So Thankful...

So thankful for time spent with family and friends, for the comfort of knowing that every year - no matter what has transpired - we will all gather in this time and in this place. And sometimes we might cry a bit, remembering years past and those loved ones who are no longer with us, but we always will come around to a place of laughter, and celebration, and love. Anyone who has ever spent a Thanksgiving at my family's house knows that it is a time that is not easily captured in words, or pictures, or even memories... it's kind of one of those, "you had to be there" things. And for those of us who have been lucky enough to gather together year, after year, after year, well, we all know that we are blessed beyond measure. So thankful this is my family; so thankful this is my home...

Storytellers

I wrote the following years ago as part of the introduction to my undergraduate thesis - And They Were Heroes: A Collection of Family Stories.

I sat in my grandmother's study sifting through volumes of family documents as the sound of my grandfather's favorite Bocelli video concert drifted up the stairs. As my mind wandered from the stories in old letters and immigration documents to recollections of my own family experiences - a memorable family vacation, the smell of my mother's famous spinach stuffed shells (marking her once-a-month culinary creation) - I could not help what wonder what the stories of my family's past would mean to me, and what the stories of my own past would one day mean to future generations. Why was I so interested in the stories of my ancestors, of my great-grandparents, of my grandparents? How did these stories of memories past fit into the fabric of my own life?

Sometimes people have a tendency to believe the stories of their own lives are less important than those they read about in history books or hear about on television. And sometimes people believe their own stories are more important than the stories of people around them - friends, neighbors, strangers. It was my grandmother who taught me that all individuals and all families have their own important stories to tell; not stories that make them greater or less than anyone else, but stories that make them unique, stories that bind them to their pasts and connect them to their futures. Stories can be the powerful links that connect generations otherwise disconnected by the barriers of time and distance and memory. To find insight and light among a trunk filled with torn, yellowed letters and postcards; to see resemblance in a smile shining through a dusty old photograph; to discover a hidden strength in the stories of long lives well-lived - these are the qualities that compel me to tell my family's stories - stories that have given me a greater understanding of not only who I am, but also of where I have come from.

I miss you already...

This Guy is Pretty Darn Amazing

Read this. It will, hopefully, make you think a little bit today about the consciousness (or lack thereof) of the choices we all make everyday.

Well...

... I guess if my brother can reenter the blogging world after a notable absence, so can I. Life has been busy around here, but no matter what I'm doing, thoughts of simplicity are never far from my mind.

I'm thinking right now about the ways in which our conscious thoughts become ingrained habits, and what that means for my simplicity journey. For example, my recycling system is now a habit - something we just do without thinking much about it. So are my monthly (or more) trips to Goodwill to drop off donations. These things may seem simple, and they are, but they are also things that not-so-long-ago I had to concentrate on, think about, and even write about.

So I guess this is progress, because when I no longer have to think about these small tasks, I've then cleared some space in my mind to focus on other things - like my new business, and the book projects I'm working on, and my health, and my family.