A few months back, I was scanning through my Facebook feed, killing time while waiting in line at Starbucks. It was pretty standard fare: a potpourri of kiddie pix, instagrams, cat memes, food porn and the occasional rant about politics or the weather. My thumb scrolled up and up, occasionally gliding across the “like” button as I caught up on the details of my friends’ daily lives. And then came a post that caused me to pause.

It was an image of a watercolor depicting a faint landscape: earth, air and a star-speckled sky.  Over the image, in a handwritten typeface, was a quote from Buddha.

“The trouble is, you think you have time.”

It was posted by a friend, a mother of two beautiful children, who had just completed a course of chemo after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

I froze for a second, deeply touched by this simple, yet profound—and for her so very intimate and personal—truth. I took a deep breath, tilted my head back to suck back the tears, and moved to the front of the line.

Though I went on with my day that post and the emotion it triggered stayed with me. As a parent, it’s something I reflect on often. In the past week, it’s been all the more visceral.

You can plan and strive and dream and live…and in an instant, you could leave this earth.

The other day, I watched a CBS “Sunday Morning” segment entitled, “If Only.” It focused on the utter fragility of life—how inexplicable, unexpected circumstances like 9/11 and more recently the Boston Marathon bombings and Texas fertilizer plant explosion, can not only end lives tragically, but leave those that remain with guilt and regret for words left unsaid, paths not taken, feelings left unshared.

The question was posed: ”What would you do differently if you knew? What would you have said to a loved one, a spouse, a parent, a brother or sister, a mentor, a friend or even an enemy?

They then profiled people who filled in the blank.

“If only…I would’ve had the chance to thank the family that hid me and my parents from the Nazis during the Holocaust…”

“If only…I would’ve told my grade school teacher ‘I’m sorry for making fun of you—the clothes you wore and the way you walked. You taught me so many things…and inspired me to become a teacher’…”

Each person wept as they read out loud words they had written but would never be heard.

"The trouble is, you think you have time."

The truth is, most of us waste it—buried in the weeds, busying ourselves with activities, scanning, surfing, doling out trivial tidbits that pass the time, and only skim the surface of true emotion. We miss the opportunities we have every single day to thank someone, to say I’m sorry, to encourage, to praise, to appreciate.

Usually it takes a catalyst (an illness or a tragedy) to push us over the edge. To step out side of our comfort zone and into vulnerability. To truly see another person and tell them how you feel. But doing so can become a catalyst for something so much bigger than yourself.

My mom was the youngest of fourteen kids. Her mom died during childbirth so she never knew what it was like to have a mother. She grew up in a culture where emotions weren’t expressed, so a terse “Be good.” “Study hard.” or “Love you.” were the extent of feelings shared. I knew she loved me through her actions, not often through her words. But at some point along the way, 13 years ago to be exact, she wrote me a letter—astounding, unexpected, so genuinely heartfelt—and I will cherish it for the rest of my life.

Though I am truly blessed with an amazing family, great friends, a solid job, a home in a city that I love, I also have doubts, insecurities, questions about what I’m doing and what the future holds. I am, like we all are, simply trying to do my best, vacillating between clear direction and completely winging it.

I came across the letter randomly, tucked away in a shoebox full of pictures and miscellaneous mementos I had collected through the years.  I found it—or it found me—at a time when I needed a nudge, a little reassurance, words of encouragement when I started to doubt.

We didn’t always see eye to eye. She wanted me to be a lawyer and I chose a career in advertising. She was no frills; for me, the fancier, the better. She came from a country and a mindset thousands of miles away from where they raised us. But the letter bridged the gap, revealed a depth of feeling that I never knew she had.

My Dearest Celia,

I have been wanting to try this new stationery for a long time now, so…finally I found the box and put it on my desk and started writing to you.

I can’t believe you are so grown. To me, you are still my baby. I guess I cannot believe either I am as old as I am.

Cel, you have grown to be so mature, so charming, so beautiful, so loving, so responsible, etc., etc., etc. Your dad and I are so proud of you. We are so lucky to have a daughter like you. We love you very much.

We’re happy you enjoy and love your work. I did not doubt for one minute you would achieve such advancement. So fast! I have seen and witnessed how talented to you are. You are such an incredible being. I have always admired you. You can always attain what you strive for once you put your effort into it. As you know, I have consulted you about different things even when you were just in high school.

I just want to emphasize once more that you make us happy with what you do and we are proud of you…Stay as sweet and as wonderful as you have been. Follow your instincts. Always be thankful for the gifts you have. God bless you.

Love,

Mom

I'll never know what caused her to put pen to paper that day. It was so unlike her. Yet here she was, a successful neurologist who built a practice filled with patients who loved her, expressing how much she admired me?! It was shocking, heartfelt…and so, so beautiful. Years after it was written, it still had the power to cast a whole new light on our relationship. The letter was a gift—tangible, real, something to hold onto despite the fact the she is gone.

We think we have time…but nobody knows for sure. Write a letter. Pick up the phone. Say the words that need to be said. You have nothing to lose. And the person on the receiving end has everything to gain.

We’re hearty Midwest stock. We should know better. But every year we ride the same emotional rollercoaster. In winter, we hunker down, brace ourselves each morning to brave the bone-chilling cold. With brows furrowed, we slog through slush, making sporadic eye contact, through veiled faces, with the slivers of eyes peeking out of warm woolen scarves.

And then it happens. An unexpected warm spell. Usually on a random weekend in March, it hits. BAM! 65 and sunny. The streets, the lakefront, the sidewalks are all teeming with humanity. We’re people again, not scowling robots trudging as briskly as possible from point a to point b to escape the frigid temps. Our bodies—and our souls—embrace the welcome thaw, relishing in the warmth and the return to life and vibrancy. Spring is finally in the air!

Or so we think… As inevitable as the dreaded Monday morning buzzkill, Mother Nature shows her true colors. In an instant, our zeal, optimism and “ding, dong, the wicked winter is dead” dance is silenced by the onslaught of downright nasty weather. “Take this!” she taunts, slamming us with torrential downpours, arctic chills, marble-sized hail, and howling wind.

There’s a technical name for this phenomenon, which I learned during the course of my twenty years living in Chicago. Wait for it…[drumroll] it’s a Midwest winter.

I include myself among the millions who fall for the folly every year. Mother Effer….err Nature is going to blast us a couple more times for good measure. She will, just like last year and the year before. So what can we mere mortals do about it (besides the obvious swearing, cursing and picture posting of the latest shaft to our heat-seeking psyches)?

Well, when I’m in the throes of weather-induced depression (aka SAD), I tend to pine, agonize and long for sunnier locales. LA, Miami, Tuscany. Idyllic trips I’ve taken, where my favorite ensemble was not a flirty sundress or Tory-inspired tunic, but the simple cloak of sun enveloping by body—no, my being. Yet dreaming of delightful getaways has its perils. It feels good at the time, but usually plunges you into greater depression when you realize you’re here and NOT there. #realitysmackdown

During one particular moment of reverie, I did have a revelation. It was a dark, rainy day, so naturally I reached for my goth go-to: the handy black cowlneck—warm, practical, reliable. Reflective of my blah mood and the bitter weather outside. Trudging and scowling, all I could think of was “At this time last year, I was in Los Angeles.” Shorts, sun, sand. Palm trees and balmy breezes. It was torture.

There was one day in Lala Land that stood out vividly in my mind. We were headed back from a road trip to San Luis Obispo, admiring the coastline along PCH. “Hey guys, look! There’s a rainbow.” The colorful arch emerged from a mass of clouds far off into the distance and stretched out over the vast expanse of sky.

“It must be our lucky day,” we all agreed, and continued on our drive.

“There’s another one…and another!” The boys were squealing.

“No, it’s probably just a different part of the same one,” I dismissed, turning around to console them. But when I gazed out the window, I found that they were right! Crazy mist or sea sprays or magic created rainbows all across the sky. I had never seen anything like it. Nature had stolen a page out of Pixar’s playbook and, over the course of an hour’s drive we counted a jaw-dropping total of six separate rainbows.

As I crustily made my morning commute, I thought about that day. It’s crazy how the colors caused grown adults to giggle with delight. We were just as excited as the kids, scanning the skyline for our next ROYGBIV fix…and then it occurred to me. Why do we have to wait for such spectacles? For blue skies to wipe away our blue moods? As if our very sanity rests on a sliver of sun stingily doled out on a whim?

When you’re so dependent on the weather all you can do is wait—impatiently—for Mother Nature to cooperate. Or you can take matters into your own hands. Turn to color in its absence. Over the last few months, I’ve invested in some shall we say “bright” articles of clothing. Hot pink, brick red, cobalt blue jeans. Lemon yellow Hunters. Emerald green dress. Statement pieces perhaps. Tacky, maybe. But I don’t care. They actually lift my spirits. Make me happy when I wear them.

Perhaps a splash of color just might be the sunshine you need to get through this schizo weather until spring officially arrives. Who says toddlers and trannies are the only ones who can have some fun with color. Lighten it up. Brighten it up. Put on your happy pants and show Mother Nature where she can stick it.

I missed the shot. It’s been seven years since we went to Paris, but the image is still seared into my brain.

There we were, standing on the famed Boulevard Saint-Germain. The day was winding down and the street was just beginning to bustle with the energy of commuters weaving through the streets to make their way home. Friends clustered on sidewalk cafes, scarves artfully wrapped, lips primed and puckered for the double air-kiss greeting, and cheek bones accentuated by the long, deep drags of their cigarettes.

As we prepared to brave the busy intersection en route to Café de Flore, I saw her. She had a Vidal Sassoon-style bob. Smooth, glossy, perfectly coiffed despite her hurried pace and the slight breeze gently blowing through her hair. She wore a crisp navy blazer, perfectly tailored, with a striped boatneck tee peeking out from underneath. Skinny dark jeans, shiny black flats and a simple red scarf tied elegantly around her neck perfected the look. A cognac leather backpack adorned one shoulder, brass buckles gleaming in the sunlight and the flap shifted over to make room for a single, slender baguette sticking out of the top.

I hastily reached for my camera and fumbled over purse straps and lens caps. I quickened my pace to catch up to my muse. But as soon as the light changed to green, she was off. She walked briskly, confidently toward a balmy tree-lined side street, and by the time the viewfinder made contact with my eye, she was gone. 

What was it about that image that I needed to capture? That I simply can’t forget all these years later? Sure she was attractive, but far from gorgeous. There was an undeniable elegance and effortlessness to her style. But that wasn’t even it…

It was the baguette. Totally jarring, unexpected. A big, fat middle finger pointing directly at our grab ‘n’ go, convenience-driven culture. In contrast to the sad loaf of hard but healthy sprouted grain Ezekiel bread in my fridge, this was a delectable surprise that offered a glimpse into Parisian life. Was this her routine? A post-work ritual, stopping in a favorite boulangerie to pick up her daily bread? Or was she planning a romantic picnic at the Luxembourg Gardens, racing to meet her lover with a wedge of Camembert and bottle of Beaujolais tucked away at the bottom of her knapsack? Or perhaps she was trying a new bouillabaisse recipe and hence needed a thirsty baguette to soak up all the flavors of the sea?

I have no idea. But the image gave me permission to dream. About her life. And mine. To contemplate what I wanted to take from this magical place, to savor and eventually bring home.

I missed the shot…well my camera did. But the image is still with me, along with countless others that shaped a tapestry of life as it should be lived.

The French call it “joie de vivre.” It’s not just about the beauty, but the ethos of the people and the place. The art of living: dressing without self-consciousness, eating without guilt, making time to laugh with friends in cafés, singing on street corners, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

Seven years later, I am reminded. We don't have to be in Paris to live like this... 

it’s one of my favorite mantras. one that i whisper to myself as i justify pulling the trigger on a shiny new pair of shoes. or egging my friends on when they debate eating their healthy, packed lunch or going out for a splurge. i say it half jokingly, and half-serious—because even though i probably don’t need that last glass of bubbles, i certainly feel like a million bucks (and hence am #worthit at the time) to soak up some pampering, though i pay the price in a high-roller hangover the next morning.

the truth is we all need—and deserve—a little indulgence here or there to help us get through the drudgery. but sadly, if you’re a mom, those moments of “me time” are few and far between.

i do my best to pull it together: look presentable, accessorize, prioritize, but most often it feels like each day is a whirling mass of semi-organized chaos. get up. get dressed. feed kids. fill out forms. pack lunch. track down hats, gloves, mittens, boots. go to work. hop on train. pick up one. hop in car. pick up 2. back home. homework. make dinner. eat. bath. brush teeth. tuck in. lather. rinse. repeat.

the daily grind is a far cry from the bump ‘n’ grind of life before kids. i think about all the “stuff” i used to buy. all the time i used to have. all the friends i used to see. all the dates we used to make. and try to cobble together bits and pieces of those aspects of life that made me whole.

i have to admit: sometimes the constant struggle to balance it all gets to me. i lose it. when the dervishes are whirling, and the eyes are rolling, and the shoes are stomping, and the bickering turns into full-on brawls, i don’t hesitate to play the tried and true parent card. given my shoe selection, they most likely wouldn’t buy the “walking barefoot for miles to school” shtick that my mom and dad used on us, but the whole lecture about sacrifice and gratitude…please. “everything we do is for YOU.” (queue up bryan adams…)

to say it’s being dramatic is simply inaccurate. every word of the speech is true…but it can also feel like the reverse is true. as a parent, does prioritizing yourself always come last?

one night i was sitting on the couch and i’d just hit a wall. i was done. dishes in the sink. laundry in the basket. to-do list left untouched from the day before. from the distance, i could hear the wild elephants approaching.

“keep it down guys! it’s too loud for the neighbors!” ugh. “FML.”

the stomping got louder.

“MOMMY!!”

“WHAT?” in my mind, i was readying my response, preparing to pull from the repertoire of phrases uttered infinitely throughout the day. “you’re 8, he’s 3. give it back; we don’t take other people’s things. if you don’t share, you both are going to lose it. because i said so, that’s why…”

“we have a surprise for you!” an outburst of giggles. hands behind their backs. grinning from ear to ear. before i could even respond, they threw their hands open. “it’s you, mommy!”

in the midst of playing, they made a little lego figure of me.

“look she has blue pants just like you! blue is your favorite color, right mommy? and see, she has a big bracelet and long hair that’s in a ponytail. she even has a white purse, mommy. that’s YOU!”

their uncanny attention to accessory details aside(!), i thought “wow…that’s me”… and i’m also a chair when the little one climbs into my lap. and a measuring stick for the biggie to compare himself to. and a hand holder. and a boo boo blower. and a pasta maker. and a chocolate sharer. and a “fancy shoe” wearer.

they watch. they pay attention. they know your likes and dislikes. they shape you. and they are walking, breathing little pieces of you.

no one’s identity is fixed. and your sense of meaning inevitably changes as you move from one stage in life to the next. motherhood is not ALL of me. but it is a huge, indelible part. though sometimes i miss the freedom, simplicity, and yes, even selfishness of those early days, in an instant, i’m reminded why my broken nails, bloodshot eyes, chipped plates, crayon on walls, never-enough-time-for-anything existence is completely, undeniably #worthit. 

i’m not big on new years resolutions. i’ve made it through the bulk of january without buckling under the pressure to codify grand proclamations about the “new and improved” me that will emerge this year.

it all feels too contrived. or perhaps too pressured. a commitment to expectations that, if left unfulfilled, become another potential source (as if we need anymore!) of stress or disappointment. hopes and dreams #fail…or something like that.

but inevitably, the beginning of a new year does cause you to take stock. consider the status quo. contemplate changes. assess risks. hit the reset button on the same old, same old.

i have utterly no idea what’s around the corner, but the strangest feeling has hit me over the course of the last few weeks. something just clicked. it’s like a switch has been flipped. maybe it’s the lingering afterglow of holiday happiness. or warm fuzzies from quality time with the family. or simply just the vaguest sense that good things are in store.

…ironically, as the wet, arctic icy blast is blowing through the city, i can’t help but feel the warmth of possibility. i woke up this morning, eyes still shut, but a slideshow of images, some of my favorite shots, cycling through my mind. 

"what changes are you planning to make?" a friend recently asked me.

"don't worry about it," i said...because i'm not. 

some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. delicious ambiguity...    -Gilda Radner

Advertising is a funny thing. It can make you chuckle, wince, laugh, cry, roll your eyes, crack a smile...but mostly it can make you feel nothing. Often in my household, it's the grey matter, the background noise that occupies the space between real life and fantasy, substance and escape.

But every once in awhile, you encounter a campaign that changes the way you think. Alters your perception of an everyday thing. Inspires you to see the world—or yourself—in a completely different light.

Samsung’s “Photography Lessons with the Blind” is one of those campaigns. 

Background: In Korea, Samsung Electronics holds by far the largest market share for compact digital cameras. But the brand wanted to increase mind share—going beyond simply building good cameras to creating a brand with deep philosophical substance.

The Idea: They handed out cameras to 11 visually impaired students, taught them basic photography skills, and then travelled with them to various locations. Over 50 days, the students captured all that they could sense onto their cameras. Amazed at the outcome, Samsung opened an exhibition with their best photos—all of which had been turned into 3D sculptures so that the photographers could actually feel their pictures.

Beyond boosting Samsung’s mind share and earning Cheil Global a prestigious Cannes Lion, the campaign taught something even more valuable: That the mind sees what the eyes cannot, and that vision is but one way to view the world.

For those of us blessed with the gift of sight, do we use it? Are we present in those moments? Or is there more to see than meets the eye? More to observe, more to appreciate, more to feel with our heads and our hearts?

As the saying goes, “Life isn't about how many breaths you take but how many times your breath is taken away.”

heading into the holiday season, i spent several days pouring through photos (and if you know me, there are thousands) to find the perfect shot for our holiday cards. as i sifted through the archive, i found many images that pulled me in, but that i couldn’t use because they all had one thing in common: they were shots of my kids from behind—taken from the vantage point of a mom, hanging back a couple steps and watching as they plunged into whatever lay ahead.

running at full speed up the 150-foot sand dunes with tiny shovels in hand. standing with pant legs rolled up as waves devoured their delicious little toes. sprinting to find the perfect pumpkins. staring with awe into fish tanks and candy shops, holiday windows and bakery shelves. setting aside brotherly quarrels to walk hand in hand through the crunchy fall leaves and giant rain puddles.

you can’t see their faces, but you can sense their wonder, the gusto with which they plunge into new experiences. as parents, you watch with a mix of pride and perhaps a touch sadness as these little beings go out into the world to explore, to experience, to see, touch and taste, to learn to stand on their own.

you try to prepare them as best as you can. when you fall, brush it off. if you lose, congratulate the winner. if you hurt someone, say you’re sorry. all the rules of engagement and pithy life lessons make sense…in a world full of order.

and then something happens to remind you that sometimes you simply have no control. though it’s been two weeks since the sandy hook tragedy, the horror of that day is the worst case scenario, every parent’s most horrific nightmare come true. one day, we were worried about protecting our kids from skinned knees and scary dreams, bullies and bike falls…and now this?

for our kids—and even for ourselves—we don’t know what lies ahead. but what we do have is the ability to be present and grateful for each moment that we have.

that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and butterflies. in fact it’s the opposite. it’s hard to juggle life’s demands, be there for your family, keep your perspective and see the good. but try to remember, in those times, to hang back for bit. step away from the chaos. take a cue from the little ones and embrace the wonder of moments that happen every single day. you never know when they will be your last...

a portrait of passion

someone once said “lack of passion is fatal.” at first blush, it seems a bit dramatic. certainly a lack of food, water, oxygen: these are the things that can actually threaten our survival…but passion?!

if you think about it, so much of what we do on a daily basis—in work, chosen hobbies, the people we spend precious time with—has to do with purpose.  

no purpose. no passion. no reason to get up in the morning. or to believe that it matters.

my hunch is that many of us are succumbing slowly, perhaps without even knowing it. death by a thousand paper cuts…or useless meetings…or anything that stands in the way of feeling that fire in your gut.

it’s usually subtle. you hardly notice it as you scurry about to tend to your daily business. but then you encounter that rare someone in the light. with the kind of passion that emanates from their being. that you can feel when they walk into the room. and you realize that the little void is actually a chasm—between you and the life you want to be living.

we arrived en masse: myself, the lead creative, the account director and two designers.  a perky blonde popped up from behind the glossy, white lacquer reception desk and whisked us away to the conference room. we followed in single file, weaving between cubes and meticulously assembled scale models with perfectly placed mini-trees and glorious architectural projects that would put the 5,000-piece "millennium falcon" lego set to shame.

when we arrived at our destination, we graciously sat down—pleasant, client game-faces beaming­­—to await the arrival of the stakeholders. the assignment we were waiting to be briefed on: creating a brand identity for a new skyscraper being built in chicago's famed river north district. after several minutes of fidgeting in our spine-hugging aeron chairs and doodling in moleskins, the door opened.

"hi guys, it's nice to meet you. i'm russ!" salt and pepper hair, cocky and self-deprecating, he was the project manager, a proud "southern boy" with firm handshakes for all of us gathered around the table.

"now lemme tell you about this building," he said in his best george "dubya" accent. "it's gonna be special." he paused for emphasis and we perked up in our chairs, anxiously awaiting every detail of the new gem planned for the city's heralded skyline.

"state-of-the-art building. the fastest elevators. LEED certified. that's a big one." he fired off random phrases as we furiously scribbled them down, hoping to make rhyme or reason of them later.

i scanned the pages of my notebook. a lot of words...not much of a story.

and then he walked in.

the particles in the room shifted. he was an older gentleman, grey hair effortlessly combed back, in a perfectly fitted french cuff shirt and shiny, black onyx cufflinks. he didn't glide in, but rather descended on the table, clearly well-versed in rushing from one important meeting to the next.

now it was russ who perked up, as if the headmaster had just arrived with a ruler in hand. "all right guys, enough from me. he's the boss and he's gonna tell you exactly what you need to know." he smiled like an adoring puppy dawg. "take it away!"

he was responsible for some of the most prestigious buildings in the city. even with no real estate knowledge whatsoever, you knew instantly that you were sitting in the presence of power.

but on this day, for the hour and half that he spoke with us, he was simply a man with a pure, intense passion. unlike the rapid-fire sound byte session we had just endured, we sat riveted, as he wove a story of architectural legacy (the building was designed by mies van der rohe's grandson) and future possibility. he talked about every single facet of the building "experience": from the grand entrance and private drive to the luxurious marble and granite appointments, stunning floor-to-ceiling glass, and the vibrant surrounding neighborhood. he talked of the address as a status symbol, attracting world-class tenants to a building worthy of their business. it would be a landmark—in a crowded urban landscape—that was second to none.

he wasn't merely reciting facts and figures or selling office space. he was delivering a manifesto, which he believed with every ounce of his being...and we all felt it viscerally.

i watched him intently during the entire gorgeous sonnet, but when my pen stopped writing for a brief moment, i peeked down at my arm. goosebumps.

passion is infectious. it makes you feel. it's the fire in your gut. the reason that you push further, stay up later, do what it takes to pursue it.

it's also rare. elusive. it's not going to be served up to you on a silver platter. you have to look for it. work for it. fight for it. in fact, it's been years since i've met anyone with as much love for what they were creating. suffice it to say i've managed to cope thanks to a healthy diet of steve jobs commencement speeches and inspirational TED talks. 

but the moral of the story is this: finding your passion, fanning the flame, or even just blowing on the tiny little ember that's inside, is worth it. it's the difference between flat-lining and feeling something.

life has a funny way of serving up curve balls. just when you think you’ve reached a point of stasis, calm or at least a routine that offers some semblance of perceived control, something usually comes along to shake things up.

it’s easy to get sucked into the vortex…taken over by a tidal wave of seemingly uncontrollable circumstances. during times like this, we often feel like we’re being dragged perilously through the muck, kicking and screaming against our will, toward whatever fate lies waiting for us on the other side.

but amidst the chaos, we often forget that while we can’t always control the situations in which we find ourselves, we can control how we react to them. we overlook the fact that we actually do have a choice in the matter.

wallowing in self-pity is certainly one route. drinking yourself silly another. speaking from personal experience, any of these options is equally appealing when you don’t believe you can change the course. but like most things in life, looking deeper usually reveals that there is more than one side to the story, a positive to balance the negative, an upside to the downside.

sometimes it’s simply a matter of perspective, focus or belief—that can turn despair into hope, tragedy into opportunity. 

i came across the following parable on tumblr and it sums up this truth so beautifully. how we respond to life is a choice. in yours, which “wolf” will win?

An elderly Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life…

He said to them, “A fight is going on inside me, it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf is evil—he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, competition, superiority and ego.

The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.

This same fight is going on inside of you, and inside every other person, too.”

They thought about it for a minute, and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win, Grandfather?”

The Elder simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I was thinking that this birthday called for a grandiose post about what I’ve learned in life or how it feels to be older and wiser. I covered my “7 Life Lessons” a couple months ago, so here I sit…contemplating what to write about.

To celebrate this milestone, we flew to South Beach and settled in at the Mondrian, a mecca of design and “all the pretty things” that capture Miami’s essence.  The interior #werqs: black and white, shiny and fierce, a chill vibe and killer bayside view of Miami at sunset.

Being surrounded by all this gleaming brilliance is transcendent: it feels special and blindingly beautiful. It’s glitter and pixie dust. The stuff that dreams are made of…so when I looked at my nightstand, I found the most unexpected message.

“The mundane is to be cherished.”

Ok it’s more than slightly ironic that this weighty nugget of wisdom is being shared in the most opulent of environments. But I’d also like to think it’s fate. It’s my mantra, packed into a tight, pithy bold Helvetica package.

We can go away, surround ourselves with magic for a few cherished moments or days…but eventually we have to go home. The trick is taking it with you. The optimism. The chill. The sense of whimsy. The deep inhale and exhale. The inspiration in little things—simple things—wherever we are, whatever we’re doing.

It’s looking through a lens of sea glass. A lot has changed over the years, but the center holds. My manifesto is the same. You can have it all. Just not all the time. Perhaps not all at once. Inspiration lives in moments.

And the most vibrant, thrilling, moment of this trip didn’t cost a thing…but I walked away with riches.