Happy New Year

"Don't wish it were easier, wish you were better."

~Jim Rohn

There are days in the beginning of summer and in between summer and fall in Southern California when the temperature barely touches your skin. The wind sleeps the day away, the morning dew goes on vacation, and the sun works quietly with the clouds to neither burn nor chill you. It's not hot, it's not cold. The only way I've ever been able to accurately describe this is to say that the air is just...there. That air brings with it a sense of peace and balance. And maybe even a little good fortune. Which is what I've been able to experience this year.

Last year I spent Thanksgiving week in Hawaii absorbing all the positive energy I could get my soul around and carried that back home with me. I made some difficult decisions that hurt others, but ultimately became the best decisions I could have made in order to find peace within myself. When I came home I resolved to make no resolutions, but to just live my life. And still I found a way to make resolutions.

12 sunrises and 12 sunsets from a minimum of 12 different locations, combined. The sunrises I wrote down were in Runyon Canyon in March, Phoenix in April, Long Beach in October, and San Mateo also in October. There were probably 3 or 4 others, which count, even though I failed to document them. Which means I fell short of my goal by 4 or 5, but the sunrises I did get to experience were amazing. So this year the goal is more of the same. The goal involves no specific number, only a desire to see as many as possible. As for the sunsets: Corona Del Mar in March, Crystal Cove in April, Long Beach in June and August and October, and Seattle in August (thrice). Lather, rinse, repeat my sunrise goals: as often as possible.

I wanted to watch 6 MLB games in stadiums I'd never been to before. There was the Astros vs. Padres on opening day at Petco Park, Cubs vs. Astros at Minute Maid Park, Astros vs. D'Backs at Chase Field, and the Twins vs. Mariners at Safeco Field. We had talks of AT&T Park or McAfee Coliseum when we were up in SF for a tournament but it didn't pan out. We talked about US Cellular Field, but then a trip to Chicago never materialized. There were even talks of National Field if we visited DC, but like the Chicago trip, we never made it to DC. 8 down, 22 to go. Or maybe that's 7 down, 23 to go with the closing of The House That Ruth Built. 2009 holds trips to Dallas and Chicago, for sure. And possibly to NY, SF, and/or DC. If we reach all of those between April and October, we'll e able to get to at least 5, possibly 8. We'll have to wait and see what's in store for us. 

I also wanted to play 26 rounds of golf in 2008, and this I accomplished. Long Beach Little and Big Recs, Westchester, Aliso Creek, Bixby Village, El Dorado, Robinson Ranch, Heartwell, Dominguez Hills, Lakewood CC, and Rancho Mirage CC were the golf courses I played. Some rounds were solo, others with friends, but all brought me closer to myself. Golf is not about winning, only about doing better than my last round. I've gone from shooting a 130-something to shooting a 103. So this year the goal is to break 90 at least once, but that of course will be after I break 100. 

Speaking of doing better, the only resolution I have is to be a better person in 2009 than I was in 2008. I believe I accomplished this in 2008, and I believe this will be my only resolution for years to come: be better than you were before. 

As the year comes to a close tonight it will be spent with good friends, much laughter and some of the best energy I've encountered in all my years. This is what life should be. And may yours be the same.

Happy New Year and may 2009 bring you many days of balance and good fortune. And maybe even a few days of air that's just...there. 

Change of Plans

This morning I got sidetracked by Thanksgiving. Yes, I knew it was coming. But an invite turned into an un-invite, and a little portion of my family decided to just cook dinner ourselves. Which meant a trip to the grocery store on the morning before Thanksgiving, hoping there was still a fresh turkey smaller than 47-lbs to bring home. There was (10.06-lbs if you can believe that!), and aside from the few things I forgot to write down, I was able to get everything I needed--and most of it was on sale. 

I love Thanksgiving. Always have. When I was a kid I remember it being the only time everyone got together and sat at the dinner table without arguing. Not that we argued all the time, more that we (the entire family of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins) all made an effort to get to Grandma's house on Thanksgiving Day to enjoy the entire day together. 

Grandma cooked everything herself and insisted that she needed no help. And she didn't. Grandpa expertly (and proudly) carved the turkey by himself. He presented the deliciousness as the last item of business before anyone was allowed to begin piling plates of potatoes and cranberries and yams and green bean casserole and stuffing. Dinner may have been cooked by Grandma, but it was always served on Grandpa's terms.

We sat around the table and talked about the things we were grateful for in our lives. We were thankful for each other, for our jobs, our homes, the food on the table, the friends we had, our animals. The usual things. And I was always afraid to say what I was really thankful for. We all tried to say something different from everyone else, and I thought all the good ones were taken. I also thought the things I was thankful for were dumb. 

I was thankful for my mom; and that of all the dogs that ran away from our backyard (we usually had 4), I was glad that Shuzbutt (my little scruffy blond mutt) wasn't one of them; and that the gutter down the middle of the alley behind our house filled up with enough water for me to stomp in whenever it rained. But even though these things were different from theirs and I was grateful for them, these things just weren't like what they were thankful for. I often believed the things I thought and said were dumb. My grandfather usually agreed. I didn't want to ruin the good time with my lame thoughts. Being a kid in my family made me wish I was an adult. And now that I'm an adult, I wish I could relive parts of my childhood. Like Thanksgiving. 

Maybe now I can. The details of why we had to change our plans are unimportant. What's important is that I get the opportunity to spend this Thanksgiving with 3 of my favorite people. And we'll have our own discussion of things we're grateful for. We'll all sit at the table and call it the kids' table, and we'll talk about things, silly and serious, that we're thankful for. There will be no such thing as a lame item of gratitude at our table. 

Silly things might be things like the home run over the fence in the Golden Bear Tournament, Sly's paws wrapped around my neck as he tries to make out with me, and the "your mom" banter that's part of our daily life at home. 

More serious things might be things like the clothes, the food, the home I have. And the people in my life. The opportunity to love those people. And to be loved by them. My little circle of close-knit friends brings consistency, accountability and humility to my life. These people love me for who I am . They encourage me to grow and change in positive ways. They support me in difficult decisions. And they also point out when I'm being stubborn or irrational. And then they love me just the same. We all accept each other with our differences and faults and changes and inconsistencies and humor and cooking skills and all the things we are separately and together. 

So I guess I do get to relive that part of my childhood. In my life today I am able to be thankful for all the things and people and opportunities I want to without feeling like anyone else's gratitude is more important or somehow better than mine; we are all equal, the adults we are and the children we used to be and still hold onto.

I will say what I think, what I want, what I feel in our discussion of things we're grateful for at the dinner table tomorrow. We all will.  

And all this from a small change of plans.