“Nothing determines who we will become so much as those things we choose to ignore.”

Sandor McNab

I am not sure who Sandor McNab is, but I plan to find out before publishing this post. Why? Because these words just gave me chills. I kid not. I have been thinking a lot about identity, about who I once was, and who I will be, and who I am becoming at this very instant. Those of you who come here everyday will know that I am struggling sweetly to juggle my many sides. And I am. Struggling. Thinking. Questioning. Dreaming. Doubting. Writing. Wandering. Wishing. All of it.

My brain is busy.

But now. Now I’m thinking about this in another way, coming at these questions from a different angle. It’s not just about what I’m doing, but what I’m not doing. It’s not just about what I’m focusing on but about what I’m ignoring. Wow. True. Scary.

Scary because I think I’m ignoring important things. I think we all are. I think there are things we’d rather not do or face or figure out. I think we all have baggage, tightly zipped, stacked high, that we’d rather not unpack because it will create a mess. But what is the cost of this, of this temporary or permanent putting off?

I don’t know. I really don’t. But I am thinking about this, and seriously, because I think this matters. Who we become matters, doesn’t it? So maybe, just maybe, we need to be careful about what we choose to ignore, about those bags we neglect to unpack.

Okay, this is kind of intriguing. It turns out I’m not the only one who doesn’t know who Sandor McNab is. Click here. Many say that Sandor McNab is the creation of a man named Sam Keen. Well, whoever he is, whether he exists or as a discrete individual or the alter ego of another, I like his words.

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Do you agree that our identity is informed by those things we choose to ignore? Are there any quotes that give you chills? How often do you ponder questions of identity and evolution? Any clue about this mysterious Sandor McNab fellow?

“Come to the edge, he said.

They said: We are afraid.

Come to the edge, he said.

They came.

He pushed them and they flew.”

Guillaume Apollinaire

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What are you afraid of? Are you willing to do what it takes to fly?

Husband and I walked through the park to meet friends for dinner. We took our time, zigzagging, looking around. The air was deliciously damp, hinting at rain. We held hands, swinging them between us. And we talked. About little things and big, bartering ideas and hopes and fragments of dreams. It felt like a date. Like I was still getting to know him, this handsome guy, this person.

(And I am, aren’t I?)

We walked past a line of benches. On one, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt sat, singing, and playing the guitar. I don’t remember the words, or the melody, or whether he was any good. But I do remember thinking: He is brave. For sitting there. For playing out. For insisting on being heard.

And we walked on. Exiting the park. Making our way. But I thought about him, that nameless man with his music and his dreams. And it made me smile. Because if we open our eyes, if we let ourselves wander and listen, there are so many messages out there. Important ones.

Like to be brave. Like to make music. Like to insist on being heard.

Thank you, mystery man.

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Do you feel like you are still getting to know your other half? Are you brave? Are you willing to be heard?

I’ve never been a Schedule Girl. I like the idea of winging it, of going with that good old flow. But I’ve realized that when there are three kids in the equation, being easy breezy about time is neither truly possible nor truly ideal. So. A few weeks into this new school year and I find myself stumbling into some kind of schedule. Nothing’s fixed quite yet, but I’m testing options. One time block that seems pretty set is the time between dropping the big girls (@ 8:30/8:45) and retrieving Middle Girl at 11:45. Now Preschool is a ways from home, so I tend to stay put near Preschool. And where do I go? Well, Starbucks of course. I go there, I order my bold blend (a new friend converted me from Pike Place), I plug in and I enter a different realm. I know this sounds hokey, but I do; I escape – for three whole hours – my world of kiddie chaos. I think and I write and I watch. I watch people sip their lattes and scarf their muffins and read and write and talk. I witness a little corner of humanity. I connect dots. I tell myself stories about people I don’t know. I wonder if anyone speculates about me?

There is a young woman, legs crossed in the window, earphones in, sipping a vast coffee with a green straw. Her brow is furrowed, twisted with some breed of concentration or concern. She taps keys and pauses, smiles, looks around. Through tired eyes, she looks out, at the people, the passing cars, the obscured slivers of city sky. She is there for a reason, a profound, if inscrutable reason. In that window, sitting, sipping, squinting, smiling, studying. Life. Her own. All of it.

Do you abide by a schedule during the week? Do you go anywhere to escape and think? Do you think it is important for all of us to sit and study humanity? Is this especially critical for writers to do? Are you a Starbucks loyal? Why do you think it is so important for me to have this time, this time away, this time immersed in strangers and self?

“Plenty of people miss their share of happiness, not because they never found it, but because they didn’t stop to enjoy it.”

William Feather

She had a good, rich life. Full of treasures. She was busy, always running, hands tethered to little creatures, fingers dancing deftly across so many buttons. She checked her watch often, too often, and time was cruel and callous, beating on, escaping them all. Summer was fading, the air was growing heavy and crisp, suddenly boots were okay to wear.

She had one day, this really wonderful day with her family. They sat on a picnic blanket on a vast green lawn in the center of her city. The sky was kind and complicated, mottled with cryptic clouds. She laid there with the her littlest, tickling her cheeks, plumbing the depths of brilliant blue eyes. Yards away, the big girls and their daddy climbed rocks.

She had a thought.

I am happy.

She had the thought because she stopped long enough to have it. It was a simple thought sprung from twisted and triumphant depths, hard-earned. She laid there, feeling the fuzz on a little happy head, welcoming the whispering breeze, the hints of evening and fall. Time passed, but she never once checked that watch. It stayed hidden under a sleeve, hands ticking, beckoning but being blissfully ignored.

She stopped.

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How often do you stop? Really stop? Does it scare you that by going and going you might actually miss the happiness that you have?