“Hi, I’m Yurit,” said the tall lanky man, “…like you’re it.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, studying his wisps of blonde hair and trying to guess the origins of his European accent.

“Have you had a lesson before?” he said.

“No, this is my first one,”  I said.

“Oh, well, it’s a nice day,” said Yurit. “Why don’t you go over there and find a wetsuit and lifejacket.”

He was already dressed in a slightly beat up pair of waterproof yellow pants and windbreaker.

It was my first sailing lesson in at least 25 years. I had decided it was time to stop dreaming about being on the water every time I drove alongside the bay and just do it. I had started sailing when I was 10 or 11 and continued until sometime in high school. I had loved the feeling of being on the open water, the fun of controlling a little boat, and the magnificent views of the bay. Eventually I got too busy to sail much and the last time I remember taking my boat out was to give my boyfriend, now husband, a ride. He was nervous, not being a water person, and the boat was pretty tiny and prone to tipping. After that I moved to Chicago for several years and my sailing career was put on a long hold.

I went to the storeroom to find a wetsuit. As a kid I had never worn a wetsuit. Kids don’t get cold easily. However, it appeared that all the adults at this club wore wetsuits. I had no idea which was my size and I must have picked a child’s version. I could barely get it on. Once on, I could barely breath. This must be wrong, I thought, and I spent a panicky 5 minutes trying to peel the thing off. It probably didn’t help that I had forgotten to bring a bathing suit and was trying to wear the wetsuit over my clothes. I’ll have to remember that next time, I thought. I went back to the rack and found a slightly bigger suit.

“Are you OK in there,” called Yurit.

“Yes, I got the wrong size wetsuit but I’m doing better now,” I said, feeling like I was possibly failing before I ever got onto the water.

When I finally came out of the changing room, there was another student waiting, a young guy with fashionable sunglasses and a serious demeanor. We introduced ourselves (his name was Ryan) and I made a joke about how getting the wetsuit on was probably the hardest part of sailing. Ryan didn’t smile. I guess he was serious about this class.

We stood in the boatyard for a few minutes while Yurit led us through the steps of checking the boat rigging and using the hoist to drop the boat in the water. At some point, I asked Yurit where he was from and he said, “Holland, the United States of Europe.” I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant (was that a joke about Holland being similar to the U.S.?) but I could see that his native land had endowed him with a precise and detailed way of explaining things.

Once we had the boat in the water, we climbed aboard gingerly, so as not to capsize the boat or fall into the water ourselves, and Yurit hoisted the sail, lowered the rudder and sailed us away from the dock.

I was almost giddy with excitement. It was a warm September day, with a gentle breeze and few waves. It was a perfect day for my first lesson. My heart felt so full as I took in the view of the Berkeley hills, fascinated by how different the city looks from the water than from land. Somehow the hills looked so much bigger, dwarfing the buildings. The city looked like a small model, each landmark like a child’s toy–there was the Campanile, tall and white, and over there was the Claremont Hotel, stretching out grandly. I recalled sailing as a child in a little cove between Tiburon and Belvedere and seeing the houses hanging off hillsides. There were huge old houses, summer homes from another century, each one different and unique. I never got tired of looking at that view and the view of the water sparkling out toward the San Francisco skyline. Time stands still when you are on the water, as you enter a different space. Even as a child I could appreciate the slowing down of time and the chance to look at things from a different perspective. Certainly I wasn’t unique though. I think most children enjoy taking things slowly, living in the moment. It’s adults who have more trouble separating from busyness.

As our boat cut through the water, Yurit kept up an almost incessant dialogue of questions and explanations: How can you tell where the wind is coming from? How can you slow down your boat? What is tacking? Do you know the different between tacking and jibing? I was really only half paying attention to all the words. I just wanted him to stop talking for a while. I thought, it’s so beautiful out here. Why are you ruining it with all this talk? In my memories I remembered sailing being quiet, just the sound of waves and the pleasure of taking in the scenery. Then I remembered, oh, right, this is a lesson after all. I guess he is supposed to be teaching us stuff.  I remembered back to my childhood lessons and realized that there had been a lot of instruction involved. There were hours on the dock spent learning how to rig the boats, tie knots and memorize sailing terms. There were some dramatic moments too, like the time I forgot to put the plug in the my boat and almost sank. And there was also plenty of social navigation, as sailing with a friend or teacher involves good communication and teamwork. Somehow, though, I had mostly remembered the peaceful solitary moments. Maybe I had reduced the experience to just this one aspect. How often do we do that with experiences in our lives? We just remember one part of it strongly but forgot the other really valuable lessons we learn.

That day our little group of three spent more than an hour on the water, Ryan and I both piloting the boat, getting the feel for the tiller and the sail, Yurit continuing to give us tips, terms and facts. We practiced tacking and Yurit instructed us to say, “Ready to tack” and then “Helm’s allee” as we tacked and “ready to jibe and jibe ho.” Since I had only sailed solo before I had never had to give instructions to a crew. This “helm’s allee” and “jibe ho” business seemed sort of silly to me. I wondered if Yurit had a dry sense of humor and was trying to humor us. “Do people actually say these things? I asked. Oh, yes, yes,” he said with a smile. “Those are real terms. Sailors use all kinds of old-fashioned sailing words.”

By the end of that first lesson, I was happy to be back on the water. I realized that re-learning these skills would take a little more work than I thought. I also realized that sailing was going to have even more to offer than I remembered or expected and I was thankful for that.

A few days later, I took a second lesson. This time I paid close attention to all the instructions, kept my eyes on the boat, asked questions. I looked wisftully at the view a few times, but realized this part of the experience would come later.

Lately I’ve been playing cards and board games with my husband after dinner. It’s a nice way to spend the evening. It feels like a throwback to earlier, more simple times. Instead of retiring in front of the TV or computer, we sit at the kitchen table and deal out the cards.

Our game of choice has been Rummikub, a spinoff of Gin Rummy, but tonight we are going to play Spite and Malice. My husband’s aunt Mila taught us Spite and Malice and every time we play we think of her. Unlike the name of the game we learned from her, Mila was free of malice. In fact, she was one of the kindest and calmest people I’ve ever met. She was a librarian with the Bakersfield Library and loved books, crossword puzzles and her cats. She and her husband Mike lived in a ‘50s modernist house with a pool that must have been quite stylish when it was built. Mike was a geologist and he left behind a collection of polished rocks and model ships. We inherited his rock collection and one night not long ago I sorted it by color and stacked the rocks by layers of color into a glass cylinder. Sorting through those rocks was a zen-like experience. As I held each rock I felt its weight in my hand and I examined its color and put it in a pile. I thought of Mike, surveying out in the oil fields of Bakersfield and collecting rocks along the way. He must have spent a lot of time carting home the rocks and polishing them.

Like sorting rocks, playing cards is a zen-like experience. You focus on the here and now, what’s right in front of you. You don’t think about tomorrow’s plans or yesterday’s disappointments. You focus in on the cards at hand and it feels freeing. I think everyone needs a few activities in their day like this. For some it may be gardening; for others music or painting or writing. Other people play online games like Farmville, maybe for the same effect. Maybe tomorrow my husband and I will start a game of Scrabble and get lost in words.

Every day she walked past it, propped on an easel in a corner of her living room which she used as her studio. Sometimes it seemed to stare at her from across the house. The large white canvas had sat like that, empty, still, for months. The box of paints and brushes waited quietly under the easel. She used to love those paints and that wide open canvas, taking delight in mixing the colors and blending strokes into beautiful forms. But not anymore. Not with the doubts she entertained. Now the white canvas seemed like a threat. Finally one day, she covered it up with a plaid tablecloth.

When she first started out as an artist she had painted local flowers, almost more like sketches than full paintings. In fact, sometimes there were more weeds than flowers. In reality, they were compositions of California wildflowers, sometimes scraggly ones, against a bit of landscape, a small piece of hillside or a patch of dirt. She favored the hardy California poppies, climbing orange nasturiums and showy Queen Anne’s lace, the native kinds that seemed to grow out of cracks and crevices, even in the dry summer. Growing up among these plants, they felt like part of her nervous system. Many were edible too, a fact some people didn’t know but which made them, for her, even more interesting. After she some time, she threw a dinner party to show her paintings and she sprinkled flowers decoratively into the salad and on top of the chicken. She could still remember the excitement of that “opening” night.

Over time and with more confidence her paintings evolved into a single, robust flower, often a poppy. It was fully open, with soft petals covering the entire large canvas. She began to use bolder reds and oranges, warm colors that felt exotic and reminded her of Morroco or India. Small lines of black detailed the statem and seeds. Sometimes she would add a dewdrop into the fold of a flower, inside of which she would paint a small insect, a seed or sometimes the reflection of tree or cloud. She liked the surprise effect of it. Friends and acquaintances responded to the paintings. Some compared her big flowers to Georgia O’Keefes and her colors to Gaugin’s, which she didn’t mind. She felt all great art is imitation. She sold more than a dozen of her paintings and people began asking for them.

That’s about when things changed, she thought. One night at a dinner party a friend of her husband’s asked about her paintings and what meaning they held. He was convinced they must hold some special message. The conversation turned into a bit of an argument. She told him they had meaning for each person in a different way and each painting was different. He didn’t like that answer and began to question her on her technique, her inspiration, which painters she admired. She recalled Georgia O’Keefe and how angry she had become when people tried to analyze her work. She could sympathize. Secretly, though, she was also flattered. Many people assumed the flowers were only beautiful and held no meaning beyond that. She knew otherwise; but she also knew that explaining what the subjects meant to her, the associations they carried, would automatically limit what they might evoke in another person.

That was three months ago. But could she really blame that conversation on her current state of mind or was it just the natural end of a phase of work? Her friends noticed her unhappiness and encouraged her not to worry about it. She would find her path again soon. Why don’t you try something different for a while, they suggested. One friend sung the praises of her walking group and invited her to join. Another friend started a book group and thought she might enjoy it. None of these things seemed right. She was stuck and her complaints grew louder. Her movements around the house grew quicker and less thoughtful. She lost her ability to concentrate on anything more than the most simple task. She saw white everywhere.  Her white bedsheets reminded her of her canvas. The white streaks of clouds floating by, which she once found fascinating, made her melancholy. One night she woke up in a sweat, dreaming she had been running away from some wild animal and could not find safety. The dream looked like her old paintings, full of poppies blooming on a hillside; at the bottom of the hill was a pile of bones and dead insects. Some mix of fear and then grief blended within her. She was surprised the dream had no color, only black and white. She thought for a moment: Do I dream in color normally? She couldn’t remember.

Her husband gave her the final push: Why don’t you get away for a while? A change of scenery would be good. Before she could doubt this idea for more than five minutes, an old friend called, seemingly coordinated with her husband’s suggestion. Her friend, Laura, was traveling home and had rented a house at Stinson Beach for two days. She’d love some company. Would she like to come? With no excuse left, she decided to go.

Driving the windy road over the mountain to the beach, she already felt some relief. She could finally escape the white canvas. The wispy clouds over the tops of the Redwood trees didn’t bother here. They felt liberating. After a half-hour she reached the summit and saw the ocean stretching below. It was a clear day, no fog. That was good.

She pulled up to the rented house, at the end of a long block of other houses. She listened to the driveway gravel crunch under her tires and thought about stepping out onto the grainy sand on the other side of the house.

“Mary, it’s so good to see you!” her friend Laura said before she could look up. Laura was standing at the door with a big smile and gave her a hug. “It’s been forever! Come in and have a drink. Here—I’ll take your bag.”

Laura’s personality filled the house and buoyed her. She had a loud and frequent laugh and seemed to be at ease in the world. She talked on and on about the last few years, her various jobs in sales, her dog, her parents, her forays into various hobbies—first judo (for self-defense), kickboxing (too physical), and now a dance-exercise class called Zumba. Then she went into detail about her latest boyfriend, Jalish, who she had met while out dancing with friends. His parents were from India and he had caught her eye with his handsome dark skin and hair and his immediate interest in her. Now, though, after four months, she had hesitations about dating a man who was from another culture.

Mary listened to her friend, at first entertained and warmed by all of her talk, but later slightly jealous as she wondered how her friend seemed to be free of the angst of an artist.

Finally Laura asked Mary what she had been doing and Mary tried her best to bring her up to date as well, with news about her family, her husband, a detailed story about a trip they took to Canada to see the Buchart Gardens on Victoria Island—but she avoided talking about her work.

“How is your painting going? Last time we talked you were so busy in your studio. I was a little worried you’d get swallowed up in there,” she joked.

Mary was slow to respond. “Well, I’m changing directions. I can’t paint the same things anymore.”

She realized that it felt good to verbalize what was happening. She hadn’t known that she was changing directions until she said it.

“Changing directions? Where are you headed? Or are you unsure?” asked Laura, sensing that the subject was a little unsettling.

“I’m not really sure,” Mary said, looking out the window at the beach searching for something.

“Well, let’s take a walk,” said Laura, a bit abruptly. It’s sunny now and we should get out before the wind comes up. When we come back I’ve got stuff to make pasta.”

“That sounds great,” said Mary, eager to explore the beach.

They put on jackets and walked out the back door, down some wind-worn deck stairs, and out onto the sand.

The beach was long and unusually empty for such a sunny day. The wind was just a slight breeze, enough to lift a kite maybe but not to be a bother.

The two women were quiet for a moment, observing the scene around them. Mary felt a tiny spasm of panic as she saw the wide open sand, the whiteness of it. But then Laura began talking again and told her more about her boyfriend and his family and how, being Hindu, they were a bit wary of Laura. Laura wasn’t sure what to do about this. Would the family ever totally accept her? How would they relate on a deeper level if they came from two different traditions?

Mary wasn’t sure what to tell her. She looked into the sand and studied the particles–white, brown, grey. She imagined the thousands of rocks and shells that had been pounded down to create the beach. Year after year the Pacific Coast waves had been pulled by a force beyond their control millions of miles away to smash and crash the shore and make this collage. Here and there strewn about were piles of debris–pieces of driftwood and tangled strands of seawood the color of green rubber gas masks. The strands ended in giant round bulbs that looked like outerspace creatures. Here was beneath here feet was a masterpiece of shapes and colors, created effortlessly.

Laura was still talking. “We seem to get along so well, but I just don’t know if it’s good to continue,” she said.

“Maybe there’s no rush to decide,” was all Mary could think of. “Perhaps you need more time.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Laura said.

They were close to the water’s edge now and a dog ran by, nearly running them over as it barked and charged at a flock of seagulls. The gulls shot in the air and squaked.

The women laughed.

“Remember how annoying those seagulls used to be at school? They would always try to steal our lunch,” said Laura.

Mary nodded. She remembered how the pesky birds would circle the playground and swoop down at any unattended food. Some kids took to throwing things at the seagulls to keep them away. “They were really a pain.”

Mary looked down at the streak of paw prints left behind by the dog and saw a tiny shell. She picked it up and examined it. “That’s a pretty one,” she said. All of a sudden, she said to Laura: “Maybe you don’t need more time with Jalish. I think you can work out the cultural issues. If you really get along well and he treats you well, why hesitate?”

Laura smiled. “Thanks. Maybe you’re right.”

Just then they caught sight of a single seagull, a lucky one who had spotted someone’s leftover sandwich and was having a feast. Mary examined the seagull. It had to be the most ordinary of birds but on further inspection, she noticed that the white of its chest and the grey on its feathers blended beautifully with sand and driftwood. If you squinted it might just disappear into the sand. Except for the red beak. That red beak was like a bolt of color.

“You know, seagulls aren’t that bad looking,” said Mary. “I never really looked at one before.”

Mary had an idea then. She imagined her blank canvas back in her living room filled with the movement of birds. They might be seagulls; she wasn’t sure. But she began to be intrigued with the idea of painting flight, the same way a photographer is obsessed with capturing a perfect moment of light and motion.

The wind was starting to blow more strongly and the seagull took off and let the air carry him up.

Mary felt it’s sense of energy and pictured herself immersed in paints.

“Let’s go back to the house. I’m ready to eat,” she said, a little impatiently.

“Sure,” said Laura.

It isn’t spring yet but many of the cherry blossom trees that line the streets here in Berkeley are already blooming. The warm winter weather has triggered the trees to open their buds early, releasing bunches of flowers along their limbs that look like big balls of pink popcorn. The trees seem generous in their display, creating beauty for all to see.

Usually these trees bloom a bit later, around Valentine’s Day. I remember this well, not because of the association with Valentine’s Day, but because of the passing of my father-in-law, Ned, on February 14, 1995. He had been ill for some time but he died peacefully, in his own home, next to a roaring fire in the living room. I remember seeing cherry blossoms outside and thinking about the juxtaposition of his death with the beautiful spring scene unfolding outside.

Ned was much loved by his family. In his last weeks, we honored his wishes to die in his home, and a hospital bed was brought into the living room, next to the fireplace, and he lay there attended to by a constant stream of family members. He asked his family to massage his wrist, which was always sore due to a kind of mild genetic disorder. Other than his wrist, he was quite comfortable it seemed, just as in life he had seemed comfortable in his role as the family patriarch. He didn’t let much bother him, for better or for worse, and always had a good story or joke on hand to entertain one person or a whole crowd. In fact, one of his best qualities was his generous spirit. He shared his stories not only with his friends at Rotary or the club but with the weekly garbage collectors or the handyman who needed work. Though he could get impatient with some things (interrupting a TV show he was watching, for instance), he never seemed in a hurry when he was in his element.

Sometimes I ask myself, what is my gift? Maybe an important question is, what do I do without hurrying? I once heard someone say that you are most in your element when you get lost in an activity, when you are so absorbed by it that you lose track of time. Certainly writing is one of those things I can get lost in. There is a suspense to writing. I don’t know what I am going to say when I start, but it becomes clearer as I continue on. Writing is a process of discovery and, I realize, even now as I write this, that it can’t be hurried. I have to accept that sometimes thoughts will come quickly and I can write a whole piece at one sitting and other times the process is slow and I need to start over again and again.

Tomorrow I’ll enjoy the cherry blossoms again. They won’t be here for long, probably at least through Valentine’s Day.

A postscript: Ned had the unusual distinction of also being born on a holiday. He was born on Halloween. I often wonder how he liked celebrating his birthday amidst tricks and treats. I think he must have liked it. His nickname was “the Great Pumpkin,” and he fit the part, with his round face and gregarious personality.

Lately I’ve been listening to a series of talks by Irish poet, philosopher and writer John Whyte. The series has the provocative title, “What to Think When Waking.” In between his musings on life and tales of growing up with the wild Irish moors at his backdoor, he quotes his own poetry and many of the best poets who ever wrote in English: Keats, Yates, Browning. For Americans, or maybe others too, there is something musical about listening to a full-bodied Irish voice, even when no poetry is involved. Perhaps the dramatic landscape and history of Ireland and the Celtic language created that musicality. In any case, Whyte is a master. Each time he recites a poem, he will repeat it again, or repeat key lines, sometimes three or four times.  At first I thought he had made a mistake on the CD. Didn’t he just say this? Then I realized it was a technique. Listening to a poem you can’t go back over the words as you would in a book. So the repetition forces you to go back and listen and you realize you didn’t catch many important phrases the first time around. Poems are meant to be read slowly and Whyte’s slow repetition forces you to slow down, think again, catch a new meaning.

One of Whyte’s best points is actually to refute the oft-stated mantra: There is no free lunch. You’ll have to do it all yourself. He said he often hears this repeated at workshops when just next door there is a free lunch waiting for all the attendees. He goes on to point out that we are all given many things: we were given many free lunches from mother, from father, from grandparents, and uncles and cousins. Then there are the schools we have, set up and built by some devoted and hardworking people from another time, and the roads and infrastructure that we use.  Even the air we breath is free. We do get a lot of unseen help.

Help comes in many forms and often it’s a mystery. Whyte doesn’t go so far as to talk about heavenly help, but I believe that is an active force as well. In little and big ways God helps us through our days. It might be the small help of being aware of the bicyclist who just cut into our path while we are driving and the ability to avoid a collision. Or it could be a bigger form of help. Today I lost all the photos on my computer. Somehow all those wonderful photos of family vacations and holidays recorded since 2004 vanished. My photo program was empty. How could this have happened? Fortunately, I made a backup of my hard drive a few months ago. At least most of my photos can be rescued. Also, not long ago a friend gave me the name of a techie who came to my house earlier this month to fix a similar disaster. Although frustrating, and a bit costly, I didn’t have to completely panic. I trust that help will come soon.

If you go about your day aware of the hidden help, you will find it. Do you have a story of hidden help? I would love to hear it.

Inhabiting skin for the first time:
cold air on skin and
warm embrace of mother’s skin.
Eyes open and vision is cloudy,
shapes are monochrome,
but sound—
sound is familiar:
mother’s voice, father’s voice,
shuffling feet of animals,
crinkle of hay and dirt
and then motion,
most familiar sensation of all,
the soothing sway, the rocking between two arms
recalls a recent memory,
the memory of floating, bouncing,
the memory of a long journey,
the journey filled with
mother’s voice, father’s voice,
shuffling feet of animals.
Eyes close and a much older memory
briefly passes consciousness:
the beginning of time,
that moment when perfect love
existed and created all this,
the Trinity, the Holy Family.
Then sleep comes, sleep and rest
for the next journey ahead.

fall day on Shattuck
ginkgo leaves fill the sidewalk
forming a carpet

I kneel to inspect
one: orange papery and thin
fits in my pocket

mom passes along
news from aunt and uncle
it’s about the geese

they’ve arrived today
from Canada—swarming bodies
on the frozen lake

ice fisherman’s land
gone as quickly as they came
searching winter’s home

Some time late last spring I got the idea that Michelle Obama should be running for president instead of Barack. She has logged just as much time as Barack in the White House, probably calls a lot of shots behind the scenes, and has experience as a lawyer, mother and wife of a politician. She’s smart and attractive and has a powerful story too—all the things we look for in a president. And while we don’t see her giving many talks, in her public appearances she seems to have a sureness of character and strength superior to most of the other candidates. I mentioned the idea to many people but most just chuckled. A few people said Hillary would be more realistic. A handful got enthusiastic. But I still thought the idea had value. When I received e-mails from the Obama campaign (if you are on their mailing list this seems to be an almost daily occurrence—“give money and win a chance for dinner with Barack!”), I would write back and tell them to consider Michelle. I even ordered a stamp that said “Michelle Obama for President 2012” and stamped some dollar bills with the slogan, hoping to send a subtle message. When I received a nice family photo of the Obamas in a mailer, I tacked that onto my Obama lawn sign. Lately though, my enthusiasm has died down a bit. It appears there is no chance that Michelle wants to run and there is no indication she will play a different role in this election. I stopped mentioning the idea. I’ve even lost some interest in the campaign as the it turns into more and more of a circus of silly characters and ideas.

Then, a few days ago, as I was walking out my front door, I saw a tall, lanky man pause and look at my Obama lawn sign. He saw me and said, “I like your sign.” The man was not so old but bent over a bit and evidently suffering from some health issue because he was accompanied by an attendant, a young black woman. He leaned on her shoulder for support. I could see he was looking at the sign and the photo of the Obama family. He said, “I think Michelle would make a great president.” Wow! I couldn’t believe it. Here was someone already thinking the same way I did. I said, “ I do too…I’ve been trying to tell people that.” He replied, “She’d never do it, but she’d be great.” I felt a slight twinge of surprise or vindication or something positive.

We talked some more about politics and then this man commented on how much he liked the ferns in the yard. They reminded him of New Zealand. I’d never heard that connection before. I told him the ferns were beautiful but that we also had three Japanese maples that had just died. He said he was very sorry about that. Then I recounted the story of how I had called a plant pathologist and she had tested the plants negative for disease but that she thought maybe they had been planted in too much sun. Then more recently, a gardener who came to clean up the yard theorized that it was our big Elm tree (incidentally looking healthier than ever) that was the culprit. The Elm tree has extensive roots. The roots are constantly popping up in random places. The gardener thought that the Elm roots had choked out the delicate Japanese maple roots. My new friend agreed. He said he had several Japanese maples and he had planted them in 5-foot-wide tubs to protect them. In fact, he said, he has an extra tree and I am could come get it if I wanted. I thanked him and thought that was a kind gesture. We exchanged names and I found out where he lives.

As I returned to the house, I pondered this “chance” conversation. It’s no surprise that someone suffering from a health problem would stop and talk or even offer a tree. Most people walking down the block shuffle by quickly, en route to their destination. I’ve noticed that the people who tend to have time for unplanned conversations are those who are either older than 70 or have something debilitating. They realize life is short. That was true in Spain last year and it is true here. The healthy and the young have things to do, places to go. There isn’t time for the kind of conversation that probably has taken place among neighbors much more frequently in times past. Our modern lives prevent a lot of socializing and this is too bad. There are an abundance of gifts that come from even the small random comments and conversations. In fact, we are in need of these contacts now more than ever. The key is to initiate them. Often, in the initiating, you realize that many people enjoy sharing their lives. I make it a point now to notice tattoos on people’s arms. I ask them what they mean. They usually enjoy the explanation as it means something important to them. In fact, a tattoo on a young restaurant worker named Allison led me to the name of my blog. I’ll save that story for another post.