a brave life

You know I love me some John Mayer, right? I’ve blogged about his balls, if you recall.  And I’ve even had three weird sexual dreams about him, all of which ended tragically. (I’ll be saving those stories for my therapist, thank you very much!)

One of my favorite John Mayer songs explores the heavy issue of mortality, particularly that of our parents. It’s called Stop This Train and it is absolutely heartbreaking and beautiful. Just like life, I suppose. And death.

Here are some of the lyrics:

Don’t know how else to say it, don’t want to see my parents go/ I’m one generation’s length away from fighting life out on my own/ Stop this train, I want to get off and go home again/ I can’t take the speed it’s moving in/ I know I can’t/ But honestly, won’t someone stop this train.

Once in a while, when it’s good, it’ll feel like it should/ And they’re all still around and you’re still safe and sound/ and you don’t miss a thing ’til you cry when you’re driving away in the dark.

(I know. Please pass the Kleenex. Somebody –anybody!)

I always think about what my world will be like when my parents die. As a bereavement counselor for a hospice program, I’ve spent many hours talking with people who are grieving the death of a loved one (usually from cancer). So occasionally I’ll look at my parents and siblings, or turn over in bed in the middle of the night and look at my husband, and think to myself, What a perfect and tragic moment — perfect because I have these people in my life, but tragic because it won’t stay this way.
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We used to throw our mom’s underwear at each other.

Now before you run out of the room screaming, let me explain.

My siblings and I come from a very religious Catholic family. (Which doesn’t sound like it should be the opening sentence of an explanation for underwear-tossing, but stick with me here.) During Easter weekend, which starts off with the remembrance of Jesus’ death, the rule in our household was to maintain an atmosphere of solemnity for two days straight– no television, no talking, no laughing, no fun.

So of course, the four of us kids did what any group of siblings would do if asked to maintain silence: we made it into a game. Using physical comedy, our goal was to make someone laugh out loud and break our mom’s rule.

We tried mooning each other, laying farts mid-cartwheel, and doing weird dances. But no one cracked a smile or made a sound. Yes, we were that good.

But the silence was broken when someone grabbed one of my mom’s freshly hand-washed panties hanging in the bathtub, and proceeded to throw it at the rest of us, causing an eruption of childish laughter. I don’t remember which sibling had the idea of throwing the wet underwear, but I remember that this person won the game and earned our respect. Childhood is funny like that.

When you’re a kid, your mother vacillates between being your entire world and a secondary character in your fun-filled fantasy land of underwear-tossing. It’s not until you’re an adult when you realize that your mom is a real person who had a full-fledged identity before you were born, and continues to struggle, grow and change long after you move out of the house.
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Ten feet away from Chris Guillebeau! Somebody pinch me. (Or at least wipe up the puddle I just made on the floor.)

I fully advocate stalking your personal hero.

But not in a creepy way. And definitely not in a ransom-note-written-with-cut-out-letters-from-newspapers kind of way.

What I mean is you should make it a priority to make contact with your hero, no matter how famous or inaccessible they seem to be. It’s important.

I say this from personal experience. Some of the most exciting and unforgettable experiences in my life involve meeting heroes who have inspired my work, passions, ideas, creativity, and spiritual life. And each time I’ve met one of my heroes, I’ve walked away with an unforgettable story…usually one that involves embarrassing myself, but still.

(Speaking of embarrassing stories: Visit ABL’s Facebook page to read what happened when I met President Bill Clinton.)

This week I met an A-list celebrity of the blogosphere: Chris Guillebeau, the genius behind  The Art of Non-Conformity, and creator of great books and products for entrepreneurs, creatives, and world travelers alike.

For the past few hours I’ve been trying to think of a concise way to describe his appeal, but I can’t. So I’ll just say that if there’s anything about my website that you like (content, style, perspective, branding, etc.), it’s all thanks to inspiration from Chris. And if there’s anything you don’t like about A Brave Life, it’s because I haven’t yet learned how to do certain things as well as Chris can.

So when I had a chance to meet him during the New York City leg of his book tour, I knew I wanted to maximize the awesomeness of the experience by entering with a good plan.

My strategy? Turn the experience into a story worth telling your grandchildren — a tale that’s messy, funny, beautiful and inspiring. And then document it.

Here’s how you can do the same when you meet your hero:
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My sister and her husband have two kids who came out of the womb with ballsy temperaments. They’re not sure how this happened but as parents they’re pleased (and exhausted) by it.

We call my 3-year-old niece The Firecracker. As soon as she was old enough to express her opinions, we discovered that she was a strong-willed, emotionally complex, pink glitter-loving fashionista who scored notably high on a kiddy IQ test. (Look out, world!)

Just look what a morning of playtime with The Firecracker did to my dad:

Warning: Playing with The Firecracker can cause sudden bouts of exhaustion and drowsiness for grandparents. Do not play with The Firecracker while driving or operating heavy machinery.

But even a smart firecracker of a person can succumb to the fear of failure when the stakes are high.

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