"Love, Love, Love ..."

If you know me, then you know that I'm a romantic. I don't know how I became this way ... was it innate? Part of my internal make-up? Learned from my environment? From a reaction to poetry? Neruda? To film? Music?

I know that love has been flowing through my veins for as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that I am on this earth to love and be loved. I can't think of any other reason that any of us would be here. Without a belief in god or religion or an afterlife, there is that in which I believe -- love. Connections. Energy between beings.

So, of course, I should not have been surprised a few minutes ago when tears were racing down my face as I caught the final 20 minutes of "Sleepless in Seattle." And, I'm certainly not alone as they allude to the classic movie "An Affair to Remember" and refer to the fact that women have been crying over that movie for decades! There's something about watching people wish for love, search for love, find love ... it moves us all, on different levels. Some of us shed tears. Others smile. Some empathize. Others have memories triggered. Hopes ignited. And, then there's me. I cry. I think. I overthink. I cry a bit more. I dissect the lyrics of the song playing as the credits begin to roll: "Make someone happy; make just one someone happy; and you'll be happy, too." And why do we need to make just one person happy? Because "love is the answer!" Jimmy Durante sang the truth.

And, it is innate! Look at the sweet, sensitive little boy in the movie who had lost his mommy. Instead of focusing on his own loss and pain, he proactively searched for someone for his father. He wanted to find love for his dad. And, in the final scene, as the elevator doors close with Annie and Sam holding hands as they look at one another (full of surprise and awe and excitement), the little boy is standing in front of them with a big, satisfied, peaceful smile stretched across his face. Scene!

How brilliant. What could make the boy happier than knowing that he played a hand in this connection? That he lit the fire. That he just brought so much joy to his father --that he just provided him with the answer.

We know it as kids. In our innocence, it's clear that love is all you need. (Some more good lyrics.) Yet, it gets more complex as we get older. It's not just about love. It's about sharing goals and dreams and desires. It's about circumstances. It's about timing. Can that really be? How is this diehard romantic to accept the possible reality that love has so much (or everything!) to do with timing? Maybe that's why the tears traveled rapidly down my face, as well. Sam got in the elevator to go down from the Empire State Building. Annie was simultaneously going up. They weren't going to connect! The fates were not working. It is all just timing ... no!!! But, the backpack. The little boy left it and so the dad had to go back up, and there it happened. Fate. (Phew.) Timing. The energy of the world. Oh, what was it?!! Maybe just a good screenplay.

The concept has always overwhelmed me. I think that is part of the reason that I am so moved by music. The lyrics ... the pain ... the yearning ... the desire. Even the hardcore rockers slip in their love ballads. They may thrash around on stage, but, even with a shattered guitar in hand, they still are moved by love.

And, so it is. And so it was. And so it always will be. For centuries, poets have been consumed with love, as have writers, film directors, children, parents ... all of us. The key is to let it flow, for it exists within all of us. If we could only have the wisdom that we are born with -- that innate wisdom that love is all you need. If only we didn't learn about cynicism and pain and worry and fear and disappointment. Some of us are paralyzed by that, while others bury it and tread forward with overflowing hope and courage. Clearly, I am in the latter category.

So, with vulnerability and hope and desire and abounding love, I will now go to sleep. And, if I have made just one someone happy for a moment today, then, as I lay my head on the pillow, I will be happy, too.

Fly Fast! Fly Free! But Maybe Head East ...

About half of the summer has already come and gone. And, while that fact reminds me of all that I still want to enjoy during these warm, carefree months, it also means that the first session of camp is over, and I get to go see my boy today! I am so eager to wrap my arms around him, to see that little face, to cut his nails and clean him up, to determine if he is really happy at camp and to reassure myself that we made the right decision in sending him to this new camp this summer. That need for our own reassurance is interesting to me and a bit troubling at the same time ...

As parents, what is our responsibility in setting our children on a specific path? How much of their interests and passions are really pre-determined by us? We say we want to raise independent beings who we will then let fly, but don't we try to control so many of the steps they take until take-off? And, don't we even try to nudge them into a certain flying pattern? Even as adults, don't so many of us still see that happening as our own parents are still occasionally (or oftentimes!) trying to take our feet and point them in another direction?

I remember when my sister wanted to move to San Francisco after college. My mom was so upset that her baby was going to be thousands of miles from "the coup," but my dad reminded her of an important philosophy: He told her that they raised their daughters to be independent and free, and she should let her go with pride, knowing that they accomplished an important parenting goal. Two points for dad. But, it's not that easy. Dad might lose a couple of points, too. (Keep reading ...) How often do we have such strong, wise philosophies as parents that somehow are not always applicable? And, how do we know when our kids are "independent" and "ready to fly."

That brings me back to that decision about camp. My firstborn Ben had spent the last few years at a camp where he felt comfortable, safe and happy. He always had fun, and he even earned the moniker Captain Kite. But, I saw something in him that led me to believe he was ready for more. He was an adventurer. He was innately a mountain boy, as he always wanted to go climbing and was so interested in going tripping. Thus, it was time for a new, more challenging camp experience. So, I made the decision. I convinced his father. And, I convinced Ben. Or did he convince me? I like to believe that he had the power -- that I was so in tune with his interests that I knew what was best for him and subtly nudged him in the right direction ... the direction he was outlining for me.

Do we really know? And, if we don't know, how does my 11-year-old boy know what he really desires? What about our nine-year-old and six-year-old daughters? Sometimes the little ones really make it easy for us: Maybe your two-year-old boy is always holding a football and can't take his eyes off of the games. Then, maybe years later, that same boy begs you to play on a local football team. The passion spirals and grows, and for years, it is obvious that this child has found "his sport."

But what happens when our children don't make it that easy for us? Or what happens when our own dreams become our kids' dreams?

Let's take me, for example. I loved everything! If I was dancing I was happy. If I was standing on my head, I was happy (too happy ... but that's a story for another day!). I loved wearing ballet shoes and surrounding myself with everything pink. And, I always joked that one day, the ballet shoes came off and the hightops went on ... and off I flew in a new direction. Just like that. Basketball became "my passion." I shot hoops in the driveway every day. I practiced before school at 6:00 a.m. I started going to Doug Bruno's Girls' Basketball camp, where I spent my weeks running from drill to drill, yelling "I love it! I love it! I love it!" whenever the word "basketball" was heard. It was being ingrained in me. Basketball flowed through my veins. But, how did I get there? What was this skinny, little Jewish girl from the Northshore doing at these camps?

I was the baby of three girls, born to a father who apparently had high levels of testosterone, always had the games on TV and who always wanted a little boy. So, it's hard to determine what happened: Did I ditch the tutu for the Celtics' jersey to please him, to be that little boy, to separate myself from his other daughters? Or was basketball really "my thing?" Or, is it possible, that he, the man who told my mom to let their babies fly free, was indirectly paving out my path for me?

And, now I return to my current journey ... to my son's journey. He is at a tripping camp. He has written that he loves the trips the most. He loves paddling and backpacking and eating food while camping that is "prepared fresh!"

It appears that we made the right choice. It appears that this is where Ben should be. It appears that he is happy.

But I know that he can be happy at many camps. I know that children are especially malleable. Their interests are being molded daily, but it's hard to determine who should be the sculptor. Of course, it seems obvious: We are here to direct them, to provide them with choices and options and opportunities -- To present them with options with which they can then fly. There are so many options though! I have not exposed my daughters to karate or hockey or jazz. What if that is "their thing?" What if Gabrielle Reece was never given a volleyball and a patch of sand? Would she have stumbled upon that career on her own?

Are our parents wrong to push us in directions that they believe are best for us? To send us to camps where they went for many years?

And, when a little girl's all pink room is suddenly covered with posters of Larry Bird and The Iceman, do the parents then have the knowledge that their baby girl has discovered her passion? Or, as she focuses on Bobby Knight's video for the hundredth time, do they know that she has actually absorbed their dreams and desires?

A smile is a smile. Joy is joy. Passion is passion. If our children our happy, then we are happy. Maybe it doesn't matter which came first ... who directed the passions ... who directed the desires. Or maybe it matters more than we'll allow ourselves to believe.

All I know for now is that I can't wait to see my little guy who will hopefully have a big smile stretched across his face -- Whether I helped put it there or not, I just want to know he is happy. And, I have the second half of the summer to research the overwhelming array of activities and hobbies that are available to our children this Fall. And, if I don't get to it, then I will be confident that they will somehow fly to that place where they should be ... landing on grass or the beach or the mountaintops or on Doug Bruno's "Love It Lane."

A River Does Run Through It

As I sat on the airplane, departing from Aspen's airport, tears streamed down my face. My friend Jill, who had just spent three days hiking, exploring and relaxing with me, asked if I was okay. I didn't even know why I was crying, and I was unable to articulate what I was feeling. I think that the power of the mountains and the beauty of Colorado had just proven to be so much more powerful than I.

I've spent a lot of time in Aspen over the years, and every time I still walk around awe-struck by its beauty. I wonder if I annoyed Jill with my constant jaw-dropped reactions. The rushing rivers, the majestic mountains, the white-barked Aspen trees -- there was so much beauty all around me, and I consistently felt overwhelmed by it. I spent much of this brief visit to Aspen absorbing every ounce of beauty that enveloped me. It is something that I can never take for granted. I remember how I felt 20 years ago when David first introduced me to this magnificent city, and I still have that same feeling today when I stand on the balcony of my hotel room, when I walk by a rushing river, when I drive up to the Maroon Bells, when I hike up Aspen Mountain. Beauty. Peacefulness. Power. Strength. And more intoxicating beauty.

There is something about this place that intimidates me, as well. And, I think that has something to do with those tears. It forces me to be so present. I can't stand there amidst such spectacular beauty and not notice it. I can't think about something else. I can't worry about tomorrow. I can only be in the now. There's no other choice. However, at the same time, that entrancing backdrop does force me to consider my place in the world, my purpose, my path, my journey. The fact that I currently am uncertain about the direction of my journey is certainly a contributing factor to those unexpected tears. What do I want? Where do I want to be? Am I eager to go back home? Do I belong in the mountains? Am I displaced? Have I made the right choices in my life? What is my next step?

The tarmac at O'hare doesn't do this to me! It never encourages me to think, to reflect, to consider, to challenge, to change.

I love that about Colorado. And, I hate that, too. It's a paradox for me. It keeps me awake at night. It lulls me to sleep during the day as I sit by the pool. It makes me feel so peaceful, and it shakes me up at the same time.

Maybe that's precisely it ... I am forced to feel the dichotomy that is this city, that is life, that is me. It can all be so simple, so beautiful and so very peaceful. Then, there is the rushing river, slicing through all of that quiet. There is the water crashing on the rocks. There is that shout in my belly that wants to erupt.

But, what does it want to scream?

Where do I want to be?

And, what about my cherished philosophy of simply being in the now?

Of course, I can't come up with those answers right now, nor do I want to. I want my path to meander before me like the trails I explored in Aspen. I didn't know what snapshot of nature was awaiting me. I didn't know how much longer we had to climb before we reached our goal. I didn't even know what our goal was as we didn't care if we made it to the top of the mountain or not. Aha ... That's it! Without set goals, it's more challenging to keep climbing. If we knew that our hike was complete in just five more minutes, then maybe we would have felt a sense of relief or comfort or peace. We would have better known how to calculate our pace. But, we didn't know. And, we don't know. And that makes the journey both unnerving and inspiring.

I don't know where I want to be. I don't know if I belong in Chicago or in Aspen. I don't know where I'll be in a year, in a month, in a day. I didn't know if Jill and I would make it to the top of Aspen Mountain or decide that we prefer to climb half-way up and then head back down. I don't know!

And isn't that the true beauty of the mountains? Their range is so vast. Their beauty is so captivating. Their possibility is so endless. The mountains that is. Life that is. They are synonymous to me right now. They were on the runway. And, that is why I was struck by emotion. The journey was swallowing me and carrying me at the same time. I felt encouraged and anxious. Awakened and sleepy. Aware and terrified. Carefree and worried.

By the time we ascended to the clouds, I let the plane ride remind me of my favorite thought ... to just be. The seatbelt sign was illuminated, and there was nowhere for me to go. So, I looked out the window at the clouds and the mountains and the beauty. I wiped away my tears and accepted where I was at that moment: Right there. Right now. Right here.

Time's Not-So-Heavy Hands

Time.

We are enamored with you, yet we detest you.

We watch you, yet we let you slip away.

We celebrate you, yet we fear you.

Personally, I am perplexed by you when I think of your enormity ... your strength ... your ability to quantify what I do, how long I breathe. At times you are my friend. I am grateful when you grant me the opportunity to sit with my book, to get lost, to dive into another world. At other times, you are my foe. I detest you when your hands stop moving and you stop ticking in someone's life whom I love.

For years, you have been on my mind. But, tonight, I am especially reflective about your presence for I have caught myself quantifying so much this weekend. I spent the weekend in Disney World, where I had not been for eight years. The last time I was there, I was there with Ben who was just about three at the time. We had met my friends Sari and Jason there with their boys, as well. Tonight, I saw Jason and we talked about our trip there and how it seemed like it was not that long ago.

That's where you baffle me. Time.

So much has happened. So much pain. So much joy. So many months, days, hours, minutes. Missed opportunities. Songs sung. Tears wept. Smiles stretched. Risks taken. Rewards enjoyed.

As I sat on the Buzz Lightyear ride this weekend, I had a vivid flashback to sitting there with Sari (who has now been gone for six and a half years). Ironically, time is playing with me right now as I type. I had typed the word "dead" but than had to delete it and write "gone" as if she had just "died" yesterday. There's that part of me that hasn't absorbed the time that has passed. That wound is still so fresh that I still can't write about it freely. (Maybe I never will. Maybe that has nothing to do with you, time.)

But there is a positive aspect to that wound's freshness.

The freshness means that the past is still palpable. That the memories from so many years ago can still feel so current. So tangible. That trip we took together was years ago, but I remember it vividly. I remember our talks, our smiles, our laughter, our boys' astonishment with the world of Disney. Jason and I talked about how wild it is to think about it today: Our boys were in strollers then, and now his son is off playing in hockey games and preparing for his Bar Mitzvah and mine is off backpacking and canoeing. And, that trip to Disney, (which time tells us was a long time ago) is still so visible in our minds.

So much time has passed.

So much has changed.

Yet, so much from the past has remained.

I was additionally reflective this weekend because it would have been my dad's 70th birthday. When I talked with my friend Aimee about that, she said, "Isn't it weird to think that you have now had about the same amount of time with your dad being in your life as you have had without him." I was 20 when he died, and now, as I approach 40, that fact that Aimee shared is thought-provoking to me. What does that mean that so much time has passed? Are the lessons he taught me any less meaningful? Is his image harder for me to grasp now?

And, what does it mean that Sari has been gone for six and a half years? What is the relevance in the amount of time she has been gone? And, then, why do we hold on so tightly to the number of years that she was here? It was far too few. But, that number of years spent here ... What does that really say about us? If she had 32 years or 65 or 99, would her sweetness, her innocence, her beauty be any different? Why do we all grab on to amounts of time so tightly? This is a hard concept for me to articulate, and I don't mean to act as if our days on this Earth aren't important. It is, of course, beyond tragic that a life like Sari's was cut so grossly short. But, the importance we place on the number of years here, the number of years gone ... that is what I'm challenging. That is what I'm considering.

I realize as I think about time tonight that I am relating it to loss. Of course, we love to celebrate time, too, as I initially stated. We celebrate Golden Anniversaries, 40th birthdays, first birthdays ... with so much pride. We have made it. We can mark it down. Look! It's right here on the calendar. It's my dad's 70th birthday. What would that have meant? To make it to 70? Why did we want Hy to make it to 100? What does that quantity of time on this Earth really signify? That amount of time spent in a marriage? That we won our battle with time? That is an impossibility, right?

You, time, you always win in the end. You keep on ticking. We ... don't.

Yet, we still step up to the plate to swing at your pitch.

Well, here's what I've decided as you have swarmed around my space for so long:

I'm not trying to knock one out of the park. I don't even want to play against you. Instead, I'm going to take away this exorbitant amount of power that we bestow upon you. Maybe you're not this force to be reckoned with ... maybe we have nothing to fear. Maybe, just maybe, it's simply about the moments. Maybe it's not about you at all!

It's about now.

Now, we have you. You are right here in the palm of my hand. I see you. I taste you. I feel you. I absorb you. I celebrate you. RIGHT NOW. This is all I have. This moment. I thank you for it, and I celebrate it.

And, I thank you, in this moment, for allowing me to be reflective when I choose to be reflective. For allowing me to dream of the future when I feel imaginative. I thank you for the crisp memories of people I have lost. For with these memories, I feel their presence, in my present.

Now, nothing is lost.

Now, I have nothing to fear.

Now, I am breathing. I am remembering. I am celebrating. I am smiling.

And, I am getting closer to cracking your code.

Even though you are all about quantity on the surface, I have begun to see that underneath that surface lurks the vast world of quality.

And, that is more powerful than you.

Sing Loud, Sing Proud

Last night was one of those perfect, hot summer nights -- the kind that beckons you to sit back, have a cold drink and absorb the heat and calm that summer often brings. And, there I was, enjoying it in my most favorite way. I was listening to music.

I was at the Crossroads Guitar Festival at the Toyota Center, and I was surrounded by people who love music, people who love to play instruments, people who sing and people who simply love to dance and feel free. From Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood to Jimmy Vaughan and B.B. King, the night was full of legends, mastery and abounding talent. And, while that is enough to make for a perfect night, there was something other than the captivating sounds that grabbed a hold of me and told me to pay attention: It was the passion with which each revered musician played. I couldn't help but to see it and to feel it. It was palpable, and I wanted to absorb every ounce of it.

I've always been envious of those who can sing soulfully, play guitar masterfully, learn a dance routine effortlessly, etc. But, I realized last night that it is not the talent that I envy ... it is the passion with which these talented individuals display their craft.

When Sheryl Crow took the stage, she said how this festival is her favorite gig to do. And, how could it not be? She gets to collaborate and jam with some of the greatest, and they're all pouring their souls into their music -- together. I can't imagine how powerfully amazing that must be to experience as an artist. The energy must be all-encompassing. I can imagine a sliver of that feeling, for I, fortunately, have known passion. Even though I don't get to experience that feeling on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans, I imagine that the rewards of doing something about which you are passionate are quite similar.

That is what got my attention last night: the passion. Ironically, it did not hit me when all of the greats joined together on stage for the awe-inspiring finale. Rather, the spotlight shone on this reality as I watched a man play hacky sack. Marc pointed this man out to me soon after we arrived, around 2:00 p.m. He commented on the man's talent, which was hard to miss. In the midst of the crowd, a young man had that footbag flowing off of his ankles, chest, heels and neck. He was lost in his talent. He was lost in his vivacity. Now, he may have looked foolish to some, but he reminded me of this important fact that I feel fortunate to know: Do what you love. Do it big. Do it often. Hey, do it in the middle of a crowded music festival if that is what your soul is telling you to do.

Nine hours later, at 11:00 p.m., as I was still captivated by the sounds surrounding me, I scanned the crowd and saw this hacky sack player still going at it. That is when it hit me. I don't have to envy those with talent. I simply need to emulate those with passion.

I thought about people whom I've known and loved and admired. And it's always the passionate ones towards whom I gravitate. My cherished Grandma Flo lived each day with purpose, and the poet in this wise woman came up with this saying:

Life without a cause;

Is nothing but a dispassionate pause.

So, now, we might feel like it's time to find a cause. But, of course, it is not that black and white ... there doesn't have to be one specific cause. There just has to be passion.

Go ahead and play hacky sack for ten hours if that is what makes you feel alive and free. Or strum the guitar. Or write poems. Or sing loudly, even if it's off-key (just consider doing so with your car windows up, as my daughter Emily requests that I do!).

I believe it is that simple.

Be passionate. Be alive. Be free.

We are here afterall. And, we have passion to exude, to experience, to envelop, to embrace. (See, I'm even passionate about alliteration right now.)

For that is what last night's guitar legends, along with one hacky sack expert, taught me: Live your life with passion ... Even if you're a little off-key.

Let the Sunshine In

It was not the rain that woke me tonight, nor was it the usual stirrings of my over-active mind. It was the fact that my 11-year-old son is in a cabin right now at a camp I've never seen, and I'm consumed with thoughts of him. Is he sleeping peacefully? Is he surrounded by nice, new potential friends? Did he get the top bunk that he so desired? Is he excited about this new camp? Is he feeling anxious?

Before we drove him to the bus, my sister Denise called to say good-bye. I heard her asking him if he was excited. He said, "I am very excited and also a little nervous, or anxious, my mom says." Then he asked her what anxious means. With her calmness and patience, she explained the emotion to him -- how it's a combination of being really excited and also a bit nervous. He listened to his aunt with great interest, told her he would write and then this anxious mom made him hang up so we could get to the bus.

But, I've been thinking about that word ... that feeling so many of the campers have ... that feeling that so many of us parents have. I also am reminded of a statement that my brother-in-law Steve said to me 12 years ago, when I was pregnant with Ben. I was nervous about something relating to the pregnancy, and he said, "Welcome to nine months of worry and terror followed by a lifetime of worry and terror!" How true is that statement?

We always think we'll be relaxed when the next milestone is met -- when he knows how to walk -- when he can talk -- when he is in school for a full day -- when he does well on his test that he studied for all night -- when we get all his stuff organized for camp -- when we see his cabin picture and see the smile on his face.

But there's always something else to keep us awake at night. "Did they put the egg crate under his sheet?" Something so trivial. Something so unimportant. Yet we look for that something that would enable us to feel that sense of "all is okay."

And, here we go. For that is why my mind is battling with my body's desire to sleep this evening. When do we ever really get that sense that "all is okay." Can we ever really obtain that? Do we actually believe that it is within our control?

Maybe it's another argument for perspective. For the powers of our minds. For the amazing ability we have to tell ourselves what feels comforting. We all control our reactions to many of our own thoughts incessantly. I did so continuously while at the bus stop.

There was my boy, my firstborn, sitting on the bus, quietly anticipating his seven-hour journey ... the large, tinted window separated us. (Dramatic effect intended.) I could see the outline of him as he waved at me. With his new, short haircut and his skinny frame, I couldn't help but to flash back to an image from the movie Hair: The long-haired, hippy friend known as Berger was heading off to see his friend Claude who was about to enter the Vietnam war. He had his gorgeous locks unexpectedly cut off. And I remember that image of him walking, with that strong fear in his body, with "anxiety" about the unknown. I loved that movie. I loved Berger. I loved they way the characters knew how to "let the sunshine in." And that brings me back to perspective.

We are not sending our sons and daughters off to war. We are sending them off for a summer full of privilege and adventure, canoeing and backpacking, friendship and discovery.

Yet, Ben could have been feeling like Berger yesterday. He was heading into unchartered territory. He wasn't going with any friends. He has never been away for eight weeks. He had never seen the camp to which this large bus was taking him. Everything was foreign. The feelings were foreign. And, even though he is so fortunate as he heads off for what we hope will be a wonderful summer, he must have been filled with that anxiety.

And, that is exactly the feeling that is keeping me awake on this night. I'm not sad, because "perspective" won't allow me to be. My boy is lucky and fortunate and adventurous. He is not going off to Afghanistan. He is at camp! But, I am anxious. Because, I am his mom. Because he is my little guy. Because I want to know if he's on the top bunk, where he so wanted to sleep. Because I miss him already.

I looked up the word anxiety, as I was curious about it's exact definition after hearing Denise's explanation. There were many defining phrases with words such as "uneasy" and "apprehensive." Then, there was that one description of the word, which I choose to recall on this sleepless night:

"eagerly desirous."

That sounds beautiful.

That is my definition.

That is what I hope my boy is feeling ... eagerly desirous.

Once again, it's all perspective. That is what allows us to fall back into a deep, peaceful sleep. It's our rational perspectives. It's our knowledge that we are so fortunate. It's the fact that we can't empathize with mothers of soldiers who have to know less comforting definitions of the word "anxiety." It's the fact that our children are so lucky to have these opportunities. It's our belief that these little beings out there who we call "ours" are going to have joy and excitement and wonder and adventure.

I will go back to sleep now. And, while I still hope that Ben is dreaming of upcoming adventures with a smile on his face, I know that my anxiety is really just my being "eagerly desirous" as I wish for nothing but the simple, innocent, pure feelings of happiness and wonder for my Benny boy. Isn't that what summer is about afterall? Adventure. Exploration. Wonder. Awe. Beauty. Friendship.

So, sing it:

"Let the sunshine it, let the sunshine in ... the sunshine in."

Holding on to Happiness

It happened once again. The amazing energy of the world. The irony, the coincidence, the affirmation that all is connected.

I opened up my laptop just now to write about happiness and my thought that we have so much control of this very concept which directs most of our goals and decisions throughout our lives. Isn't that precisely what we all want from our days here? To be happy?

Before I started writing, I read my brother and sister-in-law's blog in which they keep their family and friends updated regarding her battle with cancer. There was a picture of Sara standing there proudly showing off the baby in her tummy. She looked beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of the picture. She looked happy. And maybe, amidst all of this pain and fear that she is enduring daily, she has some powerful moments of true happiness. Maybe she is happy that the chemo didn't leave her feeling as nauseous as she thought it would. Maybe she is happy to have a husband so loving and supportive. Maybe she is happy because her beautiful two-year-old girl made a silly face that made her smile.

I, of course, don't know what moments are joyful for her, but I do know this: There are those moments to be had. And, for many of us, that ability to feel happiness is not only relative, it is also within our control.

Holidays have always been very difficult for me because, as I've previously mentioned, I often think of those who are suffering at a time when we are told to celebrate. My perspective was improved when, on one day before Christmas, I went to my therapist feeling so much sadness. I told her that I felt guilty being happy as I thought about all of the children who were going to wake up so sad on Christmas morning because they were beaten the night before. (Yes, warning to those of you who feel happy because you successfully avoid some of life's most painful realities: this writing is sometimes a bit heavy! But, keep reading -- I'm an optimist, and it will get lighter!) Back to the therapist:

I told her I felt guilty knowing that homeless people were waking up freezing throughout our city. I felt guilty, as I was surrounded by cabinets and refrigerators overflowing with food, that people all over the world have hunger pains so severe that they cannot move. I felt guilty knowing that Americans were off fighting a war for us, away from their loved ones, while I sit comfortably in my home.

How and why, I asked, should I feel joy? So many are suffering, yet, I should smile? I should be happy? And, what kind of person am I? I have this fortunate life, yet I go to my therapist's office to analyze my trivial struggles while others walk around this world hoping to stumble upon a loaf of bread or a hand that won't strike them?

Her response to me has remained with me for years now. She said, "Amy, what makes you happy is not necessarily what makes someone else happy. Do not project your desires and needs onto others. Maybe a man who is homeless is happy today because he found a warm shelter that took him in. Maybe a little girl who is parentless is happy today because she received a little doll from a charity." Our discussion continued as my eyes opened to this reality: Happiness is relative. And, despite horrible suffering in the world, it is also oftentimes within our control, thanks to the power of perspective.

Another monumental night for me philosophically was when I went to see The Diary of Anne Frank at Steppenwolf. There the family sat, hiding in the cold attic. They were scared. Their lives were threatened. They were hungry. Yet, they couldn't feel more blessed to be sitting beside one another. For that is all that mattered. They were together. They were holding on so tightly. And, for that moment, they were happy. I'll never forget how I felt sitting in that theater, reminding myself that I will be more grateful for what I do have, not sad for that which I do not.

It's a challenging concept. Perspective. Happiness. I suppose it's two concepts! And, both fascinate and amaze me.

When my 52-year-old dad died suddenly, my amazing Grandma Flo was crushed to lose her only child. When my Poppy Frank died 12 days later, Mama Flo also lost her husband of 60 years. It was "too much." How could Mama Flo go on and ever experience joy again, many wondered. She just lost her only child and her life mate.

And, now, here is all I probably ever needed to say about happiness and perspective:

Mama Flo felt blessed every remaining day of her life.

This lovely woman, who had lost her only child and husband within days of one another, still radiated such palpable joy and beautiful energy and abundant peacefulness for the following seven years of her life. We spoke every single day. And every single day she hung up the phone telling me this: "Oh, Amy, I am so very blessed to have you three girls." She also would tell me on many occasions how blessed she was to have my mother and my Uncle David in her life, as well. Yes, she was "blessed."

And, she had friends. And she had cousins. And she had wisdom. And she had purpose. And she had her own brilliantly beautiful perspective.

Her words have never left me.

Her attitude, I hope, flows throughout me.

Her perspective, if I may have inherited a sliver of it, is a true gift in life.

It is enough to make me feel truly happy.