Reminders for Living
Morning coffee in my Montmartre apartment
photo: Rose Cameron
It’s 8:00 am on a Wednesday, and I am drinking coffee in a cozy apartment in Montmartre, Paris. A light rain against the window encourages me to keep this dainty porcelain cup full and linger. I have fresh eggs, cheese, and a ripe melon for breakfast. I'll shower and stretch. I want to talk to my mom and sister today; it is Wednesday after all. I am at peace, resisting nothing, reminded how everything comes with ease when I lean into it. I have nowhere I need to be, which is one of my favorite things in the world. I hear neighbors making breakfast, showering, and clicking locks as they head out to work. I feel the automation of the day begin, and I want to stop everyone as they head out the door, coffee cups in hand, newspapers tucked under jacket-clad arms. I want to peer into their hurried faces and ask:
Do you know your time is limited?
Do you know you can change your life completely at almost any time?
Do you know you don’t have to live a conventional life?
Do you remember what makes you really happy?
I ask because I forgot somewhere along the way, making everyone else happy, checking off to-do lists, paying mortgages, writing holiday cards, getting the oil changed, making it to the gym, and answering 200 emails before lunch. I forgot what music I liked, how much I love to dance, the movies I loved, and that I enjoy wearing colors even though black and white are easier to match. I forgot that I love silly girly things and how fun it is to embrace that side. I forgot I didn't have to be tough all the time to keep myself safe. I forgot how good being loved feels when you don’t have to keep yourself guarded. I forgot that it’s not my job to make others happy, ensure everyone gets along, and manage crises everywhere, all the time. I completely forgot my only job is to live my life authentically and fulfill my potential.
I heard a quote from author Elizabeth Gilbert yesterday that resonated with me. Whenever I was asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, my natural answer was to live my life to the fullest. That is sadly not on the list of careers at college orientation, so into Undecided Major I went until I found sociology, then stumbled into economics and wound up with two degrees, a minor in business, a job in finance, a high-paying career, my own successful business, and a handful of executive-level jobs. Yet, I still wanted to live my life for a living. Everyone asks what you want to be, not who you want to be. They ask how much you want to make, not how you want your day to go.
“A creative life is any life where your decisions are routinely based more strongly on your curiosity than your fear. Every single day, in all realms of your life. And then your life itself will become a work of art, and it doesn't matter what you make or produce or leave or influence. You will create a life that will be really interesting for you, which is the person you want to keep most entertained.” — Elizabeth Gilbert
I am often asked if I am as happy as I look these days. While life isn’t always perfect, I am deeply joyful. My happiness often spills over the brim of my cup, and I don't even bother trying to save it or wipe it up. I stopped worrying about my joy being a limited resource that I needed to hoard and measure out carefully, fearing it would run dry. I let it overflow; I let strangers have it for no reason, leaving it in my wake. The challenges I face in life are no longer the stressful struggles they used to be. Now it’s more like a week with no hot water, an excessive travel delay, unexpected food poisoning, or a feeling of discomfort that arises, showing me I need to work on something inside. Sometimes things chafe—I want right and life goes left, and I have to think about why I am pulling so hard for my way. Does my way matter? What does yielding look like? Is it my ego? Is it fair? Do I lose anything by pausing? There's room to grow, but growth brings happiness as well.
The other night in Ghent, Belgium, I was making dinner when one of the guys remarked that my cooking was another art of mine. And it is—all of it is art. My paintings, cooking, photography, writing, the time I spend, the way I spend it, the deliberate care, the observation, even the silly Instagram posts. I want to make sure you notice how lavender gets so close to lemon yellow in a sunset and never muddles into brown. I don’t want you to miss how the inside of a wildflower looks like fractals. I want to hold your hand and slow you down just enough so you hear how silly the birds sound yelling back and forth as the sun rises, echoing through the buildings. I want you to see how that alley cat has a dark fur question mark on his back as he slinks around the corner. My net worth is more than my bank account; it’s the treasures I have tucked in my pockets—little rocks shaped like hearts, a smooth piece of beach glass, an enamel pin I found on my seat the day I met you, a little napkin note that says, “I love you.”
Don’t be in such a hurry. Don’t let it pass you by.
