At the end of every day.

At the end of every day I live my life alone. Regardless of who may be within these walls, I face myself alone.

Alone with my joy. Alone with my sorrow. Alone with my triumphs. Alone with my mistakes. At the end of every day I only have myself to sleep with. Peacefully or restlessly. When all the people and things that have filled my day are lost in sleep, I am left with myself. When I’ve laid aside their hopes and dreams, I’m left looking at  my own. Squarely in the face. With no interruption. No masking. No distraction.

At the end of every day, what do I see? How do I cope with myself once all the other coping is finally tucked into bed? Am I proud? Am I content? Am I filled with joy and peace? At the end of every day I live my life alone. I face the realities my own life alone. I can’t live squandering it. And still know I’ve lived.

“I want to make changes. Not let change happen around me.”

I read that comment this week, and it rocked me. I write a lot about change, it seems. I guess it comes from being in an intense season of change over the last year. That whirlwind can sometimes blur your vision where change (and everything else) is concerned. So the comment rocked me. It stopped me and made me re-examine the subject.

It’s one thing to accept change. Even to want it. It’s quite another to make it.

So often we look at change as this ethereal force happening all around us that we are left to compensate for, overlook, grab hold and ride, or be blown away by. Take your pick of one of those positions; the navigation is the same. It’s out of our control. Some unknown and seemingly rampant tide is in charge, pulling us along for the ride. And we are relegated to letting it happen.

I haven’t written about courage (my 2010-11 theme word) in several months, but I think the decision to”make change” certainly requires it. To reject the mentality that change is out of our hands and firmly take the reins of responsibility ourselves takes courage. (Why does a rodeo bull-riding metaphor come to mind?)

It takes courage.

The courage to imagine something new and different — to see it.
The courage to see it as possible.
The courage to see ourselves as worthy of this new possibility.
The courage to recognize our own value.
And our own values.
The courage to ask questions.
To take stands.
To dare to be bold. Even brazen in our pursuit of that possibility we see.
And the courage to move and step and act and speak.

Just as “making change” in the mundane sense is exchanging currency like dollars for coins, to make change in broader strokes requires a more prominent exchange. We exchange this direction for that one — the one that more closely aligns with the destination (and journey) our souls require. We exchange someone else’s priorities for our own — the ones we own in that secret place that comes alive in our hearts when we know we are where we need to be. We exchange the superfluous for the necessary — that list of essentials representing the lowest common denominator for our unique life of joy. We exchange the ever-abstract big picture for exquisite details — those nitty-gritty, real-world specifics that characterize the life we MUST have each and every day.

Those exchanges can never happen by chance in the billowing tide of an ethereal “wind of change.” No, those exchanges only happen with intention, with choosing, with moving and acting. With making change.

And that takes courage.

Today marks my two-year anniversary as a blogger. What a journey! This week, I’ve been thinking about the EyeJunkie adventure as it relates to my 2010 theme word, courage. Over the last few months, several friends and commenters on the site have made reference to openness and the courage required to express thoughts so transparently in this particular medium. Can you say world wide web? Emphasis on world. While I don’t necessarily see myself as courageous (hence the year-long posting pursuit), I do recognize that sharing one’s thoughts and life in any authentic way with the internet is not for the timid. It’s intimidating. It’s scary. And, yes, I think it can be a little presumptuous. I mean, what do you care, right?

I’ve actually been amazed by how much you care. By how much credence you’ve given to my sometimes haphazard thoughts. I know my own time constraints and schedule, and I’ve been amazed at how ready you’ve been to carve out however brief a space in yours for this blog. I’ve been honored by the comments–both here and on Facebook and Twitter. I’ve been inspired by how many of you have taken the time to send me a personal email about something you’ve read or seen here.

Still, courage? Contemplating whatever courage might be required to enter the blogosphere and the daunting task of interjecting my voice into the fray has me thinking about the reason I started this “thing” in the first place. And, the reason behind the reason I’ve realized since.

I had been contemplating this adventure for some time before I actually began. I’ve always enjoyed writing and journaling. This particular medium seemed (from an observer’s position) to be the perfect combination of both. I was pregnant with Baby Girl at the time and swimming in a sea of toddler antics, dirty diapers and waning second trimester stamina. I was immersed in the usual schedule of home-making and nursery preparations. I was keeping my head above water with a healthy design schedule at my day job. And, I was realizing that, for the first time in my life, I had virtually abandoned any personal creative pursuit.

For those of you who haven’t read all the fine print, my day job is with an advertising agency where I am a graphic designer. So, I use my creativity for a living. However, I’ve always somehow needed an outlet for exploring ideas in a more personal way. Whether through painting or poetry or book-making, expressing myself–usually through some combination of words and pictures–has always fueled energy and creativity in other areas of my life.

It began to dawn on me as I made it through the considerable energy drain of a third pregnancy paired with two toddlers that my children didn’t yet know that creative person, that writer, that painter, that maker of things. Somehow through complacency or busyness or sheer exhaustion, I had forsaken those pursuits. Then, I began to notice this odd on-line medium called blogging. I began to see this type of outlet as a way to incorporate those creative tendencies back into my life without the less than kid-friendly materials and space required for something like the watercolor painting or collage I was prone to. In early 2005, my parents gifted me with an exquisite little MacBook named Kermit. He opened the doors of reality on that little idea that had been germinating. I began brainstorming and making notes and sketches for how a personal blog might actually flesh out. You can read the evolution of “eyeJunkie” and the “adventures in paying attention” theme another time, but suffice it to say that one domain name, a web hosting account, and one WordPress download later, this blog was born.

“Hello, world.” That statement was enough to intimidate me for sure. It was the title of the test post WordPress Dude includes in every download of the application. It chrystalized the nature of this experiment pretty clearly–my words, my voice broadcast to the world for all manner of internet-goers to partake. Yikes.

My voice.

As I plugged along with writing and posting, EyeJunkie certainly filled the creative bill. It helped me accomplish that goal of a creative pursuit. Those readers who have been around for any length of time can attest that I’ve subjected the Junksters to all kinds of experiments and hare-brained ideas–graphics popping up here and there, series starting and fizzling, run-on sentences and fragments abounding. But, something else beyond a basic creative outlet has emerged for me in these two years.

Recently, I was writing some thoughts (something about underwear purchases or chili… don’t even ask) in an email to a friend who commented… “this sounds like an EJ post.” Wait a minute. EyeJunkie posts have a sound. That stuck. The comment made me realize the reason behind the reason that this blogging adventure matters to me. I’ve noticed a voice emerging. Mine. A consistency and willingness to speak. A thoughtful, but emphatic tone. An amalgum of emotion framed in a single sound. The sound of my own voice.

Through the months of blogging, I recognized that I had been in a period of my life for some time when I felt that my voice was being drowned out–perhaps by difficult relationships, distractions and interruptions, the absorption of care-giving and kid-loving, dailyness and just plain busyness. I found that my own voice was hushed and difficult to discern–even to myself–above (or below) the din. Through the act of writing and exposing thoughts to the world regardless of who may or may not be reading, I was finding my voice again. I realized again that I had something to say, and this venue gave me the inclination to say it. To find the courage to speak it. In my own voice.

Is transparency in this world brave? Perhaps. Is writing an authentic blog essay courageous? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve put courage into this body of nonsense as much as it’s put courage into me. Writing an EyeJunkie worthy of your attention has encouraged me to speak. In my own voice. If the question of courage is “where can I find it?”, for sure I’ve found at least a little within this cyber space. Thank you for listening to that process.

Yesterday was an interesting day. I was watching moon shine.

I was actually watching someone watch others in their difficult hours. But it’s sort of like watching moon shine. I’ve been observing and listening to the reactions of a friend who’s been challenged by the troubles of others. It’s an interesting third-party perspective–one that has opened my eyes a bit to the nature of shining.

For those engaged and entwined with the world around them–the people around them–there is an inherent risk. That risk is the inevitable reality of being touched by that world, by those people. The reality is being affected by what rocks that world or what disturbs the peace in those people. I’ve called it the downside of investing in others. It makes you vulnerable to the acute impact of ups and downs. It’s a by-product of giving yourself, your time, your energy. That reality is the true cost of paying attention. And it’s hard to take sometimes. It’s risky. It makes us vulnerable. It renders us helpless in times when we most want to make an impact. Yet, it offers us the greatest opportunity to shine.

Earlier in the week I was driving home and in a bit of a funk. I was frustrated by various situations and taking it out on the steering wheel. Dusk had just slipped by, and the full impact of the darkness had taken control. I had experienced a minor and temporary disappointment, which turned the actual dark of night into a metaphorical darkness of spirit as well. As I made that typical right turn on to Hwy 12, I saw the moon (at the risk of repeating myself). Hanging there in a brief visual respite from the signage and neon found between Taco Bell and the junction at Lousiville Street, that “ruler” of the night was completely full. It was a perfect circumference of light in a sea of cloudless midnight blue. Stunningly bright. Even in the presence of street lights and neon signs and car high beams, it was outstanding.

That full moon simply invaded the night of my mood at that moment. I could not escape the fact of how noticeable it was. I could not escape the fact that I wouldn’t have noticed it at all during the day time. I wouldn’t have noticed it without the pervasive darkness surrounding it. But, thanks to the night, I could see moon shine.

Yesterday was an interesting day. It was an enlightening day. There is a brightness of spirit sometimes found in people that can be quite rare. It shows up as an ability to offer light, peace, hope, or companionship in dark situations. It shines in the ability to be moved by the pain of others–to be moved to simple action. A phone call. A visit. A word to enstill courage. A tear on behalf of another. A shared sorrow. A renewed perspective. A bolstered possibility. I was a third-party to it in observing my friend. A hidden witness to that circumference of light standing in contrast to the night. In being privy to the darkness, I saw moon shine.

It inspired me.

It reminded me of some lessons on the nature of dark and light from last July. A portion of them bears repeating here, in “light” of yesterday’s witness to moon shine:

“Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained…. the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.”

I aspire to that light. To that kind of shining.

I spotted this guy in my backyard this week. I glanced out the back door as I was walking through the kitchen, and I could see him clear across the lawn even though it was cloudy and just before twilight. It’s hard to miss that red in the sea of gray and evergreen at the back fence. It was like he was screaming at me; his presence was so vibrant. But, he wasn’t shouting. He was perfectly silent, and his only movements were those slight fluffing of feathers and jittery turns of the neck birds do.

His color was so bright that I wanted to get a picture. I grabbed my camera, slowly opened the back door and eased out onto the back steps. I took my zoom lens as far as it would go to capture him, which probably accounts for the slight blur in the photo. When I realized I couldn’t focus as well as I wanted to, I decided to try to get a little closer. Sure enough, as soon as I made a move down the steps toward the patio, he’d had enough. Off he flew, and the moment was gone.

I’m tempted to say this bird is a sign of Spring, but he’s not. He’s actually a sign of Winter. The cardinals have been spent the entire Winter with us like they do every year. I suppose Starkville, MS offers just the right blend of mild Winter weather to make it a good “snowbird” locale for the red birds. This one’s plump physique is an advertisement for the luxury accomodations available in our particular yard with the berries, the evergreen trees, the vinca groundcover and the tall bird feeder we try to protect from overzealous (and very acrobatic) squirrels. The only drawbacks in our bird paradise are the rowdy boys that sometimes populate the backyard as well. Still, we usually have two or three cardinal families– brilliant red males and duller brown females–that hang around throughout the year, and we’ll probably get to watch them teach their babies to fly this Spring.

It’s an odd phenomenon–how much more I seem to notice the cardinals during Winter, even this time of year, than later in Spring or Summer when they are more prolific. I suppose it’s the sheer contrast of their color and movement against the seeming monotony and stillness of the Winter landscape. As Spring gains prominence, their bright red becomes just one component of a rainbow of other saturated colors–greens, reds, yellows, blue skies. Their flight gets lost in the cacophony of other activities going on outdoors. It’s interesting how much more easily we recognize things when they are sparse, how much more significant to us they become when we aren’t saturated. When we feel deprived of something, we tend to recognize its value more poignantly. Its presence gains power, perhaps because scarcity tends to focus our attention

It’s Saturday, and I’m usually totally immersed in a flood of laundry and housework and catching up. But, I’ve been thinking about this little cardinal all week. His vibrance. His stunning addition to our backyard in that one moment. His power to capture my attention so completely. I hope I can live by the “cardinal” rules today, recognizing and giving attention to those things and people that matter to me, even on the days when their presence is crowded by so many daily occurences. I don’t want to notice them only when I’m lonely for their prominence.