I’m a terrible shopper. I get all excited to go browse favorite stores, usually don’t have much of a problem finding a few things I’d like to buy, but almost always end up talking myself out of buying anything at all.

Usually it’s because I already have something at home that works perfectly well, and I don’t really need whatever it is I’m lusting after. Or I realize that it looks much cuter on the rack than it ever would on me, or that I just can’t justify buying myself something frivolous when I have too many bills, too many responsibilities to take care of first.

So the prompts about gifts are interesting for me to ponder. I realize that gifts aren’t supposed to always be practical, but in my world they usually are. I’m often embarrassed when I secretly wish for, or even receive, gifts that aren’t practical in nature.

I spent part of my holiday week clearing out clutter; ghosts of birthdays and anniversaries and Christmases past that have lingered far longer than they should have. There was one that struck me, though. It was a book from a high school friend that was a surprise because this friend and I typically didn’t (still don’t) exchange gifts. 

This particular year, though, he gave me a book. It was a journal, actually, with a now long-lost dust jacket that proclaimed it to be ‘The Book of Anything’ or ‘The Book of Everything’; I don’t remember anymore. But I still have the book itself, now with a sloppy coffee ring stain on the front cover where the jacket should be.

I remember the card my friend included with it, though that’s been long gone, too. He wrote about how he doesn’t normally give gifts, but that this gift was special because it was a book that I would write in my own way. I don’t remember the exact words, but basically he said ‘you can create your life, write your story, live however you want. Your canvas is blank. Don’t let it stay that way.’

He gave me this gift 20 years ago (roughly). I’ve carried it over state lines twice, from apartment to apartment to apartment and stored it in basements, boxes and bedside tables. I’m not sure why I’ve gone out and bought journal upon journal and empty notebook upon empty notebook when that one is still sitting here, blank and waiting for a mark from me. But I do.

20 years later and that journal remains empty.

Of course my life has been anything but empty. In that time I’ve been an unwed mother, a wife, a divorcee, a single mother, a paralegal, an entrepreneur, a sales person, a speaker, a writer, a coach, a mentor, a friend and hopefully far too many titles to list. I’ve traveled, I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve failed, I’ve grown. 

But that one journal, those particular pages, is still blank.

I wonder why I’ve kept that book sacred; in and of itself, it isn’t special. The pages aren’t heavy and thick, the cover isn’t unique or even pretty. Still I’ve saved it, like the lacy unmentionables and the “good” china that I’ve kept packed away for special occasions and pivotal celebrations. 

I was feeling guilty as I cleaned this week, wondering if that blank canvas would be a disappointment to the friend who gave me the book. Then, as I sat sipping tea and watching the lights on the tree twinkle and change color, I that that perhaps the real gift of those blank pages is the reminder that, no matter where I go or what I do, the potential to write my story is always there, always receptive, always waiting for me to say go. 

P.S. That tea was such a cool gift from an even cooler friend. Gina gave me a gift set from Teavana, which is beyond awesome. No holding on to this one for a ‘perfect’ day; instead I’m enjoying this one every day.

P.S.S. I'm thankful for the reminders–big and small–of just how blessed my life is. Even the 'My Year In Status" from Facebook reminds me that the real gifts in life aren't wrapped with bows; they're the little moments that take place in kitchen or during reading time or when I least expect them that truly matter most. 

I'm loving the #reverb12 prompts from Meredith and Kat, and the #cultivate12 prompts from Meredith and will be sad to see the prompts come to an end in just a few short days.

#reverb12 Day 18: 1000 Words: There’s the old saying that a photo is worth 1,000 words.  Give us a photo with that impact that sums up some significant event of your 2012, or give us 1000 words about a pivotal moment in 2012.

I only need one.

Mine.

This #Reverb12 prompt courtesy of Meredith. 

#reverb 12, Day 16: Who inspired you?

I could talk about the 'famous' people I find inspirational. That would be easy.

But today the words seem empty and unimportant, considering all that's happened over the weekend. Too much sadness, too much loss, too many bullets. All weekend long I've heard the phrase 'it takes a village to raise a child' in my head, repeating over and over and over. I hear the words of Mother Teresa…'love begins at home', and 'People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.'

I think of my grandma, especially when I hear the words 'forgive them anyway'. She didn't just tell us that; she lived that way. People stole from her, used her, left her, lied to her. She forgave. She loved. 

I'm not able to do that yet. I'm not able to let the grudges go, turn the other cheek and love people when they probably need it the most. Even so, I'm blessed with a life rich in everything that matters. I am lavished in inspiration. It's an everyday kind of inspiration; not the type that magazines or the media might be interested in, but the kind that persists, day in day out, perfectly imperfect and perfectly content to linger in the sidelines. It's how I know it's the real deal, this inspiration that continues not for recognition and accolades but because it's good. 

It's there in the giggles and snuggles of my kids, the kindness of my dad and stepmom and the unconditional love of my friends. It's in the devotion of a single father, the respite and kinship of fellow bloggers, the drive to continually improve in my oldest child and the sensitive soul of my middle guy. Its in the seemingly impossible mix of confidence and innocence of my daughter and the undying faith of my 92 year old grandma.

Day in, day out, through tears and celebration, the routine and the surprising.It surrounds me, supports me, comforts me and awes me. 

Thank you to Kat for her #reverb12 prompts. 

#Reverb12, Day 15: What tingled your tastebuds?

My taste buds traveled in 2012.  

In DC I drooled over fried chicken and waffles, sweet and crunchy and familiar and unique.  I passed on the deep fried cheeseburger but indulged in creamy risotto and sinful french fries and sweet treats from a famous place.

In Chicago I fell in love with tea lattes, delicate macaroons, spicy bahn mi, overindulgent banana Nutella crepes, gnocchi so tender it melted on my tongue, baked eggs, a sour cream  apple tart that left me speechless and meatloaf that could make any blue plate look good.

In Hays I found comfort in the familiar glaze of Daylight Donuts and gooey-ness of Taco Shop queso.

Back at home, I discovered that my oven welcomes more than just cupcakes and made full meals out of roasted brussels sprouts, roasted cauliflower with cayenne, and charred sweet potatoes drizzled with the tiniest bit of real maple syrup and sprinkled with sea salt. I braved homemade ravioli, stood in awe of a caramelized onion and roasted butternut squash galette, craved a warm roasted potato, caramelized onion and bacon salad and flipped a thousand and one grilled cheese sandwiches.

No matter where I go, food is home to me. I love the planning, the shopping, the prepping and the cooking. I love that by trying new flavors I can meet new people and experience new places. I love that it brings people together, encourages us to linger, creates space for conversation and usually gets better with experience. In a world that is uncertain, food is constant. Food is love.

I was lucky enough to share a meal at Cafe Gratitude with some lovely blogger friends. How they name their dishes makes me smile; bliss was the name of their chocolate hazelnut dessert. Apt, of course.

Thank you to Kat for her #reverb12 prompts. Though I don't know her, I love that she's leading the motley group of those who post, tweet, share, contemplate and think about joining. I love that there's no pressure, no expectation and plenty of love. Pure sweetness.

I can't.

I've spent the better part of the day consumed by the television reports of the senseless violence that happened in one of the last places in our world we had considered–up until this morning–sacred and safe.

I've spent the better part of the day alternating between tears and nausea, thinking of the parents who will go home to empty bedrooms, empty chairs at the dinner table and gaping holes in their hearts. I cried when I thought of how they probably have school pictures of those innocent little faces on the walls of their staircases and living rooms, and how unbearable that dull ache must feel as they search those images for something–anything–but know they'll never kiss those cheeks or nuzzle those necks or tickle those bellies again.

I thought of the mother who was murdered by the man the media calls 'the shooter'. The man she called her son. Her son.  I'm guessing–hoping–that she loved him. Kissed his cheeks, nuzzled his neck, tickled his belly far too many times to count over the years. I think of how I can't imagine her reality, the horror of whatever it was she was dealing with behind closed doors. I wonder when it went wrong for her, for her son, for their family.

And even though I'm furious that my kids are living in a world in which we talk about school shootings and mall shootings and theater shootings, I can't bring myself to judge this family.

I want to. I want to know who and what to blame, to have a little bit of assurance that if I adopt a different path or parent in a different way that I can ensure that this won't happen in my corner of the world. I want to know how to recognize darkness while it masquerades as normal and shun it, run from it, condemn it.

I can't.

I can't because I haven't walked in their shoes, I haven't lived their fears.  I haven't stared into the eyes of my son and seen anything other than love and wonder and awe and gratitude to God for trusting me enough to be his mother.

Today was so much different than yesterday, when I spent the day giggling with fourth graders who were ridiculously happy to be out of school for a few hours to sing in the choir. Their faces beamed with gigantic smiles, their eyes danced with excitement and wonder and awe and they were bursting with that combination of emotions that I can only describe as happy but deserve a word so much more grand than that.

Yesterday I couldn't remember that pure joy that I am sure I must have felt, too, as a kid. Today I can't wrap my head around the darkness that causes an adult to take away lives they have no right to touch.

As a mother I can't help but wish someone could have reached him. I wish that whatever it was that made him do so many terrible things could have been treated or eliminated. I wish that he, too, would have felt light instead of dark.

I think of my role as a mother, and how –in theory and in hope–I believe that I can protect my children.  I can move to a safe neighborhood, I can drop them at school and leave them with adults that I trust, I can never let them sleep over at a friends' unless they've been properly vetted, I can follow them to the mall and read their emails and monitor their Facebook accounts and I can do a million other things to protect them.

Still, I can't.

Today I have to acknowledge that I am not as big and bad as I'd like to be as a mother.  I can't protect them from everything. I can't guarantee that they will always be safe, that the world will be kind or that their lives will always be bright. I can't predict what the future holds.

I can pray. Hug. Listen. I can advocate, cheer, discipline, remind, encourage,  discourage, tough-love, tender-love, wipe tears, kiss boo boos, bandage skinned knees, feed the, bathe them, adore them and invest my time, my devotion, my love in them. I can be a mother in every single sense of that word, shamelessly and proudly and unflinching in the face of helicopter mom accusations and whispers from others when the news of today has faded and we all forget for a moment that darkness creeps in when we least expect it to take hold.

I can. And I will.

I'm thankful today for #reverb12 prompts. I'm thankful for the opportunity to reflect, to try to make sense of things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever and for a reason to write instead of get lost in the sadness of today. Today's all too appropriate question from Kat was My question is: what was the most important thing you learned in 2012? And how does this learning shape the path going forward? I also thought about Daily Angst's prompt from today: Family:  Did you role in the family shift or change over the past year?  How?  Why? Sadly, regardless of how much I think or how often I write, I doubt I'll ever understand the why.

Reverb 13: Please post your favourite picture of yourself from 2012, self-portrait or otherwise!

I've looked through every last one. 

Every picture from 2012; the good, the bad, the ugly and the unrecognizable. And there's not one of me, just me, without a child or a boyfriend.

That says something, right? Maybe that I snap the pics to remember the happy times, the remarkable times, the celebratory times. Does it really have to mean something that I don't like to be in pictures? That I'm far more comfortable snapping instead of being snapped? That if I wasn't in another picture for the rest of my life I would still be just as happy as I am today?

No. It just means that I'm the one who thinks to take pictures, who believes that the stories of our lives–even the mundane, 'nothing exciting to talk about' days–are part of our story and that someday (hopefully) my kids will wonder what I was like then.

Maybe it's because I have precious few photos of my life as a kid. I wish I had that visual commentary of my first days of school, my first concert, my first fill-in-the-blank-here. 

Whatever the reason, I'm perfectly fine with sharing the spotlight. Especially with people as cute as the faces I've just spent more than an hour looking at

September 28, 2012 at My Big Fat Greek Restaurant. Before we went to see Hotel Transylvania. So much fun.

Reverb 9: What was the best book you read in 2012, and why? (And by "Why?" I mean: Why did you read it? And why was it your favourite? Although these answers could be one and the same…!)

If you only knew how many books I have, just waiting to be read. They taunt me, really, and I've let them. All year I've let them sit, collecting dust and sideways glances, while I do other things. While I work, mother, play solitaire, watch TV or just stare off into space. I think about reading them. I crave the peace that I always feel when I curl up on the couch, a warm mug in one hand and a heavy book in the other, kept company only by a quilt and the occasional distraction.

But I don't read them. Truth be told, I've read one book in its entirety this year; sure, I've read bits and pieces of others. A few that I was sure I'd love, but didn't. Countless books for business that I've read enough to understand the lesson, but the reading was done in such disjointed sessions that it seems disingenuous to say I've truly read them. 

But my favorite, though we're still reading it, is Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters. It's a book I picked up for Erin months ago, not really knowing the story but thinking it might be fun to read together. I broached the idea with her a couple of times before she actually caved; now, we crawl into her bed 30 minutes before lights out, and we take turns reading pages to each other.

I love the book because it seems full of surprises that resonate with both of us. Cornelia loves cupcakes, just like my girl. Virginia calls herself a writer and storyteller, just like me. They both love words; Erin's not quite ready to admit that she does, but I secretly I think she does. I know I do.

The core of the story so far shares Cornelia's longing for time with her mother, a famous pianist who leaves her daughter more often than not with her housekeeper. The dynamics of the relationship are, I'm sure, different for me than they are for Erin, but it's an interesting set of emotions to explore together. We giggle as we mispronounce words, and she rolls her eyes as I remind her to slow-down-because-I-can't-understand-you-when-you-read-so-fast-please.

The best part? She's reminding me now that it's time to read. So those books on my own shelf can continue to collect dust; they'll wait for me to have time. She won't.

I'm making a goal to read 13 in 13. You can join me! Check out what Little White Dove has set up for us!

*This post contains an affiliate link to Amazon.com. Please read my disclosure policy here*

Today's #Cultivate12 Prompt from Meredith: Foodie Friday — Cultivate Style: Food nourishes us. Some foods give us more enjoyment than others. Some foods leave us feeling less than ourselves. What foods nourished your soul and body this year? What food choices can you make in 2013 to cultivate more self-care?

I spent part of my Thanksgiving weekend in Hays sorting through old pictures from my Grandma. They'd moved her out of her apartment and into a home a few months before this, but there were two boxes of 'stuff' left; stuff that no one else wanted to sift through, that had been overlooked; and that was mostly really junk and not worth the time it took to unpack it all and then toss it in the trashcan.

But not all of it was garbage. There were countless old pictures; all black and white, some curled, some torn, some stained. I recognized some people but others were a mystery, and I wondered why I didn't know some of these relatives and the role they played in my family.

What I wondered about most of all, though, were the stories of the women I knew as a young girl. My Grandma had two sisters that I grew up knowing. They lived together in true spinster style, harping on one another as they grew old and walking to the church that was only a couple of blocks from their house. I wondered particularly about Mina. I've talked about her before, but probably not as often as I should. She was my surrogate mother when I was very young, and her house was where I felt safest and most at home.

Mina never married or had kids of her own. But she treated me like a daughter. She cared for me when I was sick and well, taught me how to vacuum the carpets and wash dishes and helped me commit my Hail Mary and Our Father to memory. It was in her garden that I fell in love with tulips and swaziberries and jumped for countless hours with my Lemon Twist.

One of my most vivid memories about Mina was her chocolate covered cherry Christmas tradition. She bought them every year. I don't remember if she loved or tolerated them, only that she always had them. She also made a cookie version, though not as often as she bought a box of the store-made candies.  

Since I was old enough to be on my own for  Christmas I have, every year without fail, bought myself a box of chocolate covered cherries. Not because I love them, but because having that box sit on my kitchen counter reminds me of the woman who loved me so long ago.

So imagine my surprise last Saturday morning, when I opened a gorgeous tin of goodies from the incomparable Sandra Hale. Sandra had drawn the short stick in our exchange, and since I coordinated I got to tell her that she was baking for me. Because she's a sweet soul, she asked if there was anything in particular that I wanted; I responded that I was so excited to be surprised by whatever she chose to bake.

I just didn't expect to pull out a bag of chocolate cherry cookies. Beautiful, just like I remember Mina baking. Decadent and chewy with a hunk of cherry buried in the middle, just like I remember Mina baking. I hadn't had one for years.

And I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman, bursting into tears right there in the back of Chez Elle, but I couldn't help myself. Before I even opened the bag I knew, and I was overwhelmed with memories and love and happy thoughts.

I don't remember what her voice used to sound like, and I have no idea if I was just tired from a late night baking session or if I've watched too many episodes of Long Island Medium, but I felt certain she was there in some way, nudging me to remember that she was still guiding me even though she's been gone for such a long time.

I rationed those cookies all week long, nibbling on just one each night as I sipped tea and sat in the quiet of the my living room, finally decorated for the holidays with a tree and stockings and a wreath above the mantel. I thought about how I wish my kids could have met Mina, how I've wondered over the years if she'd adore them as much as I do and what she'd teach them. To be modest, to pray every night, to make kugel the 'real' way.

And I wonder what Erin will remember one day, and which treats will make her think of me or her grandma or her brothers. I hope that whatever it is, she bakes them for her own kids and tells them her favorite memories so that some day, not so far in the future, they don't find themselves sifting through stacks of pictures and wondering about the relatives they didn't get to meet.

Combining two prompts for today. The first, from Meredith: Letting Go: What do you need to let go of to cultivate your best life in 2013? and the second, from Kat:  What will you take with you?

If you only knew how many times I've started this prompt today. I've written about everything from daily habits to my dismal lack of a workout routine to things I can't even bring myself to admit I was writing about. And I came back in circles, each and every time, to the realization that I'm a fraud for trying to conquer these questions.

Because every year I vow that this is the year that 'things will be different.' I'll treat myself well by going to sleep early and fueling myself with whole, healthy foods. I vow to read more books, watch less TV, do my best to be super mom and super-everything while making dinners from scratch and keeping an immaculately clean house.

What.Ev.Er.

So the answer I came up with? It's not even about leaving something behind or bringing something along; it's more about honoring the shift and transition of what I write and why, and learning more about this craft I've fallen so deeply in love with.

I was lucky enough this past year to have an agent ask me to send a synopsis and proposal of one of my projects. And she liked it. What she didn't like was my blog. Ok, she didn't actually say that. What she said was that she couldn't tell who I was really, from my blog, and was worried that the projects I'm working on would be too much like what I write about here (cupcakes, how lucky I feel to be a mom to my kids and how I wish I wasn't so darn round). 

By reading that, and giving it time to sink in, I realized that while I am a good writer I am not necessarily good at the business of writing. I don't know how to format a book for publication nor do I know what a 'real' synopsis and proposal should look like. I certainly don't know how to package myself so that an agent is interested and I haven't yet 'claimed' my identity as what I am. 

A writer.

So I hope to shed  the trepidation I sometimes feel when people ask me what I do and instead be able to confidently–and proudly– say 'I AM A WRITER'. I want to not feel embarrassed when they  ask what I write, or when they seem disappointed that I'm not purposefully working on America's next great novel (because, believe me, fact is definitely stranger than fiction) and instead be proud of my story, my words and my books. 

I see changes in 2013; in this blog, in my focus, in my direction. But I don't see a change in the core of what I do or why, because I can't imagine that I will ever become disillusioned with the power of story and the seduction of words.  

Lesson: We may have started this year with the best of intentions, but plans may have gone awry. What lesson really jumped out at you this year? How can you cultivate that lesson going forward?

Lessons?

Yeah, I've had lessons. Haven't we all?

I've been marveling with friends lately just how quickly life moves; we've commiserated about  how easily minutes turn to hours turn to days except, of course, those moments we wish to savor. Doesn't matter which friends are speaking–whether they're other moms or single men, cubicle dwellers or entrepreneurs, young-ish or old-ish–we all admit that time eludes more often than it caters.

But back to the lessons. Of all those I've been taught this year, what most stands out is that life moves. Even when I don't want to, even when I try to stop it by standing smack dab in the middle of whatever is barreling down the road, resolute in my intent to make-it-stop-right-now-dammit, it moves. Fast or slow, it flows, cajoles, clobbers and does what it will do regardless of what I want it to do.

It moves.

The sub lesson? I can choose to move with it, or I can position myself in such a way that the movement polishes the parts of me that are most rough and desperate for change. Or I can choose to ignore it,  pretend that it's not washing over me and that the changes aren't happening.

No lessons necessary in which of those choices works best.