Hands Free Life Read online

  And that’s exactly the state I was in this particular evening; I was fully awake to the preciousness of time. And it just so happened that I had the rare treat of being alone in the car with my ten-year-old daughter, Natalie. We were coming back from an outing, just the two of us. I was taking the curves of a meandering country road at the pace of a leisurely Sunday drive. The sun was setting and we were talking.

  In the midst of a discussion on how to pass a driver’s test, Natalie heard the first three notes of her latest favorite song faintly drifting from the car speakers. “Turn it up, Mom. I love this song!” she exclaimed.

  Natalie immediately began singing without restraint — as if she was alone in the car. As if no one else’s opinion mattered. As if she suddenly discovered the liberating freedom that comes with open windows on a warm summer night.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing — this was my computer whiz, my studious planner, my competitive swimmer, my baker extraordinaire. I would fully expect this musical outburst from my ukulele-playing younger daughter, but not Natalie! I couldn’t remember the last time Natalie sang uninhibitedly like this — perhaps when she was three or four years old.

  Looking in the rearview mirror at that moment was like looking into a crystal ball. Suddenly I could see Natalie at age sixteen: a burst of colorful style bounding into the kitchen — the scent of teenage grooming quickly overpowering the smell of bacon and eggs. I envisioned her nails, cut short and square with vibrant polish, grabbing the car keys. She wouldn’t have time for a hot breakfast. With barely a wave, the door would shut, and I would be left in eerie silence wondering where the time had gone.

  The collection of email messages I’d gathered earlier that day prominently came to mind. With vivid detail, I saw a tangible form of Regret. It was plopped down before me like an old dog wanting a little acknowledgment, a little attention, a little respect. And it wasn’t going anywhere.

  With longing eyes, that old dog looked at me, and I could practically hear his persistent line of questioning. “So what are you going to do about me?” asked Regret. “What are you going to do now so I’m not lying at your feet later when your hair is silver, your hands are arthritic, and time is no longer on your side?”

  Suddenly a painful commentary went through my head: I know I can’t possibly cherish every moment. I know it’s not realistic to neglect my life responsibilities to soak up every word and every expression of my family members and friends. I know that telling myself to savor every stage of childhood or every season of life is just setting myself up for failure. So what do I do? How do I realistically live life now to avoid the pain of regret later?

  As I looked in the rearview mirror, my daughter’s chocolate-brown eyes met my gaze. With a sudden sense of urgency, I felt opportunity staring me right in the face. Stop thinking what if and sing! Sing before the song ends! I told myself.

  So I opened my mouth and joined in. Surprisingly, Natalie didn’t give me an exasperated look. She didn’t roll her eyes and beg me to stop. She didn’t chuckle and say, “That sounds terrible, Mom!” My daughter’s smile grew, and she kept right on singing.

  When we walked in the house a few minutes later, it was eerily quiet. Natalie surmised that Avery was still running errands with Daddy, and it would be the perfect time to purchase a gift for her little sister’s upcoming birthday.

  Natalie sat down at the computer and typed in the web address of Avery’s favorite store. I saw the American Girl doll site appear, and I knew my meticulous child would spend quite a bit of time carefully examining each and every item before making her decision.

  I stood there a moment studying the back of Natalie’s head — each strand of hair perfectly highlighted by the powerful combination of chlorine and summer sun. As much as I wanted to reach out and gently smooth her hair, I felt a pull — a pull to the dirty dishes piled in the sink . . . a pull to the mess scattered around the family room from a hasty departure . . . a pull to check the messages in my in-box . . . a pull to check at least one task off the to-do list.

  But the song is half over, I remembered.

  “Can I sit with you while you look?” I asked my thrifty daughter, who’d gone straight to the sale section of the site.

  “Sure, Mom,” Natalie replied in a cheerful voice that indicated her face held a smile even though I could only see the back of her head.

  And although looking at the American Girl doll website for almost thirty minutes wasn’t the most entertaining activity ever, listening to my child carefully determine what two items her sister would love best was unforgettable. And that’s when it hit me. Cherishing every moment until my child leaves home is not possible. After all, there are jobs to do, bills to pay, and deadlines to meet. There are school assignments, extracurricular activities, home duties, and volunteer duties. But there are moments in between life’s obligations when we are in the presence of our loved ones that can be made sacred.

  Meals at the table, caring for pets, walking around the block, morning send-offs, afternoon greetings, and nightly tuck-ins all hold great potential — potential to be all there. Within the duties of life, there are opportunities to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror . . . to ask her questions . . . to listen to her thoughts . . . to sit beside her as she does something she enjoys . . . opportunities to sing along to her favorite song . . . opportunities to sing along to the music of her life.

  Believe me, I could fill those opportune moments with to-dos. I was born with the ability to spot tasks that need attention every second of every day. But during my highly distracted years, I found that it doesn’t take long before those lost opportunities begin to accumulate. When they start to pile up, they get heavy and the pain becomes inescapable. And farther down the road, I imagine that pile of missed opportunities will look a lot like Regret — the kind of Regret that lays at your feet after your loved ones have gone, making you wish you could turn back time.

  But this story is not about Regret. This story is about hope because there’s a song playing right now. If you listen closely, you can hear it . . . you can see it . . . and you can learn to seize it.

  It’s a Lego creation on the floor. It’s a tea party in the playroom.

  It’s a pickup basketball game in the driveway. It’s a cozy table for two in the corner of Starbucks.

  It’s a wheelchair ride down a musty corridor to show feeble eyes the beauty of a summer morning.

  It’s a phone call to an estranged friend that begins with “I’ve been thinking about you . . .”

  It’s an apology, a white flag, an olive branch between two people who love each other very much but will never see eye to eye.

  It’s a lingering hug, the smoothing of a stray hair, an invitation that sounds like “What do you want to do today?”

  There’s a song playing right now, today. And it’s not over yet. So push aside your hesitations, your duties, your distractions, and your pride for just a moment and sing along. Sing along so the people you love know that you’re all there and there’s no place else you’d rather be.

  In about twenty or thirty years, let Regret be someone else’s companion. Because you’ll be looking back on your life with a smile on your face and a song on your lips.

  HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION

  Today I will not put that which is urgent in front of that which is important. Today I will look for opportunities staring me in the face with big brown (or blue or green) eyes. And when I see a chance to love, listen, sing, dance, laugh, or rest, I will seize it. This day could be checked off or it could be lived. I choose to use these hands, this heart, and these eyes to let it live.

  FILL THE SPACES WITH CONNECTIVE SILENCE

  In an especially chaotic rush out the door to go on a family vacation, I sat in the passenger seat fuming. Mad because I didn’t have time to put the dishes in the dishwasher. Mad because we were late getting on the road. Mad because the garage door was acting up. I am talking trivial, insignificant, minor inconvenience
s here, but that was the state of a distracted woman who could no longer see the blessings, only the inconveniences, of her overscheduled life.

  Just before we were about to pull out of the driveway, my husband, Scott, looked at me as if someone he loved very much had died. In a barely audible whisper he said, “You’re never happy anymore.”

  I wanted to defend.

  I wanted to excuse.

  I wanted to deny.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because I knew he was right.

  Where had that cheerful woman gone? The one who smiled at people she passed on the street just because. The one who felt happy when she heard her favorite song or had a pack of strawberry Twizzlers in her purse. The one who experienced a surge of joy when she pulled the car over to watch a sunset or rescue a stranded turtle.

  When I looked at the pained expression on Scott’s face, I wondered how long it had been there. Just how long had I not noticed what I was losing as my hands, heart, and mind were consumed by the fleeting, superficial, and meaningless distractions of my life. I was the closest I’d ever been to society’s definition of “having it all” yet the farthest I’d ever been from the life I yearned to live.

  As odd as it may sound, that dark truth became a beacon of hope. You see, not too many months later, Scott and I were given the rare opportunity to get away for five days. It would be the first time in six years we’d been away from parental duties and everyday pressures for more than a day or two. It would also be the first tropical island we’d ever visited. I was determined to take Scott’s painful truths and my newfound awareness and use them for good. On this vacation, I would be distraction free — not just unplugged, but completely engaged, attuned to my husband, my surroundings, and my connection-starved soul.

  For added motivation, I shamefully recalled how many vacations I’d ruined by focusing on all the wrong things:

  Fretting over how I looked in a swimsuit . . .

  Dwelling on all the things I “should” be doing in the name of productivity . . .

  Trying to capture the perfect photo and caption to post on social media . . .

  Attempting to stay current with the endless stream of information on the Internet . . .

  Getting upset if things didn’t go according to my plan . . .

  Feeling like we needed to be doing something every single moment in order to have fun . . .

  It was no wonder the joy was gone from my face and my heart. These shallow preoccupations acted as barriers separating me from the most fulfilling aspect of life: to love and to be loved.

  But not on this vacation.

  I purposely brought a small suitcase so I would not be weighed down by choices and excess. Blank notebooks and pencils replaced devices and calendars. Hats and headbands replaced blow-dryers and curling irons. I squelched the compulsion to plan out our days and instead let them naturally unfold. Interestingly, Scott and I found ourselves starting each day with a long morning hike and ending our days parked in the sand watching the sun make its descent.

  The woman who had become too busy to watch the breathtaking sight of another day gone by saw four consecutive sunsets. And in those hours sitting side by side in beach chairs against a backdrop of fiery hues, I learned things I didn’t know about my husband of fifteen years. Scott listened to newfound dreams that I didn’t have fifteen years ago. We got to know each other again — the “fifteen years later” version of the person we love even more today than we did on our wedding day.

  But let me be completely honest: While it’s true that Scott and I shared great conversations that were on a deeper level than they were at home, it wasn’t like that every minute of the vacation. We didn’t find ourselves continually conversing without a single breath in between. We weren’t constantly pouring out our hearts or whispering seductively in each other’s ears like over-the-top lovers in a Harlequin romance. Sometimes we just shared moments of connective silence. Why connective? Because in those conversation lulls, I didn’t check out. I didn’t reach for the phone, the television remote, or a few pages of unfinished work. For the first time in a long time, the quiet pauses of our days and nights were not marred by the noise of the outside world or the micromanager in our heads. After a few moments of quiet tranquility between Scott and me, something would eventually come to mind and one of us would speak. Sometimes it was something simple, but other times it was something profoundly meaningful.

  As the vacation progressed, the silences became more comfortable and more restorative. Like a seashell tucked inside my shirt pocket, I vowed to take the following discovery back home with me: perhaps the greatest opportunity to connect to what really matters lies in the silent spaces of our day. When we resist the urge to fill every minute with noise, excess, and activity, we open the doors of our heart, mind, and soul to let the joy come in.

  Near the end of our trip, Scott and I took a spontaneous eight-mile hike to the island’s historic lighthouse. The rustic trail was comprised of crushed shells and ran along the exquisite shoreline. A few feet off the beaten track, I noticed some plastic red flowers sticking out of the ground. I felt compelled to investigate. As I approached, I felt as though I was about to receive a divine sign that I was on the right path toward a more meaningful life.

  Lovingly surrounded by sun-bleached, weathered seashells was a headstone. The top line on the tombstone read: In loving memory of our sunsets together. Although it was a balmy 85 degrees that day, the words gave me chills.

  Reading further, I discovered someone’s dearest love had been seventy-four when she passed. I squatted down and honored her with a moment of silence. Scott’s hand came to rest on my back; no words were needed. Something told me my prayer was his prayer. Thank you, God. Through you, even the darkest truths can become beacons of light. Even the most pained expressions can be transformed to smiles. Even the most deafening silences can be the pathway to the deepest connections of the human heart.

  HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION

  Today I will seek two empty-handed moments, two complete-silence moments, and two fully available moments. I will avoid setting expectations for what is to happen during these moments. Instead, I shall allow these moments to unfold naturally so there is room for them to flourish, evolve, and transform into fuel for my connection-hungry soul.

  FILL THE SPACES WITH THE SOUND OF HOPE

  As the final bites of dessert were savored and dishes were cleared from the round tables, I saw the coordinator of the women’s event take the stage. The women at my table smiled at me, reminding me that it was my turn. Our dinner conversation had been so enjoyable that I nearly forgot I was not simply having dinner with friends but was the keynote speaker of the evening’s event.

  I scooted to the edge of my chair, thinking the announcer would probably touch on a few highlights from my biography and invite me forward. But as I looked around at a sea of captivated faces, I realized she’d gone off script. In a voice heavy with emotion, the woman told the audience there was a Hands Free strategy that had changed her relationship with her child. The crowd grew silent, hanging on every word she spoke of The Heartbeat Check, a ritual I wrote about in the very early stages of my journey. While this was going on, I experienced two completely inappropriate reactions: first, shock. I couldn’t believe someone outside my parents and their retired friends at the exercise club had been reading my blog way back then. Not only did this woman just acknowledge she’d been reading my words since the blog’s inception, but she’d used my messages to create a family ritual that was still alive years later. I was shocked.

  And then I was sad.

  The Heartbeat Check, which had once been a great source of connection with my own children, was no longer in existence at my house.

  Where had it gone?

  Why did we stop?

  What have I missed?

  As the clapping ensued, I realized that while I was sitting there quietly falling apart, my introduction had concluded. I quickly got ahold of my
self — after all, I was about to take the stage and tell a large group of people to let go of distraction, perfection, and guilt. This was hardly the time to beat myself up over lost opportunities!

  I managed to compose myself and make it through the sixty-minute presentation with no other thoughts about the forgotten ritual. Afterward, I made my way over to the woman who had introduced me and told her how much her words meant to me. The woman’s eyes teared up as she disclosed a few more personal details about the sacred bonding time with her daughter. Then she covered my hand with her own and thanked me for bringing her closer to her child.

  As I looked into her hopeful eyes, I realized this was not a time to feel shame or regret; this was a time to be grateful for the powerful reminder I’d just been given. By choosing to look forward rather than back, I could seize this gift — I just hoped it wasn’t too late.

  The next evening, I initiated my plan to bring The Heartbeat Check back into play. I started with the most likely candidate. I crawled up next to Avery, who was cozily nestled in her lime-green comforter awaiting her nightly tuck-in. To my highly affectionate child and her gaggle of stuffed animals, I immediately fessed up. “Do you remember when we used to do The Heartbeat Check at bedtime?” I asked optimistically.

  This child, who remembers exactly where she placed her eyeglasses in a sea of overgrown grass and the precise location of three long-gone bruises from a tricycle mishap when she was two, nodded eagerly.

  “Well, last night I realized we stopped doing The Heartbeat Check, so I was wondering if we could start again,” I said, my voice rising along with my hopes.

  Instantly I was reminded why being six is so awesome. When you’re six, you can always pick up where you left off. With no reprimand, no lecture, and absolutely no discussion whatsoever, my child abruptly peeled back her comforter to expose the panda on the front of her hot-pink pajamas. She pointed straight to the fuzzy black-and-white target and said, “Here ya go, Mama!”