Measuring Success by the Numbers

This was the last class of the course I teach on how to write, publish, and promote a nonfiction book. We had a speaker, a discussion about marketing, a graduation party, and diplomas (customized bookmarks)—a tradition I steadfastly adhere to every semester.

It was a small class—only eight people—but most of them showed up every week. Only one person dropped out. Some never wrote a word, but two have nearly finished their proposals. I was feeling a bit disheartened until I realized that two out of eight equals 25 percent of the class!

I have always maintained that if I could influence even one student, I would consider a class a success. That means I achieved 200 percent of my goal. It doesn't take a math genius to see that as a very positive outcome.

Request for Rebuttal

OK, I agree: that last post on loss was pretty much a downer. I didn't mean it to be. I was just musing about life, and that's what popped up on the radar screen ... well, the computer screen, actually. My sister has pointed out to me that when most people have a thought, it's just a thought; when I have a thought, it becomes a blog post. What I tend to forget is that, if it is a blog post, it will show up on Facebook.

That's fine if what I write is entertaining or educational or erudite. Not so fine if it's going to make you run for the bottle of Prozak. So, here is something positive for those of you who are checking Facebook or LinkedIn or Twitter or Amazon this evening.

In case you thought John Wayne was just a cowboy who didn't say much, here is something he said that may surprise you: "Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It's perfect when it arrives and puts itself in our hands. It hopes we've learned something from yesterday."

Wow. I love that!

Loss: the Absence of What Used to Be

Loss is a sneaky business. Sometimes, it’s so subtle we don’t even realize something is gone. We’re sad or irritable or forgetful, but can’t quite pinpoint the cause. Other times, we are hit in the head with something so obvious, it feels like we’ve been in a train wreck.

We know what loss is, of course. We have something, and then we don’t have it—a love affair, a marriage, a promotion or a job, a parent, wealth, a dream. We had it; we lost it. What’s left is a hole where it used to be.

Years ago, one of my favorite authors, Judith Viorst, wrote a book called Necessary Losses. It was psychoanalytic in nature, which made my head spin. Why, I wondered, are losses “necessary?” Personally, I would have preferred them to be optional.

Buddha may have asked the same questions when he set out on his quest for enlightenment. Why must we lose everything that matters to us—love, youth, health, beauty, security, even life? His answer: impermanence. Everything in life is in flux, constantly changing, ephemeral. In other words, nothing lasts.

Frankly, I don’t find that very comforting thought. Yet, it is so obviously true. I can’t think of anything that stays the same even from one moment to the next. When I am able to sit very still for even a short time, I become aware of the subtle changes taking place all around me. Even my thoughts come and go, capturing my attention, then dissolving—a perfect example of impermanence.

I have become my mother!

I swore it would never happen, but the inevitable has been sneaking up on me for years. For one thing, I see her in the mirror. The first few times I gasped out loud, but I'm getting used to it. The funny thing is I never looked like her when I was younger. Maybe all those genes were just waiting to let loose all at once. I know I sound like her, at least her inflections and little sayings. Every once in a while one of my daughters will catch me in a gesture and say, "Oh, that was such a grandma face!"

Some habits are engrained—taught, trained, repeated. As children, we learn them; as adolescents, we fight them; as grownups, we adopt them. So many things I do are because my mother either did them or drilled the behaviors into me. I see those same traits and expressions in my own daughters.

Today, I was particularly aware of how much I am like my mother. It is Sunday. I had no particular plans except to work (Sunday ... Tuesday ... Friday ... that's what I do). But first, I did the morning ritual: washed my face, brushed my teeth, made coffee, and drank it while I read a mystery. Then, I went into high gear, from shower to serious hair and make-up to straightening up my condo. My outfit, selected for comfort, was coordinated; so was my jewelry.

Here is the irony. I wasn't going anywhere. I never left the house; no one dropped by. The only person who even knew I went through all that effort was yours truly. I was ready for company or the mailman or anyone. But that really wasn't the point. My mother was always immaculately groomed and coordinated, earrings to toenails. That's what I remember most vividly. That's what I admired. That's what I loved about her.

My life, my resposibility

I relearned an old lesson today. This has happened in the past, but every time I learn it, I am surprised. It is as if I had never considered this idea before. Yet, it is so obvious, so fundamentally true, I am always amazed I have forgotten it.

I am responsible for my life. That's it, in a nutshell. I am the captain of my tiny vessel floating around in the sea of life. I am in charge of the route I choose, the decisions I make, my well being, my happiness, my responses, my actions. Everything.

That's a simple but powerful thought. In one way, it's scary; in another, it is liberating. As an adult, I have choices. But with choices comes responsibility.

This came home to me in two ways yesterday. The first was disturbing. I was talking to a doctor. When I complained that I was unable to reach him by phone or get straight answers to some important questions, he explained that he had thousands of patients of which I was only one. I guess I indicated that I really didn't care about the thousands of patients. He became irritated. He said, "This is your illness, not mine. It's your responsibility to follow up, not mine. You are responsible for your medical care." No mistaking that message!

Later, I was reading a book on the power of focus by Leo Babauta, and suddenly there were those words again in an entirely different context. "You are responsible for your life." I read it again. I fully expected to see a sky-writing plane overhead with the same words trailing behind it.

Funny that I have to keep relearning the same lesson again and again. I swear I'll remember it this time. Maybe I should write it on my hand in indelible ink.

Invisible Illnesses

We tend to think of disabilities as something we can see. If a person is in a wheelchair or has a seeing-eye dog, we can immediately identify the nature of his or her disability. But not all conditions are so obvious. Diabetes, depression, degenerative disc disease, lupus, chronic fatigue syndrome, high blood pressure, and bipolar disorder are not visible.

People may be candid about their health issues, or they may not wish to share what they consider private. The problem with masquerading as a healthy person is that most such problems create limitations. If the underlying condition is a secret, it's hard to explain why some activities are off limits.

There is no easy answer to the question of whether to be open or discrete. Sad to say, many illnesses are still stigmatized, which makes the choice all the more difficult.

If there is a lesson to be learned here, it is that you have no idea what someone else is dealing with in terms of health. It could be anything from a headache to heart disease. My advice is assume it's something, and behave compassionately.

Rules to live by: Learn about it; write about it

I am the first to admit my marketing has been somewhat scattershot up till now. Therefore, no one was more surprised than I that something was working. People were finding me on the Web. Actually Google and Yahoo! were finding me, which is the name of the game. Still, I knew I wasn’t planning; I was shooting from the hip. My resolution for 2011 was to meticulously plan my Web marketing for the year.

I love charts; so I made a chart. Down the side were the months; across the top were themes and communications vehicles: Website, e-zine, blogs, articles, major social networking sites, and podcasts. Setting up the chart was a breeze; filling it in was not. How was it that the social media expert I heard last month had a knock-your-socks-off annual plan, not for only one business but for three?

There were so many unknowns. Would I be able to get the guest bloggers I wanted to write for me? Did I know enough to adequately cover the material I wanted to write myself? Did I have meaningful themes to fill year’s worth of ezines, blogs, and all the rest? I did not have definitive answers to these questions.

My entire career as a writer is built on a foundation of research. Learn about it; then, write about it. Not only would writing all of this material require research, constructing the marketing plan would, as well.

That’s what I am doing now—reading, learning, absorbing, planning, writing. Actually, that’s pretty much what I was doing before … without the chart.

Those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.

I reunited with three old friends yesterday and today—not old as in age but as in how many years we have known each other. We were young when we met or at least much younger than we are now. But time stopped as our conversations slipped into the same intimacy and candor we had shared thirty or forty years ago. It sounds like a cliche to say it was as if no time had passed since we were last together, but that really is the way it felt. Effortless. Relaxed. Real.

Of course, we asked about kids and work and health. Of course, we talked about mutual friends and dredged up half-forgotten names. Remember ______? Have you heard from ______? Whatever happened to ______? And, of course, we pulled out our calendars and made dates.

If we didn't say those were the best of times, we surely thought it. It's not that these are not good times; it is that those times were special. As names surfaced in our conversations, we reminisced about how giving people were in those days. It seemed everyone we knew was willing to share and help and open doors. These three old friends epitomized that generosity of spirit.

Time passes. Some things change. Fortunately, though, some things don't change at all, like the spark of timeless friendships. It can be rekindled in an instant.

Living with Change

Change is unsettling no matter how it occurs. If it happens gradually, we think we are prepared. When it comes out of the blue our lives may be turned upside down. All change involves loss, even when it means a promotion or marriage or a new baby. To gain the new, we lose the old, whatever it may have been, and with loss come a degree of disorientation. If the loss is substantial—a relationship, a job, health, youth—we grieve.

In between the old and the new we fall into an uncomfortable place where we sort it all out until we are able to move forward. Sometimes we may feel we are stuck in that place for far too long.

Finally, we emerge and embrace—or at least, accept—the new. It isn’t easy, which is why change is so often underestimated. But, frankly we have no choice. Life is all about change. Every minute of our lives something changes. Sometimes it is imperceptible; sometimes, dramatic. But moment to moment and day by day, we find ourselves living in a new reality.

Resolved: to live in the moment

My brother-in-law's best friend has been having headaches. They finally got bad enough to send him to the ER, where he was told he had a brain tumor. They operated the next day. The tumor was very large; the prognosis was very bad. It all happened in a matter of days.

Sometimes, life changes faster than that. We are never prepared. We had a storm in St. Louis last week. It was unseasonably warm, and a rash of tornadoes ripped through here, flattening houses and business in its wake. True, this is tornado alley, but not usually in the middle of winter. Fortunately, there were no fatalities, but a lot of people came close.

We take life for granted. We take health for granted, until we lose it. Is it human nature or just our western culture that blinds us to impermanence? Would I live differently if I remembered that all I can be sure of is this very moment? I know I would.

Resolving to live mindfully—being totally aware of NOW—would be a good way to begin 2011.