Slowing Life Down...

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while you could miss it. ~From the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off

A far too common theme, among people in the western world, is how quickly life appears to move. In the blink of an eye, we move on from high school, race through college, twirl through young adulthood, blur our way through parenthood and find ourselves in middle age, dazed at how half a lifetime could have transpired. There are days in which I feel as if I fell asleep a carefree college student, and woke up with wrinkles. An entire existence has continued while I've been busy loading the dishwasher, taking the dogs to the vet, attending Parent-Teacher conferences and folding laundry. Great works of art have been created, new scientific theories have been proven true and astonishing events in history have all manifested, while I've raced from one school pick to the next, dropped off one child at ballet and the other at hockey and cooked an everlasting number of dinners. When I have spoken with my friends, I know that I'm not alone. This sense of almost dream-like frantic movement is the cultural norm. We all want to slow down to appreciate the little things in life more, but we can't, because we're late for a Little League board meeting.

And yet, there are constantly images and ideas being thrown at us about how to be even more productive with our time. As if life isn't darting away rapidly already, we are told to "Multi-task" more efficiently and to employ strategic "time management" philosophies. Books with titles like "101 Ways to Make Every Second Count", "The Successful Time Manager" and "Measuring Time, Improving Performance" are everywhere. Articles on the topic are in all types of periodicals; from "Parenting" to the Wall Street Journal. Classes abound at community colleges on Time Management, aimed at students of all ages. Though each one has good ideas about not wasting time, I find the plethora of information about time management to be overwhelming...and if I'm being completely honest, going through all of them would be a colossal time waster. While I'm certain that I could pack even more onto the house of cards I call my schedule, the question is, do I really want to? Will I enjoy life more, if I'm finally able to fit in learning Russian, redecorating my house in Feng Shui principles and taking watercolor painting classes?

I have enormous respect for people that really can do it all. They seem to juggle parenting, marriage, fascinating career, exceptional volunteer work, time for self-improvement, fitness, housework and travel. It leaves me feeling embarrassed about how little I'm able to manage. But, rather than try to add more to my 'load', I've made a conscious decision to add less. Why? As much as I'd love to be, I seem to spread myself too thin when I take on too many projects. As worthwhile and as important as these might seem to be, I find that just adding that one extra ball to my juggling hands, can lead to my dropping the entire contingent. So, instead of judging myself harshly about what I have not been able to do, I am making a choice to give all of my focus and attention on each moment as it comes. Some people have the enviable gift of being able to intentionally focus on a huge variety of projects all at once. Others can only manage one or two. I believe that we need to look inside ourselves, find out where we can best spend our energies, and then give those items the attention they deserve by not looking too far ahead to the next bit to be ticked off our to-do list. By slowing down our thoughts, by focusing on each piece of our day, by breathing deeply in the moment, we can appreciate each one as it comes...rather than let it whip past us in a hurricane.

Buddhist monk, poet, teacher and philosopher Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, "By being aware of your actions, you can enjoy your life while you make tea, or while you wash the dishes. All of this means that you can stop running after things which you think will make you happy. By being aware of what you already have–and of the beauty that surrounds you–you can be happy right here, right now." I find this attitude to be refreshing and inspiring. Dr. Hanh isn't exhorting us to give up the life that we have to move into seclusion. Nor, is he instilling the need to scale back. He's simply reminding us to appreciate the life we've been given. Whether we're folding laundry, cheering on our kids at a tennis match or offering input in a conference, we have the ability to slow down. We can create a quiet inner sense of peace, regardless of what we're doing. How do we do this? By just realizing that moments are here. They are present. They are now. They can be appreciated.

None of this is new or ground breaking. Mindful living doesn't mean doing "without". It simply is a method of allowing our focus to shift from "out" to "in". It won't turn back the hands of time. It will not keep the calendar from moving ahead to the next month. But it will give us a tool that, unlike the books designed to teach us to cram even more into our lives, has the intention of helping us appreciate the uniqueness of our day to day existence. When we feel that gratitude...by simply living in the 'now', instead of checking our watches every five minutes....we can make every moment count. At the very least, we have the ability to enjoy the gift of the time we have.

So, breathe. Close your eyes. Open them. Take in your surroundings. Find the beauty in this specific moment. And, know you are here right now...use that time to cherish the important things.

A House to Die For

“The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Growing up in the 1970's feels as if my generation was the last one to have a truly nostalgic sense of time and place. The innocence of the 1950's may have been lost. The changing times of the 1960's had passed. An era of 'new and improved' was upon us. It was a generation that fell in love with Hostess Fruit Pies, Pet Rocks, Big Wheels and waking up on Saturday mornings to watch "Super friends' in the Hall of Justice on color TV. Our mothers wore long, wildly printed Maxi-dresses with platform heels. Our fathers eschewed ties and wore open neck shirts. Evil Knievel attempted to jump to Snake River Canyon. Nadia Comaneci was cheered on for Olympic Gold in gymnastics. But, most of all, I remember an enormous treat that happened every weekend: the NBC Friday Night Mystery. It was a huge thrill to stay up way past my bedtime and get to watch MacCloud, MacMillian & Wife and the other thriller series that would take turns airing each weekend. These one hour programs would always reveal an underlying plot, solved bravely by our heroes, who were really just 'regular folks' trying to do the right thing. TV shows today don't have the same innocent, but multi-layered, approach to mystery. We are now told, in graphic detail, by forensic specialists, what happened. The only question remaining today is: "What techniques will they use in the lab?".

In the great spirit of well told stories, underlying character traits, hidden agendas and the need to dig for clues on a personal level, comes "A House to Die For" by Vicki Doudera. Doudera has authored several excellent non-fiction books, worked as a freelance magazine writer, has owned and run a successful Inn, and has worked in selling luxury real estate. Her varied life experience has brought a wonderful amount of charm, perspective, humor and knowledge to her first mystery novel. In many ways, Doudera's book, "A House to Die For", reminds me of those Friday Night mysteries that I grew up watching...or even a Nancy Drew for grown ups. This book is deeply compelling, sensual, entertaining and amusing. But, its style hearkens back to a time that didn't overwhelm the reader (or viewer) with horrific 'too much information' about the wounds on the victims. The protagonist, Darby Farr, solves the mysteries the old fashioned way: good old sleuthing. She asks questions, she digs deeper into all possibilities and rather than relying on crime scene lab, she goes to people's homes and asks questions. Is she a criminologist, working for a secret government agency? Nope. Darby Farr is a realtor...and just like Nancy Drew, just can't help but solve the mystery of the deadly, historic Victorian house on the point.

Comparisons to Nancy Drew aside, "A House to Die For" is *not* a children's book. It's a well written, imaginative grown up novel. However, the style and prose reminded me so strongly of the mysteries I grew up loving, I couldn't help but make the connection. It's a read for a rainy day, with a cup of tea, and a roaring fire. It's a novel to immerse yourself in, on a beach on vacation. It's a step back, nostalgically, because it's not an onslaught to the senses. It manages to be thrilling, and takes unexpected twists along the way. But, "A House to Die For" is not brutal in the way that a Lee Child or Robert Crais novel might be.

Mysteries are compelling for most of us. We all love unsolved puzzles and we admire the intelligent truth seekers who can ferret out the truth. Above all, we love being privy to the process surrounding the "whodonit". Since very few people will actually pursue investigation as a career, it's spectacularly entertaining to tag along, on a literature journey, with a character who does uncover dastardly plots. In the tradition of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, Darby Farr is mystery solver for the 'rest of us'...for those who have a nostalgic spirit and love a well told pot boiler...without the graphic violence that besieges far too much in modern novels and movies. We can safely try to solve the crime, along with Darby. In doing so, we can imagine ourselves to be 8 years old again...curled up on the floor, watching television on the 1975 RCA with built in cabinet that had the remote control that actually was "a clicker".

Just make sure to make some Jiffy Pop for a snack while you read...you will want it!

La vie en rose...

“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.” -- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

From the very first moment I stepped into Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, when I was 8 years old, I was mesmerized by the stained glass windows. Despite having lived walking distance from St. Patrick's, in New York City, I had never fully appreciated or understood the complexity that creates the magical lighting in stained and leaded glass until my first trip to Europe. The diffusion of light, the brilliance of the shine and, the magical glow created by the varying colors, captivated my childlike imagination. I would have been content to sit at the base of each one, allowing the crowds to push past me, as I felt illuminated, warmed and blessed. There was something utterly captivating about my first experience in reveling in the colorful, lustrous streams. It's a feeling that has never left me, and has led me to seek out stained and leaded glass in the many places we've been fortunate enough to visit. While deeply moving, nothing has quite captured the overwhelming delight I felt during my first foray to Notre Dame.

Of all the stained glass seen in churches and cathedrals, none has the symbolism that the Rose Window does. The Rose windows, seen in many churches today, are the large, circular openings that will often have the most ornate 'wheel like' design. The mythology surrounding these windows is as varied as the windows themselves. In the book, "The Da Vinci Code", the rose window idea was said to represent the Virgin Mary, who is a very popular theme in the windows themselves. However, ocular windows are seen in both Jewish synagogues and Muslim mosques, as well. They have been linked to ancient Celtic culture in the form of the endless knot to internal illumination. A Buddhist mandala also bears a remarkable resemblance to the most ardent of Christian rose windows. Their patterns are exceptional and intricate and the effect they have upon the viewer can be profoundly moving.

Because of my enjoyment of stained glass, I've tried to learn more about the process, the creation, the inception and the installation. I have been exceptionally fortunate to know a wonderful artist named Diana Blay. Originally from England, but now living in Maine, Diana, with her late husband, Quentin, helped to create some of the most exceptional glass windows on both sides of the Atlantic. Their company most notably worked in the National Cathedral in Washington, DC. To my untrained and untutored eye, the stained glass itself has always looked divinely placed and as if it's always been there...in any sanctuary I've seen it. From Diana, I've learned the sheer magnitude of work that goes into created even one small window. Beginning with an artist's sketch, called a "cartoon", the multi-step process is long and arduous. Each phase brings another layer to the individual pieces and to the overall theme of the final design. The transportation, installation and final touches are what take indistinct pieces of colored glass into a synergy of radiance. Now in her 80's, Diana has become a dear friend to me, and I enjoy every moment I'm able to spend with her...as well as learning about her work.

The most remarkable aspect to stained glass, in light of the Elizabeth Kubler-Ross quote above, is how much they have the ability to reflect our inner nature. During times of frustration, grief and sorrow, it's very difficult to allow our inner glow to shine. When we are filled with hope and joy, every part of our being glimmers radiantly, as if we ourselves reflect through a rose window. The trick, I believe, is to begin with the artist's sketch of ourselves as we would like to be...as a blueprint and plan. How do we want to appear to the outside world? What colors of the rainbow do we wish to reflect? What stories do we want our lives to tell? How can we create, tiny piece by tiny piece, a remarkable, gleaming stained glass window with our lives? What do we need to do in order for our inner light to shine at all times?

By setting our intention as to what we desire for the "pictures" we want our lives to create, we can outline the path we need to take to achieve them. In doing so, we will find obstacles, glass that break metaphorically and other road blocks. We will need to redraw our plans many times, adjusting our 'cartoon' to fit the next step. And yet, when we are done, we will have created something more magnificent than even the Rose Window at Notre Dame.

Cross Training

"Art is individualism, and individualism is
a disturbing and disintegrating force.
There lies its immense value.
For what it seeks is to disturb monotony of type,
slavery of custom, tyranny of habit, and
the reduction of man to the level of a machine." --- Oscar Wilde

As a Yoga instructor, I find that people from many different backgrounds come to take my classes. Because I make a point of teaching in a "western friendly" style, my classes seem to be more approachable to those students who are nervous about beginning something that's just too eastern for them. However, my philosophy, intent and structure are purely in traditional Yoga form. Because of where I teach, at my local YMCA, I've been able to reach a broader audience than I would if I taught in a more Yoga centered studio. At times, this is tougher on me....as I don't work with many people who can support my own Yoga practice. But, it's given me the chance to help people, of all stages in life, discover Yoga. I have had several older students who had never done any formal exercise before taking my class. I have had men and women coming out of rehabilitation from injury or illness. I have had mothers whose yoga class is their only time for themselves during the week. I have taught master Yogi's who could be my instructor, rather than the other way around. Interestingly though, the most fascinating group of students has been those who come to Yoga for cross training.

My son's hockey team had me come and teach flexibility and breath work. It was intriguing to work with a group of 16 to 18 year old boys, all in the peak of physical conditioning, but who were unable, in most cases, to touch their toes. The Coach's goal for me to was to also assist these athletes in learning to control their breathing. I've also worked with Triathletes in their quest for increased body awareness and adaptability. This led to my leading classes for the local high school cross-country team, and their coach's intention for a well rounded, relaxed and lithe team. All of these experiences highlighted how important it is not to peg ourselves in any one particular pattern for too long. Monotony can easily lead to stagnation and the cessation of growth and development. While any of these athletes could run (or skate) circles around me, there were none who were able to match my adeptness in flexibility. I came away feeling blessed that I had something to offer people who are far more fit than I am. But, I also began to see that I was just as guilty of ignoring other areas of my own adaptability. I had grown comfortable and complacent in my yoga routine and wasn't expanding in my own realm of learning either. I began adding cardio and strength training to my workouts.

All of these experiences have shown me how crucial it is to cross train...not just for our bodies, but in my minds. We can become so pleased with our patterns that we rarely vary them. We might have one particular genre of book we prefer to read. We might discover that we get stuck in a rut with one favorite food or beverage. We might even get too comfortable in our relationships.We might buy the same clothes over and over and wake up to find we've had the same style since high school or have only appreciated one medium of art our whole lives. All of these 'pattern based' forms of similarity and continuance can sneak up on us. We may not even realize that we're being tedious and repetitive until something jars us out of complacency. This can be a gentle nudge, such as a friend loaning us a book that's not our typical read. Or, this shove can be more literal...when our doctor warns us to make some big changes to our lifestyle for our health's sake.

These breaks in routine, likeness and uniformity can be scary at first. It's tough to do something completely different! We feel confident in our method of behavior and in our tastes and skills. By switching that around, we risk looking foolish by lacking in expertise. For example, when I was 36 years old, I decided to learn to ski. Believe me, it was not a pretty sight. I was ready to quit more than a dozen times on the very first day. While the rest of my family was carving up the mountain at Sugarloaf, I was mastering the fine art of 'snowplowing' with toddlers who had pacifiers in their mouths....and those same babies passed me on the bunny hill. It was embarrassing, and I fell so many times that my left hip's bruising was swollen in a 6" diameter. I simply couldn't stop and my daughter had to ski in front of me, backwards, in order to act as a shield between myself and innocent bystanders. And yet, it was liberating! I was doing something new, something I had never mastered and something that I did want to explore. While I'll never be Picabo Street, and certainly won't be winning any Olympic medals, I can ski just well enough to travel on most 'green' trails. Learning to ski, even in a rudimentary way, opened my mind and heart to other possibilities that may tease just outside of my reach.

When we choose to cross train, we make the decision to step off the path we're currently traveling. In doing so, we may find that we gain confidence in other areas. Just by expanding our bubble of knowledge in one zone, we may see that we've learned something fresh to apply to other parts of our lives. It may make us more willing to take a chance and investigate outside what's familiar. This doesn't mean that venturing off into the unknown, whether it's learning to ski or taking a painting class, is going to be easy. Having grown up in a very 'end result' family, I had never truly understood the philosophy of "process before product". Such a concept was alien to me until recently. But, I've come to realize that, just by exploring a concept I've never attempted, I can learn more about myself...and bring that knowledge forward into whatever else I choose to do.

I will never be an artist in a juried art show, but I've discovered that I like to paint. I can't carry a tune, but I enjoy singing. The Boston Marathon will not be on "Bucket List" but I can run in my own way for a couple of miles. I may never be on the NY Times Bestseller List, but I adore writing. Cross training means more than swimming, when one is used to hiking. It means allowing our minds to open up to a skill or an idea that is totally new to us. In doing so, we'll discover that our lives will be enriched exponentially.

Eternal Sunshine

A cloudy day or a little sunshine have as great an influence on many constitutions as the most recent blessings or misfortunes. -- Joseph Addison

There are many benefits to living in Maine. Our proximity to wonderful beaches, fresh seafood and a plethora of outdoor activities, ranging from skiing to sailing, are among those items in the "plus" category. Our relatively sheltered way of life and small town atmosphere create a safe place to raise children. While we're traveling and asked where our home is, people will sigh and picture lighthouses, deep forests, lobsters, blueberry fields and Andre the Seal, upon hearing our answer.The billboard slogan that greets visitors heading north on I-95 reads "Maine: the way life should be".

Yet, despite being able to go to LL Bean in Freeport 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, there is a major drawback to living in Maine: the lack of sunshine for a large portion of the year. Although we don't have to contend with the same shortage of daylight hours that my Swedish friends have told me about, we do have a discouraging lack of sunshine for more than half the year. Given our proximity to the ocean, as well as the northern tip of the continental U.S., we are often shrouded in darkness....from clouds or because of the calendar. The lack of sunshine is okay at first; we learn to create roaring fires in the fireplace, to snuggle under blankets and generally hibernate with the indoor comforts of prolonged coziness. After a while, however, the novelty wears very thin. I find myself sinking into my own black hole of grumpiness and anxiety. I forget how happy I can be in the magical, lyrical days of shining Summer and Autumn ablaze. Especially because we lack a true Spring season (we move from Winter to Mud to the Fourth of July), the desolate and disheartening gray seems to linger interminably.

Despite being a native Californian, I've lived in the east far longer than I did in the west. Yet, a large part of who I am, of what I need to be truly happy, lies 3000 miles away; the sunny skies of the southwest. When the winter blues turn toxic, I know that, for my own benefit, I have to slip away from Maine's foggy shores to rediscover the cheerful person I am. It's as if the low cloud cover not only encompasses my home, but my very soul. I forget to count my blessings. I have amnesia regarding the state of my spirit. I lose my zest and become a winter sloth. By traveling, I'm able to allow the parts of my personality, that I'm proud of, to reemerge. It isn't so much that sunshine creates my level of happiness or state of mind. Rather, sunshine simply seems to call forth the enthusiasm, the friendliness, the brightness and the merriment that has gone dormant. My laughter, so elusive in the depths of both emotional and seasonal, winter, finds its way to the surface once again.

So, what inspires me about the west? My east coast friends cite reasons why I shouldn't like it...the crime rate, the smog and the traffic. The high cost of living. The surface level judgment. Yet, I miss my home state when I'm not there because of many simpler pleasures; going outside to pick an orange or an avocado off the tree. Being able to sit outside, with a good book, in February. Basking in the warmth most days of the year. The generally positive attitudes of people around me who are accustomed to paradise-like days. The fresh foods. The ability to go barefoot and put my toes in the sand. These funny little actions do an extraordinary amount of good in my drizzle covered soul.

I've come to realize that one of my life lessons is to cultivate eternal sunshine within me, regardless of my circumstances. I need to find a way to keep the gloomy, Eeyore days of February and March at bay in my heart. I must discover a path that allows me to bask in the warmth and glow, that the west brings out in me, wherever I am. I need to find the 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and my laughter, even in the midst of darkness. Yoga can help me with this. By maintaining my practice and classes, I can cultivate positive 'light'. Additionally, even when it's cold and dreary, I need to find additional methods to brighten my day internally. The one way that appears to assist me the most is helping others...by volunteering, by encouraging those who are suffering and by making a difference in my community, I feel the sunshine welling up within me. Even if I can't change the weather, I can certainly be the sunshine for someone else....and in doing so, perhaps I'll bring that light to my own heart, as well.

The luck of the Irish...

May your troubles be less and your blessings be more.
And nothing but happiness come through your door.

May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings,

Slow to make enemies, and quick to make friends.

And, may the Lord welcome you in Heaven,

at least an hour before the Devil knows you're dead.

-- Irish Toast

I have to admit...a part of me has always wanted to be Irish. The magic St. Patrick's Day began in school for me. Unlike other holidays, this was a day that meant pure fun. It didn't mean feeling left out, if I didn't get a Valentine. It never was homogenized to the point of saying "Happy Winter Holiday", in the place of Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah. There was no enormous feast to prepare for visiting relatives. There aren't any traditions that have to be followed to the letter, at the rink of offending those around you. Nothing is expected, other than the pure joy and fun of celebration. I remember picking out something green so that I wouldn't get pinched, and looking forward to a simple dinner of corned beef and cabbage. Despite my blended heritage, there isn't a drop of Irish blood in my ancestry. And yet, I've felt a personal connection with Eire since I first cut out a shamrock from construction paper in Kindergarten.The allure of leprechauns, castles, sprites, pixies, pookas and rainbows with pots of gold at the end is powerful. I'd look at my brown hair and eyes in the mirror and feel utterly bereft...all I wanted was red hair, green eyes and freckles.

Now that I'm older there are other reasons why I still feel blessed by St. Patrick's Day. The tenacious history of the Irish people is one I respect. They have withstood invasion and occupation for hundreds of years, and still have a strong cultural identity. Their rich history is made up of powerful metaphorical stories that are told cross-culturally. Their language, their traditions and their respect for their ancient times is noteworthy. Despite famine, wars (both civil and international), prejudice and, eventually, a divided country, national pride remains high. Unlike most Americans of other European ancestry, Irish Americans remain firmly rooted in the land of their forefathers. The rest of simply have left the "old country" remain lost to us. There is a connectedness between Ireland and the many countries the Irish have emigrated to that simply doesn't exist in most other cultures.

Yet what brings people, like myself, together with their Irish friends on St. Patrick's Day isn't the history, the fairy tales or the geography; it's the overwhelming friendliness of the Irish spirit. I have been befriended by the Irish, both American and those of the Emerald Isle, in a way that has warmed my heart. When other cultures can be insular against 'outsiders', the Irish friendliness is legendary. I have felt more embraced, more welcomed and more blessed by my Irish friends than I ever dreamed possible. Regardless of how we met, or how long we knew each other well, my Irish friends are all sociable, affectionate and neighborly. During times I've felt blue, or lost in the shuffle, it's been my Irish friends who have been not only considerate, but overwhelmingly sympathetic. Their zest for life, their affability and their congeniality has delighted me. It isn't any wonder that, in addition to my adoration for their magical stories, the kindness of the Irish themselves, has worked its way into my heart. I feel incredibly blessed to be accepted by this spirit of goodwill.

Wouldn't it be a different world if we all embraced one another as we would on St. Patrick's Day? Can't you imagine the good cheer, the friendliness and the sense of camaraderie all year 'round? To be welcomed as a sister, or brother, the moment we walk through a door, into a room of strangers is a powerfully dynamic experience. Once someone has felt that expressive acceptance, it is never forgotten.

So...on March 17, I encourage you to pull out your green sweater, to channel your inner leprechaun and to dance a jig to Irish folk music. I will reinforce any desire to march in a parade, to sing songs in Gaelic or to make merriment in your local pub. I invite you to go chasing rainbows or to listen closely to the hear the fairies whispering at dusk. But, most of all, I encourage each of you to bring forward the beautiful spirit of Irish friendliness...and to extend it to a new person in your life. Your heart will warm forever, with a little piece of Irish magic, in doing so.

Bridges

"He who burns his bridges better be a damn good swimmer..."

I've long had a fascination with bridges. Despite the fact that more than a third of all people are scared of them to some degree, my love for bridges is somewhat surprising. Perhaps it's because I was born in San Francisco, the city that boasts the "mother of all bridges". Maybe it's tied to my lack of a fear of heights or my passion for travel. Big or small, I just adore them. Whether it's a rustic covered bridge in Vermont, or the historical impact of Tower Bridge in London, each one delights me. My trip to Venice in the early 1990's sent me into a frenzy of joyful bliss. Wheaton College, where I was an undergraduate, had an adorable foot bridge connecting "old campus" to "new campus" as it passed over Peacock Pond, which was complete with the requisite ducks, swans and geese...as well as a fountain. The power and enchantment of bridges has been a topic that has been in my daydreams since I was very small....I have Kindergarten drawings that my mother carefully saved of a house, with a family, the pets (always two dogs) and some form of bridge to get to the house. In my current daydreams, my new house always has a bridge leading up to it.

And yet, bridges can be a powerful metaphor, as well as a beautiful architectural statement. "Burning one's bridges" is defined as "To eliminate the possibility of return or retreat. To discard a relationship without chance for reconciliation." How many times in our lives have we said, "To heck with this!" and stomped away? How often have we let bitterness, regret and anger, however justifiable, remove all possibility for forgiveness and congruence? There are instances when releasing a situation, and severing all points of communication, are justified. We cannot put ourselves, or those we love, in harm's way. We must 'burn the bridge' that lies between us and a truly adverse danger. Still, there are other instances in which we act impulsively and defiantly when thoughtful, guarded communication could be a much more useful behavior in the long run.

Once, a dear friend of my parents was invited to join a country club that had been infamous for being grossly anti-Semitic. As a Jew, this friend's proposal to join was obviously surprising to many. But, when his friends and family asked how Norman could even consider membership in such a bigoted organization, Norman answered, "I'm a bridge builder." He knew that he would not change the hearts and minds of those who were prejudiced. Norman also understood that he was being asked to join to prevent a lawsuit filed by others, claiming intolerance. Regardless of the circumstances under which his invitation was issued, Norman saw himself as an Ambassador of sorts...being able to 'build a bridge' between the insular and sectarian to the rest of the community. As young as I was when this experience happened, I remember feeling terribly proud to know such a brave humanitarian. I knew that he would not be welcomed easily. I understood his membership was made grudgingly. Yet, Norman took the opportunity to teach by example, to show tolerance in his own life and to be unfailingly patient.

Sometimes, we may find ourselves standing on the metaphorical shore of one side of a river. On our side is the known, the comfortable and the established. On the far side lies the unknown, the dubious and the ignorant. We may find ourselves called not only to cross a bridge, but also to build one. We may need to learn to forgive. We might well be asked to step onto the path of something that requires us to be vigilant. Yet, by being bridge builders, by showing kindness and courage, we may find ourselves making connections where none existed before. We may have the opportunity to create understanding, where ignorance and mistrust only existed before. We may also discover that distance between the near bank and the far one, isn't nearly as wide an expanse as we once believed.

What does the bridge look like your life? What connections can you make, uniting people and situations? Perhaps you're tempted to burn the bridge...to leave it behind and leave no trace of it. But maybe, just maybe, you're being called to create, instead of destroy, an important junction.