Month: August 2013

My Own Little Lake

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments
My little lake
My little lake

As much as I love the beauty of the Southwest, I don’t think I could do a desert for long. I need water. The ocean, a river, Lake Michigan…it all feels like possibility or hope to me. Even my little ol’ lake tucked away within my neighborhood. It’s just a small body of water, but for some reason, it always lifts my spirits.

Every season around the lake offers its own take on life. Spring brings newness and the promise of summer. Summer is life in full bloom, where goldfinches swoop in for a nibble on a sunflower and swans that the village brings in to keep the geese away…swim with the geese. Autumn offers different blooms and colors that are at once invigorating and bittersweet, as I know that the flora is getting ready to tuck itself in for the winter. And winter…even though it can be harsh and cold, still has a beauty all its own. Some times are more beautiful than others around the lake, but there is no “bad” time.

These days, it’s harder and harder for my head to clear, but my little lake helps me take a breath and free my mind up a bit from the fuzz of life. If I find myself using the time to think of all the things I need to do, I tell myself to shut up and listen instead.

Listen and look for the beauty of the minute (mī-ˈnüt not ˈmi-nət, though I guess both meanings apply). Even though this little lake is smack-dab in suburbia and not in any majestic setting, there are still small wonders to enjoy. The occasional snapping turtle that takes a sun nap before continuing its journey back to the water. The herons dipping in for breakfast and a bath. The huge willow tree blowing in the breeze. The shimmer of the sun tap dancing on the current. Simple beauty.

Notice the bird in the center
Notice the bird in the center

Yep, I love my little lake. When my son was younger, there were times I would take him there for a visual scavenger hunt and make him find specific little gems, and I still enjoy going for a bike ride with him and seeing him notice something tiny and beautiful because he’s taking the time to do just that. I hope he always will.

I’m pretty sure my dog is a fan, too because no matter how many walks he goes for around that lake, he still acts like he’s drunk with delight. I always wonder what crosses his little peanut mind while walking…”Oh! A flower! Oh! A feather! Oh! Some goose poop!”…Uh-oh…our thought processes may have more in common than I’d like to admit…

I don’t know what it is about water, but it’s good for the soul. At least it’s good for my soul. There is the beauty of it, but also the reminder that life is a symphony of sorts and all parts are important.

I’m glad I have my own little lake to ripple away my cares—if just momentarily— and help me see the simpler side of things. Somehow it makes handling the more complex seem do-able. And that’s exactly what I need to start my week.

More Than You Know

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 16 Comments

FriendHug-FeatureThis past week, a janitor from my work retired. Many years ago, in a “random act of kindness” mindset, I sent him a card telling him how much I appreciated the work he did and the way in which he did it. The next time he saw me, this soft spoken man said to me, “Thank you so much for the card—your words meant more than you know.” It was just a small gesture, but it mattered. From that day forward, there was an extra measure of warmth in our greetings to one another.

Saying farewell to him got me thinking about the ways in which things touch our hearts and how much it can mean to share those sentiments—and how often we miss opportunities to do just that.

When I was in my senior year of high school, a friend of mine signed the back of her class photo (do they still do that anymore?) in a way that took me by surprise. Though the exact wording is hazy in my memory, it was along the lines of “your friendship means more than you know.” It made me feel like I mattered to her and it opened up a conversation that we never would have had without her sharing her feelings in tiny blue handwriting.

We are still friends today.

We are meant to matter to one another. Except for the occasional recluse, we are social beings where mattering to someone else matters to us. So why is it so hard for us to let people know “more than they know”?

Sometimes I think it’s because we’re too busy—caught up in the minutiae of life. And that’s really a shame, when you think about it. Every day is a race…but to where? And for what?

Sometimes I think it’s because it’s just plain hard to find the right words. As a writer, I know that I am a much better communicator with my fingers than my lips. It gives me a chance to think through my thoughts…usually a plus in Communication Land.

Sometimes I think it’s because it’s just too scary. If we share with someone that we care about them, and it’s met with anything less than reciprocation, it’s a bit of a bummer. When things are too often a one-way street, realizing you are traveling alone hurts the heart.

Whatever the case, too often we miss opportunities to connect with someone and let them know they matter. And whatever the excuse, those missed opportunities are a loss. For both giver and receiver.

My heart is heavy these days. A very dear friend of mine has suffered yet another devastating blow in her battle with cancer. There is nothing that I can say to her that will be of any real help. But I know with certainty that she knows she matters to me and that I’m praying for her. I know that she feels the love of many. And while this doesn’t lessen her pain or change her diagnosis, it does matter. She matters.

Please know that I am no one to teach or preach on vulnerability—my husband jokes that I am a CIA agent because I can be so guarded on things—but often I write because it is the very thing I need to hear. So…go tell someone they matter to you. It may be “more than they know”—and exactly what they need to hear.

The Value of Wrinkles

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 8 Comments

My birthday is this week. It will mark my 46th year in this world. If I make it to 92, then I guess I can still entertain the notion of being middle-aged.

My smiling eye.
My smiling eye.

I don’t have a problem telling my age, though I’d be lying if I denied the clock’s ticking doesn’t make me sad sometimes. I don’t want to run out of time. When I feel this way, I reassure myself by remembering that there are no guarantees to the days ahead—I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound very reassuring, but my point is that there is no set time we have on this earth, and there is no limit for striving, seeking, finding, and not yielding.

Age for the average person doesn’t come without a few wrinkles, and while they’re nothing I aim for, I accept them—at least more than some people. I remember one bizarre conversation I had when I was the ripe old age of 19. I was in a college film production class downtown when these two very upscale girls came up to me after our first class. “How do you do it??” the one girl asked me as she smoothed her full-length fur coat after placing her oversized sunglasses on her face.

“Do what?” I replied.

“Stay so wrinkle-free?” I thought they were joking, but they were indeed very serious.

“Uh…I’m 19…there’s nothing to do…”

“Oh, yes, yes, there is. We are very careful. We stay out of the sun and smile as little as possible. We don’t want laugh lines! And we saw you just laughing away in class. Yet your skin looks so nice. So what do you do?” These two were maybe 21. I was dumbfounded. I think it was at that moment that they helped me see what value I would put on wrinkles in my years to come.

“Well, I guess I’ll be the wrinkled one who’s laughed a lot as the years go by.”

With that response, they simultaneously looked at me with disdain and turned and left. I sometimes wonder where those two might be today. I really hope they have a few laugh lines.

As a kid, I was very into collecting patches or stickers of places I had traveled to, and in a way, wrinkles are a variation of that kind of collection to me. While I don’t have wrinkles specific to certain experiences (that would be interesting!), they are still a reflection of the life I’ve lived so far.

It bums me out that wrinkles are such an issue for American women. There is more value to us than the elasticity in our faces. We should be proud of the journeys we are taking. And while I absolutely believe that we should take good care of ourselves, I don’t think the aging process should be a cause of shame, but more like a badge of honor.

Lately, my 87-year-old mother has taken to looking at me without her glasses and announcing, “You have no wrinkles!” I know she is trying to make me feel good, and I also know she has a pretty strong eyeglass prescription.

I do have wrinkles. For now, they’re mainly evident when I smile or laugh. As my 19-year-old self foresaw, it shows that I have indeed done some considerable laughing and smiling in my 46 years. Isn’t that something to feel good about? I think so.

Some Days a Trance, Some Days a Ballet

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

balletTime is one elusive commodity, isn’t it? Every day I aspire to make the best use of it because I hate the thought of days just disappearing…but they do…day after day after day. To help me with my time, I make lists. They help me to aim, focus, and shoot, as well as be able to look at my day and help me see what I actually did.

Historically, I am such a list-maker that my husband jokingly gave me the Native American name of Stands With A List (this will only make you smile if you are a Dances with Wolves fan). But lately even my lists seem problematic. They don’t even begin to reflect my real daily rundown.

In this stage of my life, I feel like all too often I am busy all day, but when the day is over I think, “What exactly did I accomplish?” The reality of one day blurring into the next is something I can’t seem to shake. Working primarily from home only exacerbates the problem—all of the roles I play converge into one.

I can categorize many of my days into “trances” or “ballets.” Both are days of fluid movement…waking to emails, work, taking care of the kid, laundry, caregiving to my mom, work, calls, errands, caregiving, work, groceries…you get the idea. The only real distinction between the two is whether or not I am fully “awake.”

Trance days have me doing something like folding laundry in the afternoon thinking, “It’s 3:00?!?! How did that happen? I haven’t stopped once today, but I can’t remember a thing I’ve done.” These days are almost like a zombiewalk—I am an automaton going through the mundane motions of daily life.

A ballet day, on the other hand, can have the exact same itinerary, but instead I am folding that same damn laundry thinking, “Okay, so I’ve done A, B, and C, and I’m ready to hit D, E, and F.” I glide through my ToDos feeling like I’m making progress. I jeté from one task to the next. (Yes, jeté…that’s right. Remember? I’m using a ballet metaphor. Stick with me.)

Lately, though, the trance days are slaughtering the ballet days, and I don’t know why. It does not thrill me to spend time in Zombieland. Unfortunately, it appears I’m unable to will myself into a daily performance of Swan Lake. I’ve tried when I feel the trance upon me, but it’s not a flippable switch. Perhaps a local meth dealer can help spur me on to greater heights. If it wasn’t for the ratty teeth aspect, I just might consider it.

Can you tell what kind of a day I’m having? That’s right—I’m stuck in a trance. If I wasn’t, I would know how to wrap this post up in a way that might offer a ray of hope or two. Instead I’ll just offer up the old mantra of “this, too, shall pass.” The only problem is, the “this” is another day, and I don’t know how many of them I have left to pass. Geez, Debbie Downer, hands off the keyboard. Let’s leave you for Scarlett O’Hara and remember that “tomorrow is another day.” (Debbie wants to add on “or is it??”)

So tell me…am I all on my own in this, or is this something to which you can relate?