Heard the one about the Chinese farmer? According to the Taoists, he had a horse that ran away. A neighbor said, “Oh, that’s bad news,” and the farmer replied, “Good news, bad news, who can say?” The horse soon returned with another horse, which many labeled good news. The farmer again withheld judgment and gave the second horse to his son, who broke his leg when the animal threw him off. “That’s bad news,” clucked a sympathetic neighbor. “Good news, bad news, who can say?” the farmer predictably replied.

Days later, the emperor’s soldiers entered the village to round up able-bodied young men for war. The farmer’s injured son was spared, and the neighbors congratulated his dad upon hearing the “good” news.

You can guess what the farmer said, right? Well, I’m beginning to understand the wisdom of his philosophy, at least when it comes to adversity. I’ve learned that so-called bad news can sometimes lead to good.

Things like being turned down for a job or losing one, getting dumped by a lover or left by a spouse, and experiencing a life threatening illness or injury can sometimes lead us to more good than we ever would have imagined. Asking “What next?” or “What can I learn?” in the wake of upsetting events has served me better than asking “Why me?”

I tried to remember this two weeks ago, when my husband was in a fender-bender. As I took in the “bad” news over the phone, I silently expressed gratitude that no one was hurt and the car was okay. That in itself was progress for me—reaching for the good in a situation on the spot instead of having a meltdown. As it turns out, we’ll get some money to fix our car, which could use a little bodywork. Good news, in my book.

Four years ago, a different car accident resulted in injuries that allowed me to leave a career that I was no longer enjoying. The same thing happened with a panic attack in 1997. At the time of these events, I was too shaken to envision the positive outcomes that would follow. Both episodes introduced me to some talented healers, the accident led to a financial bonus, and the panic attack sent me on an emotional and psychological healing journey that gave birth to my current career.

The things we often label terrible and tragic can have hidden gifts. Sometimes they force us to grow our courage and commitment and call upon strength that we never knew we had. Sometimes they humble us enough to admit our vulnerability, ask for help, and accept it. Other times they catapult us out of our comfort zone and prompt us to make sorely needed changes that, left up to us, might never have happened.

I’m not saying there’s no room for tantrums or tears when things don’t go as we’d like them to. I’ve had my share of those and consider them healthy reactions to disappointment and loss.  But once the anger has cooled and the sadness has lifted, I think it’s important to work with the reality before us rather than waste time and energy lamenting, blaming and living in “coulda, woulda shoulda.”

Evidently, the tendency to make lemonade from lemons is hardwired in us.

Dan Gilbert, author of Stumbling on Happiness, says that we humans have a “psychological immune system” that helps us to synthesize happiness even when we don’t get what we want. Gilbert says that our brains can assist us in finding the ultimate good in whatever happens, and that synthetic happiness is as real as the kind that comes when things go our way. His own story illustrates how not getting what we want can be a blessing. When he couldn’t get into the creative writing class that we wanted to take in college, Gilbert ended up finding his passion and acclaim in psychology. Today he’s a Harvard professor and a media star who gives TED talks.

And how did I stumble upon Mr. Gilbert’s work for this essay? While heading home from a visit with my family the other night, I encountered a horrendous seven-mile back up on the only road out of town. Rather than sit and stew, I turned the car around, went back to my parents’ house, ate some ice cream and read a good book. When I got back in the car a few hours later, there was Dan Gilbert on the radio, discussing the good news about bad news. Perfection.

If you have a story to share about the gifts of adversity, I’d love to hear it. In the meantime, I wish you mostly good news and what my watercolor teacher calls “happy accidents.”

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.” –Herman Hesse

I recently interviewed a man who leads personal development programs with the help of a horse. Specifically, Brian Reid puts people who are stuck and struggling on top of his horse to get them out of their heads and into their hearts. When Brian’s coaching clients climb up on the horse, relax, and release tension all the way down to their, ahem, butt cheeks, they start to feel more trusting and empowered. From this place, he says, they can envision a successful resolution to the issue they’re grappling with.

To explain this phenomenon, Brian says, “They understand that surrender equals control.”

I’ve been pondering these paradoxical words in the wake of a huge shift that just happened in my life. In truth it happened to my husband, but, because I was trying so hard to control his life, it happened to me, too.

As I’ve mentioned here before, my husband is an African immigrant to the United States who left behind his life, language, family and electrical career to marry me. I’ve consequently felt pretty responsible for his welfare over here and tried my best to help him succeed. Being a Type A personality with a streak of control freak, I’ve also attempted to engineer most aspects of my husband’s American life, including his career path.

For three years we searched and applied for electrical jobs while my husband held down a supermarket job. I employed all of my networking and public relations skills on the quest, writing impressive cover letters and cold-calling local electricians. I printed up business cards for my husband before he’d mastered enough English to pronounce the words on them, and last year I urged him to enroll in trade school to work towards his license and impress potential employers.

As tuition bills mounted and months and months passed without so much as a “Thanks for your application,” reply, my husband became disheartened and I grew more desperate. I didn’t know if we were up against racism, xenophobia, a struggling economy or all of the above, but I knew that insisting upon this career path was draining the joy from us.

In the midst of this dark time I sat down to pray one morning and started to speak the words “I surrender…” to God and whoever else was listening. I choked on the words as a tidal wave of emotion gushed forth and I began to sob like a little child. All the anger, resentment, frustration, disappointment and heartache that I felt about the situation came pouring out. As the tears subsided I quietly released my ambition for my husband and asked a higher wisdom to prevail.

A few days later I was talking with someone in the renewable energy field about my husband’s interest in that area when it suddenly occurred to me: Why not consider a related path? I checked in with my husband and discovered that he was completely willing to change professional gears in order to meet his ultimate goals—financial security and job satisfaction. “God knows what I want and God will show me my way,” was what he actually said.

And so we became willing to surrender the electrical licensure dream, prayed for guidance, and reached out to our community one last time for leads and luck. Within weeks my husband had an entry-level technician job in a related industry with good pay, full benefits, appreciative employers and opportunities for advancement. It happened with no cover letter and no business cards, and he received the offer during his first and only interview.

I was dizzy for days from the speed of these events.

I’ve come to realize that when I’m holding tightly to agendas and specific outcomes, it’s usually because I fear that my needs won’t be met. In the grip of that fear, I lose control of myself, and I lose sight of other options. When I take inspired actions toward my desires, surrender the results, and allow something bigger to take over I feel more peaceful and, ultimately, in control.

I’m not saying it’s easy to “Let go and let God,” as they say in Twelve Step parlance, but I find that it can build faith, trust and confidence. It also cultivates peace of mind, unlike, say, obsessive thinking. When I gnaw like a dog on the bone of my willfulness, all I get is a sore jaw.

A student of mine recently remarked that the desires she holds most lightly are the ones that manifest most easily for her, and often in unexpected ways. Thinking back on my own life, I can attest to the truth of that experience. While I may not always get what I want (and who’s to say that that’s a bad thing, given the vagaries of my mind?), I can aim in that direction, do my part, and have faith that I’ll get what I need.

In the past year I’ve heard from two friends who were disappointed in me because I didn’t meet their expectations or show up in the ways they wanted me to. In one case the friendship was already fading and I took the opportunity to own up and disengage. The other friend’s accusations were harder to hear and laced with anger, but I tried to have compassion for the fact that she was going through an incredibly difficult time.  I also acknowledged that, even when my actions fall short, I try my best to be there for people I care about, not to mention occasional strangers in need.

But the lessons didn’t stop there. A few days after that upsetting conversation I read a passage from author Wayne Dyer in his daily Everyday Wisdom calendar:

“Instead of judging others as people who ought to be behaving in certain ways, see them as reflecting a part of you, and ask yourself what it is you are ready to learn from them.”

And there it was. These friends were holding up a big ol’ mirror to me, and it reflected something I didn’t want to see, namely, my own tendency to be hard on people when they fail to meet my expectations.

I used to be a champion grudge holder, and I still harbor resentments against a few key players in my life. I’m praying for guidance with those, and always hoping for a shift. The good news is that when new resentments crop up I catch them pretty quickly, recalling the words of author Malachy McCourt, who once said that, “Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

Indeed. All the energy I expend being judge and jury against my perceived wrongdoers (from that person who never returned my emails, to those who’ve rejected my precious friendship, to the people who didn’t acknowledge my thoughtfulness, value, etc.) is energy I’m taking away from my own life. It keeps me in a very unattractive “victimy” state, too, which is super unpleasant to feel and rarely a source of inspired action.

So here’s a radical thought: What if I imagine that we’re all doing the best we can with what we know?  Walking around with that kind of assumption, I’d certainly cut a lot more people a lot more slack, starting with my husband.

Since arriving in the United States to start a new life with me, my husband has faced innumerable challenges and obstacles, not to mention serious slights and heartbreaks as a proud African immigrant trying to make his way in this culture. Add to these stressors a wife who tends to point out his shortcomings (for his own good, of course), and you’ve got a man who’s often behind the eight ball. One of his favorite mantras is “I’m doing the best I can.”

A few months ago I attended a weekend workshop for women who want to have more satisfying relationships with men. We learned a lot about winning strategies for dealing with the opposite sex from our female instructor, but the most poignant moment came at the end of the workshop, when we heard from a panel of real, live men. The final question to these brave guys was, “If you had a megaphone, what message would you shout for all women to hear?” One answer that pierced my heart came from a white, successful, upper middle class man going through a divorce: “I’m doing the best that I can!”

The demands of this modern culture are squeezing the life out of so many people, and we’re all doing our best to try and keep up. Last year I got all bent out of shape because a girlfriend hadn’t replied to my calls and emails for a while. When she finally did I learned that she’d been privately grappling with a cancer diagnosis. Likewise, I once got testy with a student who showed up chronically late for my classes, only to learn that her husband was coming home chronically late from work to watch the kids—on the one night that my student had to herself. I’m humbled and shaken awake by these kinds of revelations.

Like death and taxes, disappointment in relationships is 100% guaranteed in this life. It’s what we do in response that matters. If we want forgiveness, compassion and understanding, we have to give it. I suggest starting with ourselves, by the way, because most of us are the least forgiving there. And I know that when I cut myself slack for my own human failings, I see others through a kinder, gentler lens.

One year ago I left a full-time job to rejoin the ranks of the self-employed. While the job provided wonderfully steady pay and health insurance, it was in no way related to my vocation as a writer, teacher and creativity coach—things I’d been doing “on the side.” And so I took the leap, not knowing exactly how, or whether, things would work out.

It’s not the first time I’ve done that.

At age 18 I left cozy Cape Cod for the streets of Philadelphia to join the freshman class at the University of Pennsylvania. It wasn’t the Ivy League cred that sold me on Penn so much as the chance to explore urban living for the first time in my life. I went to jazz clubs and nightclubs, wandered the Italian markets and Chinatown, ran up the steps of Philly’s art museum like Rocky and walked the downtown streets with glee. I felt at home in the city, and the feeling was exponentially magnified when I chose to spend my junior year in London, an experience otherwise known as The Year I Found Myself.

After college I followed some leads to New York, where I spent ten years in public broadcasting and had lots of daring adventures (not all of which are fit to print). When my work as a radio journalist ceased to inspire me, I left it to live in a yoga center nestled amid green hills. Two years later I missed the buzz of city life and headed to Boston to try and make a living as a yoga teacher. I had no jobs lined up, but I had a bed in my friend’s guest room.

The point is that I’ve taken many risks in my life to follow my desires in the direction of what promised greater fulfillment. At times I was moving toward something concrete, but more often I was simply moving away from what no longer fit. Both are valuable practices, but it’s the latter that really builds risk muscles when we dare to step off metaphorical cliffs and hope that a net will appear.

I once had a powerful dream about this. It found me making my way across tall rock formations in the Grand Canyon (I’m not even a hiker…but you know how dreams are). At one point in the journey I came to a place where the next rock was too far away for a safe leap and I froze in fear. Suddenly, part of me split off and jumped, falling hundreds of feet to the ground—splat. As I peered down in horror, I saw a crowd gather around my fallen self. To everyone’s amazement, she/I got up, brushed off the dirt, and walked away, unbroken. Up above, the frightened but emboldened me shakily stepped forward into the air. Immediately, a kind of magic carpet appeared under my feet and transported me to the next rock, Aladdin-style. And so it went, all across the canyon.

This vivid dream came to me twelve years ago during a time of great change and uncertainty. It told me: 1) You may fall/fail in front of other people, but it won’t kill you, and 2) When you take a step forward despite your fears, help arrives. I like to tell my creative recovery students that God/Spirit/Higher Power/Universe is always ready to assist us, but we have to take the first empowering action. As the saying goes: Pray to catch the bus, and run as fast as you can.

Each time I exercise my risk muscles I grow in courage, faith and self-confidence, which are the real rewards of risk-taking. And let me be sure to say that it’s rarely comfortable to embrace the unknown. Most of my riskier life changes were accompanied by many wide-eyed “What the hell am I doing?!” moments at 3 a.m. By the light of day, if my inner convictions were stronger than my fear and anxiety, I forged ahead.

When I asked others about risks that paid off for them, I heard stories about daring to leave unhappy jobs and marriages, taking a chance on love, and “following my own path against the odds, which in some ways proved my worth, at least to myself.”  A former student who’s moved around the country to follow her dreams says, “It seems that the more something scares you, and the higher your resistance, the more you should actually take the plunge.” Another writes that, “Taking a recent trip to Europe meant emptying my bank account at a time when my work hours were being cut in half, but that trip broke me out of what I later recognized as depression and woke me up to possibilities again.”

A friend of mine echoes my own aspirations when she says, “The greatest risk that I take on a daily basis is being true to myself. We live in a culture that feels better poking, pushing, and prodding people into conformity. By being true to me I cultivate positive resources for a calmer and more joyful life experience.”

It’s been a year since I had a full-time job, and I’m still paying my bills (with, I must add, some help and health insurance from my husband’s job). I’m also much happier, and even more daring. In the end, I believe that the things we don’t try to do may haunt us more than our so-called mistakes and failures. As the poet Mary Oliver suggests, we have just one “wild and precious life” to live, and it’s not a dress rehearsal.

So go ahead, take a risk and do something that scares you a little today. I’ll be rooting for you, from somewhere over the Grand Canyon.

This essay was also published at www.JasminBalance.com/building-risk-muscles/

I teach creativity workshops based on The Artist’s Way that are ostensibly about artistic pursuits but mostly about giving ourselves permission to love what we love and do what we love. A big chunk of the journey involves learning to value ourselves enough to believe that we deserve self-designed and even self-indulgent lives. About midway through the course and book, there’s a list of fill-in-the blank questions to assess where we are in this process. One of them goes: “I think I have nice ___.”

A common response among my students is, “I think I have nice friends,” but I’m often hoping to hear things like “eyes,” “hair,” “teeth” or any answer that sounds like a bit of a boast. This same chapter invites us to try on the phrase, “Treating myself like a precious object will make me strong.” Not surprisingly, many people squirm out of that task, along with the weekly artist dates they are supposed to take for the sole purpose of experiencing pleasure and inspiration.

From what I’ve seen, this tendency towards self-denial is widespread in our culture. Why is it so hard for us to brag a little, give ourselves a break from endless productivity, and treat ourselves like the precious objects we truly are?  I only know my own story, which includes years of doubting my self worth in a patriarchal culture, believing that selfishness was a kind of sin, aiming to please everyone, and shrinking myself down to whatever size seemed non-threatening to others. Fortunately I’ve outgrown a lot of that.

As I near the half-century mark, I’m happy to say that I love myself and treat myself pretty well ninety-something percent of the time. And that’s a good thing because, as my friend Allison points out, I have more years of life behind me than in front of me now. That’s a sobering thought. Do I want to spend any part of these remaining years depriving myself of the love, friendship and validation that I willingly extend to others? I think not.

So today I’m declaring myself my own valentine. How do I love me? Let me count the ways…hmmm…I have nice eyes, healthy curiosity, pretty feet and great taste in music. I’m a basically kind and usually thoughtful person who’s always trying to become more compassionate, patient and forgiving. I’m funny! I value authenticity, possess several useful talents and keep a cozy, colorful home. I was smart enough to marry a hardworking and devoted man who tells me I’m beautiful at least once a week. When called for, I’m also humble.

But enough about me. Can you be your own valentine today? Look at your to-do list and see if your own needs or true pleasures are anywhere on it. And how about creating a list of your positive qualities? Does that feel like an exciting assignment, a vain pursuit, or a task just slightly less painful than doing your taxes? You can try starting with, “I think I have nice friends.” Just keep going, and get personal. Next, jot down some beloved activities that you’ve lately denied yourself and put a few of them on your calendar. Do one of them today. Start with taking a deep, nourishing breath right now.

You don’t have to let anyone know what you are up to, by the way, but the funny thing about treating ourselves well is that it often leads to treating others well, so the people in your life might enjoy being along for the ride and seeing you smile more often. I’m especially talking to any female readers who typically put others’ needs first, and anyone who believes that life equals suffering. Martyrs are boring, right? Satisfied, happy people are fun–just ask Mama Gena, who’s made a whole career out of getting women to brag, strut, and live out their pleasures to the delight of everyone around them.

This Valentine’s Day I’m going to enjoy the rose petal tea and the pink lilies that my husband brought home last night, along with the dinner he’s arranging (asking for what you want and need and being a good receiver is part of being your own valentine). I’ll get some work done, read a book or take a walk, nap with my cat if I feel like it, and mute my inner critic to the best of my ability (i.e., talk nice to myself all day).

I may also have a bit of chocolate, from me to me, with love.

Oprah Winfrey and I celebrate our birthdays this week. She has zillions in the bank and can spend her big day anywhere on the planet with 200 of her favorite people in tow. I have, well, less money in the bank and will spend my birthday with my husband and friends in and around my neighborhood. Oprah has incredible wealth, access and adventures, but that’s not what makes me jealous of her.

Nope. It’s the fact that she has a best friend named Gayle King whom she calls every day. From what I can tell, Gayle and Oprah do pretty much every meaningful thing together and rehash it on the phone. I often wish I had a Gayle King.

Lisa and I goofing around, late 1960s

I lived next door to my best friend Lisa when I was a little girl. We hung out in each other’s homes making Easy Bake Oven cakes, watching Mr. Rogers, and playing dress up. We also spent hours setting up elaborate apartment complexes for Barbie, Ken, assorted doll friends, and my brother’s GI Joe (for added intrigue). Often, just as we put the last piece of cardboard furniture in place, one of our moms would disrupt the whole scene by shouting, “Dinner!” We didn’t really care, though, because we just loved being together.

A few years later, my dad moved our family to another state and I tearfully said goodbye to Lisa. Little did I know it was the beginning of a pattern.

At this point in my life I’ve moved about eight times and moved on from several jobs, leaving countless friends and communities behind. I tried to stay connected to high school and college friends, but those ties weakened as our careers and lives blossomed in different cities. In my 30s I lived my own version of Sex and the City with Julie, Alice, and Liz amid countless cocktails, cigarettes and debauched nights in Manhattan. When that lifestyle took its toll, I left my party pals to reclaim my soul in a yoga ashram. Two years later I moved to Boston.

And so it went for decades, these departures that left me with dear friends in faraway places. I, too, have been “abandoned” by girlfriends who’ve been called elsewhere. Despite our good intentions, months and years can pass without a call or visit, and so Facebook is where we end up hanging out. I have 331 friends on Facebook and, while they give me a much-needed sense of community at times, I’d trade most of them for a flesh and blood BFF.

Which is why I’m in awe of Oprah and Gayle, who, after three decades, seem closer than sisters (something else I don’t have). I’d love regular check-ins with a girlfriend like that to relay the fascinating details of my fascinating life. I used to pay my therapist for this privilege and now I force my husband to listen, but it’s really not his forte. While he’s loving and devoted and willingly takes out the trash, he rarely asks the right questions, cares about the right details, or wants to hear all about my feeelings the way girlfriends do. People like John Gray tried to warn me about the whole Mars/Venus thing.

A friend of mine jokes that she processes her day with her cats each night. While my cat is a really good listener, she rarely gives feedback, poses leading questions or affirms my fabulousness. Except when she wants something.

I know that I’m not unique in wanting more meaningful and consistent relationships in my life, and I sometimes wonder if loneliness is an American epidemic, despite all the tweeting and texting. A yoga student of mine confesses that her loneliness sends her to the kitchen for beloved companions like Godiva chocolates and Ben and Jerry. The problem is, they don’t really love her back.

My husband is from Senegal, where people hang out in each other’s homes all the time and steady human companionship is a given. His favorite American TV show is Seinfeld, because Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer remind him of his mates back home and make him laugh after a day of commuting and working alongside New Englanders who avoid eye contact. “I’m used to it,” he says, about the isolation he feels in this culture, and that makes me sad.

It takes real effort and determination to maintain friendships in this age of transience, social fragmentation, and overcommitted lives. Proximity helps, too. As I write I’m heating up a pot of homemade lentil soup, thanks to my neighbor Ellen who supplied the recipe after I enjoyed some at her house. Ellen and I are slowly cultivating a friendship via email, Facebook, phone calls, face-to-face visits, and “Hey, got any bay leaves?” moments across the fence. It’s the perfect fusion of modern and old-fashioned relating, and it makes my world feel cozier.

I just hope neither one of us moves anytime soon.

I’ve heard that nearly 90% of New Year’s resolutions are broken by February, and my acupuncturist says that spring is actually a more fruitful time to make significant life changes. But the start of a new year offers itself up like a landscape of fresh snow, unmarked by footprints and tire tracks, and begs the question: Can we make better use of the next 365 days?

For several years I’ve participated in Burning Bowl ceremonies on New Year’s Eve. They involve writing a list of things we want to shed – from resentments, to self-destructive habits, to those extra ten pounds – and burning them. We’re supposed to accept and even thank those things before we place them in the fire (because what we resist persists), and immediately create a list of positive intentions for the New Year (because nature abhors a vacuum).

Topping my burn list this year was a “my way or the highway” attitude that can impair my ability to see things from another’s perspective and tie me in knots when people don’t do what I want them to do. It’s related to being a control freak, I’m afraid to admit, and it can poison all kinds of relationships, including the one I have with myself. I know where it comes from and I can see how it once served me in a twisted way, but it’s really gotta go now.  In its place I seek to practice more acceptance, curiosity, compassion, and patience…and to begin all over again when I slip.

I asked friends and family members to share their own lists of things to burn in the fire of transformation and I heard much about shedding fears, worries, negative thinking and procrastination. A former student says, “I wish to shed my habit of living under the cloud of a never-ending to do list,” while another wants to let go of “the tendency to compare myself to others and beat myself up.”  I, too, want to use my precious time more wisely in 2012 and halt the downward spiral of “compare/despair” thinking.

“I want to allow everyone the freedom and sovereignty to be who they are, and where they are, in their journey and level of self-awareness,” one student writes, and a friend of mine chimes in with wanting to release, “the need to enforce my ideas on certain family members…I seek to have compassion for the mother of my grandchildren and patience with my grandchildren when they display ‘inappropriate behavior.’”

Trying to see our own part in the dramas around us is an important step towards ending them.

On September 11, 2001, I was visiting the island of St. John when the twin towers crumbled. As evening fell I walked down to the beach to escape the television screens. Waves lapped the shore and the sun set amid pink-orange clouds, oblivious to the human suffering in lower Manhattan, the Pentagon, and Pennsylvania. I thought about the terrorists and asked myself where I similarly harbored hatred for another in my heart. The answer came quickly, and I was humbled. I certainly couldn’t relate to those acts of terror, but I could examine my own prejudices and resentments in response, and aim to do something about them.

The next day I saw an email that was circulating among those trying to make sense of the attacks. It referenced a Sufi teaching that says, “Past the seeker as he prayed came the crippled and the beggar and the beaten. And seeing them, he cried, ‘Great God, how is it that a loving creator can see such things and yet do nothing about them?’ God said, ‘I did do something. I made you.’”

Such is the central message of the moving documentary film I Am. I watched it the other night with friends and we discussed its powerful teachings about the emptiness of materialism, the interconnectedness of all life, our inborn instinct for cooperation and empathy, and our ability to be the change we seek in a world full of so much unnecessary suffering.

And so while I do want to shed a few pounds, amp up the exercise, and experience more ease and fun this year, I also want to be part of the solution. I can do this by treating others as I want to be treated, appreciating and sharing my blessings, and forgiving myself and others for our mistakes and ignorance.  As Maya Angelou says, “When you know better you do better.”

Doing better this year is one resolution I believe I can keep.

(Note: You can also read this essay at: www.jasminbalance.com/2012/01/09/how-can-we-resolve-to-do-and-be-better-in-the-new-year/)

The rush is on to buy gifts and goodies to celebrate the season of lights, American style. I’ve made a few purchases, including one gift that I can’t wait to give, but I’m also trying something new this year: if I can’t come up with a meaningful item for someone, I’m giving them the gift of my presence. I’m offering lunch and movie and afternoon tea dates to people I love and inviting them to cash in when it suits them. Otherwise, I’d be handing them something from a sense of obligation, and isn’t this the season to be jolly?

For me, there’s nothing merry about fighting traffic and crowds to buy gifts that may not be appreciated. And there’s no joy in spending money if it increases our debt load instead of someone’s pleasure. I’m lucky I have no kids, because it would make me crazy to buy toys that they might cast aside by New Year’s Eve. I myself can only remember a handful of the gifts that I received as a kid, and one of my best childhood Christmas memories has nothing to do with anything from a store, excepting the grocery aisle…

When I was eight years old, my father moved our family to Cape Cod to start his own business. Recently laid off from a town job in New Jersey, Dad wanted to be his own boss in the place where he’d grown up. Because this meant uprooting my two brothers and me from our friends, schools, and cousins, we protested. But the relocation was especially hard on Mom, as it placed her hours away from her mother and sisters for the first time in her life. Adding insult to injury, several precious things broke on the moving van, including our Christmas tree ornaments.

We landed on the Cape in September, and my brothers and I spent the fall trying to like our new classmates, neighbors, and the children of Dad’s old buddies with the funny accents. Mom had a harder time than we kids did, having no school or neighborhood games to supply her with new pals. On top of that, we were broke, which often meant relying on what Dad fished out of the sea for dinner. The problem with that plan?  My brothers and I had eaten no seafood up to that point beyond canned tuna and processed fish sticks coated with enough breading to render them tasteless. On Cape Cod, of all places, we consistently turned up our noses at clams, scallops, mussels, and the most dreaded creature of all…bluefish.

Mom, bless her culinary heart, tried all kinds of ways and recipes to make the stuff palatable to us, but still we refused to eat it. Our resistance was extreme. One night my baby brother, prohibited from spitting out a scallop at dinner, kept it wedged in his cheek rather than swallow it. My parents discovered the deed when they caught him brushing his teeth with a chipmunk-style bulge in his face. Mom gave up the battle at that point, and we kids had pancakes or macaroni and cheese on the nights when my parents ate seafood.

As fall approached winter and money remained elusive, Mom’s spirits grew as grey as the skies. She was lonely for her own mother and sisters, and Dad was spending a lot of time outside the home networking for his new business.  Christmas was looming, and gifts were not in the budget. Suddenly a woman nicknamed Happy was feeling anything but.

So I was surprised to come home from school one mild December day and find Mom out back, assembling an impromptu craft station on the picnic table. “We lost our ornaments,” she proclaimed, “so we’re gonna make our own this year.” Mom had spray paint and glitter all ready to adorn the unlikeliest of decorations—soup can lids. She’d spent the morning removing the lids, and waited for us kids to arrive before cutting them with tin snips into stars, bells, angels and trees. My brothers and I got to choose our shapes and decorate them as we laughed, sang carols, told tales, and basked in Mom’s renewed cheer. That December afternoon at the picnic table was more memorable than most Christmases.

To this day, my brothers and I fondly recall our “poor folks” Christmas as we point out the few surviving ornaments on our parents’ tree. Primitive, yet crafted with love and hope, they are more precious than the shiny new ones. I recall that ornament making party as a glowing example of my mother’s creativity, resilience, and ability to bring love and light to our days no matter how dark her own were. Saddled with three kids, persistent migraines, various part-time jobs and a business to co-manage, Mom didn’t have room to explore her passions during my childhood. But she was always up for fun, and she could turn tin cans into angels.

What kind of memories will you give yourself and others this year?  Hopefully the kind that’ll last longer than the warranty on an iSomething. As for Mom and I, we’re going to take in a Rockettes show, which should be a kick (pun completely intended).

Happy Holidays. Let’s celebrate the light in each other, which is what this season’s really about. And if you need a reminder, spend four minutes with these creative Alaskans who are bringing joy to their world.

At its worst, this recession has left countless people homeless, jobless, hungry, angry and injured. At best, it’s led many Americans to cut up their credit cards and cut out unnecessary spending. Others are voluntarily simplifying their lives, reducing consumption, sharing resources with neighbors, and finding new value in the so-called “simple” pleasures of a not-so-big life. I say “Amen” to that.

I know a lot of people with very rich lives and small bank balances, and I know some wealthy people who feel trapped and miserable in their lives. Of course there are lots of folks in between those simplified extremes, but I’m starting to know in my bones that feeling rich has more to do with how we are living that what we earn for a living.

I should disclose that I’m an American who has never known poverty. As a kid, I watched my parents struggle when my father was starting his own business, but that just meant more homemade gifts and hand-me-downs during lean times. I myself have never earned six figures, but I’ve always paid my bills, pursued my pleasures and lived comfortably. I have a roof over my head, food in the ‘fridge, health insurance, disposable income, and a ’98 Corolla that gets me where I need to go. I recognize that I live in a state of abundance compared to most on the planet, and I try not to take it for granted.

And so while my income is smallish these days, I feel rich in many things, including time. I work from home and make my own hours, which allows for sleeping in, dressing comfortably, taking walks in nature, and running errands leisurely. I also feel fulfilled by the work that I do as a writer and teacher. I have a husband and family who love me, and cherished friends with whom I can share the good, the bad and the ugly. While these things alone put me in the lucky camp, I also get a 20% family discount at Whole Foods Market, my version of Bergdorf Goodman. Ch-ching!

Curious to know what was making others feel rich these days, I asked. Most who responded to my query echoed my appreciation for family, friends, good food, pets, and natural delights like trees, sunsets, dragonflies, and a night sky thick with stars. One friend said, “I like who I’ve become in recent years,” while another feels enriched by “clarity, mutuality, partnership, and learning.” A former student says she feels wealthy when she orders whatever she wants from the menu, including dessert, without sweating the bill.

“The thing I’m most grateful for these days is all the spiritual teaching I’ve received over the years,” says a new acquaintance. “It’s been a reliable friend through some tough times and always something I can count on.” Others said they find tremendous value in feeling seen and validated, connecting to people with similar interests, donating to the local food bank, expressing their creativity, experiencing synchronicity, being there for someone in need, and enjoying art and music.

Comforting pleasures made the list, too, including fresh sheets, warm beds, purring cats, belly laughs, home-canned goods, home cooked meals, long distance calls, fireplace fires and cuddling. One friend appreciates easy access to organic produce, while another luxuriates in “reaching for something to wear after all the laundry is washed, dried, and put away.”

Good health makes many feel rich, including me. Last month I watched my dear friend Tom lose a noble battle with cancer at the young age of 50. While it was a sobering, terrible loss, those of us who companioned him during his last days actually felt gratitude—not only for our own health, but also for the chance to be included in his passage. For months, members of Tom’s spiritual community came forth to offer him support, prayers, sacred chants, and loving presence. Many of us remarked about how rich in community he was—in life and in death.

“My yogic breath makes me feel full of life,” my sister-in-law reports. “There is nothing like a deep, sweet sip of healing breath to make me feel blessed.” I agree with her, and with a fellow writer friend who says, “I love the feeling I get when I write without effort…and sometimes I am just blown away by the fact that I can see and hear and have a home to rest in.”

Whether or not you’re feeling abundant and giving thanks this week, consider these words from writer/astrologer Rob Brezsny, who notes that, no matter what’s troubling you, “Thousands of things go right for you every day, beginning the moment you wake up.”

Including the fact that you can read this right now, while many lack literacy. Give thanks. Feel rich.

It was 7:05 a.m. on the day before Thanksgiving, 1997. I was anchoring a public radio newscast in Newark, New Jersey, as I’d done every weekday morning for months, when the music host left the studio to grab more CDs. Alone with the microphone and a million listeners, I became aware of a sinister thought. It said that I was about to blurt something outrageous over the air.

Alarmed, I pushed down the thought and kept reading, “Mayor Giuliani and Police Commissioner Safir say New York City’s all set for tomorrow’s big parade…” Inside, I was battling a rising tide of fear that set my heart racing and squeezed the breath from my lungs. Finally, my voice failed me and the host took over, apologizing to the audience for “technical difficulties.”  I gulped enough air to proclaim that something was caught in my throat, but that was a lie.

I was having a panic attack.

Somehow I managed to get through the rest of my shift and hide my condition from coworkers. Terrified of what was happening to me, I went straight to my doctor, who put me on anti-anxiety meds. Terrified of becoming addicted to medication, I cut out caffeine, increased my yoga practice, and booked sessions with hypnotherapists, massage therapists, and homeopaths. Eventually I found my way to a psychotherapist who held my hand on the journey of recovery and healing that I was apparently beginning.

The panic attack didn’t cause my departure from radio news; it hastened it. I’d spent nearly a decade in public radio, producing and reporting for local and national programs. My favorite moments on the job were those spent interviewing fascinating people, retelling their stories, and hearing from inspired listeners. I loved the work, until I found that the kinds of stories I increasingly wanted to cover were not the stories that my editors wanted to assign. As my own personal recovery work was pointing me toward hopefulness and healing, I could no longer muster enthusiasm for city hall corruption, drug war updates and presidential sex scandals. When I quit my news anchor job in the fall of 1998, Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky were dominating the headlines.

In the year following the panic attack, I’d binged on self-help books, personal growth workshops, and audio recordings by spiritual teachers and motivational gurus. I’d committed to therapy and joined the 12-Step world to heal childhood wounds and addictive patterns that no longer served me. My life began to feel saner and, when I finally quit my job with none other in sight, I did so because I trusted that I’d be okay. I had no kids, no debt, good health and cheap rent. I could afford to take risks, and I was rewarded for them. My resignation letter was barely out of the printer before I had two exciting and lucrative freelance jobs to sustain me for several months.

About a month after leaving my job I met a psychic. His name was JT and he worked out at my gym. We struck up a conversation on the treadmills one day and he offered to give me a free reading. Being someone with no plans for the future, I accepted. Among other predictions, JT told me, “You will teach one day in your purpose way.” While I was more interested in knowing when I’d meet my soul mate, his odd words gave me some hope.

The following summer, jobless and still clueless about my next career move, I bought a car, sublet my apartment, and headed to the Kripalu yoga center in western Massachusetts for a work exchange program. The idea of spending the summer chopping vegetables and doing yoga in the Berkshires held much more appeal than temping or waitressing in hot and steamy Manhattan. I went to Kripalu for three months and stayed for two years. During that time I met people who spoke my language of recovery, emotional healing, spiritual seeking and transformation. I danced, drummed, sang and chanted with fellow seekers and free spirits who quickly became my new tribe. I learned about holistic health, complementary medicine and Eastern spiritual practices, soaking up knowledge like a human sponge from world-renowned teachers and alternative healers. It was like being in grad school, minus the tuition and research papers.

I became certified to teach yoga while living at Kripalu and I began to lead others in the transformational practice that was changing the way I related to my body and my self. I also started guiding groups of people in creative recovery workshops based on The Artist’s Way, the book and course I was working through when I had my panic attack on the air. Finally, I started to write about my journey, publishing essays and recording radio commentaries about the lessons I was learning. When I left the yoga center to seek my fortune in Boston, I had new words to describe myself: writer and teacher.

Ten years into this new career, I understand what JT the psychic was talking about. I now teach people how to connect with and trust their bodies, their spirits, their truths and their desires. My work feels like play, and it’s profoundly meaningful. I can accompany my students and readers on a path of recovery and self-discovery because I’ve been steadily walking my own. The media projects I now accept as a writer and editor are those that inspire people to positive action, personal empowerment, social responsibility and greater wellbeing. I’m still a communicator at heart and words are still the tools of my trade, but I now use my talents to speak and write helpful and hopeful messages that ring true for me.

While I wouldn’t have chosen a panic attack to launch my reinvention, I’ve come to understand that I lost my voice all those years ago in order to find it, and use it, on purpose.