The NASA flight director of the Apollo 13 moon landing mission, Gene Kranz, fed up with the question regularly posed to him, "Are you going to get them back?" famously responded, "Failure is not an option." Unfortunately, "failure is not an option" has permeated our culture in debilitating ways. Somehow, we've taken a one-time life or death situation, and woven that gravity into our daily life missions.

Growing up, I mostly lived with non-huggers. My grandfather would occasionally scoop me onto the couch and tickle me blind, which I loved, but I truly don't remember any regular hugs.

‘Tis the season of wearing masks, yes?  Or, if we’re honest, maybe that’s every day, unless we choose to consciously allow our authentic vulnerable selves to shine through. That act of bravery can be terrifying! Why so scary? For many it’s this: “If they see the real me, I won’t be accepted and loved. I won’t belong.”

The doors of my life dance open and shut close in frequent, irregular intervals. The ongoing message I receive is this: "Avoid holding on too tightly. And, stay open to the magic." Let’s look at real-life examples of the Create-Sustain-Destroy cycle.

About four years ago, we embarked on a home landscaping project. Our retaining wall, the one holding up our front yard (and you know...the HOUSE!), had been in disrepair when we purchased the property. Over the following five years, the deterioration slowly progressed.

When do we outgrow the need for someone else to give us permission? Are there occasions when it still makes sense? How does this work?

About this time last year, I met with a neurologist.  Up to this point, I'd been fortunate to never have need for an MRI. I didn't quite know what to expect, but I understood that claustrophobia could be a bit of an issue. And, what I knew deep in my bones was this: if I left that day without completing the test, I'd never go back.

Last year, in anticipation of selling my office and moving its contents home, my husband and I weeded out the basement.  Amidst the chaos, I discovered a journal of the thoughts, secrets, dreams, and heartache of my 14 / 15-year-old self. This journal got my English teacher fired the following year, when it proved an attestation of his betrayal of my physical and emotional boundaries.

The son of a friend used to teach snowboarding.  The first class comprised of a single lesson - "learning how to fall."  The instructor knew the only way to learn how to have fun snowboarding was to move past the fear of falling. I hate the snow and cold, but I wish I'd had a lesson from that instructor!

A woman pretty much planned out her entire life, contingent on her boyfriend proposing marriage in the very near future. Here's the thing about this story. The details may change, but the fundamental notion is backwards, regardless of the content.

For over 12 years, I've maintained contact with you - my community - through these writings. About five years ago, I cut myself slack, for the first time ever, by skipping a month.  Sitting on the shelf beside my self-judgment (for having failed at executing a single monthly missive), I found a great sense of relief.

About six months ago, as I approached my (all but abandoned) office to water the plants, I received a message from the universe. On that October day, I heard: "It's time to sell the office."

Over the last handful of years, I've traveled, often. One of those years, I spent the equivalent of three months in a bed other than my own. This year, of course, things have been different.

Within about two years, we euthanized two of our furry family members. Our girls, Bobbi and Hazel, were litter mates, and lasted to the ripe old ages of 17 and 19 respectively. When Bobbi joined the world of the dearly departed, I received a visitation from her in a dream. She told me: "the next cat must come from a shelter."

Clients in transition commonly ask, "What am I here for? What is my purpose?" This tricky question rarely yields the desired answer, which, presumably, dispels all future unknowns in one easy bite. My responses, while unscripted, usually mirror what I tell myself…

Welcome to the new season, my friends. I'm feeling incredibly grateful to turn the metaphorical page of the calendar to a time of year that celebrates the longer days, the increased warmth, and the occasional bursts of splashy color, as flowers prepare to preen in the sunshine. Unlike historical "first days of spring," I find this one to be bittersweet.

In January, days before departing for Mexico, I had my fingernails professionally coated with a sizzling orange polish, to prepare me for the heat to come. As the manicurist worked her magic, she asked about my bold, off-season color choice. I explained I'd soon be in Tulum, and the brightness matched my mood about the adventure.

I love parlor games. For me, they've always been a great connector. One friend recently shared that his first memory of me, some 15+ years ago, was meeting across a table playing Beyond Balderdash. We comprised two of the 30 folks participating in a personal growth weekend workshop, where I routinely brought a game or two for down time in the evenings.

As 2018 gasped its death rattle, I stood, second row at the Wang Theater, breathing in the melodies and lyrics of Lake Street Dive. Introduced to the talents of this ensemble about a year ago, New Year's Eve marked my second time attending one of their live performances.

In Malcom Gladwell's book, "Outliers," he introduces the "10,000 hour rule." The concept asserts a requirement for success, specifically, a minimum of 10,000 hours practicing whatever it is you hope to master. Various experts shred this notion, suggesting that time, alone, will not determine expertise.