a look at 2012 and a small thought for 2013.

Pacific Ocean at Sunset

Looking back at this past year, parts of it seem like an utter blur. Days became weeks and weeks became months and before I knew it 2012 was over. If I could sum up this year in a word (although it couldn't nearly suffice) it would be Retrospective. This year I finally took the plunge to taking care of myself more deeply, more intentionally. In January, I started therapy. It was for myself, to experience what it was like and to uproot some things from my past and authentically look at how they impact my present. Being in therapy has allowed me to see myself a little more clearly, and to give myself a little more grace, and to tangibly understand how taking care of myself can mean being able to be more present in other relationships as well. Retrospective means looking backward, contemplating past events and situations.

Art sculpture by one of my clients.

This past year I needed to look back in order to move forward.

2012 was also a year of planning adventures, celebrating friendships, witnessing love, creating home, imagining family growth, conquering a triathlon, being spontaneous, and discovering passions.

Cheering on the Oregon Ducks as they defeated Cal.

My word for 2013 is Present, as in to be fully in the moment. To plan, but not too far ahead so not to miss what's happening today. I'm not really making any resolutions this year. I'm continuing my attempt to complete my 30 by 30 list and I'm hoping 2013 is full of letting myself embrace not what is to come, but what is now.

Noticing our humanness, Christmas 2012.

It started at a tree lot.

Micah and I actually went to a Christmas tree lot this year, instead of our usual grab-the-smallest-tree-our-grocery-store-has.

It was a weekday night, a week before Christmas, and the lot had only a handful of other customers. The little trees were up front, but we wandered to the back just to take in the sight of the big ones. They towered above us. I imagined the million dollar houses and fancy building lobbies that those big trees would end up in. They seemed as though they were created for greatness.

As we made our way back to the small trees, we were met by one of the tree lot associates. He was kinda rough around the edges, his sweatshirt worn, his pants dirty. His hair was a little unruly.

He was friendly though and offered his tips on what kind of tree we should get, and whether or not we should get a tree stand. But, as he did, snot streamed down his face. S.t.r.e.a.m.e.d. I tried to look away politely, not wanting to seem rude, but not wanting to look either. I really wished I had had a kleenex to offer him, although he eventually found something that took care of the job.

But, there was something that stood out to me was....he did not seem to care a darn bit. I mean, he was doing his job and colds and snot are probably just a natural part of it. And although I felt a twinge of sadness or maybe it was guilt, or perhaps it was some sense of pity, I also felt inspired. Here was this guy, working with his hands, in the cold, selling trees on an urban corner in San Francisco, with snot running down his face, and he was just doing his thing.

And, we talked and I purchased a tree, and while the interaction was mundane, I think it meant something. And not in a it's the holidays, so let's care about others kind of way, but a we're all human and interacting is something we do way. It's mundane and human interactions don't have to be life-changing, but they can be meaningful when we stop to notice the humanness of another person and the humanness of ourselves.

It started at a tree lot.

It started at a tree lot and has kind of stuck with me.

This noticing of my humanness, of other's humanness.

My client's kid literally speechless and hiding when he saw his Christmas toy: a new bike.

Hard conversations with people I love.

Rubbing my high school friend's pregnant belly.

My neighbor sending me a picture of my cat on Christmas.

Laughing with people I love and sharing food with people I love.

The American Airlines representative who told me he had been cussed out nine times that day.

The girl on the plane with the barking dog.

The homeless man selling the paper Street Sheet and looking him in the eye.

Seeing that our interactions mean that we are living, perhaps not joyfully all the time, but living.

It started at a tree lot.