The past few days have been stuffed with love and laughter. And fun. Turns out we Donnelley girls (yes, that includes Mom!) have not forgotten how to have a good time.

But now. I am here. Home. The place where I belong. In the orbit of two little girls. My little girls. I missed them so much it hurt. And it is good to be with them.

I know I should stop apologizing - for my limits, for my longings, for my life – but this is who I am. And so I am sorry. That this post comes late in the day. That these words are wispy and lack true metaphorical heft. I have been traveling and I am tired. I am home and I am happy.

Now. I must go and snuggle two little creatures on our big couch. We will wait – just us girls – for Daddy to come home.

In twenty-eight minutes, there will be a soft knock at the door. And I will pop up, tighten the sash of my white robe, tiptoe across carpet and answer it. A kind man in a uniform will smile at me and ask me how I am. I will keep it simple and tell him that I am fine. Even though on this morning I am better than fine. This man will walk past me, silver tray in hand, and place it down. I will thank him and walk him out. And once the door swings gently behind him, I will pour my first cup of coffee. I will sip it by the window while my sister sleeps. I will peer out. At the coy morning sun. The shimmying palm trees. The brave waves slapping soft sand.

I am not home. I am away. And at this moment, away means Palm Beach, Florida. I am here with Mom, Sister C and Sister I for a girls’ trip. At this very moment, I sit cross-legged on my side of the king bed I’m sharing with C for one more night. The room is silent, but for the whisper of a ceiling fan and the erratic tapping of my computer keys.

I sit here next to my little sister and best friend, a small blue book resting between us. A book C gave me on Sunday morning. We arrived at Newark Airport, a bit sad to have left our babies, but excited for a few days of sleep and sun. When we saw that our plane was delayed, we decided to get breakfast to kill some time. We found a little table and perused plastic menus. We attempted to order breakfast burritos and celebratory bloody marys, but our waiter said no. (Breakfast wasn’t being served and there was a pesky state law that forbade him from ponying up booze before noon on a Sunday.) So, we settled for salads and water.

While we ate, C pulled something from her bag. “I saw this and thought of you,” she said, handing me a small blue book.

I looked at it and smiled big. I Never Metaphor I Didn’t Like by Dr. Mardy Grothe. Immediately, I started flipping through. The smiles kept coming. “C, I am obsessed with metaphors. I love a good metaphor.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I got it for you.”

And so. We sat there, thumbing through the small book together, reading bits of truth.

Words are the physicians of a mind diseased. - Aeschylus

Light tomorrow with today. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. - Hawthorne

Several minutes into our metaphor tete-a-tete, we came up for air and giggled, realizing how funny we must have looked. Two blonde sisters, scarfing airport salads, cooing over quotations.

The airport was packed with families. C and I chuckled at the fact that we left our own babies just to hang out with other people’s little creatures. We found our own plot of carpet at our gate and I pored through my new book, smiling. Remembering. Realizing.

Remembering my first college philosophy paper. It was called “The Umbrella of Skepticism.” It was a terrible thing, but I still like the title.

Remembering my start five years ago. Five years ago, when I started writing, I bought a slew of books on the craft of writing and read them with great care. I noticed that everyone felt strongly about metaphor. That good metaphor was the heart of good writing. And many authors seemed to suggest that the art of metaphor was something enigmatic that could not be readily taught – or learned. This concerned me because I didn’t know much about metaphors – how to craft them, when they were appropriate.

Undeterred, I started playing around with words. Comparing things and ideas. Flirting with metaphors. The very first draft of LIFE AFTER YES contained a bunch of incredibly clumsy metaphors that were ultimately banished from my manuscript. It’s possible that a few remain. Part of me hopes so.

Thousands of years ago, Aristotle said:

The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblance.

Today. I sit here on fluffy hotel sheets, a rookie mistress of metaphor, reading these words bequeathed to all of us by a brilliant man from a book bequeathed to me by a brilliant and thoughtful sister who slumbers beside me. I sit here nodding.

Nodding in agreement that there is a certain magic inherent in sharp metaphors. Nodding in awareness of the power of escape from life. Of getting away. By plane. Or by prose.

Today, on this tiny Tuesday morning in the grand scheme of things, I sit here next to my sister and with myself and I write. And realize.

That some things can’t be taught. How to mingle with metaphors. How to love. How to be loved. How to be true. How to find truth.

That most everything can be learned. If we want something enough, and are willing to work and wrestle and stumble and fail, we can get closer to that something.

I sit here, miles from home, miles from Aristotle, miles from genius, closer than ever to Me, smiling. Clutching a little blue book. Clutching awareness. Clutching gratitude.

Because a good metaphor, like a good sister, like a good family, like a savored escape, is a gift. Exquisitely wrapped. Endlessly enjoyed.

Now I will sign off and wait for that knock. And for your words.

______________________________

• Do you agree that mastery of metaphor is at the core of compelling writing?
• Do you have a very favorite metaphor?
• Do you agree in “Away Sweet Away,” that we all need to escape our everyday from time to time (via travel or the written word) in order to nurture self and appreciate our lives?
• Have you been given a gift recently that has been particularly, and surprisingly, meaningful?
• Do you believe in gifts? That some people are born with talents that others cannot learn?
  

Today is full of sunshine and slow motion and big smiles. Today is a good day.

A happy day.

Last night’s inaugural Happier Hour was a splendid success. Gretchen Rubin was a phenomenal speaker, the crowd was diverse and delightful, and the conversation was priceless. And my shoes? Those impossibly high and silly bright yellow cagey things? They didn’t hurt one bit.

I will be back tomorrow with more delicious deets about the exquisite evening and today’s Happiness Hangover and a chance to win an early copy of LIFE AFTER YES (hey, I’m feeling happy and generous!), but I wanted to leave you with a tiny taste of the night. The following are the words I used to welcome sixty-plus (!) wonderful women (and one very hot man) and to introduce the lovely Gretchen.

Thank you all so much for coming tonight for the inaugural Happier Hour. For taking the time to indulge me in this project, this experiment, this dream.

For me, happiness is conversation. The more genuine, layered, open conversation I have in my life, the happier I am. But tonight is not ultimately about me. Nor is about the lovely Gretchen Rubin who will speak in a few moments. It is not even about the wonderful group of women (and one important man!) we have gathered here. It is about something bigger than all of us: Happiness. That thing each of us covets and craves.

Many of us here are smiling tonight. Many of us consider ourselves to be happy creatures. But. Yes, there is always a but – especially if you are an over-thinker like I am. But we can all stand to be happier.

When I dreamed up tonight, I had one person and one person only, in mind to speak and she stands beside me now. Gretchen Rubin. Gretchen’s recent book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT has now spent eleven weeks on the bestseller list. Not too shabby, huh?

Bestseller or no, I loved the book for its core message, in many ways the message that unites us tonight. We can all do more to appreciate our days. To honor their goodness. To be happier.

On page two of her book, Gretchen writes:

But though at times I felt dissatisfied, that something was missing, I also never forgot how fortunate I was. When I woke up in the middle of the night, as I often did, I’d walk from one room to another to gaze at my sleeping husband tangled in the sheets and my daughters surrounded by their stuffed animals, all safe. I had everything I could possibly want – yet I was failing to appreciate it. Bogged down in petty complaints and passing crises, weary of struggling with my own nature, I too often failed to comprehend the splendor of what I had. I didn’t want to keep taking these days for granted. The words of the writer Colette had haunted me for years: “What a wonderful life I’ve had! I only wish I’d realized it sooner.” I didn’t want to look back, at the end of my life or after some great catastrophe, and think, “How happy I used to be then, if only I’d realized it.”

These words hit me. And haunt me.

Because this is me. This is all of us. We all have many things to appreciate, to feel happy about. And yet this business and busyness of modern life complicates things that should be simple. This business and busyness of modern life makes it almost impossible to have meaningful conversations about big ideas and universal questions. This business and busyness of modern life makes it hard, so hard, to meet new people, interested and interesting people, who are thinking big and dreaming big and doing good.

And so. Here we are. To talk and toast. To engage and enjoy. To laugh and learn.

And most importantly, to be happier.

Cheers!

____________________________

• Do you feel like you fail to appreciate your good fortune, the brightness of your days?
• Do you ever worry that the moments and years will blur by and that you will look back and wish you had realized your happiness more fully?
• Do you agree that the “business and busyness” of modern life complicates things that should be simple?
  
• Have you ever experienced a Happiness Hangover, a day when you can’t stop smiling, are a bit slow on the uptake, and have this foolish but fabulous warm and fuzzy fairy-tale-feeling that life is good?

Please leave a comment here between now and 6am EST tomorrow (3/25/10) for a chance to win a copy of THE HAPPINESS PROJECT!

Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks that meaningful conversation enhances happiness. Check out this recent piece from the New York Times entitled Talk Deeply, Be Happy?

A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

__________________________

• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

Today Sister C sits for the first day of the New York Bar Exam. And I am nauseous. Not nauseous because I am worried she won’t pass. I think she will. Nauseous because I remember that exam all too well. Nauseous because those were two of the most torturous days of my youngish life.

And she hasn’t passed yet, but I am already so proud. I am proud because C has been studying hard, pulling late nights, and she has a young baby. Baby Bulldog is just six months old and C has been logging endless hours learning the bland intricacies of New York law (blech) when she could have been tickling tiny toes. I am proud because I know this hasn’t been easy.

So, yes. She got pregnant in law school. And gave birth a few months after graduation. Many would say that she should have graduated and taken the bar exam with her peers this past July. Many would say that she should have gotten the career rolling before popping out a delectably cute son. Many would say she did things out of order. That it should have been Bar before Baby and not the reverse.

But I disagree.

And not just because she is my sister and I love her to tiny pieces. I disagree on more objective, principled grounds. I think this society of ours is far too obsessed with its schedule of shoulds. Who says it is always better to firm up a career before starting a family? Who says we shouldn’t sometimes do things at the same time? Who says it is always better to wait?

Many people would say that Sister C should have waited. But you know what? She had the courage not to. When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer two weeks before Sister C’s wedding, things changed. Our Donnelley world shifted. I think, I know, Sister C realized like I did that life has cruel limits, that days are unpredictably numbered. I think, I know, she realized that family is it. And so, she went for it. She battled morning sickness while studying at school. She donned a polyester cap and gown in her final trimester. She spent several weeks at a law firm before welcoming her little guy.

And today. Today, she will kiss her little boy goodbye and go sit at a desk somewhere in this fine city and fill in tiny bubbles and take a big step toward a big future that is blindingly bright, but unknown. And when the long day is over, she will go home. To her man. To her baby. To her family.

And then tomorrow, she will do it again. And then it will be over, mercifully over, and I will take her out. And we will celebrate. We will go to the right kind of bar and sip a tall glass of wine. We will talk about babies. About family. About futures. We will talk about life. How, like the bar exam, it is multiple choice. But how in life, there is more than one right answer.

We will clink glasses and smile.

Two lawyers. One past. One future.

Two sisters. Always.

Two moms. Forever.

And I will say then what I write now. That I am deeply proud of her. For being exquisitely brave. For doing things in her own way. In her own order. For blazing her own trail. For having a baby, an impossibly sweet baby, before taking that exam.

For not waiting.

_______________________________

Leave a comment and wish Sister C good luck! Do you agree that there is no such thing as out of order when it comes to life? That there is no objective schedule of achievement we should heed? Do you think that having a child before cultivating a career is brave or foolish? What are you waiting for?

ILI Daily Charms

* Do we lose ourselves in marriage? Stephanie Klein seems to think so. Click over to read her raw and searching post on the fate of self in the sea of commitment.

* Are pictures enough? Becca from Drama for Mama serves up a timely reminder that blogging isn’t such an empty endeavor and easy catharsis after all. Maybe there is a profound purpose in memorializing moments that might otherwise fade.

* Do therapists mess up their kids? Yes, according to Bruce over at Privilege of Parenting. But Bruce assures us that, “we ALL mess up our kids in our own unique ways.” Cheerio!