Unfolding Anyway

When life gives you lemons past their best-by date, you can still make a lemon spritz. It’s my new mantra and largely the reason I chose Unfolding Anyway for this blog.

I’m 45 and earned every gray hair I have, but that doesn’t mean “middle-aged” or “empty nester” resonates. Yes, I have a son who recently launched for college—in Hawaii—and I do have the arthritis that makes said son cringe when I sound like a Rice Krispie. Yes, my role and occupation are Technology Services Executive, but I don’t label myself by my career or title. My Executive MBA paves my post-retirement path back to teaching, but my former life as an academic and researcher also gave me the credentials to write The Buddhist’s Guide to World of Warcraft. You can’t even call me a gamer right now since said son hijacked my Xbox for the past few years. Give me a few more weekends, and then we’ll talk.

I grew up the successfully ambitious perfectionist that only comes with the American dream encouraged by a Japanese mother and retired-military dad. I played piano for hours a day to the point that I literally tore a ligament in my wrist and didn’t realize it until decades later. I graduated high school early while interning and teaching Microsoft Office in Adult Education evening programs. In college, I took 21 hours the same semester I grew my piano studio to 12 students and worked an on-campus job that was created after I managed a student volunteer trip that went wrong.

My parents were proud. People thought I was a superhero.

I had mostly learned to push past reason through sheer determination and grit.

At one point in my career, an inspirational leader introduced me to the idea of a Think Weekend: get away by yourself, step out of the day-to-day, look at the bigger picture, and make deliberate decisions before you wake up five years later asking, “What the hell happened?”

Great advice.

So naturally, I turned reflection into another competitive sport.

For nearly a decade, I took solo retreats fueled by sunshine, books, and a good old-fashioned retrospective. Then I started walking 20 miles during a two- or three-day retreat while reading six books. Then seven. Then ten. I made decisions for the year and held myself to them like New Year’s resolutions with better branding.

Read more. Walk more. Spend more time with family. Take on more at work.

Apparently I had optimized the practice designed to stop me from over-optimizing.

Somewhere along the way, I read Arianna Huffington’s Thrive. Then Brené Brown’s Daring Greatly gave me the idea that the opposite of scarcity isn’t abundance—it’s enough. I might also have a canvas print of The Woman in the Arena hanging on my wall, but we can save that for another day.

I’m not sure how it took leadership and well-being books to bring a former Asian Studies academic back to her Buddhist roots, but here we are.

Enough. Contentment. Living in this moment instead of treating it as the waiting room for the next milestone.

I slowed down. Reconsidered some priorities. Gave myself more room to say “No.” Got a tattoo. I still stand by not having a midlife crisis.

And I didn’t stop accomplishing things. That was never really the point. My career continued to evolve. I read even more books, but because I actually wanted to sit down and read them instead of adding them to my personal performance metrics. I’m not aspiring to be CEO when I already enjoy the work I’m doing, although I’m certainly not going to turn down a promotion—or a good bonus—for work I’m already doing.

This year, I’m experimenting with less.

Less achievement at the cost of burnout. Less using the word “should” in a world that seems determined to define success as skinny, healthy, happy, productive, and apparently well hydrated.

Less attachment to material things, even though someone really should cut me off from Amazon after 9 p.m. on weeknights.

And more.

More living in the moment, even when it’s uncomfortable. More dabbling in something just to explore “could.” More laughter, including at my own expense. More connecting with people—in the moderation an introverted only child requires.

More trying things without needing to become good at them.

Pottery? What could go wrong?

Ukulele? Sure. I’ve played classical guitar. This seems easier to carry.

Beach photography session with a puppy? How hard could that be? (See above and the next post as evidence.)

Writing fiction? Why not? I’ve written nonfiction as an academic and corporate professional. If I’m terrible at fiction, apparently that can become another “less.”

For perhaps the first time in my life, failing miserably at something sounds less like a character flaw and more like part of the fun.

And I’m not doing any of this alone.

My Frenchie, Curie, and Cavalier puppy, Ada, are my family and partners in crime. They’re named after Fallout 4characters who happen to be named after female scientists, which is almost their tagline. Curie has been known to sit in a chair at book club despite not finishing the book. Ada looks adorable at first glance and then serves as the comedic interruption to nearly everything Curie and I are trying to accomplish.  Ada has also taught me that failing miserably – especially at potty training – when you’re adorable.

Treat the pictures on this blog as amateur photography by an avid Aesthetic Studies nut. Photography is how I capture the way I see the world—beauty, humor, rawness, and everything in between—because singing, pottery, and playing ukulele are considerably less digital-friendly.

Which brings me back to Unfolding.

It started as my anti-resolution theme for the year: What happens if I make small plans for self-discovery, dabble in goals, and try not to get too attached to the outcome?

Unfolding Anyway is what happens when those micro-plans keep getting derailed as the universe’s preferred method of Buddhist hazing.

So why the lemon spritz?

This year has apparently thrown enough curveballs that I don’t see lemonade in the cards.

But there’s nothing to say a little Prosecco can’t rescue a lemon.

Especially when your book club just finished Every Time I Go on Vacation Someone Dies. (Thank you, Haley.)