I tell wonder-filled stories about hope and healing
I believe in the indomitable spirit of the mind. It is incredible how perspective and point-of-view literally change everything. Our image of the world is fragile. It can, and often does, change on a dime.
Difficult things happen to all of us. Joyful things happen to all of us. But how we see and think about those things determines our true experience. Our lives are determined by how we believe them to be, and that belief is in your control. Change your mind, and you change everything.
“A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself.” ~Joseph Campbell
This weekend, we will take some time to pause, reflect, and give thanks to the many men and women who have served in the armed forces and given their lives to keep our country safe. As we bow our heads and lift our hearts this Memorial Day, I also hope we can use the example of these brave men and women to consider how we can serve and how we can make the world we live in a little better every day for others. Let’s be heroes to each other. Happy Memorial Day and thank you to the many veterans who have crossed over so that life on this side of the divide can soldier on.
In our hyper-connected, over-sharing world, it’s a good practice to regularly set aside anything and everything with a battery, cord, screen, or buttons. I’m in Florida for a few weeks with my family and happy to be able to power-down for at least a little while every day. I’m looking forward to making some memories that only exist in real-time powered by nothing more than sunshine and laugher.
For all those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for people they would never know so that all of us could be free, thank you.
Don’t pine for the past. Instead, use the past only as a marker. It takes a lot of strength, courage, and grace to come from where you’ve been to where you are now. That’s something to celebrate!
11 years ago this weekend I ran the Chicago marathon. I was working in Chicago on the National Tour of the Full Monty. It was an uncertain time. September 11th happened while I was there and many of us were from New York. We felt like traders being away from our city at a time when it needed us so much. The threat of our show closing and the idea of losing our jobs hung over all of us every day. (These concerns came true just days later.)
It’s funny what we remember during challenging times. My friend and running partner, Mark, was a rock for me during training and during the race. I may have designed all of our training runs for 13 weeks but he was the one who held it all together for both of us, especially when the going got tough. For me, that happened on race day around mile 18. I was really hurting and Mark asked me this simple question, “Tell me about your dad.”
During a training run months before I had mentioned to Mark that the only time I ever thought my dad was really proud of me was when I ran. Mark wanted to know the whole story, and now at mile 18 we had plenty of time. Mark also knew I needed a serious distraction to get to the end of the race.
Running and my history with my dad are deeply entwined. When I was 16, I had a series of injuries that piled up during pre-season training that left me unable to walk for a few months and took me out of the season. 2 months later, my dad passed away suddenly and tragically. I continued to run for the following year, but I gave up any hope or desire to run while in college. The fight just went out of me.
In many ways, I ran that Chicago marathon for him and for the 16-year-old me who missed all those races years before. It was a reminder of my strength and my ability to endure. It was ironic that this would happen at what was such a low point for our nation. I will never forget the warmth, love, and support from the people of Chicago who lined the race route. They were there with cowbells, signs, and happy shouts of encouragement. I vividly remember a young women who had a huge bowl of popcorn for runners to take from as they went by and another young woman who was passing out orange slices from her front yard. It was a good, good day.
When the finish line came into sight, Mark and I had to split because they separate men and women for timing purposes at the end of the race. I took off. I felt like I was flying toward the finish. In that mad, happy dash, I shook off a lot of sadness and regret. I let go of a lot of “what might have been”s in favor of a whole lot more “look what’s up ahead”s. It was a life-affirming moment that I’ll never forget. And I owe it all to Mark and to the beautiful people of Chicago.
Happy race day to all of the runners out there, making their own memories today. I hope it’s as good to you as it was to me.
Today I will be glued to coverage of the 9/11 commemoration. My first memory of seeing the wreckage is still burned in my mind. I was in a Chicago apartment, surrounded by friends, and mourning for my home city. My current office building sits right across the street from the World Trade site. I pass it every single day that I go to the office. It is visible from nearly every conference room where I have daily meetings. I consciously think about that tragedy and its wake all the time.
2 years ago, 9/11 etched another mark into my history of my time in New York. After my apartment building fire, in which I lost so many of my physical belongings and gained a level of insight into the magic of life beyond anything I thought possible, I moved into the tiny studio where Phin and I still live. I slept on a borrowed air mattress and had a tiny plastic bag of clothes. It was a sinking, lonely feeling. “Is this what life tangibly amounted to?” I wondered.
In the coming months and years, I would embark on a personal journey with twists and turns, peaks and valleys, tears and smiles. I would question everything and everyone that filled my life up to that point. I would break down in terrifying ways, physically and mentally, and then build myself up again sometimes for show and sometimes through true, authentic growth, though it was hard to tell the difference. I would have to tear down my conception of myself and the world before the fire so that I could rebuild my spirit post-fire from the inside out. It was gut-wrenching, beautiful work. And yes, those two descriptors can be felt in a single action. Eventually it became a good kind of hurt, the way a physical wound heals, the way my muscles rebuilt themselves after I ran the Chicago marathon in October 2001, almost a month to the day after the horrific events of 9/11/01.
Rebuilding over a space that is mentally, emotionally, or physically ripped apart is part of life. No matter how terrifying the act that caused the destruction, no matter the breadth and depth of the loss created, time goes on, and life right along with it. Anniversaries give us a way to honor our strength and bravery in that moment of loss, and also in the rebuilding it necessitates. We mourn and grieve, and then keep going. And there is no shame or embarrassment in that act of moving forward. It is required; who and what was lost would also want it that way.
Today on 9/11/11, I’ll be on my couch with Phineas. I’ll be reflecting and writing, listening and watching, as this day, 10 years later unfolds in a very different way than it did for our nation and the world a decade ago. My only goal is to bear witness, and feel whatever feelings arise, to be aware and awake, and feel grateful for the opportunity to do so.
She loved to find a good bargain while shopping. She was a relentless coupon clipper. My favorite of her finds was a pair of pink jeans that I loved when I was a kid. She bought them for me for $0.99 and I remember how brightly she smiled at that price tag. I think my sister, Weez, got a pair, too, though that detail is more fuzzy in my mind than Grammy’s smile. She would turn 92 today.
There are also certain foods that I always associate with her. She was a simple cook, though there are unmistakable flavors that always remind me of her. Finely chopped carrots and green peppers in meatballs, an apple cake that was my favorite, cheese ravioli, blueberry muffins, Salada tea with sugar and milk, and pizzelle cookies that her friend, Theresa, always used to make when she knew my mom and her gaggle of kids would be visiting.
I was wandering through Whole Foods this weekend doing my weekly shopping. They had a huge display of pizzelle cookies. They weren’t as beautiful as the ones I remember from Grammy’s house, though they were available in a bunch of different flavors, which I thought Grammy would have gotten a kick out of. Then I turned over the package and saw the $4.99 price. I’m sure Grammy would have been disgusted to see such a high price. I bought them any way.
As I rounded the corner with the pizzelles in hand, I could have sworn I felt a small tap on my shoulder. I turned around but no one was there. No one was physically there any way, but I felt a very warm glow and my eyes started to tear up. I’d like to think she was there with me, right next to me winding through the aisles as I filled up my cart. I made sure everything else I put into my cart was indeed a bargain by her standards.
It’s funny what food can do. How it can sneak its way into your heart through your taste buds; how it can help you keep a warm and happy memory alive even when it’s pouring buckets of rain outside; how it can bring someone to your dinner table even though she hasn’t been with you for so many years. I went home, had one of my too-expensive pizzelle cookies, a cup of tea, and tossed up a prayer of gratitude for the opportunity to have had someone in my life as special as my Grammy.
“A nation reveals itself by the people it honors, the people it remembers, and the people it celebrates.” ~ President John F. Kennedy
While Dan and I were in Philly over the weekend, we stopped into the U.S. Mint to see where the money’s made. Because it was a Saturday, the manufacturing floor was not operating but we could take a look at the machinery and the self-guided plaques told us about the process.
As we were leaving the Mint, there was a small section dedicated to commemorative coins. Off to the side there was a display of memorabilia that the Mint produced to commemorate Charles M. Schultz, the creator of Peanuts, one of my very favorite set of characters. I went to Schultz’s house in Santa Rosa, California, a number of years ago and was blown away by his creative process and the simplicity of his life. One time a reporter asked him if he could confirm the rumor that Charlie Brown was actually a reflection of his own personality when Schultz was a child. He replied, “Of course he is. And so is every one of the other characters. They’re all me.”
In the Schultz display at the Mint, the JFK quote at the top of this post appears next to a listing of quotes from famous artists who commented on Charles Schulz’s passing and his tremendous influence on American pop culture. In Santa Rosa, a similar display appears, though it spans roughly a 100 foot long, floor-to-ceiling wall.
Charles Schulz was loved during his lifetime, and has remained well-remembered and celebrated long after his passing. I dare say that his memory will continue on for many generations to come. The fact that we continue to celebrate a man who remained so tapped in to his childhood throughout his life gives me great hope that we can do the same, and want to do the same.
That got me thinking about the subject of legacy, the efforts we put into the world now so that we will have a last impacting long after we cross over. The people we hold up as examples of inspiration and admiration says a lot about the people we mean to be, which in turn tells us a lot about the kind of world we wish to live in, which again in turn tells us about our collective values and purpose.
Once we know our purpose, then legacy-building isn’t a chore – it’s a natural process. Charles Schulz woke up every day to turn his attention toward the concerns of the world, and mad those concerns bearable through the stories and experiences of the Peanuts kids. This says to me that we do care about the common human experience. He made us all recognize just how connected we are, and while we all have our own unique quirks, much like the Peanuts gang, we all want to be loved, accepted, and encouraged to practice. We all want to find out way. And that is an act worth celebrating.
“There is more than a verbal tie between the words common, community, and communication … Try the experiment of communicating, with fullness and accuracy, some experience to another, especially if it be somewhat complicated, and you will find your own attitude toward your experience changing.” ~ John Dewey
This morning when I stepped outside, there was a decided feeling of Fall. I felt like I might have just stepped through some kind of portal and been taken back in time. All of a sudden, it didn’t feel like New York anymore. It felt more like Society Hill in Philadelphia, where I went to college. The squat, ornate brownstones. The crisp air. The feeling that some great historic figure would emerge into the street at any moment.
I didn’t sleep much in college. One, because my insomnia was at its peak for the entire 4 year stretch. Two, because I was woefully behind all of my other classmates, meaning I had to work twice as hard, at least, just to keep my head above water. Three, because I had to work multiple jobs all the way through. I spent a lot of early mornings watching the sun come up. During my senior year, I worked at Olde City Coffee all the way downtown. I loved the trip down there in the early morning, before anyone was awake. I felt like I had Philly to myself for a little while. This morning took me back to those early mornings at Olde City and everything I looked forward to when I was 21.
I remember a few thoughts vividly from that time. I was interested in making a strong, lasting impact on the world. I was determined to be financially stable. I spent a lot of my time thinking about what I wanted to be my contribution to humanity. Going to school in Philadelphia, a place that is steeped in history, intellect, and righteous rebellion, renders people practically unable to consider anything except the big picture. Now, I treasure those days. At the time, I was really scared that I’d never live up to the impossibly high standards that my school impressed upon us daily. The constant reminder of greatness that the founding fathers left scattered around Philly didn’t help either. At some point, you begin to worry that anything short of founding your own nation is just not a high enough achievement.
As I made my way to the subway, I saw the sign depicted in the image above. In some type of chalk / paint / marker, someone had written “If we all do one random act of kindness daily we just might set the world in the right direction. ~Martin Kornfeld”. Maybe it was thinking about my college days that had me waxing nostalgic; this sign really struck me. I had to stop and take a photograph. It communicated a profound message to me so simply and beautifully, and I’m sure it’s done the same for countless other. If only I had seen this sign sooner, about 12 years sooner, I might have been able to calm down a little bit about my life and its direction.
I thought about this sign all day and how much good it does for all who see it. Imagine if all of us, everyday, did just one nice thing for someone else. Someone we know. Someone we don’t know. Someone who may never know us. How different would our communities and the larger world look? And imagine how different our own attitude toward our experiences would be. Maybe it’s all we can hope for – giving a little kindness, getting a little kindness, and doing our small part to make our communities a tiny bit better than how we found them the day before. It seems to me that that is a contribution to humanity that we could all be proud of.
Christa Avampato 