I am addicted to HGTV.

I am drawn to the renewal, the newness, the hope promised by each show, whether the program is about a complete bathroom redo, a couple finding a new home (in Paraguay!), or the transformation of a drab house façade into a spectacular one.  The message is clear, and it is optimistic: things could always be better, and we can help you make it so.

But isn’t this message of hope, when you turn it on its head, also one of dissatisfaction?  You see, with these lovely HGTV images in my head as I move through my house, I am constantly aware of the ways in which my home doesn’t measure up – the piece of furniture on its last legs, the paint color that isn’t quite right, the window coverings that don’t match our bed linens.  Even small things annoy me – the photo or wall art out of alignment, the coaster left out of its case, the spot of leaf or mud on the floor.

So these whispers of “this isn’t it” and “it’s not quite right” that are always tugging at the edge of my consciousness, while hinting at the possibility of renewal, are also a constant reminder that my house, as it is now, is not good enough.  My home thus feels, to borrow a phrase from C.S. Lewis, “permanently provisional.”  There is always more to be done and additional improvements to be made, before I can fully embrace my home and put my energy into living and entertaining in it, rather than fixing or improving it.  This – the state of my home now – isn’t it.

If I am honest, I should note that I also, at times, live my larger life in this permanently provisional space.  I think many of us do.  We hold back from doing the next thing – going back to school, training or interviewing for a new job, entering fully into a relationship – until it feels right, until we lose weight, until we make enough money.  Sadly, many of us spend our entire lives waiting until the moment is right and the way is clear, “stringing and unstringing [our] instruments,” as Tagore writes, “while the song [we] came to sing remains unsung.”  We wait for all the obstacles to be overcome, to be good enough, so that we can start our real life.

New flash.  The obstacles are our real life.

My maternal grandmother lived through the depression, the tragic early death of her first-born child and two world wars.  Her early life was very hard.  She could have given up, waited for things to get better, to be just so, before she really committed to living and growing.

But throughout her life my grandmother greeted every day with the attitude of the opening line of her favorite poem (by Kalidasa): “Look to this day: for it is life, the very life of life,” and she lived each of her days to the fullest, hardship and all.  My grandmother saw very clearly that life doesn’t start on the day all your obstacles are overcome; quite the contrary, any life worth living is lived in and among these obstacles.

So my quest for the perfect home is an illusion, isn’t it?  I will never come to a place where every little thing in my house is ideal, where my home feels good enough.  There will always be some knick-knack out of place, some wall or window covering that is not quite the right color, or some piece of furniture sorely in need of replacement.

And so it is with my larger life.  If I wait for everything – my bank account, my relationship, my body – to be perfect, in order to start my real life, I will truly miss its unfolding.  I don’t have to, nor should I, wait to be stronger, wiser or richer in order to truly live.  This, where I am right now, is my life.  This is it. I am good enough.

As the exceptionally wise philosopher and poet, Dr. Suess, notes:

“Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite,
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil or a better break
or a string of pearls or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls or another chance.
Everyone is just waiting.”

What are you waiting for?

Don’t put off your life.  This is it.  Start now, and go big.

Doing anything for the first time can be scary.  Whether we are starting a new job, entering a new school, changing a habit that’s not working for us, or just trying to think differently about a problem, we often feel uncomfortable with the idea of change, and doubtful of our ability to succeed at something new.  Not surprisingly, with all that anxious doubting running through our heads, we often feel like just doing things the same way rather than taking the risk of trying something new.

This is my first blog post.

This is not a monumental first.  This is a small, relatively unimportant, first effort that will perhaps only be read by a few people (mostly people who love me and won’t tell me if it’s terrible!).  And yet I am petrified I will screw it up somehow.  The voice in my head goes something like this: . . . Will I be able to do this new thing? Will I do it well?  And what if I am not successful?  Will people think less of me, laugh at me?

When I was 8 years old, I was captivated by a young athlete from the other side of the world as she attempted many firsts in the spotlight of international competition.  Like many other young girls in the United States in the summer of 1972, I watched with anticipation and delight as 17-year-old Olga Korbut, a Belarusian gymnast competing for the USSR, took the gymnastics world by storm at the summer Olympic games.

Relatively unknown to the international gymnastics community, and looked upon with skepticism for her youth and technical athleticism (both new to women’s gymnastics), by the end of the competition Korbut had introduced two moves never before attempted by a gymnast, won four gold medals and changed the sport of women’s gymnastics forever.  Like so many other girls watching those games, I longed to be Korbut, to take the risks she took, to do these new things.  And, yes, to win those gold medals.

Problem was, I had never taken a gymnastics class, and didn’t know if I was capable of completing even the most rudimentary of tumbling moves. I was a good student, as were many in my family before me. I was involved in theater, as were my parents. But no one in my family was an athlete. In fact, no one in my family even exercised for health reasons – ran, took walks, rode a bike. This would be a big first for me and, to my mind, a big risk. And so, yes, the anxious voice in my head was quite loud:  Will I be able to do this new thing?  Will I do it well?  And what if I am not successful?  Will people think less of me, laugh at me?

Turns out, I actually wasn’t all that great at gymnastics, not just my first time out, but again and again. And that was hard for me. I was used to doing things well, and I really had to work at this new endeavor. But I stayed with it, eventually moving from a beginner tumbling class to a real gymnastics facility (with all the cool equipment I had seen on television!) and then, finally, to a spot on a local gymnastic team. I eventually even competed, at a very low level, at a state championship. I didn’t do as well at this event as most of my teammates, but I earned a few medals and felt good about my performance.

Looking back, what has become most important to me about my time as a gymnast is not the more obvious achievement, those few medals, but the rather considerable effort it took for me to earn them. While I had watched other girls on my team master new moves easily, I had really needed to work hard to learn a new routine, to improve my strength, to get up the courage to try something new. All of this struggle gave me an early lesson in both humility and tenacity, in how to work hard at something without necessarily always experiencing the satisfaction of success. And it encouraged me to be braver about trying new things, doing new activities for the first time.

Now, as I write my first blog post, and as many of those same anxious doubts continue to run through my head, my memories of gymnastics – the fear, the struggle, the life lessons – remind me that it is not by any achievement in this new thing that I should measure my worth, but by my brave determination to try something at which I am not sure I will succeed, to do a new thing without knowing how the experience will turn out.

So here I go. And here you go along with me.

Be kind. This is a first for me, and I am still terribly worried I will screw it up!