and appetizers out of the way, I’ll get to the main course. Top up your wine glasses, you’ll need it. (It’s like your Granny’s lasagna. Good, but heavy.) 

I’ve struggled with what to write about this year. Not for lack of material, but at the concern of vortexing into a political wasteland and not resurfacing until Shrove Tuesday. Moreover, I don’t want to get shout-y, and topics I’m especially passionate about also have the propensity to see me get shout-y. (See my recent gun control Facebook posts here and here.) But here’s the thing: I am truly heartbroken by the hate rhetoric and fear-mongering that is leading people I love – people I know to adhere to guiding principles of love and compassion and mercy – to embrace and advance agendas of fear. So shout-y be damned, I’m diving in, Garfield. 

Fear is indisputably important not only to our survival but to our successful livelihoods. Of course, we understand the evolutionary necessity of fear and how it motivates action (i.e. if our ancestors didn’t flee from persecution, from unsafe living conditions, from, I don’t know… tigers, we wouldn’t be here). But in our daily lives, fear shows us what is important, what matters to us the most. At its best, fear can be embraced as a known quantity within ourselves and harnessed to accomplish remarkable things. The advancements of our civilization (and shared experiences I've had with many of you growing up, surviving middle school, traveling, dating, road-tripping, skydiving, ex-patting, parenting, supporting Seattle sports teams) prove that we would not successfully explore/create/discover/reproduce without a healthy and balanced relationship with fear. But at its worst, fear festers as an idea-crippling, experience-crushing, success-stalling inhibitor. 

The scariest side of fear is how easily it is used as a manipulation tool. Turn on the news right now and you’ll see that instead of being motivated by [insert: exploration/creativity/compassion] with a healthy dose of precautionary fear sprinkled in, we are encouraged to be motivated by fear itself. “Scared? You should be. More guns. Closed borders. Hide your kids, hide your wives.” Nature imbued us with the need to feel fear, but the current rhetoric has sent it into unnecessary overdrive. Yet if we continue allowing public figures to succeed by scaring people, to stoke tensions with wild and dishonest scare tactics on the supposed threat of new arrivals, we don’t end up any safer. Paralyzing fear doesn’t make us safer, it makes us weaker. For as long as there have been immigrants to the United States, there has been fear-mongering about the destruction they will bring (your ancestors likely included). So what we’re hearing now is simply an update on an old script. How soon we forget, and how often we repeat. 

The irony can’t be lost on us as we tenderly re-package our nativity scenes depicting a holiday the majority of the Western world just celebrated. Christmas is a story of a Middle Eastern family seeking refuge, denied accommodation because they were strangers, only to escape to Egypt days later as – wait for it – refugees fleeing violence and persecution. And yet Americans (historical irony refresher: a country founded by immigrants fleeing religious persecution) are keeping refugees at arm’s length. 31 state governors garishly proclaimed that Syrian refugees are not welcome as if they'd never heard of the Nativity, and hadn’t just concluded a red-faced tirade about having to say “happy holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” My favorite tidbit? A state representative in Texas recently said that Syrian refugees shouldn’t be welcomed because it would be too easy for them to get guns. Sigh.

Let's be clear: not accepting Syrian refugees to avoid terrorists is like not accepting Katrina evacuees to avoid Hurricanes. Or as Obama more diplomatically put it: “The people who are fleeing Syria are the most harmed by terrorism. They are the most vulnerable as a consequence of civil war and strife. They are parents. They are children. They are orphans. And it is important that we do not close our hearts to these victims of such violence and somehow start equating the issue of refugees with the issue of terrorism." Furthermore, painting terrorist organizations with a broad brush that extends across all Muslims isn't just ignorant, it's irresponsible. 

So here's my point: If America is going to be a Christian nation that rejects those who are in the most need, that believes protecting guns is more important than protecting lives, that only welcomes those with the same religious beliefs, then either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish and fearful as we are, or we must acknowledge that Jesus commanded us to love and to serve mercifully without condition, and then admit that we just don’t want to do it. 

Sorry to go Granny’s lasagna on you, I’d much rather be comparing the second year of parenthood with the second year of ex-pat life. (Spoiler alert: less hard, more rewarding, incredibly boring to read about unless an active reality in your day-to-day.) But addressing the heavy stuff is important because not responding is a response. We are equally responsible for what we don’t do. And when a mass shooting occurs every day in America, and when the frontrunner of a major political party spews what can non-hyperbolically be described as fascist vulgarity, and when #blacklivesmatter is perverted by a racially tone-deaf populace that ignores the implicit “also” and negligently attributes the incorrect meaning that “only black lives matter,” and when a group of people, who are victims of crimes more horrendous than our privileged existence could scrape together from our darkest collective nightmares, are resoundingly rejected by “one nation, under God,” a nation that has the words “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door” proclaimed with pride on our most iconic national symbol of liberty, we must speak up. Enough is enough. 

The good news is that we can still exercise our humanity. We can stand up to the misguided Islamophobia that permeates media and politics and churches and neighborhood associations. We can agree that no one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land. We can show mercy for the neediest in the way that we’ve been shown mercy, by giving them the best the world has to offer so they don’t have to desperately reach somewhere truculent for safety or promises of a better life. And we can resist the urge for knee-jerk reactions that perpetuate a paradigm of violence that clearly is not working. Luckily, we have good examples like French President Hollande, who after attacks on his country increased France’s humanitarian commitment to refugees. Or Scotland. Or Canada. (Warning: that last link is a tear-jerker.)

If nothing else, we can reject polarizing “all or nothing” absolutes (gun control or mental health reform, America’s homeless or refugee protections, #blacklivesmatter or LBGTQ progress), but instead replace the “ors” with “ands” and realize that civil, social, and humanitarian progress do not compete against, but rather serve one another just as a rising tide raises all ships. 

It’s been quite a year, but as I reflect in the least shout-y way possible, I am truly humbled and grateful for you – my inspirational, non-conformist, fear-defying, thought-provoking friends – whose ideas and examples have been exceptionally contagious in my life and all the lives you touch. I wish you and yours a year full of exploration, creativity, compassion, and at least one trip to San Francisco, with a healthy dose of precautionary fear sprinkled in, you know, to keep you honest. 

Boxing Day 2014: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

Happy Boxing Day! And…

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! After 10 (yes, 10) years of plugging away, an entire decade of campaigning, a demanding schedule that not even Colbert could sustain, I’m elated to say that Google reported “Boxing Day” as today’s “hottest search” in the US. While I’m not entirely clear on what “hottest search” represents, (note: DO NOT Google “hottest search”) I can only assume it means that we’ve won dear friends, we’ve won. Boxing Day is officially a thing. So while I’m tempted to drop the mic (insert: I’m lazy/I’d rather be sleeping), what would today be for you if not a day to skim through this holiday letter? So read on! You can even. Or don’t. I’ve heard that there’s a shrimp sale at the Crab Crib…

It’s only fitting that on this Boxing Day I am surrounded by boxes. Yes, we are moving yet again – this time to a 94-year-old house in Northeast Portland. Part of the plan? Mmm, nope. But so far, so good. We moved home last year thinking Portland was a quick pit stop en route to our next international adventure. Passport photos were posed for, global entry cards were secured, Visas were in the works. But it all came to an abrupt halt when our then 4-month-old unequivocally let us know that he would have none of it. We attempt to laugh about schlepping him around Asia amid his tantrum-throwing, projectile-vomiting rage, but it’s still too soon. We’d rather just Waterworld it (i.e. block it out and pretend it never happened). So like a sofa in a stairwell, we pivoted. My employer was exceptionally understanding and accommodating, and Jonny’s employer practically threw a party (as did both sets of grandparents). Are we done living abroad? Hopefully not. That chapter is certainly not closed in either of our hearts. For now though, we are Portlanders; actively reacquainting ourselves with a town we left 8ish years ago, and trying not to be the obnoxious couple that uses words like mobile instead of cell, flat instead of apartment, holiday instead of vacation, and public transport instead of anything that pretentious.

It is impossible to tie up our time living abroad with a nice little Boxing Day bow, or to explain just how challenging our year back in the states as new parents has been (visual aid: it’s like we were treading water and someone threw us a baby) but I can say that both experiences share some similarities. For example:

1. You live on adrenaline. Your senses sharpen, your improvisation skills are unmatched and you rely on your gut more than you ever thought possible (or safe). You constantly walk the fine line of having the time of your life and crying in the shower from sheer terror.
2. You are inundated with a new set of norms, rules, and lexicon and you quickly decide which you’ll religiously abide by and which you’ll blatantly ignore. I stole this from last year’s pregnancy comparison, so it works there too for those keeping score.  
3. You have at least two of everything. Two public transportation passes, two SIM cards, and two types of foreign currency in your wallet, two baby fingernail clippers, two binkies, and two onesies in the diaper bag. Two is a minimum of all the important things.  
4. You generally have no clue what is going on, but you have mastered the ability to fake it ‘til you make it. Added bonus: you can simultaneously give “expert” advice. Often unsolicited.
5. You feel nostalgic when you least expect it. Being homesick for silly things, like the unironic amount of American flags currently flying in your hometown, strikes the same chord as missing that special smell only a newborn has. They are both as weird as they are real.
6. You lack the words to describe how incredible the experience is. Which is good, because no one wants to talk about it unless they have experienced it themselves.

Since you’ve heard me wax lyrical about the nuances of life abroad in editions past, let me take this moment to get real about parenthood. First off, I’m convinced that parents have selective memory loss. Because while yes, it is incredibly rewarding, this beautiful little human we chose to create was essentially the destruction of everything we previously held dear (and still miss). Sleep? Gone. Romance? Forget it. Social life? Ha. Scuba diving? Skiing? Travel in general? Maybe you’ll read about those again in Boxing Day #20. I can only assume you’re up to your ears in Facebook posts with titles like “10 Things You Wish Parents/Non Parents Would Stop Saying” but I swear if one more parent tries to relate by assuming I ascribe to the belief that I didn’t know what real love was before my son was born, I will spiral into a tizzy the likes of Owen in Asia and throw a set of side-eyes that unmistakably express: “YES! MY LIFE DID HAVE JOY AND MEANING AND LOVE BEFORE MY CHILD WAS BORN! DID YOU FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM?!” And yet all this said, I’d choose to do it all again. Because my kid is awesome. And so painfully hard. And I love him to bits. There’s no other way to say it so please pardon my French – parenting is some crazy shit.   

The problem with these assumptions and presupposed rules is that parenting is not, nor should it be a one-size-fits-all experience. I’m just an armchair ethnographer, but I can safely say that Moms and Dads have been doing this for a long time and that even today, they do it differently based on where they live. For example, in Denmark, it’s completely normal to see infants alone in their prams outside of shops or restaurants while parents are inside, and in Tokyo, it’s not strange to see six and seven-year-olds riding the subway alone. Want more? Of course you do. Bedtime in Spain isn’t until after 11pm so that kids can have the social experience of participating in family life. The male and female roles are often reversed among the Aka tribe in central Africa, all the way down to suckling. Seriously. In both France and India, kids immediately eat the same sophisticated, complex, and/or spicy dishes mom and dad eat; the idea of a separate kids menu is not only foreign but repulsive. My colleague in Copenhagen explained that, for health reasons, it’s important to bundle up your newborn and let him take daily naps outside in the fresh air, even (especially?) when it’s snowing.

Global parenting trends are fascinating, but what really blows my mind is how parents around the world describe their children. This article does a better job than I have room for here (plus bar graphs!), but to paraphrase, Americans are more likely to call their children “intelligent” and “advanced” while other countries name qualities like happiness and balance. We obsess over our babies’ enrichment while Australian Mums obsess over their bubs’ easiness. I’m not saying one is right or wrong, and I can confirm that Owen is not currently parked on the sidewalk outside of the coffee shop I am sitting in, but I do believe it is foolish to parent-shame others based on cultural notions of what is “right.” And I do think it’s downright ridiculous to shame those who choose to not to have children, or assume that they don’t experience a form of love or completeness that us parents bask in on this side of the fence. And I never use the word ridiculous lightly.

So now let me take a moment to get real about my kid. He’s currently going through a lovable, happy phase, but that wasn’t always the case. In fact, the first half of his now 10-month life, he was grouchy, persnickety and demanding. There were many words I used to describe him, but “easy” wasn’t even in the outermost perimeter. His stubbornness all stemmed from one thing: he hated being immobile. Unless we were walking, bouncing, driving, or otherwise propelling him from point A to point B, he would kindly let you know that he was displeased. By screaming. This all changed the moment he discovered he could slide himself across the floor with a fancy maneuver we dubbed the penguin. Which turned to crawling, then to pulling himself up, and most recently, to walking. The little dude wants to move, and his mood has only bettered with each development.

But when he was the most frustrated, in the tender moments of each meltdown, I desperately wished I could communicate just how precious this fleeting phase of his life is. Everything is provided for him. He is warm, and safe, and loved. I wanted him to know that his future would bring endless opportunities of exploration and movement and growth, and that it is coming at him faster than a crash of rhinos, so he needs to slow his roll and enjoy the ride. But obvious language development issues aside, how could I expect Owen to understand advice I myself have trouble comprehending? How often do I hustle in a frustrated frenzy though moments I deem unimportant or pedestrian, only to miss them when they are gone? If I’m being honest, the answer is more often than not. It took seeing my son replicate behavior I know all too well to realize just how precious these outwardly dull phases are, and how inwardly rich and lasting they can be.  

While we are all in different phases of our lives, and while we have all curated our own collections of norms, expectations and beliefs, the common thread among us all is that every chapter is short-lived. Relationships evolve. Babies grow. Jobs end. Addresses change. Our favorite podcasts conclude. (Why Jay, why? What are you hiding? BAH!) And all the while, the next phase of our lives is coming at us like a crash of rhinos whether we’re ready or not.

So here it is – 2014’s Boxing Day reflection is to be still and soak up this moment like you would a Bath & Body Works fizzy peach bath bomb. (If you’re in the bath right now, you’re probably feeling incredibly smug. And cold.) Here’s to enjoying the moment, regardless of how pedestrian or spine-tingling it may be. To appreciating all the people and the food and the ‘normals’ that currently surround you. Because they will all change whether you want them to or not. And finally, here’s to listening to Eleanor Roosevelt and doing at least one thing every day that scares you.

Thank you for providing me with so many of my favorite ‘normals’ over the years. Wishing you and yours a happy, balanced, and intellectually advanced 2015. Watch out for those rhinos.

Boxing Day 2013

The time has come again, dear friends. You know what I’m talking about – the magical day each year I fill your inboxes with my Boxing Day missive, my own fine blend of formulaic self-deprecation, wordiness, and trite fortune cookie wisdom. So get excited. (How could you not after that riveting opener?)

From what all the internets tell me, 2013 has been a year of change both in personal and public arenas. And as usual, some were crushing setbacks and others epic victories. Where there were Rob Fords, there were Pope Francises. Where there was gratuitous twerking and open letters, there was Oscar tripping and endearingly graceful recoveries. While wearable tech seems to be going ahead despite Inspector Gadget’s warranted side-eyes, NASA’s now on Instagram, which is undeniably awesome. Taco Bell debuted a Doritos shell, but something something, more words, the cronut. (Intentionally judgment-free for individual ranking.) And despite crushing setbacks on gun control and affordable health care adoption (aka logic and rational choice theory), things like human genome sequencing, disease, and poverty eradication, and the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act are so expansively hopeful that I am filled with optimism. (A muscle only recently rediscovered after 3-years of atrophy in London.)  

On the personal side, I see that change has been afoot in many of your lives as well. A few years back BlingBook served up all my juicy engagement status updates and now babestagram has really come through to fill in the blanks on what y’all have been up to all these years I’ve been away. I mock in jest. All of your rings and weddings and children are beautiful. Well, except yours. (You know who you are.)

As avid Boxing Day apostles, you know change has been the name of my game for the last several years as well. Outside of this email, the Boat Show, and the Seahawks playoff choke, I’m not sure there’s a more reliable yearly chronograph than my annual Packing Tape Ritual. (You know, the ceremonial dance enacted whilst frantically picking at the tape’s taunting end, attempting to start a whole strip but succeeding only in peeling off toothpick-sized silvers.) And while I have an incredibly compelling reason to move home to the Pacific Northwest, I can’t pretend to ignore my borrowed Gilbertian sentiments that make this move more emotional than usual: traveling abroad is my great true love. Not only has it always been worth any cost or sacrifice, but I am loyal and constant in my passion for travel as I have not always been in my other passions. I can only assume I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn – I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. It can barf all over me if it wants to – I just don’t care.

So while earlier this month I tenderly coerced the packing tape (read: performed Packing Tape Ritual), said farewell to my 6^th flat in as many years, and folded up my life abroad so that my kid could one day become president I could embark on this new journey, I had to do so with the firm belief that this is not the end of an adventure, but rather a jumping-off point for an incredible new one. Funny thing is, the sharp learning curve of living abroad wasn’t all that much different from the sharp learning curve of pregnancy. Take these four simple observations and apply them to both scenarios:

1. No one cares about the crazy things you’re experiencing other than you. (And maybe your partner, but the more likely case is that he’s just humoring you. Much like hearing about the scattered details of the wild dream you had last night, he doesn’t care.)
2. You’re inundated with a new set of norms, rules, and lexicon, and you quickly decide which you’ll religiously abide by and which you’ll blatantly ignore.
3. Like it or not, you’ll pick up local vernacular. For example, today I conducted a conversation that included the following phrases: “I’m a bit peckish,” “No dramas, arvo is fine” and “the rectal thermometer is more important than the hands-free pumping bra at this point."
4. There’s a secret nudge-nudge, wink-wink club of those in your boat. You all hang out together even though you swore you’d never be the [ex-pat/parent] that only hangs out with other [ex-pats/parents].

Really, it’s the combination of these two things – pregnancy and living/traveling abroad – that provided me with so much hilarity over the past eight months. Not so much in the garden-variety surprise flatulence vertical, but in the various manifestations of “indisputable” prescription and admonition I received along the way. Each society has its own unique set of rules that they share with fervor at the site of the bump, usually around the same time they burst all personal bubble illusions and give into the bump’s magnetic pull.

Take pregnancy eating dos and don’ts: In the US, alcohol is officially off-limits throughout pregnancy, while in the UK doctors advise women to “try to limit consumption to one pint of beer or one glass of wine a day.” Just try. In Singapore, I was nearly spontaneously Heimliched by a concerned street vendor after putting a piece of pineapple in my mouth, but was encouraged to eat ramen with chicken collagen and alkaline-soaked noodles to “reduce heatiness.” I could not find anyone who would serve me cold water in Tokyo, but I happily ate all of the sushi after the chef assured me that sushi made babies smart and strong and is the staple of every prenatal diet. My French colleagues scoffed at the idea of avoiding brie or other soft cheeses but doled out stern warnings not to consume any raw vegetables during gestation. They couldn’t bear to even describe the inevitable consequences.  

And all of this – all of the rules, the differing opinions, the wide and often conflicting array of ritualistic practices for something as primal and universal as giving birth – illuminated the fact that while each culture assumes they have it right, most of us under each societal umbrella are just following the rules and norms passed down to us, labeled as fact. In other words, we look as weird to them as they look to us. At the core, we all want the same things. Healthy babies. Loving families. Safe streets and schools. Strong economies. We just go about getting them in different ways. And that’s okay.

So as my path once again directs itself to a different continent, albeit one I’m familiar with, I hope to eradicate the fear that often masks itself as dogmatism or indolence and to continue exploring, rather than rejecting, ideas that might seem the most foreign, outlandish and uncomfortable. I challenge you to do the same. That said, I just can’t get behind wearable technology... yet.

It’s with deep gratitude and expansive hope that I wish you and yours an adventurous, change-filled, and fearless 2014.

Boxing in 2012: Aussie Edition

Ding ding! Round 8. Boxing Day just ended here in Oz and, much like the anticlimactic terror of Y2K or its attention-poaching Mayan BFF the Apocalypse, (p.s. worst apocalypse ever), I can officially confirm that life after B-Day 2012 is continuing as usual. Knowing that the sun is en route to illuminate this esteemed day in your hemisphere, I’ve tailored this year’s musings menu to pair perfectly with breakfast so pour your coffee and prove it (i.e. Instagram this alongside your mismatched mug, mason-jarred winter flora, and recycled timber table). #YoullBeDoneReadingAroundLunchtime 

Similar to how I assume you anticipate this annual installment, the entire (online) world waited with bated breath and suspended status updates for December 21 and the strangely captivating, yet recurrently trite and pedestrian rhetoric it delivers, ahem, delivered. 99% were sure nothing would happen and prepared to gloat-book the evening away. 1% were confused, yet cautiously optimistic about finally bootstrapping their way into the 1% of something. #icanhazfreedom!!!1! Correction: the entire world aside from Australians who didn’t give a bugger, technically speaking. To be fair, Australia’s Prime Minister did record an official End Of World warning video solemnly swearing that "whether the final blow comes from flesh-eating zombies, demonic hell-beasts or from the total triumph of K-pop, if you know one thing about me it is this: I will always fight for you to the very end." So that was reassuring. 

Without a doubt, Australia’s no dramas or no wuckers mentality is one of their most endearing qualities. Two years ago I left the stiff upper-lipped-land of Londoners who can’t say great without sounding sarcastic, who apologize (and sincerely feel bad) for not smoking when someone asks for a light, and whose most offensive outburst is “with all due respect” – for the sunny climes and equally sunny constitutions of a populace who can’t utter three syllables without sounding like they zip-a-dee-doo-dah’ed right off the set of Disney’s Song Of The South. 

Practical Learning Pop-Out #1 – Fun With Slanguish: Let’s say your friend Laura got into a heated argument with a red-haired woman at Barry’s Christmas party yesterday afternoon. To recount that story to an Australian, you’d say: “Ah mate, Loz and that ranga sheila had a barney at Bazza’s Chrissy party yesterday arvo.” The more you know.

And that’s just the beginning. If someone throws a tantrum, they may have chucked a wobbly, cracked the shits or split the dummy. Slides are slippery dips. If they aren’t calling swimsuits togs, swimmers, bathers, or cossies, they’re gloriously referring to them as budgy smugglers and not missing the chance to point out that they’re all about honesty here. (Point being the optimal word.) War movies are warries, ambulances are ambos, mosquitoes are mozzies, and cigarettes are lung lollys. Clearly, Aussie slang-slinging knows no bounds. But frivolity for frivolity sake goes far beyond slanguage. They have a story they tell tourists about an angry mythical creature called a Drop Bear whose depth of deception rivals the intricate web Seattleites weave* about our terrible, horrible, all-together disgusting weather always. 

But to be fair, how can one not be disgust-inducingly happy in Australia? Booming economy, fair wages, beautiful people, animals that do this and this, and lo, the confirmed source of the fountain of youth – adult summer vacation. See, with Chrissy and the summer hols (note to self: band name gold) lumped together, even the largest of corporations close their offices for ridiculous amounts of time. And by ridiculous I mean genius. Arguably the state of Victoria’s most important office is closed from December 19th to January 14th. Remember your first summer that wasn’t filled and filled alone with Otter Pops and budgy smugglers, sometimes synonymously? That fateful July when you felt your energetic innocence flattened like piecrust by the corporate rolling pin you were desperately trying to logroll? Yeah, that feeling never matriculates here. These people aren’t afraid of sharks. Or spiders. Or killer jellyfish. Or apocalypses. Know why? They have white (sandy beach) Christmases to dream of and wake up to – the best of both worlds involving Eskys of stubbies, pressies, and yes, budgy smugglers. Instantly an entire nation unanimously becomes 12-years-old again and it’s June 21st, baby. 

If Australia’s no dramas-mentality is rivaled by another endear-inducing quality, it is their unbridled delight in community. Simply think about who (and how many of them) you met the most while traveling. Without violining up a Ken Burns opus for you right here, let’s cut to the lively bit of one consultant’s comparative findings: “US culture has evolved to be one that is very individualistic in nature, with emphasis on free will and the self-made man achieving economic success through the American dream. Australia, in line with its community-oriented heritage, is a culture that emphasizes common good, or the popular expression ‘fair go for all.’” This community spirit is alive, well, and utterly bewildering. You must first know that the official (read: my) collective noun for Australians rotates between heap, pack, and tan. So then, it is naturally perplexing to a freedom of Americans when a tan of Australians sniff out the most crowded place – a city, a beach, a lawn, a bar, a youth hostel in Whistler – and all–go–to–there. In a country of 22 million that is roughly the geographical size of the United States, 14 million budgy-smuggle into 5 cities and seemingly love it, if only because it’s where everyone else is. It’s all about the shared experience here. Everyone, even the Prime Minister, rides in the front seat of taxis, magnanimously perched atop their “we’re all in this together” soapbox.

While outwardly similar in language, heritage, and ridiculous good looks, Australians and Americans actually have fundamentally different attitudes and shockingly opposed cultural philosophies. Yet it’s precisely these differences that make our cultures so admire one another. In a classic case of opposites attracting, of opposable thumbs in craftacular splendor, the love-fest between Americans and Australians borders obsessive. It is rare to find a native who has crossed over to the be- fri- or -st -end side of the hemispherical heart who won’t immediately gush about their journey, the beauty they observed, and the kindness experienced, regardless of the direction they’re traveling. Sure, I still catch myself manifesting my destiny to empty patches of beach, un-blanketed lawns, or backrooms of bars in hopes of avoiding heaps of happy beautiful people, but I also adore it here. A place where my projections of normalcy are upside down. Australia perfectly Tetris'ed its way into This (ex) American Life, differences and oppositions filling in my own gaps much in the same way that the people I’m closest to do. 

But as the music gets faster and world events drop with more weight and complexity, things get much more complicated and much less comfortable. For example, if inherent differences fulfill and complete us, why can’t I handle checking Facebook during the course of an election or the unraveling of an unfathomably abhorrent tragedy? If collectively we make one another stronger, why is listening to those who oppose us a lost art? And when did compromise become the new c-word? Rather than evolving, growing, c-wording, it’s as if we are devolving and, in our thunderous deterioration, overprescribing deadlocked opponents with a toxic dose of Montague-Capulet fate tablets. I 100% agree with the logic and optimism behind this interaction, but I am impatient with the change process and admittedly become a part of the problem by chucking a wobbly, or worse, choosing apathy. 

Luckily, in one of life’s most macabre plot twists implicitly understood by a group of Mayan horologists, change is one of the few things we can always count on. I find this truth radically reassuring. Especially when my life’s various speeds and contortions begin to feel like a Monopoly marathon – thimbling my way around hotels, public transportation, taxes, bank errors, home-ownership, second prizes in beauty contests, all the while trying to avoid incarceration. However, all I need to do is read a few of my previous yearly missives to regain hope that change comes with more speed and less pain than my fear of the unknown lets me believe. Compromise doesn’t have to wipe out convictions. Change doesn’t have to be apocalyptic.

Practical Learning Pop-Out #2 – Losing My Wings: I’ve recently become aware of a change that comes with marriage – you dance like no one’s watching. And while that sounds cuter than a button-nosed country star threadbaring similar lyrics to sold-out Supacenters, it is utterly detrimental to the delicate dance of seduction-transferring aka wing-womanry. I’ve lost all my single lady swagger and with it, my wings. I clipped them myself the moment I realized that if I’m at a bar and dancing ensues, I no longer seamlessly contort into a smooth, yet entirely asexual ‘come hither and meet my hot friend’ maneuver as I did in my prime. Oh no, I go for it. I’m a robot. I’m a cyclone. I’m the sax soloist. I. Am. Roger. Rabbit. The one thing I most definitely am not is sexy. With unconditional husbandry love comes freedom like I’ve never tasted. My friends can fire “snap into it” glares all they want, but the hook is coming and I am unstoppable. So that’s new. 

For more on that, join me next year. Until then, you can ponder life’s deepest questions like why British people don’t have an accent when they sing or who decided the freezer wasn’t worthy of a door light. Better yet, tackle my friend Michelle’s timely query of why there isn’t an “I’m sorry” horn in cars to say “whoops” and remind one another we’re all in this together. (They likely have one in post-apocalyptic development here in Australia. Probably dubbed a sozza-hornie or something equally supreme.) 

As I reflect on 2012 and all of its non-world-ending events – on new life and tragic death, on brave compromises and meaningful convictions, on Monopoly monotony and Tetris-tantrums – words can't express how grateful and inspired I am by you, my abundantly talented, kind, hilarious friends. Many of whom I must by default assume have indeed seen my unbridled dance-floor carnage and yet still made it to this, the final sentence. You are the true heroes of Boxing Day.

*by myth, I mean completely true statement. Please let me move back someday. 

Boxing in Oz: 2011

Oh boy, it’s boxing day. Again. Funny how this seems to happen with greater celerity each year. For the veterans, welcome to round seven: with six years under your belt, you’ve likely instinctively topped up your tipple and stocked up on enough snacks to last through the apocalypse or this email – whichever comes first. (Or you’ve hit delete. There are options.) For rookie readers, I’d recommend tightening your gloves and attacking this with the unbridled fervor usually reserved for Beliebers and securing that last homemade cinnamon bun. I’ll do my best to make this both delicious and worth your while. And since you've made it this far...

To my relief, Boxing Day is as ardently celebrated in Australia as in the UK, so my conscious is clear that these yearly updates (read: soap-boxy tirades) are not only celebratory but, for all intents and purposes, required for my Visa approval. Furthermore, for a country that observes holidays with greater frequency than Simon Cowell sports cashmere V-necks, I may start sending bi-annual updates by randomly selecting one of their many auxiliary holidays such as Royal Queensland Show Day, Anzac Day, Foundation Day, Melbourne Cup Day, or my personal favorite, the Queen's Birthday Holiday (note: not her actual birth day – just a better weather day for a celebration. Don’t fret, they observe her actual birthday as well.) so. get. excited.

Yes, I said Australia. After living in London for nearly three years, I recently rode the wake of thousands of Brits before me and relocated to this sunburnt country. (No Mom, I did not have to break the law to do so.) The job that moved me to London in 2008 once again shipped me off to pioneer another international market and there’s not a day I don’t wake up feeling grateful to be on this adventure. In other words, it’s bonzer, mate.

In my best supposition, Australia and the US are effectively like two daughters that fled the family farm. One ran away from home after drinking all of mum’s tea and dad’s money. The other was sent to boarding school after pawning Granny’s brooch, (although she continues to be fully funded and invited to all the family holiday parties). The US is a textbook oldest child. Feeling overly controlled in her younger years, the pendulum swung so far that even the suggestion of similarity to the motherland is, to this day, received with cacophonous vocal gagging that should be applied to black licorice and black licorice alone. The US is stubborn and determined (if only to be stubborn and determined) and will never, ever, ever, nevarrrr be told what to do. In contrast, Australia is the younger, hipper, confident child that doesn’t mind occasional family dependency and playing dress-up in her older sister’s closet. Mum and Dad are still protective of precious Australia, but not nearly to the extent that they lorded over their oldest. Chores, curfew, dating, parties – rules that were a #BIGdeal seem not to matter as much on this second effort, and thus, Australia doesn’t mind when Mum steps in with suggestions. Or, you know, mandated elections.

And though I spent the next 10 (now deleted) lines blanketing you with additional likenesses, in short, there’s no place like Oz. It’s famously inverted – its seasons back to front, its constellations upside down and unfamiliar. Its creatures seem to have evolved as if they misread the manual – Australia has more things that will kill you than anywhere else. This is a country where even the fluffiest of caterpillars can lay you out. Where seashells will not just slice you but actually go for you. As Bill Bryson recounts, if you are not stung or pronged to death in some unexpected manner, you may be fatally chomped by sharks or crocodiles, be pulled helplessly out to sea by irresistible currents, or left to stagger to an unhappy death in the baking outback. It’s a tough place.

And yet I adore it. It’s comfortable and clean and familiar – apart from the aforementioned trans-element death traps (or Timmy Traps for my relatives still reading) and the additional fun fact that Christmas and winter have nothing to do with one another. The cities are safe and clean. Airports are efficient and romantic as all clothing articles and liquids remain where originally tucked and giddy family members await arrivals directly at the gates. The people are immensely likable – cheerful, extroverted, optimistic, quick-witted, and unfailingly obliging. The sun nearly always shines. There is single-origin coffee on every corner. They say fun “Stryin” things like “good die, might” and “beast eve-ah!” (Try that last sentence aloud.) Australia feels much younger. Newer. Fresher. Inexperienced. Vibrant. Passionate. In stark contrast, the US feels older. Wiser and more insightful, but also more tired, weary, content, and cynical. Going from the US to Australia is like hopping in a Delorean bound for 1950-something. In 13 hours and a confusing dance with the international dateline, you can be on either side of 20/20 hindsight.

This contradiction of opportunity poses a topic of reflection recently addressed by a great mentor, Erwin McManus. Look closely at all that is available when you are young – the vigor and strength, the energy, the passion of youth. Now compare that to the wisdom of time – the insight and understanding, the clarity that comes with age. The jolting reality is that the two rarely interact. Furthermore, they are both exceptionally rare, even within their respective age brackets.

Wisdom is clearly an undervalued resource in today’s society (insert Republican debate joke HERE). And while the carpe diem mentality is a blast, using the spring of passion to pleasurably gobble up everything in sight can be, how to say, apocalyptically detrimental on a global scale. (Note to self: pay credit card bill.) The notion that “if I only knew then what I know now” continually taunts us because we continually make decisions trapped in the now and rarely see them as the quickly approaching then. Unless we make decisions asking: “how does this affect who I’m becoming?” we'll just keep making misguided decisions. So we must live old, young. Somehow we need to live in the present with the vantage of eternity to create a future that is worth stepping into.

But at the same time, we must live young, old. Do you want to see passion? Get a room full of 20-year-old uni students and tell them you’ll provide unlimited resources to change the world. You will see energy unrestrained. Yet it seems the older we get, the more life will beat the passion out of us if we let it. The more we rationalize that our lives can’t follow a heroic narrative but should revolve around safety and security, around comfort and predictability, the more we will lose the passion and wonder of what it means to be human. Scrambling to soak up every last second of my 20s, my urgency centers on the apprehension that this is the last socially acceptable year I can act passionately. Let’s be honest – passion in your 30s earns you the societal label of “rebellious” or “unique” and if you’re still passionate in your 40s they’ll skip the niceties and just call you a heretic. And the unfortunate solution? Passion-numbing apathy. As we “grow up,” it’s tempting to simply become other people. Our thoughts someone else's opinions, our lives a mimicry, our passions a quotation. But think of the passion in a child – the authentic embodiment of excitement, courage, determination, positivity, self-motivation and acceptance. Living passionately is tirelessly being it in the game of tag. We should be rebellious. We should ask why. We should live life with purpose. And we must stop making excuses.

So what would happen if we took the wisdom that normally only comes with age and the passion that normally only stays in youth and refused to let our lives be defined by time? Hold a wisdom-intervention when we're young and a passion-injection when we’re old...

We’re not going to solve this by boxing it out, just as my Oklahoma Thunder boycott won’t bring them back to Seattle. But hopefully this is enough to make us anxious and slightly uncomfortable. To point out how rare and valuable the passionate and the wise among us are. To remind us that we’re date-stamped – that the hourglass has been turned and that every second matters. As yet another another year passes, I am enormously thankful for you – the persistently wise and unapologetically passionate people in my life who ceaselessly inspire and challenge me. I am undeservingly blessed by my friends and family who love me even amidst my unwise and uninspired decisions. Here's hoping Round 7 wasn't one of them.

Here’s to a wise and passionate 2012!

Boxing Day 2010: The Promise Of The Future

I’m delighted you’ve taken a momentary rest from all that boxing to indulge in a bit of my, ahem, deep, sophisticated, and scholarly analysis (read: self-important mumbo-jumbo) in this, my 6th Annual Boxing Day Blast. If this is your inaugural edition, I recommend you either A: Get out while you still can – there have been enough disappointing inaugurations of late and that little trash can is just a click away, or B: Tuck in, spread some Marmite on your toast and enjoy – I promise this’ll be much more delicious than yeast extract. In fact, with five years of Boxing Day blogging under my belt, I recommend you keep calm and carry on with the expectation that you’ll be both a- and be-mused by the following. (C what I did there?)

Six years later and I’m still staying up way too late on Christmas typing up these emails. I’ve effectively replaced letters to Old Saint Nick with letters by Old Saint Mac, Nick’s lesser-known tech-savvy relative who is guided by Router the Red-Nosed Power Source. (Cookies and Apples were involved in both occasions.) So for those used to this annual tirade, I’m sure you’ve been expecting this email to grace your inbox with varied levels of anticipation and/or dread, just as I.

Funny things, these expectations. Before we are even born we have a set of them waiting for us – inconspicuously painted on the walls of our nursery and strategically placed in our cradles. In a so-called classless society, the bootstraps by which we’re meant to pull ourselves up sure don’t fall far from the feet that formed them. “Sure, they’re your bootstraps… we’ll just be inside monitoring each step, just in case. Oh, and don’t forget who bought you those boots.” In fairness, we can let our parents off the shoestring for this one as expectations attack from all angles – culture, society, religion, MTV… even our birth month carries presumptions. (Pisces are meant to be unobtrusive and weak-willed. Whoops.)

I, along with thousands of others, recently had my expectations jolted by an airport that wasn’t prepared for bad weather. (You’d think London and Paris have tropical climates with their inability to handle this oh-so-exotic “snow” that only falls, oh, every year.) Weary travelers, myself included, simply didn’t know how to react when our expectations were not met. Furthermore, the concept that something as mundane, prosaic, and tired as the weather could take out the unbridled beast known as “The Holidays” was as inconceivable as iocane powder.

Awaking in my childhood bed (five days after expected), the obligatory state of jet-lagitude hung over me, mimicking the overcast skies and live-streaming Seattle through fog-tinted glasses. It was in this cloudy state that I began thinking: Are there massive expectations I’m not meeting? Sure, I’m not exactly ticking the boxes of normalcy, but if I really am defined by a set of hopey-changey expectations, just how’s that workin’ out for me? Expectations define us. They define our past: Where did you grow up? What was your major? Who did you fall in love with? Yet expectations also define our future: When will you get married? Where will you buy a house? How many children will you have? Yet what about the present? Where does that leave today? And more importantly – when did we stop living life in the i-n-g and begin living in the e-d?

It’s no mystery that nostalgia and hope stand equally in the way of authentic experience. Longing for the future is as anti-life as dwelling in the past. So I guess what I'm stewing on about is that we should challenge ourselves to evolve beyond expectations if we desire to be i-n-g instead of e-d. We must continue traveling, accomplishing, achieving, and living rather than becoming content with being traveled, accomplished, achieved, and, well, we all know what the past tense of living is.

Sitting around a table with my closest high school friends (speaking of not living in the past), I realized that each of these inspiring, loving, stunning women are continuously challenging expectations in their own lives and this is leading to their resounding success. Lots of i-n-g happening around that table. All of them are not only working but also providing – so stick that in your expectation-pipe and smoke it.

The overarching theme of 2010 then became as clear as Seattle’s snow-capped peaks flashing their flossed fangs in some cosmic plea for dental health: We must not be defined by expectations. If we lack the iron and fizz to take control of our own lives, if we insist on guiding our lives by expectations, then the powers that be will repay our indecisiveness by having a grin (or five) at our expense. Should we fail to pilot our own plane, we can’t be surprised at what inappropriate port we find ourselves docked. The dull and prosaic will be granted adventures that will dice their central nervous systems like an onion; romantic dreamers will end up in Nebraska. Or so says Tom Robbins.

So I’ll finish with this…

In 1931, Henry Ford made an 80-year forecast into the future. (Pause for recognition that this puts us at 2011.) The New York Times headline read: “The Promise Of The Future Makes The Present Seem Drab.” But contrary to the eye-grabbing headline, Ford actually took a more introspective approach that “perhaps our most progressive step will be the discovery that we have not made so much progress as the clatter of times would suggest.” Rather than idolize technological, automotive, or industrial expectations of the future, he went on to say: “After all, the only profit of life is life itself, and I believe that the coming eighty years will see us more successful in the real profit of life. The newest thing in the world is the human being. And the greatest changes are to be looked for in him.” Therefore, the only expectation we can hold fast to is change. Expectations included.

In light of antiquated assumptions that attempt to keep us in the e-d, I reflect with a humble heart on the inspiring people who continually keep me i-n-g-ing. Wishing you and yours peace, love, and a hopey-changey 2011.