Upon the death of a dear friend, I began thinking about the nature of life and death. Death brings my feet back to earth. My mom has often accused me of having my head in the clouds, and I readily admit it.

But losing my friend brought me crashing back down. I’ll admit that I’ve been a bit morbid over the past few weeks, since her passing, because it has come to my attention that we are all going to die. There is no other way out of here.

During the celebration of life for my friend, several people spoke of her generosity, her love of animals, her quirky nature. Many kind things were spoken then, and I thought what a beautiful tribute.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could share those kind thoughts with our friends before they die? Wouldn’t it be better to tell our loved ones how much we appreciate them, while they are still living?

Kind words are like a soothing balm to the soul. No matter what a person is going through, the kind words of friends and loved ones can calm the fires of rage, anger, or fear.

So why wait? I have said, on numerous occasions, that I plan to live to 111. I realize that by then, many of my friends and family will likely be gone. They will have gone on before me, to whatever awaits our physical death.

By then, I wonder who will eulogize me. I wonder who will be present to remember the remarkable life of an old woman, who outlived those who could speak of her life. So, the way I see it, I have two choices. I can live a remarkable life for the following 64 1/3 years, and make sure to make an impression on everyone I meet, hoping that someone will live long enough to remember me.

That is Plan B. That plan involves a lot of work, a lot of community involvement, and making friends of all ages. While that does seem like a fun way to progress through life, it also seems like a lot of work. Of course, I plan to do it anyway. Far be it from me to shy away from hard work and perseverance.

But, I have a better plan. My go to plan is to throw a big party. I’m not waiting until I’m dead to have a party. I’m going to have a party and invite all of my friends, and we will gather and talk about the beauty of life, the beauty of love and friendship. I plan to have that party when I am 55. I’m going to call it my “halfway there” party.

I plan to invite everyone I have ever known, to celebrate the gift of their presence in my life. I want to celebrate while I am still alive and cognizant. I want to thank people for their kindnesses and love, which have buoyed me through my life.

And my point, in all of this, is lets not wait. Let’s not wait to tell the people in our lives how much they mean, how much they bring, and how much they give us.

Tell them while there is still time. Once your friends are gone, it becomes too late to tell them how much you cherish them.

Of course, once people pass on, we can still speak of their goodness and kindness. It brings us together, it unites us when we face death, and it helps us heal from loss.

But so much better, is the idea of telling people of their impact and influence while it can help them.

It is never too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. If you don’t feel like saying it, then write them a note. You could even send an email. But don’t let the kind words go unspoken. Today is the perfect day to tell someone how much they mean.

Namaste, friends

I learn a lot from my kids, and sometimes if I’m lucky, they even learn a thing or two from me.

Recently, during a discussion with my 16-year-old daughter, I said, “Well, if I had my druthers, I’d rather you not.”

She looked at me skeptically, with the scorn and derision that seems second nature to teenagers.

“What does that even mean? I think you’re just making up words so I can’t do what I want.”

I confess. I do make up words. Sometimes I try to slip them into my columns, but Kae, the stalwart copy editor of the Uinta County Herald, never fails to find and delete them. Sometimes she looks at me as if I’m crazy. And sometimes she smiles sadly, shaking her head, as if talking to a small child.

But I digress. I explained the phrase “If I had my druthers” to my children, who still do not believe it is real. I guess my penchant for using fake words has tainted their view of me.

Technically, to have one’s druthers means to have ones own preference. It is a shortened version of the phrase “I’d rather,” and is not widely used outside of the United States. It’s a colloquialism to our part of the world. When I explained this to my young ‘uns, they all rolled their eyes, and wondered why a person wouldn’t just say, “I would rather,” and save all the confusion.

Upon further study and investigation, I discovered another meaning to druthers: the power or opportunity to choose.

It occurred to me then, that we can all have our druthers. We all have an opinion about how we would like things to be. Realistically, we can have our own preference, if we are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve those things.

You can have your druthers, if you really want to.

Each one of us has the power and the opportunity to choose exactly how we want our life. Many of us, however, relinquish this power in order to embrace the victim mentality so prevalent in our culture. Rather than making our own choices and taking responsibility, we sit idly by, hating our lives and blaming someone else.

Oftentimes, blaming seems easier than responsibility. Victimhood feels more comfortable than choice. It’s easier to complain about things we don’t like, than to step up and make changes.

The good news is you do have the power and opportunity to choose. You can choose where to work, who to hang out with, where and what to eat, whether to exercise, where to live. The list goes on and on, but the truth is, you have complete choice over every aspect of your life.

I can hear some of you now saying, “That’s not true. I don’t have any choices. I don’t get to choose….” Well, unless you are a minor child, the truth is that you do have a choice.

You might not like the work or the responsibility involved in making a different choice, but you do have a choice. We are not victims of our life. We are authors of our destiny.

Today, you can choose to live exactly as you choose. You can choose freedom over bondage, peace over anger, and happiness over sorrow. You have the power and the opportunity to choose, in each moment, exactly what your life looks like.

If you don’t like the outcome, you are free to choose again. Remember, the effects of a decision stay in place until the decision is changed. If something doesn’t work for you, then you can change it.

Whatever you face today, remember that you can choose again. You are not a victim of your life. You are the creator of your life.

Namaste, friends

In the aftermath of chaos and holiday madness, I lost my phone. It wasn’t such a bad thing, really. I spent all of Christmas Day enjoying peace and quiet, unable to text and call. I even found time to take a nap.

As we began to filter through empty stockings, piles of paper and the remnants of Christmas, I discovered my forgotten phone, buried under the cheery rubble.

It was so nice not having it, I decided on the following day to just put the phone away.

Most of us are attached to our stuff. Our phones are always nearby. Our computers are nearby, ready to answer emails, check Facebook, and immerse us in online escapism.

Besides the electronic madness that controls our daily lives, we are surrounded by stuff. We are buried by more stuff than we can ever use in our lifetime, and our children will suffer after our passing, as they sort through all the stuff, wondering why we kept so much.

I was caring recently for a dear friend who has become quite ill. While sitting by her side, holding her hand, massaging her feet and reassuring her, I noticed that she was surrounded by stuff. Piles and piles of clothes, papers, knick-knacks and tchotchke. It was overwhelming, to think about her imminent passing and the responsibility of wading through all of that stuff.

When I got home after one particularly stressful day, I began sorting through my file drawers. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but I decided to look through every single piece of paper, and honestly assess the value and necessity of each.

Although I’m not a hoarder, I tend to hold on to special notes from people I love, as well as clippings and pictures from magazines. After a couple of hours, I was astonished at the pile of papers headed to the recycle bin. When I honestly looked at all those papers, it turned out that most of them were not essential to my daily life. Most of them had no real purpose, other than to keep my file cabinets brimming with paper.

With a proud sense of accomplishment, I closed the mostly empty file drawers and wondered for a moment why I need such a large file cabinet anyway. Now that it’s empty, it seems redundant. However, it does make a good television stand.

Although it was getting late, I was energized by all that purging and I began cleaning out my drawers.

It is amazing, how attached we can become to things like clothes. I had a closet full of clothes of a variety of different sizes. Some are too small, waiting in vain for me to lose just enough weight. Some are way too big, just in case I get fat. Some are from long ago, with emotional baggage attached. I began yanking clothes out of drawers, off of hangers and throwing them into a bag with reckless abandon.

It was freeing, to release so much stuff. Now, when I walk through the house, one eye is on what I can get rid of next.

I don’t want to die at 111, surrounded by junk. I want to be surrounded by people who love me. Most of the stuff we accumulate and refuse to part with has some emotional significance to us, but to no one else.

Instead of filling our lives with more and more stuff, perhaps we should acquire experiences. We don’t need more stuff. What we need is more love, more passion and more fun. When we fill our lives with experience, our need to be surrounded by belongings will diminish.

Namaste, friends

You see them everywhere. You know the ones, those happy people who walk around with a big smile, acting as if they don’t have a care in the world.

They are the ones who are always happy, seemingly oblivious to the tragedy, terror, and general mayhem surrounding most of the rest of us in the world.

They are the people who smile at work and try to make the best of every situation, regardless of how bleak it actually is.

They are the ones who, when you ask how they are doing, typically respond with a big smile and say something along the lines of, “Great!” or “Awesome!” or “Fantastic!”

It’s as if they are always happy, in spite of the dreary weather, or the stock market crash, or the fact that the internet has been down at work all day and no one is able to get any work accomplished.

There are some people who know the secret to happiness, and if you give it some thought, you can probably think of one or two people you know or have met, who seem to know the secret.

So what is the secret to happiness? It’s no secret really. The secret to being happy is to be happy.

“What? That’s it? That’s not a secret. That’s just stupid.” That’s what I thought too, when I first read about the secret to happiness. “Be happy? If I was happy, then I wouldn’t be reading this book (or this column), trying to figure out how to be happy.”

It is true. The secret to happiness is to be happy. It might seem trite or overly simplified, but if you stop to think about it, it really is true.

Being happy, just like being miserable, is a choice. Each morning when we rise, we have a choice about how our day will go. Not only do we choose which clothes to wear, and how to fix our hair, we also choose our mood.

I always tell my children, as they head out the door for school, “Remember, nothing can ruin your day, unless you let it.”

Some days, I have a hard time remembering that for myself, but I hope that with my daily reminder, they will eventually learn that they have a choice about how their day will go, and how they will respond to different situations.

Life isn’t always easy, nor is it always fun. We always have a choice, however, about how we will respond to even the most dire of circumstances.

You can choose whether you’d like to be happy. In spite of what is happening in your life right now, you can still choose to be happy, and that is the secret. There is nothing, absolutely nothing stopping you from being happy.

Does being happy mean you have to walk around every day with a big sappy grin on your face? No. It means that rather than look for the worst in every situation, you stop, reassess, and look for the positive aspects.

Being happy means you choose to open your heart. Instead of closing yourself off and isolating, you open yourself to the possibility that life is good.  In fact, life is great.

If you doubt the veracity of this secret, give it a try. You don’t have to choose to be happy all day. Just try it now, in this moment.

Decide that right now, you will be happy. Do the things a happy person would do. Ask yourself, “If I were happy, how would I speak, what would I do right now?”

Then, do that thing, just for a moment.

Try it and see. Make a choice to be happy, and then share the secret with those who haven’t yet discovered it.

Namaste, friends

I remember the year I discovered that my parents were indeed Santa Claus. I was about eight, and awoke in the middle of the night to noise in the living room. I crept down the hallway of our trailer to see my bleary-eyed father assembling a dollhouse.

Quietly I snuck back to bed, excitedly anticipating the morning when I could play with my new toy.

Imagine my surprise on Christmas morning, running to the Christmas tree only to see the tag on the dollhouse: “To Mary (my little sister), Love Santa.”

For a moment I was utterly confused. The tag was supposed to say: “To Debbie, Love Dad.”

At first I thought maybe Santa brought my sister a similar dollhouse, so she wouldn’t feel sad. Imagine my dismay as I realized there was no dollhouse for me from my dad. My confusion gave way to understanding as I slowly realized that my dad might actually be Santa. Although the evidence was right before my eyes, I could hardly believe that to be the truth.

Years later, after my dad moved on, I recognized my mom’s handwriting on the tags from Santa and in my teen-aged rebellion I began calling her Sandra-Claus (since her name is Sandra.) She admonished me to keep the secret safe for my little brother, who was still young enough to believe in such things as Christmas magic. But in my jealousy, I told him that our mom was Santa. With the steadfast belief of the young and naïve, he argued until I made him cry.

Years later, as a parent of eight children, I have had similar conversations with my own kids.

One year, when we were dirt poor and had no presents for Christmas, the kids were quite disappointed. I worked as a waitress then, so during the course of the week following Christmas, I saved all my tip money and hit the post-Christmas sales. With only a couple hundred dollars, I was able to fill a box with presents for my kids. On New Years Eve I placed the giant box, loaded with toys, clothes and presents under the tree with a note.

It read: “Dear kids, this box of presents fell off of Santa’s sleigh. It took us a week to find it. Sorry to ruin your Christmas, Love Santa’s Elves.”

When my son discovered the box the next morning he came running into my bedroom yelling, “Mom, Santa Claus is real.”

Their delight and amazement helped me feel better about being a week late with the presents.

Years later, when I was a single mom with six children still in the house, the women in my book club decided to give my kids a Christmas like none they had ever experienced. Little did they know that they would also give me a Christmas like none I had ever experienced.

The ten of them gathered presents for my family throughout the month of December. On Christmas Eve, after my kids had gone to bed, my book club friends and their husbands delivered three car loads of gifts to our home. It filled the tiny living room knee-deep in presents.

When my kids had gone to bed, our tree had a pitiful pile of presents under it. I bought them gifts, just in case the book club thing didn’t work out, and two of the teenagers had jobs, so they had purchased gifts for their younger siblings.

When the children awoke on Christmas morning, the living room was filled with presents.

The little kids were convinced that Santa is real, and as my daughter handed gifts to everyone, I too, believed in the magic of Christmas.

Christmas magic isn’t about large piles of presents. It is the kindness and generosity of people around us,that is truly magical.

We can each keep the magic of Christmas alive in our own lives by sharing love, kindness and forgiveness with those around us. We can offer someone an unexpected gift. We can go back and make things right.

Yes, children, there is a Santa Claus and he lives on in each one of us as we share our lives and love with those around us.

Namaste, friends

A turkey skeleton is lurking in my refrigerator. It is a stark reminder of the recent Thanksgiving holiday. The carcass begs to be cooked into a delicious broth and adorned with homemade noodles.

But everyone in my house has moved on. They were done with Thanksgiving and turkey by early Friday morning. Honestly, by the time we finished the turkey on Thursday, my kids were ready to go shopping.

Although I don’t like the idea of shopping on Thursday or Friday of Thanksgiving, it was impossible to keep my kids, along with hundreds (thousands, millions) of others, out of Wal-Mart on Thursday evening.

Who would have guessed that a simple holiday could be turned into madness and mayhem with a frenzy of early Christmas activity? It’s as if people have completely bypassed the Thanksgiving holiday in favor of one more day of potential savings on a bunch of stuff that no one needs.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. It is simple. Family, food, and football: what else does one need to really celebrate a holiday? When I was in the fourth grade, I won a school-wide poetry contest for my poem about Thanksgiving:

“What about that poor old turkey, being stuffed?

Don’t you think he’s had enough?

Poor old thing needs some rest,

So he can look his very best.”

Lame, I know, but for a fourth grader, I think that’s pretty good. Besides, I wanted to celebrate my favorite holiday. I’ve always loved getting together with my family, even though the outcome is always unpredictable.

You never know who will drop the pie and splatter pumpkin all over grandma’s kitchen. You could never guess which relative will pass out in front of the TV, from too much spiked eggnog. It’s impossible to tell which relatives will not speak for the entire next year, following an argument about stuffing.  Yes, it’s definitely my favorite holiday, with all that family togetherness.

Somehow, though, Thanksgiving has taken a back seat to Christmas. It’s not as though Thanksgiving ever took a front seat. It’s always been the humble holiday, sandwiched between the two best kid-holidays ever. Halloween, with costumes, candy and late night wandering is a perennial favorite for kids and adults. And Christmas. What holiday could ever compare with Christmas? Presents, Santa Claus, food, decorations; these things make Christmas the ultimate in celebrations. And somewhere, nearly forgotten like the middle child of a large family, sits Thanksgiving. There isn’t much to say about Thanksgiving, other than people eat a lot of food. And many of us watch a lot of football.

Besides the food, family and football, though, what is the purpose of Thanksgiving? It has become the kick-off to the holiday shopping season, and retailers are capitalizing on that by opening earlier and earlier, until they interrupt holiday dinner with shopping madness.

Underneath all the pre-Christmas preparations, it is easy to forget why we have a Thanksgiving feast. Remember the history lessons about the pilgrims and the Indians? Remember how two groups of people came together to celebrate the bounty of the earth, to put aside their differences and share a meal? Those are the things we think about when we think about Thanksgiving.

Giving thanks. That is the true reason we celebrate Thanksgiving, and perhaps it is a good idea to take a moment to be thankful before the glutinous spending that will happen in December.

Let us pause, as December unfolds, to remember those things for which we are truly thankful.

Every life is different, every circumstance is different, and every family is different, but there are still things we can find to be grateful for every day. Take a moment each morning to focus on something you are thankful for, even if it seems tiny and insignificant.

Regardless of who your family is, or who your friends are, there are people on this earth who love you. You are not alone, and you are not forgotten. You are valuable to someone, just as people are valuable to you, and for that, we can each be thankful.

Ease into the holiday madness slowly, and try to remember to give thanks in all things. It will make help you appreciate the blessings you have today, and perhaps fill a void that you might otherwise seek to fill with stuff.

Namaste, friends

The pig experience came to an exhilarating close last week, when my three youngest children finally showed and sold their pigs.

Back in the spring, we decided to raise pigs for 4-H. You may remember my recounting Spider Pig’s journey to the farm, in the back of my Subaru. It turns out, pigs don’t travel well in cars.

After a long summer of feeding, weighing, and worming pigs, fair week finally arrived.

I thought I knew a lot about pigs, up to that point, but fair week taught me how much I still don’t know.

It started with getting the pigs back to the fair grounds. When they were cute little 97-pound piglets, they could be easily hefted into the trailer, for transport to the farm.

By last week, the pigs were each pushing the 300 pound weight limit. Loading them onto the trailer was no easy task. When a 300-pound pig charges at a 97-pound girl, if she’s learned anything at all over the summer, she jumps out of the way.

My good-natured friend cheerfully herded the pigs toward the trailer, and the kids began closing in on the pigs, trying to coax them into the trailer. As one pig reluctantly climbed the ramp, another pig in the trailer saw his chance to escape. He bolted between legs, knocked down children and fled to the safety of the mud lake at the far edge of the pen. The pigs learned early on that no children would venture into the muddy morass. It was a refuge of cool water for the pigs whenever we came to weigh the pigs. Finally, after more pigs had escaped than were on the trailer, someone grabbed a few scraps of bread. The food tempted the pigs  back onto the trailer.

Once the pigs were at the fairgrounds, they had to be bathed and shaved. Once again, I found myself asking, “Who knew?”

 Someone seriously suggested we bathe the pigs in buttermilk, to soften their skin.

Pigs enjoy being bathed and shaved less than they enjoy being herded onto a trailer. After a lot of screaming, by children and pigs, the animals were clean and ready to be judged. By the time it was over, everyone was exhausted. And this was only day one.

Judgment day came on Tuesday. As I pulled into the parking lot, Gunnar bolted out to the Jeep.

“Mom! Come quick! Sissy is crying,” and with that, he ran off, expecting me to follow.

Upon entering the swine barn, I encountered a sobbing teenaged daughter, who had apparently tripped over her pig, Bill, and had chipped her tooth on the stock fence.

I wrapped my arms around Samantha and tried to soothe her crying. She was on deck to show her pig, and her agitation was clearly upsetting Bill.

I stroked her hair, “Calm down. Take a deep breath. You’re upsetting the pig.”

I chuckled as I heard myself say that. Upset the pig? It reminded me of an old saying, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. You waste your time and you upset the pig.” Although we were not trying to teach Bill to sing, he was growing more and more agitated with the chaos around him.

 Samantha showed me her tooth, broken neatly in half at a sharp angle. I stifled a surprised gasp. It was awful. I could see why she was crying so hard.

When the judges called her name, she took a deep breath, swallowed the remainder of her tears, and marched Bill down the walkway to the show ring.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as I watched my daughter put on a brave smile and lead her pig around the ring. What a great kid.

At the end of the day, Samantha and Bill placed third overall, out of a couple hundred pigs, and Samantha learned a valuable lesson about pulling your stuff together in the middle of a crisis and doing your best.

By the time Friday rolled around, the kids and the pigs were all sick of the fairgrounds. The air was electric with anticipation when the stock show began.

Chickens. Rabbits. Lambs. Steer. Pigs. Finally, the Demander kids headed into the sale ring, near the end of the auction. Having never participated before, we still had a few lessons to learn.

Apparently, the kids are supposed to present a gift to the buyers of their livestock. Who knew? Let me just say, to Wendell Fraughton, Don Pedro, and Alta Construction, “Your gifts are on their way. And thank-you.”

Without a lot of further ado, the pigs were sold. The kids were happy until Saturday, when they went to clean up the remnants of the project.

There, alone, stood Bill.

Samantha ran to her pig, wondering if he had been forgotten.

We headed to the fair office, and were reassured that Bill’s buyer would certainly be back, likely soon, to retrieve his pig.

As we headed out to the barn, Don Pedro pulled in to claim his pig.

Hating good-byes, Samantha left so she wouldn’t have to see Bill, loaded into one more trailer, for one more trip away from the fair grounds.

We laughed. We cried. We raised some pigs. When it was all said and done, there were some lessons that I’d like to pass on for all of you:

Never, ever, ever give a pig a ride in your car.

Pigs, like the rest of us, enjoy a kind word and a good snack.

Nothing beats a good back scratch.

You can always do your best, even when things around you are falling apart.

Namaste, friends.

I often wonder if my kids ever listen to what I say. My lengthy lectures are usually met with rolled eyes. My angry outbursts bring glares of disapproval. When I try to share life lessons, I find my kids dozing in the back seat, lolled to a peaceful nap by the droning of my voice.

Occasionally, however, I am surprised by the wisdom of my children. In a fit of sorrow, as I cried inconsolably, my daughter patted my back and said, “Don’t worry mom, everything always works out.”

Although I continued crying, I was touched to hear my own words coming back to haunt me. Funny, they seem so much more conciliatory when I’m saying them, rather than receiving them.

My son recently began moving his Lego’s to our garage attic. He had previously used a small empty room in our basement for his Lego City, but found the confines of the room to be too containing. Often I would find myself tripping in the dark over helicopters, fire trucks and villains forgotten in the hallway.

During a momentary epiphany, I realized that we have an entire attic over our garage, mostly unused. There are a few boxes of Christmas decorations and some camping gear, but the bulk of space sits unused.

The older girls decided to make a craft room out of part of the attic, and hauled up tables, stickers, and craft supplies of all sorts. I think they finally realized that I am no help when it comes to things of a crafty nature, so they decided to find a place where I wouldn’t constantly hover over them, asking irrelevant “mom” questions.

Gunnar decided to recreate his Lego City in the attic, and to help him out, I swept all the Lego’s into a box. Much to Gunnar’s dismay, not all of his creations survived the sweeping.

I admit to being a little overly zealous in my endeavor. I am thrilled to get the Lego’s out of the hallway. I may have swept them just a little more vigorously than necessary. Some of the Lego creations may have come apart as I tossed them carelessly into the box. I’m not sure that had anything to do with it, but I am admitting to my part in the destruction of Lego City.

When Gunnar discovered his millions of Lego’s thrown haplessly into a plastic storage bin, he was less than enthusiastic about my help. He stormed out to the garage, insisting that he could get the work done himself.

About an hour later, he came into the kitchen, looking somewhat abashed.

He told me he was pretty mad when he found all his stuff broken. And he tried to devise a pulley system to pull the enormous box of toys up the attic stairs. As he hoisted the box overhead, he watched in alarm as it began to slant. Then, the box crashed to the ground, thousands of Lego’s covering the garage floor.

Gunnar said, “I was so mad when all my stuff broke. Then I thought that everything happens for a reason. So I figured I could make a bigger and better Lego City in the garage.”

With that, he happily bounded back out to the garage to begin the daunting task of sweeping up thousands of Lego’s.

I stood in wonder at the brief conversation. My eleven-year old son just repeated and applied something I preach to my kids every day. And he applied it much more quickly and cheerfully than I ever have.

Everything does happen for a reason. Whether it’s Lego’s crashing to the ground, a car breaking down, or your sweetheart breaking your heart. It is a waste of time to ask ‘why’ something happens. Instead, like Gunnar, ask yourself what you are going to create out of the situation.

You can’t control everything that happens in life. What you can control is your own response to situations. Your response is your responsibility. What can you make of the things that life throws your way?

Try looking for opportunity in the situations facing you. You might just find yourself with the biggest and best Lego City ever created.

Namaste, friends.

I used to love Bugs Bunny. One of my favorites was Marvin the Martian. He had an Acme Ray Gun, with which he would vaporize Daffy Duck. A classic line from Marvin the Martian, “Resistance is futile, earthling.”

During Tuesday’s snowstorm, I thought of those words often. I dressed for spring on Tuesday, in sandals and a skirt. Wrong outfit, wrong day.

Of course, I was too busy to run home and change as the day grew colder and the drizzle turned to snow. I decided to accept the weather and be thankful for the moisture. Resistance to the weather, or to just about anything else, is futile.

It never ceases to amaze me, how people will complain about things that cannot be changed, such as the weather.

Complaining never changed anything for the better. In fact, it never changed anything at all. It is futile to resist those things we can’t change. I would include the weather in that category, as well as the past, other people, and dogs.

You can’t change anything by complaining, and resisting what you can’t change is a waste of time and energy.

I had a friend who used to say, “You can’t teach a pig to sing. You only waste your time and upset the pig.” Complaining about the weather, fretting over the past, or trying to change someone else’s behavior is a lot like trying to teach a pig to sing. You don’t achieve your goal, and you usually irritate somebody.

Why resist things? Life is too short to be frustrated and angry over things that can’t be changed. When I hear people griping about the weather, I wonder what they think it could possibly accomplish. Yes, it is snowing. Yes, it is cold. Yes, we all wish summer would hurry up and get here. Will complaining about the cold make the weather any warmer? Will Mother Nature suddenly say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize all of you Evanston residents were expecting sunshine and blue skies. Let me fix that.”

No. She will not bend to our will.

Rather than resist what is, I have found it is much easier to accept circumstances and make the best of them. Surrender to what is, rather than resist with futility.

Surrendering has such a negative connotation. It brings to mind weakness, giving up and giving in. In fact, I would argue that the opposite is true. It takes determination and strength to accept the things we cannot change. It takes character to submit our will to something greater. It takes humility and grace to be thankful for the snow, when you really wish to see the sun.

Most of our suffering has its roots in resistance. We suffer as we agonize over mistakes, misspoken words, and things we have done wrong. You can’t change the past. It has already happened. You can accept the past and move on, working to correct the mistakes of yesterday.

We suffer as we worry about what will happen tomorrow. We have no control over tomorrow. Of course, you can make plans, but as the good book says, we are not guaranteed tomorrow. It is foolish to say, “Tomorrow I will do this, and tomorrow I will do that.” We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Worrying about it, resisting internally, will not change a moment. 

The last day of school: those words are pregnant with possibility and opportunity. An entire summer waits to unfold in endless sunny days. I remember the last day of fifth grade vividly. I learned two huge lessons that summer, and though I don’t always apply them, they remain a part of who I am.

In fifth grade, I was the marble champion of the school. I started out with a small Ziploc baggie of tiger-eye marbles purchased from K-Mart. By the end of the year, I had a fine velvet marble bag. Actually, it was a re-purposed Crown Royal bag, but at that tender, naïve age, I didn’t know the difference. My marble bag brimmed with clearies, steelies, tubbies and solids. Those were the names of the marbles I had won from everyone at school. I was the reigning queen of marbles at Sunset Elementary. On the last day of school, I brought my prized possession for one last day of marble conquest. Unfortunately, in the excitement of summer vacation, I left my marbles in my desk.

I went back to the school a week later and sought out the janitor, who insisted he had never seen my beloved purple bag. I cried for days. I knew exactly where I had left it. I figured someone had taken that awesome bag of marbles and would taunt me with it in middle school, insisting that he or she was the actual marble champion. Or that janitor; maybe he had given it to a thankless grandchild, who could never appreciate the hard work that went into winning all those awesome marbles. I lost sleep thinking about my favorite tubby, a clear, light purple beauty, scarred with the nicks of battles won. I remembered every marble in that bag, and mourned the loss of every one.

But the thing is, when I got to sixth grade, no one cared anymore about marbles. I had figured there would be a big marble showdown on the first day of school, as kids from different elementary schools competed to prove their worth. Wrong. There were no marbles in middle school. I was a little relieved that I didn’t bring that purple bag to sixth grade and seal my identity as a nerd.

The second lesson I learned that year also kept me awake nights. At the end of fifth grade, the math unit we worked on dealt with telling time. I could not quite get the hang of telling time, and I struggled with it throughout the month of May.

At the end of the year, I still couldn’t quite tell time, I am now embarrassed to say. All summer long, I worried that there would be a big test on the first day of sixth grade. I imagined all the sixth graders in the lunchroom, poring over the time-telling test.

I imagined all summer long, that those of us who failed the test would be sent back to Mr. Arnold at the fifth grade building. I dreaded returning to Mr. Arnold’s class. Not only because of the time telling thing, but Mr. Arnold and I did not end the year on a happy note. I made fun of his bald head, while swinging on the swings, and he sent me to the principal’s office. Apparently, not all bald people share my sense of humor about the advertising revenue possible on such a large, smooth surface.

Anyway, much to my relief, there was no test on the first day of middle school. No one even cared whether I could tell time. It took me about a week to realize that I wasn’t being sent back to Mr. Arnold’s class. After that first week of school, I finally relaxed enough to enjoy being in middle school.

The lessons I learned are these: First, don’t waste your summer vacation — or any day of your life, or even a moment of time — worrying about stupid stuff. Most of the stuff we worry about never happens. I lay awake all those summer nights, worrying about a test that never came. That pattern has continued throughout most of my life, but as I get older, I realize what a waste of time all that worry is. So relax. Don’t worry. Everything will work out.

The second lesson I learned: Don’t take yourself or your accomplishments too seriously. Oh. You’re the reigning marble champion of fifth grade? Wow. Everyone in middle school will be really impressed with that. Actually, we are all just people doing the best we can, getting through life. Whether you are the president of this, or the champion of that, it doesn’t matter. Everyone is due equal respect. We all have successes and failures.

Don’t try to make yourself better than other people, and don’t try to make everyone better than you. Everyone you meet has his or her own hard battle to fight. The best thing you can do is to be kind.

My advice to everyone about to enjoy summer vacation: Don’t worry, everything will work out in the end, and be kind. Everyone is fighting a hard battle.

Namaste, friends.