by Amy Newmark
While most of these “good” things were not connected to wealth or money, I began to feel quite rich. And the feeling was cumulative. The more I noticed the little things, and the more I appreciated the small gifts or pleasures placed in my path, the more there seemed to be. I began to share these occurrences — I called them “abundances” — with my friends. One friend in particular would often start our phone conversations by saying, “So tell me, what were your abundances today?”
I appreciated my friend’s question because it made me aware of how many things I had to be grateful for that day. I began to write them down, to notice and appreciate the quantity, and to have them on hand in case I was having an off day where I felt a bit deprived or lacking. Rereading my notations would refresh my spirit. I decided to dedicate a journal to documenting my abundant life.
To make it fun, I chose a beautiful, sunny-yellow journal and treated myself to a set of good-quality markers. I used a two-page spread, opening the book flat, and sketched a small heart design across the crease. In the center, I wrote in the name of the month and the word “Gratitude.” Each night of that month, I would sit down with my markers and my thoughts, and write down what I remembered from that day. I switched pens for each memory, making for a beautiful, colorful page. At the end of the month, I had perhaps forty or fifty notations. Rereading them gave me great joy.
The next month, I decided to carry my journal with me, noting the things I had to be grateful for as they occurred. This resulted in a much higher number of notes, perhaps double. The more I wrote, the more there seemed to be. My mindset switched from lack to abundance. I felt rich, blessed, successful, safe, and sheltered.
I have been keeping this abundance journal for several years now. Instead of a two-page spread, each month has expanded to four, or even six pages. I have begun to write smaller so there are more notations per page. My abundances have multiplied tenfold. My life is peaceful and joyful. The more I notice and appreciate my abundances, the more I receive. When I hit those bumps in the road that we all experience, I reach for my journal and read. And I can be glad again. It seems my inner Pollyanna is back.
— Jude Walsh —
My Basement
Create a space in your life to relax, re-energize, and reconnect with your sacred inner being.
~Melanie Moushigian Koulouris
My basement makes me happy because it is my own personal space — a place for me to be creative. As a mom with a pre-teen daughter and a husband who works from home, I really appreciate it. However, my basement didn’t always make me happy. In fact, when we first moved into this house, this basement made me feel downright depressed.
You see, I had always envisioned having a beautiful finished basement. I wanted a fun space down the stairs (away from real life!) that would be the perfect spot for us to entertain friends and family.
This finished basement of my dreams would be Pinterest-perfect. It would contain many wonderful attributes such as a high-end bar with rich, dark wood and cool pendant lights — maybe even a Tuscan-style wine cellar, complete with a panoramic view of a vineyard painted on one side.
It would also include a fun game area with foosball and air hockey and perhaps a ping pong table. And, of course, the icing on the cake would be the home theater replete with its own popcorn machine, snack bar, and posters of beloved movies tastefully adorning the walls. Plus, there would be a nice, comfortable carpet that warmed up the whole room while providing a cozy place for sleepovers.
Like I said, the house I’m living in now does have a basement. Alas, it is not the basement with the wine cellar, home theater, popcorn machine, and cozy rug. Instead, this basement sports a gray tile floor, messy boxes of holiday decor and old books, a few pieces of ugly secondhand furniture, and a litter box.
Our basement remains half-finished and, in some areas, not finished at all. It looks as though someone attempted to finish the main room before we moved in. However, they did not do a very good job. The ceiling panels are crooked, and the can lights that were installed are always burning out. Plus, the two other rooms off the main room were not even part of the project, so they remain completely unfinished.
Unfortunately, we have not been able to afford the construction upgrades needed to turn this basement into the basement of anyone’s dreams. “One day, we will,” my husband promises. “Just be patient!” In the meantime, there it sits… ugly, a little too cold in the winter, and basically unused. That is, until I stopped waiting for my perfect basement to magically arrive and decided to turn this unattractive space into my own personal art cave.
Once I realized that my attitude toward our basement was simply a matter of changing my negative mindset, the rest was easy. First, you have to understand that nobody else comes down to the basement, since I am the one in charge of the laundry and the litter box. My daughter doesn’t want to hang out in the basement, preferring her warm and comfy bedroom with its plethora of anime posters and stuffed cats.
So, one day when I was in the basement folding laundry, I suddenly realized that the peace and quiet was sort of… pleasant. There were no cartoons blasting in my ear and no news programs droning on with my husband talking back to them.
Not feeling particularly anxious to head back upstairs, I sat down at the old secondhand desk and pulled out a piece of printer paper. Then I started doodling. Before I knew it (with some guidance from an old picture book of cats), the doodle turned into a picture of a Siamese cat languishing in a garden. I liked the doodle. And I also liked the relaxing time I spent creating it.
The doodle inspired me to take a trip to the local Walmart for some acrylic paints, watercolors, paintbrushes, and glitter. Next thing I knew, after spending more time down in the basement bundled in a nice thick sweater, I had transformed my doodle into an actual painting. Granted, the printer paper was a little flimsy, but that just inspired me to order some real art pads from Amazon.
I’m not a real artist by any account. The last time I spent so much time creating art was when my daughter was little, and that was only because I didn’t need to worry that she would judge my drawings and find them lacking. She loved everything I drew, not caring that my shading wasn’t right or the proportions were off. But I haven’t really done anything artistic since that time, even though I always enjoyed drawing and painting when I was younger. I guess I never felt confident enough in my abilities.
When my daughter got a little older, she would still paint or make things out of clay with her friends, but I had stopped participating. Getting messy was for kids! Besides, I figured by that point my daughter would catch on that I wasn’t very good. So instead, when I am upstairs, you will usually find me cleaning, doing dishes, watching Netflix, or sitting at the computer. However, it is important to note that there is no TV, kitchen sink, or computer down in the basement. There is only me and my art.
The basement has not grown better looking since those early days when it made me feel so depressed. There’s no magic spell that’s been cast, except for the magic of creativity, I suppose. For instance, the floor is still comprised of the same ugly gray tile that feels like a slab of ice in the winter.
We will replace this tile eventually with that nice, cozy carpet I talked about. However, I’m in no rush. After all, it’s much easier to clean paint off a tile floor than it would be to scrub acrylics out of a rug. Besides, a rug might invite the rest of my family down, so I really don’t mind the tile… for now.
Also, the furniture situation down here remains less than ideal. One might even call it “sparse.” There is a total of one big, clunky desk with a scratched surface and one measly chair, both bought used. There is also a lounge chair purchased at a yard sale a few years back. However, the chair is so incredibly narrow and uncomfortable that nobody uses it… not even the cat!
Nonetheless, this less-than-perfect “lair” is all mine. My finished artwork sits on a shelf that snakes its way around the room. It is a colorful and always changing display
of my burgeoning talent. I don’t think any of my work is quite good enough to hang upstairs… yet. But for the basement, it’s just fine. I can gaze at Purple Cat, Red Elephant, Surreal Deer, Magenta Tulips in Jar, Three Faceless Ballerinas, White Fox, and Love Birds Under Textured Sky any time I want.
Down here, I am the artist I always dreamed of being. Down here, I can make a mess on the scratched table and the tile floor. I spill glitter, and it doesn’t matter. I can be creative without listening to the TV or my daughter and husband arguing about messy rooms or politics. Sometimes, our cat, Princess, slinks down to do her “business,” but that’s okay. I’m the one who cleans out the litter box, so it’s just convenient that I’m already here anyway.
As women, we spend so much time worrying about making others happy that it’s easy to forget what makes us happy. That’s why it’s nice, or should I say, essential, to have (as Virginia Woolf called it) “a room of one’s own” — somewhere to explore our inner talents, meditate, exercise without feeling foolish, write our hearts out, or paint a picture of a girl in a green hat wearing a pink polka-dot dress, if we so desire.
In my case, that room is my basement. It may not look like paradise to anyone else. But really, paradise is what we make it. For me, it is a room with a cold, gray tile floor, burned-out lights, a few pieces of ugly furniture, a litter box, messy art supplies, and a never-ending display of creativity. I’ll take it!
— Nancy Merczel —
The Light in the Produce Section
The next message you need is always right where you are.
~Ram Dass
My son was often angry and disobedient. I suspected it was his way of handling his grief after his father passed away, or maybe it was just an eight-year-old-boy thing. Either way, it wasn’t fun. I really thought I might have some sort of breakdown while solo parenting in this new, challenging phase.
So, like any near-the-brink-of-insanity mother would do, I took my tired, hungry and angry kids to the grocery store at about 5:30 p.m. The store was so busy that I had to yield to passing carts at every turn in between yelling, “No, we don’t need that!” “Get over here!” and “Put that back!”
All of a sudden, my son spotted a little girl sitting in her mom’s grocery cart. He recognized her from school, and he was so excited. We pushed the cart over to them, and my son said “hi” to his friend. It was clear to me that this little girl’s family didn’t speak English as a first language, but we didn’t need language to communicate this time. They were as excited as my son was to see their daughter recognize someone from school. The little girl lit up with joy. She flapped her arms and smiled ear-to-ear. We all stood around giggling and smiling at each other because her joy was infectious!
Our interaction didn’t last long, so I wasn’t sure, but I suspected that she had special needs. It was hard to be certain because there really wasn’t much talking… just smiles and laughter. So when we finally finished our shopping and drove off, I asked my son, “Is that girl in your class at school?”
“Yep!” he said.
“Does she sit near you?” I asked.
“No. She only comes into the classroom sometimes. She can’t talk. She has to wear a helmet because she has really bad seizures sometimes. But she can sort of say ‘hi’ and ‘bye,’ ” he said.
Then I totally lost it. Tears ran down my face because I was so proud of my boy for loving that little classmate of his. He was so excited to see her, and she was overjoyed about running into him. It was beyond beautiful. Every day when my son leaves for school, I give him a kiss and hug and say, “Have a great day… and show God’s love!” And, boy, did he ever do that.
I bawled some more because my husband would’ve been so proud, too. My son has a tender heart, just like his daddy. He wasn’t being nice to the girl from school because she has special needs. He wasn’t showing her love and kindness because the teacher was watching. He was shining his light just because. All the darkness and burden I was feeling that day melted away in that moment.
That’s what happens when we shine our light. Joy fills the room, and the darkness disappears.
— Jodi Whitsitt —
Opening the Door to Joy
A good laugh heals a lot of hurts.
~Madeleine L’Engle
My best friend swears I missed my calling as a stand-up comedian. I’m not sure about that, but I do know that humor has often helped to carry me through rough times.
I faced my biggest challenge yet when my beloved husband passed away last year. Humor was part of the fabric of our marriage, and every day I mourn our private jokes. Often, it took just one word to get us both laughing and recalling a silly event from our past.
John and I tended to laugh at life’s adversities. When we traveled, we returned home with fun stories to savor and share. Friends commented that funny situations seemed to follow us around, waiting to spring on us. But I say it’s all in the viewpoint, so why not put a humorous slant on life’s absurdities?
It’s all in the viewpoint, so why not put a humorous slant on life’s absurdities?
I remember laughing through some frustration during a tour in Europe. With each new hotel, we puzzled over how to turn on the shower, as well as how to flush the toilet. We’d giggle as we inspected the various knobs and handles — pushing, pulling, and twisting this way and that. We started a contest to see who could figure it out first. Once, I scanned the entire bathroom for the toilet flush. Then John said, “What’s this?” He pointed to a big silver plate on the wall, about one foot tall and two feet wide. I had thought that was just Spain’s idea of modern art.
Recently, I ventured out on my first trip since John’s passing with a good friend by my side and a sense of fun beginning to blossom again in my heart. We were headed to Las Vegas to see our favorite performer in concert.
Many people view airports as the pinnacle of all that is irritating, but with the right attitude, they can be good for a few laughs. As I posed in the security scanner with arms akimbo, an alarm sound pierced the air. What now? I’d skipped the underwire bra, having learned the hard way what havoc can be wreaked by the wrong undies. This time, a pat-down and visual scan revealed that my shirt sported just a little too much bling. “Let the fun begin,” I quipped to Karen, as we strolled toward our gate. “Vegas is all about bling!”
After a smooth flight, we touched down and trundled ourselves and our luggage into a cab to endure a hair-raising ride. We adhered to my longstanding taxi mantra, “Just don’t look.”
Once checked in, we took the elevator up to our hotel rooms, key cards clutched in our hands. I wrestled with my key as Karen opened the door to her room and kicked her suitcase inside. I wasn’t surprised when my door wouldn’t budge.
In response to our phone call, a helpful young man soon appeared with a new key. I was poised to dart into my room, freshen up, and let the vacation commence. Not quite.
It turned out the door was actually broken. A special door-fixer had to be called in. I could have thrown a mini-fit; after all, I’d just gotten off a long flight, been tossed around in a taxi, and waited in a tedious check-in line. Instead, I rapped on Karen’s door and informed her, deadpan, “Okay, the door is actually broken.” She stared at me in disbelief, and we burst out laughing.
Once the door was restored to working order, the hotel manager paid me a visit. “Thank you so much for your patience,” she said. “We’re going to comp you $100 in food and beverage credit for this inconvenience.” Who says keeping a sense of humor doesn’t pay?
That evening, Karen and I had a fine time spending our credit, gleefully perusing each menu before choosing just the right restaurant for a splurge. The casino pulsed with activity, and tall stools afforded us a great viewpoint for people watching. I snapped a photo of Karen’s burger, crowned with a fried egg and so tall it looked ready to topple over. It was over-the-top, just like the rest of this glittering city.
A feeling crept over me, a familiar, almost-f
orgotten emotion: happiness. Just as I started to feel guilty, I recalled my grief counselor’s wise advice: “Don’t stop your joy.” I could miss John and still keep a light heart. In fact, I could honor him by continuing to face obstacles with humor and grace.
That evening in my room (with the door now working), I closed my eyes, envisioned John’s smiling face, and shared the crazy highlights of my trip so far. I pictured him listening and laughing along with me.
— Kim Johnson McGuire —
A Stone’s Throw
Use your precious moments to live life fully every single second of every single day.
~Marcia Wieder
We had hiked just over a mile and a half. Our Golden Retriever was dragging a little bit and needed a water break. My wife grabbed her daypack and found the water bottle. She poured some water into a beat-up bowl, and the dog lapped it up quickly.
We settled onto an old tree trunk and rested our middle-aged legs for a few minutes. The dog was tired but happy. She loves to hike with us, and today was no exception. My wife was content as well. She enjoys every opportunity to exercise, and hiking in the fall tops her list of favorite things to do.
I had to be coaxed into the hike. My wife reminded me of how we hiked when we first dated and said, “It can be like that!” I moaned and groaned about wanting to watch football, but as the sun glistened atop the colorful leaves on this Indian summer day, I was swayed to join her. I also felt a twinge of guilt for not doing more of the things we did when we were first dating.
As our hike progressed, I had to admit that the fresh fall air and unexpected warmth helped make our time in the woods rather enjoyable. I glanced over at some kids playing near a stream. Two boys and their older sister chased each other around, and one of them exclaimed that he had found some shells. This was a stream in Southeastern Ohio, not the ocean, so both my wife and I looked at each other as if to say, “That kid has a vivid imagination.” Within a minute, his sister was also holding up a shell. Sure enough, some shells had made their way to the edge of a stream in the middle of the woods in Ohio.
