While I was away this past weekend, I did something I haven’t been able to do in a while. Two things, actually. I read an entire book in one day. And I read much of it while spinning away on an elliptical machine. Now this multi-tasking? It felt good. For me, there is nothing quite like a physical and intellectual sweatfest. (Note: This is exactly how I studied for the New York Bar Exam; Notes in hand, on my trusty elliptical which has since bitten that proverbial dust. Much like my career in the law.)

The book? Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed. Now, I am embarrassed to say that I only read the first fifteen or so pages of Eat, Pray, Love. But I will certainly go back and read it now because I enjoyed Committed. Now this book is an exploration of marriage and as a married woman and curious soul, I found this to be immensely interesting stuff and if you want to read a more thoughtful post about this book, please click here. But in reading Gilbert’s words, I found myself interested in something a bit more general: the question of commitment, of giving ourselves wholly to something or to someone.

Needless to say, the book got me thinking about my own life (and I think this is something good books tend to do). I thought about the things I consider myself committed to. And there are a few. More than a few.

First, the obvious…

I am committed to Husband. Five-plus years ago, we exchanged vows and traded rings. In so doing, we expressed our fidelity to one another. But this is not why I feel committed to him. It has nothing to do with the state or the law or paperwork that was filled out several years ago. I feel committed to him because I love him deeply and exclusively, because in the years we have been together, I have literally not looked at another man. (Not that way, at least.) I feel committed to him because he makes me laugh daily, because he swaddles our girls in the deepest of daddy affection, because he listens to me and holds me and knows me and loves me. I could go on, but I don’t want to risk further nauseating the cynics among you and this is really not the point of this post (although it is Valentine’s Day week and a little mush is perfectly apropos.)

I am committed to my girls. These little creatures mean absolutely everything to me. Every step I take, every decision I make, every question I ask, every tear I shed, is rooted deeply or more superficially in the soil of motherhood. I am a mother now. This is my most important role to date and it informs everything I do and every aspect of my evolution. I have said this before, but parenthood is the lens through which I now see the world. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Those blue-eyed babes? They are it for me.

I am committed to my family. A couple days ago, I wrote a post about family. About how it is my number one. And it is. I hail from an impossibly large and loving family (four sisters; nine aunts and uncles; over thirty first cousins; you get the picture). I am incredibly close with my mother and my sisters and Husband’s family. (I know, I know, it is borderline criminal to love the In-Laws. But I do. Guilty as charged.) I had a rich and rewarding childhood, stuffed with family fun, and I am doing everything in my power to make sure my girls can say the same thing one day. Oh, and I’ve made no secret of it here, but I hope my own little family grows. When the time is right. (When is the time ever right? Alas, fodder for its own post.) Truth be told, if ever forced to choose between a bevy of kids and a string of best-sellers, I’d choose the former any day. (Sorry, Agent, Editor, Publicist, Readers.)

I am committed to my friends. I don’t know how I’ve been so lucky, but I have collected some absolutely incredible friends along the way. Friends who are interesting and quirky and accomplished and hilarious and talented and supportive. Friends who have literally been there with me from day one. Friends who stood by my side as I married my man and lost my Dad and welcomed my girls. Friends who I encountered more recently as I entered the wild waters of motherhood. Friends who I have met and continue to meet right here in this odd and wonderful ether of the thing we call the blogosphere. My happiness is hinged squarely on these friendships and I am deeply devoted to my friends. All of you.

Next, the more idiosyncratic…

I am committed to writing. I broke up with Mr. BigLaw several years ago and ever since, I have been committed to writing. Our relationship was tenuous at first. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I played hard to get. I suffered from dizzying bouts of writer’s block. But I persisted, clinging tight to my evolving craft. (I hate the word craft. It is mucho pretentious.) And now? My days are packed with words and ideas and chapters and posts. A day does not go by without writing. Each and every day, I say ‘I do’ to writing. These words, these simple words, never get old.

I am committed to dreams. Despite everyone’s (and I mean everyone’s) advice, I started my forthcoming novel LIFE AFTER YES with a dream. Per the experts, this is cliched and a telltale sign of amateur craft. Apparently, I am an amateur. And one who favors the big, bad cliche. I felt strongly about starting my book with a dream because that’s how important I think dreams – actual and metaphorical – are. I think they highlight what matters to us, what we want, who we are. By writing these words here now, by immersing myself in the precarious life of a writer, I am following a dream. And I am committed to chasing this dream and whatever others might arise.

I am committed to questions. I have recently concluded that there are two types of people in the world: Answer People and Question People. The former breed are people who keep long and efficient lists, who like to diagnose people and situations, who discern blacks and whites among life’s grays. Proudly, I fall in the latter camp. I love questions. I love how they echo. Like some of my beloved counterparts, I plan to live a life of questions.

I am committed to conversation. This one? This one is huge. Too huge for a fleeting mention. I have said it before and I will say it again (and again): For me, happiness is conversation. My fondest experiences and sweetest memories are of conversations. In the last couple of weeks, I have had a handful of conversations that have been absolutely amazing. Conversations that I will never ever forget. Conversations that will stick with me forever. I can’t wait to tell you all about them. And I will. Tomorrow.

So, there you have it. My many commitments. And as I write these final words, bringing this post to a not-so-tidy close, I wonder whether it is possible to be truly committed to all of these things? Whether each of us has a limited commitment capacity? Whether we spread ourselves and our attention and affection thin by saying I do to too many people and too many things?

(Told you I was a Question Person.)

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At this point in your life, to whom and to what are you committed? Are you crazy committed like I am? How do you define and recognize commitment? Are you a Question Person or an Answer Person? Have you read Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book? Would you like to? If so, please leave a comment here before 11pm EST tonight 2/10/10 for a chance to win a copy of Committed!

On Friday morning, I boarded my flight to Chicago. Right foot first. Always. It was a big plane. And far from full. Clutching a vast coffee and a stack of tabloids and an orange for later, I made my way to the back. I waited and waited. But no one came. I had my own row. I was thrilled to be alone. To stretch out.

I watched the safety demonstration on the little television that popped out from the ceiling. And when it was our turn, we took off. I put my feet up. I looked out the window. The captain told us facts I didn’t absorb; about the flying conditions, the miles we would travel, the weather at our destination. Politely, he thanked us in advance for our business.

And there, all alone in seat 25C, I felt foolish for having been so worried. About leaving home. About flying. About everything. I told myself it was so silly to worry. That, patently, all would be fine.

But then. The plane started to shake. Hard. And it didn’t stop. When the plane started to tumble around, my mind went rogue, darting straight to the things that mattered. I thought of family. Of the people I love. And need.

And I thought of writing. I thought of that too.

Family. Writing. This is my life.

But mostly, I thought about how scared I was. Truly scared. That those moments might have been my last. And so. Not knowing how to handle my fear, I reached for my laptop. I pried it open. And I began to write, fingers flying, palms sweaty, mind racing, body quaking.

And this is what I wrote. Word for word. I feel strongly about not editing these words.

I think I am having an epiphany. Right here. Right now.

I am in the sky. Enveloped in thick, white clouds. They look pretty. They seem friendly. But they are not so. They are dense and drifting.

They are making me question everything.

A man, the same man, keeps coming on the loudspeaker. The pilot. I have never met this man. And yet I trust him. With my life. With our landing. His voice is gruff. His words, like the clouds, are cruel and choppy. He does not fool around. He makes no promises. He tells us to fasten our seat belts.

A chorus of clicks. People do as told. As if inserting metal into metal will really make a difference.

I sit here. All alone. Impossibly surrounded. A young man across the aisle snores. A little girl in pink dances and waves a croissant. People sip drinks and read books.

But I just sit here. Shaking.

Now that little girl screams. Her mother wrestles with her. Reasons with her. And maybe her ears hurt. And maybe she is scared. Her screams don’t bother me. They make sense to me.

Once upon a time, we were allowed to be scared.

It’s just turbulence, I tell myself as the engine hums because no one else is here to tell me this. It’s just turbulence.

I chide myself for being so scared. This is normal. It will pass. There will be smooth skies. This shaking will stop.

But right now? This doesn’t feel normal. This doesn’t feel okay. Reason and statistics mean nothing. Right here. Right now. I am scared to death.

That means something.

Life is a flight. We are on it together. We are in it alone.

We do not know when we will land. Or how.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when life’s skies shake us and stir us. We should allow ourselves to be scared when the blue fades and whiteness washes over us. When everything seems to be giving way to nothing.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when we feel scared.

I am going to start now.

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Wow. Reading this now, these words seem so, well, dramatic. And they are. Reading this now, it is hard for me to remember, to grasp, the fear that gripped me just a few days ago. But it did grip me.

The good news is that the vast vast majority of the time, I am not scared. Not like this at least.

But some of the time, I am.

I am scared of change. I am scared of standing still. I am scared of cancer. I am scared of death. I am scared of failure. I am scared of success. I am scared of aging. I am scared of being a bad parent. I am scared of closing doors. I am scared of rough skies. I am scared of being forgotten. I am scared of being scared.

I am scared of the unknown. I am scared of the known.

I am scared of many things.

It is okay to be scared. It is human to be scared.

I might have been all alone in Row 25 of that one plane, but I am not alone in this. We are all scared. (Yes, even you.)

But living in this world, I often get the sense that it is not okay to be scared. In this world, we are taught from a young age to banish our fears, to put up a front, to hold it together, to stifle our screams.

I just realized something. Just now. Something I’ve been doing (or not doing) without really realizing it. When Toddler cries and tells me she is scared of something, I don’t tell her that there is nothing to be scared of. No. Instead, I say something a bit different. I tell her that I understand that she is scared, that I know what it feels like, and that she is okay. It’s a small change to the parental script from which so many of us unconsciously read. A nuance I’m sure she doesn’t notice, but one I do. Now.

Ultimately, it might not be okay to be scared in this big, bad world. But here? In this odd little corner? On this odd little blog? Here, it is okay for me to be scared. Here, it is okay for me to explore the landscape of my fear. And so I will. Here, I will not apologize for being scared of the dark. And of the light. Of little things. And big. Of a hovering and happy past, of the inscrutable skies of present moment. Of my bright and beckoning future.

Here’s what I think: Life is turbulent. And I will ride it out because I, like you, have no choice. Because, at bottom, it’s a privilege to take this flight. But I refuse to pretend that the rough spots don’t exist.

Because they do.

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What are you scared of? Do you find yourself stifling your own fears or denying they exist? Do you think women are permitted to display their fears more than men are? Do you think that we bloggers blog (and we writers write, etc) because in so doing we forge a safe space in which we can explore – and affirm – our own fears, and flaws, and hopes, and dreams? How do you handle literal and metaphorical turbulence?

Living life entails walking away from things. Each and every one of us has left something or someone behind. Sometimes, these departures are heart-breaking. Sometimes, these departures are liberating. Very often, these departures are more cloudy in character and fall somewhere in between.

How do we know when to walk away? How do we know when it is the right time to leave a lover? A job? A city? A marriage? A belief? We have no glittering crystal ball to tell us when the path is clear and the destination is good. We have no expert to hold a hand and tell us that we will be okay, that we will feel okay. We have no guarantee that we can go back. Can we ever really go back?

Walking away = walking toward. We tend to see the loss before the gain. What if we realized that every time we walked away from something we were walking toward something else? Something different. New. Potentially great. What if we trained our minds to view walking away as evidence of power and agency rather than of weakness and flaws? What if we came to see this forward thrust, however blind, as ownership rather than escape?

When is walking away foolish? It is not always good to walk, to flee, to depart. Often, we walk out of fear or confusion or anger. Often, we walk for the simple breeze of motion, to snap threads of commitment, to live change.

Vernon Howard said, “Our freedom can be measured by the number of things we can walk away from.” Like it or not, we are free beings. More or less. At least in this respect. We are surrounded by things. Things to embrace. Things to hug tight. Things to discard. Things to leave in our evolutionary wake.

One thing is clear: we cannot choose to stand perfectly still. There are things we walk away from without trying – youth, innocence, ignorance.

Knowing what we don’t want is also knowing what we do want. Abandoning is also approaching. Walking away from things – the right things – is also walking toward who we are.

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What have you walked away from in your life? Do you have regrets?

Yesterday, I waxed poetic about literal and metaphorical bologna. In so doing, I assured you (and myself) that the lone package of lunch meat in our big and empty fridge was still good. Not good as in gastronomically delectable. No. Good as in it had not yet expired. Leave it to me to take this little mundane fact and run with it. The tiny black numbers indicating the freshness of my floppy meat got me thinking about something much bigger. (Shocker.)

Expiration dates.

It occurs to me that everything has an expiration date. Nothing lasts forever. No, I am not just talking about the edible items in our refrigerators. I am talking about everything. Nothing is immortal.

Calm down. I am not going to remind you of your lingering mortality. (Ooops. Just did.) My tiny agenda here is to talk about something else.

Childhood.

When does childhood expire? Is it a fixed date, an objective developmental milestone we all reach at the same chronological point like turning eighteen or twenty-one? Do we become adults when we leave home or get married or have a baby or lose a parent? Does childhood expire at different points for each of us depending on the idiosyncratic trajectories of our individual lives?

Here’s my theory: Childhood expires over and over. In fits and starts. Or a bit more gradually. Personally, my childhood expired when I moved my things into a New Haven dorm room on a September day in 1996. And then when I had my first apartment. And when I said “Yes” and then “I Do.” And then when I signed a birth certificate. And then when my Dad got sick. And left us. In each and every one of these moments, I said to myself: Whoa. I am not a kid anymore.

And then there are the much smaller moments. Like, say, being flanked by two tiny girls who giggle and shred bologna it into tiny pieces of confetti which they then rain down on their Mommy. In these moments, even when I get silly (oh and I do), even when I join that chorus of giggles (oh and I do), I say to myself: These creatures are mine. I am responsible for their lives. I am not a kid anymore.

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When do you think childhood expires? Was there a particular day (or days) in your life where you were forced to grow up, when you realized with clarity that you weren’t a kid anymore? Do you think childhood expires at different points for each of us? Are there never clear demarcations between youth and maturity? Do you think this is a matter of subjectivity, that we are as young as we feel or is there an objective aspect to all this?

I am not a Resolutions Girl. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t like setting myself up for failure. There is plenty of failure in every day and I don’t need to add extra. Maybe it’s because I like to be a wee bit different. The masses are making – and breaking – resolutions as I type this. Maybe it’s because I think it’s a bit arbitrary – and foolish – to choose to alter the essence of who we are, and what we eat, and what we look like, and what our closets look like, on the stroke of midnight on one winter night.

I don’t know.

But I do like New Year’s Day. I do. In part, in large part, because it is the day I became a mother. Yes, three years and six days ago, I welcomed Toddler on a bizarrely balmy day. And as they say, the rest was history. I was changed on that day. Meaning and purpose and humility and happiness filled me that day. (Stay tuned for my belated birthday letter to my big girl tomorrow. It might make you cry because just thinking about this letter makes me cry. And I am not a crier.)

I might not adore resolutions, but I do like fresh starts. I like the idea of change. I like the idea that we can make vows to ourselves to get better at things. I like freshness, novelty, seeds. I like starts, beginnings, first pages. And you know what? Each year is a fresh start.

And so.

I am six days into this fresh start. And you know what? I don’t feel very fresh. I don’t sense the beckoning of a blank slate. Things kind of feel the same. I sit here at my oversized and predictable Pottery Barn desk. I stare blankly and boldly into a screen that has become my partner in crime. In a fit of 2009-style abstraction, I scan my surroundings. My loyal distractions. The trappings of Me.

The rainbow of highlighters clustered in an old flower vase. The navy leather letter box that Husband gave me on our first anniversary chock full of thank-you notes I can’t bring myself to write. The lonely bottle of unopened wine. Slim. Upstanding. Proud. Sporting a black label and a meaningful name: The Novelist. A treasured gift from Grammy and Dad-Dad, bequeathed when I signed my book deal. There are pictures of my girls at various stages. Newborn. Spry pigtails. My favorite: One of Toddler holding her week-old tiny doll of a sister. They are both smiling. I swear.

Next to a small stack of books are two small rocks. Each has a single word engraved on it.

One says wisdom.

One says luck.

I sit here. Alone. I stare out the window. At the city I love like a sister. The city that raised me along with Mom and Dad. A city that continues to raise me. I stare out. At a new year. A brand new year. Ideas come haltingly. And when they do, my eyes drop to the screen and my fingers dance across keys. And words appear. Black on white. One after another.

Words.

Words that are mine. From me. From the recesses of my mind. From the folds of my life. From the depths of my dreams.

Words that are yours. Because they are for you. And you see them. Then swallow them. Because you understand them. Alone and in combination. It is through these words, clumsy and ripe, that I tell my story here and see my life out there and find you wherever it is you are.

Words are bridges. Windows. Pillows. Drugs. Homes. Air. Energy. Clouds. Stars.

Words are everything.

In between words, I pick up my stones. I turn them over in my morning hands. I smile a smile no one will see.  I smile because I didn’t choose these stones. They were gifts from Santa. Stocking stuffers from latter day. But I smile now because I have held on to them all these years. Without knowing why. And now. Now these words mean something. Wisdom. Luck. I am here, in this very spot, in this very moment because of some glorious combination of these two things.

These are good words.

And so, almost a week into this shiny new year, I am here, in my own tiny corner of the world, thinking of words. Not long ago, a friend asked me what my words for 2010 were. And I thought about it a little. And then I answered. Like she did, I picked three words that tied together to form a tiny poem.

Hers was Pure Love Innovates.

Mine was Whatever Happens Rocks.

Whatever? Happens? Rocks? Goodness, Aidan. Those are your words? Of all the wonderful words in the world?

Yes. Those are mine.

Whatever. I used to say this word all the time. I associate it with my youth. With a sillier time. Once upon a time, before bellies and babies and books, I had a little (pretentious) punk in me. A little (faux) freshness. When faced with confusion or disappointment or insecurity, I would utter this one word. Often under my breath. To myself. “Whatever.” When I said this word, I felt an immediate punch of power. The world could – and would – shift about me and sometimes cruelly, but my reaction was up to me. I was judge.

Happens. This year things are going to happen. We are moving to a brand new home. And moving might be a tremendous headache. But this is the home in which we will raise our family. Memories will be lived and logged there. And my first book is being published in just a few months. And it might be a dismal failure. It might be. But it will sit on bookshelves at Barnes & Noble. My book. There is immense victory in mere happening. In not standing still.

Rocks. I love this word. As a verb, it’s a favorite of mine. It is a fun word. Unpretentious. Young. A bit rebellious. And as a noun? Rocks are sturdy and strong and natural. We all want to be rocks. We all need rocks in our lives.

And I have two.

They are next to me now. Wisdom and Luck. I look at them and can’t help but smile again. These are my Whatever Happens rocks. Trinkets to hold on to. When I am at a loss for words. When I am full of words. And when I am somewhere in between. I will grip them tightly until May 18th. The day we move into our new home if all goes well. The day my book comes out no matter what. The day I will finally crack open that gorgeous bottle of wine that watches me now as I scramble for words and pretend at wisdom and wish myself luck while rubbing my silly little Santa stones.

Whatever Happens Rocks.

Who would we be without our words?

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Have you made any resolutions this year? If so, what are they? Like Danielle, I will bounce that proverbial ball into your cyber-court and ask: What are your words for this new year? At a minimum, type your three words for 2010 before 11pm EST today (1/7/10) and give yourself the chance to win Gretchen Rubin’s #2 New York Times Bestseller THE HAPPINESS PROJECT. Yesterday’s lucky winner was…Allison!