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.

Perfection

No one is perfect... that's why pencils have erasers. ~Rosalynn Carter

Like millions of other people around the world last night, I tuned into the 82nd Annual Academy Awards. Just as I have done for most of my life, I curled up soaking in the glittering surroundings, the extraordinary range of talent, the vast array of disciplines to master, the stunning gowns and the quality of excellence that permeates the evening. I don't believe I've ever met a person who hasn't, at least once in the lives, looked into the mirror, held their toothbrush and uttered the expression, "I'd like the thank the Academy....", in private. The Academy Awards represent the pinnacle of perfection to most of us. They offer us 'humble folk' the chance to peek in at an otherwise unseen world of glamor, drama, sophistication and consummating achievement. It's a night designed to recognize those individuals who have transcended the average and moved into pure precision of their crafts. I am always in awe...each and every year.

Yet despite the allure of Oscar night, I can't help but feel awkward for those who don't win. I cringe when the camera focuses on the panel of nominees and watches them plaster on 'good sport' smiles. The fact is, each one of them hopes to be the one taking the walk onto the stage to "thank the Academy". Each one has exceptional talent in their own right, and each one was passed over. It has to feel as if you lean forward off that carousel horse, reaching towards that brass ring with all your might....and feel that ring just slip by without being able to capture it. Do these performers wonder if they were less than perfect? Do these talented thespians ask themselves "Could I have done better?". It's a question each one of us asks ourselves every single day.

The pursuit of excellence and personal achievement has been ingrained into many of us from a very young age. I have had my days in which I have felt utterly confident that I have met every obstacle with passion and overcome each of them with sincerity. However, those days are few and far between. For the most part, I muddle along, making mistakes every step of the way. Instead of leaping over hurdles, I mentally think "Forget it", and turn around. Instead of feeling pride in the work I did, I see every error as if each one was painted with neon arrows that say "Loser!" in a computerized voice. I feel the failures in my heart deeply, particularly when I have let down those people I care most about. I don't wonder what my make-believe "Academy speech" would be; I can't even fathom how I'd be let in the metaphorical door with all of my imperfections. I find myself bogged down in regret, discouragement and misadventure.

Yet, there is something within each of us that inspires us to keep going. That magical, innate spark that dwells within, galvanizing us to pick ourselves up off the track of despair....and to progress forward. We find motivation in perseverance alone. We understand, metaphorically speaking, that sometimes it may be just about finishing the race, rather than emerging as the victor. In the words of St. Paul, in his letter to St. Timothy, "I have fought the good fight, I have run the good race, I have kept the faith." St. Paul did not emerge from his race with laurels, accolades or a golden statue. He was beheaded. Yet, he kept up his belief in the work that he did until the very end of his life...inspiring, extolling, exalting, chastening and motivating those around him. Was his life, and the impact St. Paul had on the entire world, any less because he was not lauded by his peers?

For those who are "heavy laden and weary" today, I offer you encouragement: no matter how intrepid and undaunted most people appear to be, we have all had our moments, or even our years, of doubt and fear. We have all wondered "Why do I even bother continuing to try?". We have plastered on that "good sport smile" when we least feel like it. We have fallen down, scraped up our knees but picked ourselves up with pluck and kept going, even when we know we have no chance at perfection. We can look around us and see dazzling men and women who have attained heights we can't begin to imagine. Yet, even the most secure of these people has had their own times of nervousness and reticence. Perfection is not about gold statues. It doesn't require a lack of mistakes or the absence of errors. Perfection doesn't mean feeling brave and heroic every instant. Perfection simply means finishing the race...with honor, with dignity, with humility, with faith and with temerity. Oscars to place on a mantel are a crowning achievement. However, keeping going, when you simply don't want to, is the true measure of success.

March Madness

"March is the month of expectation, the things we do not know. The persons of Prognostication are coming now." - Emily Dickinson

I have to admit that if I were ranking months of the year, in order of my enjoyment and delight, March would come in last. March, especially in Northern New England, isn't a month "that comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb." Rather, it brings with it freak snow storms, followed by torrential rains, epic amounts of mud and a enormous amount of the unexpected. March is an impossible month to predict. It can be both frustrating and exciting. March seems to bring out the very worst in people, but also glimmers of the very best. Grumpy tempers can flare up, partly due to prolonged cabin fever. Yet, I've also seen people desire to transcend the nastiness and swallow down terse remarks to surprise me with unyielding kindness and compassion. With all these complications, why is March a time of immense growth?

I'm just as guilty, of allowing the sense of hope to drain from my body, as the next person. Even as a yoga instructor and a theology student, this time of year presents the biggest challenge to my body, mind and spirit. I find myself defensive, clumsy, short-tempered and anxious. I work very hard on not sniping at those closest to me, and by not allowing myself to sink into a perpetual state of peevishness. It's not an easy task this time of year. The expression "madder than a March hare" dates back to medieval times when wild rabbits would emerge from their dens to mate, and would be unusually aggressive towards other animals and towards one another. I believe this phrase, co-opted by Lewis Carroll in "Alice in Wonderland", is applicable to humans, as well. As we emerge from our winter slumber, mentally and physically deprived of sunlight, we are beset with petulance and annoyance.

Without all of these obstacles in our paths, however, we would never learn to overcome them, whether in March, under an eternal cloud of bad moods and limited sunshine, or throughout the year. March may be a time of bickering and ill humor, but it also provides us with an invaluable opportunity for overcoming the very worst of our natures. Without the darkness, there is no light to be seen clearly. Without challenges, there is no occasion for personal growth. In the absence of sufficiency, we are urged to go out and become seekers. In other words, if the month wasn't a lousy one, we'd have no reason to get off our tuffets of complacency and work harder to become stronger in body and mind. March gives us that amazing chance: to become dissatisfied with the way things are and to yearn something more for our lives.

During my yoga classes this time of year, I add in extra rounds of Sun Salutations. This series of choreographed movements is designed to unite body and mind, and wake up the senses. Sun salutations are defined as "a series of twelve yoga postures performed in a single graceful flow with each movement coordinated with the breath." Called "surya namaskar" in Sanskrit, Sun Salutations have an exceptional ability to increase flexibility and strength, to focus thoughts onto the present moment and to raise endorphin levels. Combining all of these benefits, this series of asanas are a powerful method of dealing with the erratic feelings of March. Sun Salutations are practiced in many Yoga styles, but all are designed to leave the yogini with a renewed sense of purpose, with inspiration and with a less sluggish body. Sun Salutations aren't a miracle drug that will make the user feel the delights of June weather, while still under March's cloud bank, but they will give the yogini a greater sense of control over her emotional responses.

We are now left with a choice of how to view March. We can see it as Garrison Keilor does, "March is the month that God designed to show those who don't drink what a hangover is like", and feel wretched for 31 days. Or, we can find ourselves admiring Marianne Williamson's philosophy of "March can be a miracle in a shift of perception". I imagine most of us will land somewhere in the middle...muddling through and looking for those exceptional moments of grace, while still working to overcome the feelings of foggy dread. Let's make a goal to take note of the dread, analyze it for what it is (and for what it isn't), and discover our own paths to reemerging in the April light.

Diversity and Friendship

“Diversity is the one true thing we all have in common. Celebrate it every day.” ~ Melissa Etheridge

I didn't realize how exceptionally open-minded, inclusive and forward thinking my parents were until I became an adult. My father and mother had an extraordinary group of close friends. These people were vastly intelligent, successful, creative and dynamic. I grew being surrounded by men and women who had grown to prominence in their fields through hard work and inestimable charisma. These friends were of every color in the rainbow of human existence. Some were gay and some were straight. My childhood was not only a melting pot of talents, but also of backgrounds and lifestyles. When people, today, say they are "color blind", I know that there are those who take umbrage with that fact. Yet the way I was raised was not to ignore the color of a person's skin, their age, or their lifestyle choices, but to look within them...to see our commonalities and our bonds. Diversity, when I was growing up, wasn't even a buzz word yet. It was simply how we lived our lives; appreciating people whose company we enjoyed, whom we cherished and who were important to us. I didn't grow up color blind. I grew up looking for friends in whom my heart felt comfortable.

What I've come to realize, as an adult, is that without diversity, life is unbearably bland. In my Theology class, we have a wide variety of backgrounds, age groups, birth nations, financial situations, talents, political leanings and life experiences. Some have their lives already dedicated to church ministry professionally and personally. Others are lay people in various stages of spiritual quests. A group of 10 people with seemingly little in common, but our shared commitment to the class, began in September. In February, we are our own special, unique and deeply caring community. We are there for one another and our differences of opinion make for fascinating intellectual conversation and exploration. Had we all been in the same mindset, our study of Church history, Philosophy, Old and New Testaments and Ancient history would have been dull. It's the wide ranging interests, areas of expertise (or ignorance, in my own case), and perspectives that give our discussions regarding our readings for the week their zest. My class is respectful, curious, inquisitive, opinionated and dedicated. We range in age of from our 30's to our 80's...with every decade represented. We are teachers, artists, ministers, Brothers, mothers, people in the business world and people at home. We are all different, but that makes our community far more intriguing.

My one area of intolerance happens to be ironic: I'm deeply uncomfortable with those who are intolerant themselves. I find all my compassion, my heart for the world and my inner kindness to turn into something bitter and angry when confronted with nasty people. It's an area I'm working on and struggling with, but it remains a place in my heart that is hardened. I've been in situations in which several women (with whom, on paper, I should everything in common) were mean-spirited towards the daughter of a gay friend of mine during a ballet recital dress rehearsal. I have seen people judge a handicapped woman harshly because of the 'inconvenience' of accommodating her. I have heard rude remarks, by a highly educated woman, about the religion I was born into, as well as had anti-Semitic remarks directed to my family. I have born witness to every kind of wretched, ignorant and bigoted train of thought. I have answered back sharply. I have rebuked. I have ignored. I have held grudges. I have let things go. Most of all, over the years, I've learned to pick my battles. I've discovered when to fight and when to retreat in disgust. I have determined with whom to place my friendship and from whom to withdraw it. Initially, the idea of withdrawing friendship seemed to be cut from the same cloth as bigotry. I was uncomfortable with stooping to the same level. And yet, how could I choose to remain friends with people whose mindsets weren't a sign of 'diversity' or 'difference of opinion' but hatred and aggression?

The answer for me, in all of this, is forgiveness. When a person is simply ignorant and has their own issues of insecurity, this person may lash out in fear of the unknown. If that individual continues to grow, to develop and to seek out knowledge....especially about situations she doesn't understand....I believe forgiveness is well in order. I, myself, am far from perfect. I've been rude, unkind and unjust. My impulsive nature has gotten the better of me far too many times. But, through all of that, I've been shown mercy and forgiveness myself when I've actively worked to regain the trust of those I've hurt. It may not be my responsibility to chase after people to educate them, nor is it appropriate for me to require every single person I meet to think just like I do. However, I do have a duty to listen, to comment and to forgive, if forgiveness is warranted.

Through all of this, I have to count my blessings. I have the most exceptional friends any woman could hope for. They are all over the globe, and they are broad ranging in talents, backgrounds, ages, interests and life choices. The fact that they care about me is humbling and mind boggling. I feel like the weakest, dullest link in a beautifully luminous, interwoven chain. I feel profound gratitude to be counted among them....and I realize how vivid my life is because of its heterogeneity.

Farming, Growing Things and a Brown Thumb

I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden. ~Abraham Cowley, The Garden, 1666

My Grandma Rose was an amazing gardener. She was able to take a tiny cutting from any type of plant, coax out roots from it, and then transplant it into her garden. She lived in a historic Russian Hill Victorian in San Francisco, and despite the house's many period treasures, it was her beautiful English garden that captivated me the most. In the midst of a busy urban center, she cultivated her modest backyard into an enchanted space, complete with winding walkways, unusual breeds of flowers and vegetables, and a yellow wooden playhouse that divided time between her potting shed duties, and my dolls' tea parties. Grandma's garden always had something new to capture my attention, to draw me further in and to cast a spell upon my childhood self. I found peace there during stressful times, and pure joy, during happy ones.

These memories make it all the more tragic for me that I have not inherited Grandma's gifts for plant cultivation and landscape design. Additionally, I lack even the most rudimentary of 'growing' skills. Beyond that, I seem to have become the antithesis of my grandmother: where she could breathe life into any increment of flora, I seem to be the instrument of torture and death to them. I have long joked that I am the Dr. Kevorkian of plants....they seem to find their way into my home and yard when they want to end their own lives. Once, my friend, Mary, was in the midst of a major home remodel and had to remove all her house plants from the construction zone. Mary is one of many friends who are exceptional garden enthusiasts, and her yard has been featured in the House & Garden show several times. When she asked me to mind her houseplants, I begged her to find another host family. Seduced by my bright and sunny front windows, Mary promised that I couldn't possibly kill her indoor plants, if she placed them herself and left me specific instructions. She was wrong, and they were dead within a week. We are still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong....fifteen years later. I bemoan my lack of gardening abilities. I have read books, I have taken nature walks with landscapers and consulted specialists. Everyone is left with the distinct impression that I honestly have a Brown Thumb. It's a "gift". This time of year in northern New England, many of my friends are consulting seed catalogs and beginning to get their orders placed for the coming Spring. I'm simply listening to their conversations and wondering if I missed out on learning the secret handshake in Kindergarten.

Therefore, a game on Facebook has left me particularly excited. Facebook is a social networking site through which I've been able to remain in touch with close friends and family, as well as to rekindle friendships from long ago. The game "Farmville" was initially a sore spot with me. Several of my dearest friends were posting accomplishments, winning blue ribbons and having barn raising events. They were growing everything from rice to roses, and landscaping their virtual plantations beautifully. I had to roll my eyes and wonder how my vastly intelligent, well educated and interesting pals could be so enamored by a silly game. And, then I tried it. Despite the fact that I did manage to kill my first few (okay, more like first dozen) virtual crops, I did begin to enjoy the game. The better I was able to produce my produce, and take care of my livestock, the more I was rewarded. I found that improving my farm's layout, crop rotation, and type of seeds used truly helped them to flourish and grow. With each successful harvest, I was rewarded with the ability to expand my farm and try new seeds. For the first time in my life, I've found some measure of enjoyment in watching my yield accrue. There is something deeply satisfying about sowing fallow ground, choosing which type of plants to produce, watching them blossom and then in-gathering the results. Even though these plots of land are simply virtual squares, and my "Me" is just a character controlled by the click of a mouse, I'm proud of my little farm. I have a barn, a dairy farm, a chicken coop, a silo, scads of animals, a farmhouse and many plots of different crops; from grains to flowers to vegetables. I have grape arbors and cranberry bogs. My tomatoes and red and luscious. My roses are full and hearty. My sheep bah. My cows moo. And my ducks quack. It's a goofy cartoonish game, and yet I find the whole experience to be oddly satisfying. I can almost picture myself walking through the lanes between my fields, brushing my horses and fertilizing my grains. I can wish myself a cup of iced tea as I survey all that I have grown.

I still harbor the hope that someday my real yard will resemble something akin to my virtual garden. And yet, in every day life, I realize that I have the opportunity to create 'something from nothing' through my words. In writing, I have the ability to cultivate the soil of my imagination by reading good books and listening to the advice of others. I can plant my own seeds of ideas and nurture them along with practice. I can wait patiently as I work through rewrites and yank out any literary weeds that are sapping my energy. I can watch those first shoots of persistence spring up, and I can harvest them by finishing a piece over which I've toiled. While my writing will never resemble that of William Shakespeare or even John Grisham, I will have the satisfaction of toiling over each word in the piece, from beginning to end. In that, there is a sort of farming garden of words.

Perhaps someday I'll have rosemary by my garden gate, and a small pond with swans swimming, surrounded by lavender and lilac. Or, perhaps, I'll leave this part of my life as metaphor and leave the real gardening up to experts.

Mardi Gras

“You must treat everyday like a present and open it with great expectation.” ~ John De Lemme

Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday. Carnivale. New Orleans. Rio De Janeiro. Venice. The time period, in the liturgical calendar between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday, marks one of the most celebratory delineations of time in the earliest Christian calendar. What began as a simple period of joy became synonymous with decadence, lasciviousness and hedonism.Yet, regardless of one's religious beliefs or affiliations, Mardi Gras has its own delectable spirit that is both captivating, and feels a little dangerous. It is the idea that all inhibitions can be released before a period of austerity. It encapsulates the impression of absolute license for freedom proceeding deprivation. It's the purging of animal impulses before the mastery of them. It's retrogression of composure before the ultimate test of asceticism.

Rather than give an easily found, and utterly fascinating, full history of Mardi Gras, I would like to explore why this holiday is captivating to so many of us. Few people live by the true liturgical year any longer. Lent is rarely a time of fasting and self-mortification in the 21st century. If observed at all, most people I know try to give up a bad habit, such as smoking or junk food. This is less about trying to deprive oneself as Christ fasted in the desert, tempted by the Devil. These relinquishment's are much more about letting go of something we shouldn't be doing in the first place. Like New Year's resolutions, these are begun with the very best of intentions but generally, without a conscious effort to become Christ-like in the process. Additionally, like most New Year's resolutions, these promises for self-improvement are usually begun with the very best of intentions but fall short within a week or two. I'll never forget the year my friend, Debra (a sweets fanatic) gave up desserts. I gave up shopping the same Lent. As we walked through the Mall, I pulled her away from Godiva's immense chocolate covered strawberries, as she gently led me away from Ann Taylor. We were like two addicts, trying desperately to be sponsors for one another, but failing horribly. As she bought her box of truffles and I my blouse, we promised to hang onto them for one another two weeks, just until Easter Sunday, when we'd exchange them as gifts of bonded friendship to one another. We didn't even make it home from Portland before we were digging through the two parcels. On the one hand, we felt horribly guilty. On the other, we secretly delighted in our sins. It was a dangerous combination.

That experience taught me something valuable: being forbidden makes the acts we're trying to avoid all the more delicious. We, as fallen, wretched humans, are prone to deep desires and desperate wants. We are tempted and we can resist, but we often fail. Mardi Gras may seem riotous and deplorable to many, but what it really does is to tap into our base natures of rapaciousness. I believe that the reason this holiday is so attractive is because we know that "anything goes" has a time limit. We understand that our days of infatuation are, indeed, numbered. Perhaps the early designers of these times of revelry knew that people would be more likely to succeed during Lent if they were given free rein the time period preceding. One of my first teenage jobs was at Dunkin' Donuts. The store manager told me that I was allowed to eat as many doughnuts as I wanted. I have to admit, I was more than just a bit of a glutton the first few days. I sampled the glazed, Boston Creme and the blueberry. I gorged on the cinnamon, the chocolate and the jelly filled. I feasted on the sour cream, the maple frosted and the apple fritter. By the end of my 5th day at work, I was not only disgusted with myself, but never wanted to eat another doughnut again in my life. This experience was thirty years ago. I have never eaten another doughnut since. Is my doughnut feeding frenzy anything like the intention behind Mardi Gras? Do we need to move through a time of extreme indulgence to teach ourselves self-discipline?

In my yoga classes, I try to teach a balance in all areas of the class. We practice willpower, self-restraint and control in our breath, in the movements of our bodies and in the thought patterns of our minds. Yet, there are asanas in which I lead movement for the pure exaltation of being alive and well. The Warrior poses are

a good example of this phenomenon. They do require a singleness of thought and focus, and yet, they feel utterly empowering. The delight to be gained from practicing Warrior is heady; it allows the Yogini to feel mighty, beautiful, desirable, exceptional and even a little racy. There is a powerful sense of being when in Warrior. It feels at once self-controlled and alluring. Warrior is a highly transforming series of dynamic poses.

Mardi Gras, for all its decadence, its mystery and its ribaldry is ultimately about just such a transformation: from the boundaries of gluttony to be remade into the self-control over weakness.It's very difficult to overcome our useless attempts at discipline unless we have tired of them. Additionally, it's harder to see the metamorphosis into the enlightened life if we don't understand the transitory attractions of the alternative. This is not to say that we must all rip off our clothing and fall down in a drunken heap on Bourbon Street to understand the value of seeking spiritual illumination.What Mardi Gras has the potential to create is a way past those tiring impulses and a way to see more brightly see the window of inspiration.

Whether you feast on King Cakes tonight, or share a cocktail with friends, I hope the coming of new awakening awaits each of you. As we begin our magical transformations from spiritual worms into butterflies, I pray that these weeks inside your own personal chrysalis bring you the radiance you are meant to develop.

"The journey between what you once were and who you are now becoming is where the dance of life really takes place." ~ Barbara De Angelis

Passion

Chase down your passion like it's the last bus of the night. ~Glade Byron Addams

One of my greatest frustrations about Valentine's Day is how dreadful the holiday makes people who aren't deeply in love feel about themselves. The not-terribly subtle message is "You have to have a partner with whom to share this day of passion or you are left out of the club". I find that both offensive and condescending. It's a wonderful and beautiful experience to be in love, particularly in those heady days of early romance. One's heart beats faster at the mere thought of the object of one's affection. Pondering all the daydreams, the "What if's?" and the meanderings of an idyllic fairy tale can be even more magical than the romance itself. When one isn't in love, it's difficult to envision passion on a grand scale. Additionally, when one has been in a relationship for many years, the day to day practicality of bills, schedules, parenting, chores and jobs can overshadow the illusionary enchantment.

It's my firm belief that passion should have far less to do with wooing the object of one's desire. In my own mind and heart, it should be the wooing of our own deepest dreams for our own lives. Living a life of passion doesn't have to either involve, or negate, another human being. Rather, it means kindling the fires the lie within each of us to lead a life filled with purpose and confidence. A passionate life doesn't need to signal an immoral one. It can mean an existence in which one seeks out her dreams, discovers her hidden talents, and loses herself in the present moment. A passionate life can mean not allowing opportunities to fall by the wayside, but embracing each chance to learn something new. Achieving this can also mean asking yourself "What do I love?", "What makes me the happiest?" and "What can I do to feel jazzed about being alive?".

Far too much time is spent worrying about our failures. I am terribly guilty of this issue. I have allowed my anxiety over disappointing others, as well as myself, keep me from experiences, goals and seeking out my heart's desire. I have felt that, as long as I've secretly nurturing and daydreamed about my future, I would never be disillusioned. I was afraid that if I should try and then fail, I would have nothing left to look forward to. But, what's happened is that I've squandered my time...I've allowed decades to slip away from me because I was too nervous that I'd be rejected. Therefore, I want to commit myself to living more passionately. I want to submit more articles to magazines, to keep working on my book, and to expand upon pieces I've already finished. It's terrifying. But, unless I proceed with courage and confidence, I will never achieve my goals. I will only wonder what might have been in my life.

Passion can also apply to how we take on obstacles that lie in our path. We can decide to retreat and go back into our shells of complacency. Or, we can venture forward with William Wordsworth's "Might Yawp" and passionately defeat those troubles that create the blockages in our lives. We can choose to work around people who are naysayers. We can decide to face our fears. We can adopt a resilience that will enable us to keep moving forward...with passion and determination.

If you received candy and flowers from the love of your life, be appreciative but look for your inner ecstasy too. If not, fear not! A passionate life depends far more on how we meet life head on, than how others make us feel.