Humility that isn't really humility

1. Growing up Christian, you learn to be humble.  You learn to not think too much of yourself 'cause 1) you're not God, 2) your days are finite, and 3) you're no better than your neighbor.   As a performer, I hear a lot of praise, (after I walk off stage or when I'm on set), and I've had to do a lot of soul-searching about how to embrace humility in an industry that exalts people and itself.  This is what I've learned:

I've learned that humility isn't about not thinking too much of yourself, or thinking less of yourself.  Humility is about understanding who God created you to be, and being secure in that, and it's about being secure with what you are not.  It is about understanding that your identity doesn't come from what you do, while also understanding what you're absolutely amazing at and sharing it with the world—not because you need people’s approval or have a narcissistic need to share, but because to hide it would be selfish; it would be denying the world of the gift that God gave you to share.  

Humility is practicing until you put in your 10,000 hours and practicing some more because you recognize that you can always get better.  Alternately, humility is choosing to not practice sometimes because your grandma needs a ride to the store, because rest is the yang of work, or because you understand that your gift(s) to the world is only a small part of the reason for your existence.  

Today, I stand and walk in humility.  I thank God that I am incredibly smart, delightfully funny, and creatively thoughtful. 

BLACK HISTORY MONTH Post In March: Why Samuel L. Jackson was Right (and Wrong)

I’ve experienced the moment before—when a non-black person makes a culturally insensitive or racist remark about a black person.  Like when a white woman asked me why author Malcolm Gladwell won’t “do something” to his hair, or the many times people have told me that I’m “different” from other black people.  Sometimes I haven’t said anything, not wanting to make a scene, but sometimes (in my less finer moments) I’ve said something sarcastic like “Why does he wear his hair natural, the way a lot of black people do?” 

A couple of weeks ago, Samuel L. Jackson had a similar moment with a Los Angeles entertainment reporter.  When the reporter mistook Jackson for Laurence Fishburne, another famous African American actor, Jackson first was confused, then annoyed, then punishing.   The interview went viral immediately, headlines reading, “Samuel L. Jackson destroys reporter.”

If you haven’t seen it, and don’t mind viewing a public shaming, take a look here. 

It’s humiliating, right?  And so unnecessary.  Yes, Jackson was right—what kind of entertainment reporter confuses Samuel L. Jackson with another black actor, let alone any other actor?  He’s unique, in how he looks, speaks, and the roles he plays.  The reporter’s remark was embarrassing and disgraceful to his profession,  given Jackson’s notoriety and the fact that his movies have grossed more worldwide than any other actor in Hollywood, be they black, white, Asian, Latin, or otherwise. 

So yes, Jackson was right to call him out (on his lack of knowledge and cultural misstep), joking that all black actors don’t look alike.  Yes, it was okay for Jackson to press into the reporter’s mistake by bringing to light the fact that black people in this country are often lumped together, confused for one another, and generally not seen, inside Hollywood and outside.

But Jackson went too far.  He pushed ‘til all that the viewing audience saw was the reporter’s mangled, bloodied ego on the screen.  And because of it, Jackson ended up playing the villain, and no one even remembered the purpose of the interview—to promote Jackson’s new movie, RoboCop.

Why did Samuel L. Jackson handle the moment this way?  Was he so fed up with racism and cultural mishaps that this arguably “little” incident just set him off?  Or was he just insulted that he could be confused with anyone, given his mega-movie-star status?  Was it a bit of both?  Whatever the reason, in the midst of doing what was appropriate and “right,” he ended up being so wrong.

Death Friday

Recently one of my friends lost her son to cancer.  And while I can’t imagine the pain and heartache that she must be feeling, I do know the pain of death—death of a loved one, death of a relationship, death of a dream.

Death changes everything.

It has a way of wrapping itself around you and demanding more—more of your emotions, your joy, your peace, and your hope.  Death is a jealous enemy, coming after you and all you cherish with no conscious. 

No one likes death, and most people fear it.  This is why I was blown away tonight when I read Mark 15:3-5: “The chief priests accused him of many things.  So again Pilate asked him, ‘Aren’t you going to answer?  See how many things they are accusing you of.’  But Jesus still made no reply, and Pilate was amazed.”  Faced with the sentence of death, Jesus refused to try to save himself.  He faced death, fearless.

And then He died.

I don’t know what it must have been like to be one of Jesus’ followers.  But I imagine that it had to be heartbreaking and baffling to see the man who had performed miracles, including raising people from the dead, killed.  It must have been mind-bending and heart-numbing, especially for his disciples, for they had left everything (their homes, jobs, and families) to follow him, and for what?

They were crushed, and rightfully so. Who wouldn’t have been?  I take some comfort in the disciples’ mourning Jesus death because it reminds me that grieving is one of the things that connects us to the rest of humanity.

But I can’t help but remember that the disciples mourning, although understandable, was in vain, for Jesus’ death was only temporary, just like He had told them it would be.  He had predicted his death and resurrection to them, but they hadn’t understood what He had meant.  And if they had, they wouldn’t have had to have mourned. Instead, they could have celebrated that his prophecy was being fulfilled!

(I do realize that not mourning someone’s death in anticipation of their resurrection is extremely difficult to do and potential grounds for committing someone to the crazy house, but isn’t that the point? Wasn’t Jesus trying to teach them (and us by extension) to have a new kind of faith—one that shatters our perceptions of life and death and ushers in a new way of being and thinking?)

My faith is strengthened as I reflect on this story.  I can look at the dead things in my life and know that Jesus might want to resurrect them.  I can know that death doesn’t have to rob me of my joy and hope.  All I have to do is listen to see what Jesus is saying to me.  Is He saying that the death is temporary? Is He saying that He will comfort me through the death?

This Good Friday, I am reminded that death is not always the end.  It can be the beginning of seeing something miraculous.

Happy Death Friday!

Is There Such a Thing as Perfect Faith?

For years, I've thought that I was a woman of faith--someone who could believe God, despite the circumstances.  But recent events have left me questioning my faith and my understanding of faith.

In Scripture, we see people doubting God's promises, but God still fulfilling those promises. We see this in the lives of Abram, Sarai, and Zacharias.  They doubted, but God still did what He promised.  But in the book of Mark, we see Jesus not doing miracles because of people's lack of faith.  And throughout the New Testament, we see exhortations to have faith and not doubt.

This leads me to wonder what exactly having faith means.  Is it the total absence of doubt?  Or is it overall trust in God, even if doubt creeps in sometimes?

I'm realizing that I've spent years trying to exercise a faith that is perfect, fearing what would happen if I didn't. 

Now my understanding of faith is changing.  I no longer think that my faith must be perfect.  Rather, I think that faith involves my taking my moments of doubt to God, and asking Him to speak into those doubts with His truth, and love, and grace.  I'm starting to think that the act of my taking myself (and fears and doubts) to God may be the only type of faith that God has ever asked me to have.

Lessons from 2011

While everyone’s talking about what they’re leaving behind in 2011, I’m thinking about what I’m holding onto. 2011 taught many lessons that I want to bring into 2012 with me. Here’s what I want to remember throughout 2012:

It doesn’t need to be perfect, but it does need to get done.

Often, the biggest obstacle is the belief that I can’t.

Now is precious. Take advantage of it.

It’s better to work on something for just 10 minutes than to not work on it at all.

If your home isn’t together, it’s hard for the rest of your life to be together.

Chopping. Running. Walking. Cooking. These things are good for me.

15 minutes of play a day makes me happy.

Artist’s dates keep me happy.

God doesn’t just give us what’s good for us; He gives us what’s good-tasting to us.

In fact, in Him is abundance. I just need to walk in it.

Love, however short-lived, is always worth the experience.

Everything will happen--in its time.


Happy New Year!

Putting It All On the Line

Young children are the most honest creatures that exist.  They say exactly what they think, and shout out exactly how they feel. They don't know any better!  They haven't yet learned how to be evasive; they haven't learned how to bite their tongues to avoid hurting others' feelings.

As I enter 2012, I am tapping into my inner-honest child. I'm seeing how much I impede my progress and hence my life, when I'm not honest.  When I fail to acknowlege what I really want, or how I really feel, for fear of how it will sound or whom it might unintentionally hurt, the person who gets hurt the most is me.
So, I'm being completely honest with myself, with God, and with those around me about what I want in life.  Some might be hurt, and others disappointed, but I'm willing to live with those consequences.

I do recognize that once you say what it is that you really want, you chance not getting it and being really disappointed.  That's okay.  The part of me that's a grown-up can handle disappointment.  If she doesn't get what she wants, she will cry, and then cry some more, but she will regroup, recover, and charge ahead again, her hand placed securely in God's.  That's what grown-up children do.

60 Seconds

Of late, I've realized how much I procrastinate.  And it's not because I'm lazy. And it's not because I lack ambition. I procrastinate because I feel like I don'thave enough time, perpetually.  If I need to write my blog, but only have 15 minutes, I put it off because I don't feel like fifteen minutes is enough time to write a decent blog entry.  If I need to clean up my house, I may find myself neglecting it on a Saturday morning because I don't have at least an hour to devote to cleaning.  Recently I've realized how many different things (both big and small, very important and not as important) I put off doing because I sense a dearth of time.

But, I've started experimenting with starting projects that I don't think that I have enough time to accomplish, just to see how much time it really takes to get stuff done.  And, guess what? I'm getting a lot more stuff done.  And you know what else? I'm realizing that sometimes, my perception of how much time it takes to accomplish a task is fictional. In fact, it's a fantastic fable told over and over in my head.  And each day the tasks remains undone is another day the fable feels more and more true.

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine.  He reminded me how much precious time is, and how much can be accomplished in a mere 60 seconds.  So, started experimenting with how many things I could do in sixty seconds.

Here's what I concluded.  In 60 seconds, you can:

• Listen to the traffic report on the radio
• Text a friend to see how they're doing
• Pray the Lord's Prayer
• Create a to-do list for the day, to maintain sanity
• Call your grandma just because (they love this)
• Update your facebook status
• Water your plants
• Take a swig (or many) from your water bottle
• Take a minute to close your eyes, breathe deeply, and just relax
• Clean your bathroom sink and counters (okay, it takes like 2 minutes, but you get the point)

There's SO MUCH that we can do (or not do) every minute!  And every day, we get 86,400 of them! 

Now I'm inspired to use my time more thoughtfully, considering carefully what I will and won't do with my daily minute allotment.

Why I'm Relieved Casey Anthony Was Found Not Guilty of Murder

As I grow older, I'm realizing that individuals, like organizations, often come to misguided conclusions when they take an ahistorical view of an issue. The Casey Anthony trial, I believe, is one such example.

Long forgotten are the days when British law enforcement officials could search homes or property on a whim, without cause. Long forgotten are the times when condemnation in social circles led to condemnation in the court of law. These are the memories that the founders of our country had at the forefront of their minds when writing The United States Constitution and Bill of Rights. Our country was founded on a set of ideals that our founders felt should be implemented. Our legal system was established in such a way so that the government, and not an individual (who may or may not have resources, power, and connections) would carry the burden of proof.

I don't know if Casey Anthony murdered her child or not; I wasn't there, neither did I follow the trial closely. The court of public opinion says that she did it, but the court of law couldn't prove it. And in the end, that's all that matters. Innuendo and probably should never lead to a conviction. Not only is it illegal. It's immoral. I won't begin to go into the statistics of how many people (especially African American men) in the U.S. have been falsely convicted and imprisoned because jurors (or witnesses who decided to fudge "the truth") thought that they did it, even when there wasn't enough concrete evidence to support the belief.

Probability is meaningless; Proof is everything.

I'm relieved Anthony got off. A conviction, without evidence, would be proof that our country has turned completely away from the hopes and promises of our founders. Happy Independence Week!

Making the Least of It

A few weeks ago, I entered the scariest season of my life.  I felt a mass in my right breast, and a cloud of questions and fears enveloped me, ironically clearing my vision.


Questions emerged: What if I only have one year left to live?  Two?  Three? What would I do? What would I not do?


I realized that I would:

• Hike, and Swim, and Be Outside more.
• Write more about my life following Jesus, as it has been the joy of my life.
• Smile.  Because smiling is so much more fun than frowning.
• Get married. (Cause I want to share my life with someone.)  And have sex.

I realized that I wouldn't:

• Worry about my life and future plans.
• Care about what people think about me. (Any more than I currently don't.)
• Buy many more material things. Instead, I'd just give the money away.
• Do any work that doesn't bring me joy.
• Complain about the end being near because every single day has been a gift from God.

So, instead of doing more with my life, I find myself wanting to do less.

It's Only An Emergency!

Here’s another driver’s confession: Tonight I was driving to church when I heard the slight sound of sirens. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw an ambulance, far away, but approaching.  I won’t need to pull over for a little bit, I thought, still driving.  So, I kept driving, and it kept coming.  After about a minute I did need to pull over, but then I thought.  Do I really need to pull to the side?  Couldn’t I just stop in this middle lane?  Surely the ambulance could still get by.  Quite a few other drivers must have thought this too, cause I saw only the car in front of me pull to the right, (and I followed suit).

In that moment I witnessed insensitivity that is disappointingly familiar.  How could we—I—be so insensitive to the needs of whoever was in that ambulance or about to be placed in that ambulance?

A city creature, I have become so accustomed to seeing and hearing ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks that the experience doesn’t carry any emotional weight to me anymore. When my pupils are dilated by the flashing red lights, I don’t think about the person or people who might be saved by the paramedics on board.  I don’t think “emergency.”  I think "inconvenience."

Tonight, though, was a self-inflicted slap to the face.  I don’t want to be the selfish driver who thinks only of herself.  I want to be willing to miss a light, or a turn, or a freeway exit if it means health and safety for someone.  And I want to do it without thinking about it, as instinctively as a mama bear protects her cubs.

So from now on my name shall be “Mama Bear Chante.”

Gamblers Anonymous

I grew up in a Christian home. We went to church every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, and on Thursdays and Saturdays.  While other kids were at science camp, I was at church camp, and while my classmates were at soccer practice, I was at choir rehearsal.  My parents made sure that the solid academic education that I received at school was supported by a strong spiritual foundation.  They protected me from anything that could be perceived as bad for me — the usual suspects:  sex, drugs, & rock ’n’ roll, and some others: bad boys, rap music, & playing cards.  Dominoes too.  

In our C.O.G.I.C. tradition, cards and dominoes were associated with gambling and casinos, and those were definite no-no’s for Christians (even though I could have sworn that I remember my church’s school hosting a raffle once).  As a result, I am a part of a small consortium of American adults that doesn’t know the difference between Spades & Texas Hold’em. (Note: I had to look up popular card games online cause the only one I could think of was Texas Hold’em.)

Today, however, I made a scary discovery about myself.  I realized that despite my parent’s attempts to protect me from all things evil, I have a serious gambling problem.  And if I were brave enough to mention this to my mother, surely her eyebrows would raise dubiously, eyes bulging like a bug-eyed tree frog’s, because I’ve never put one single coin into a single slot machine. Neither have I placed bets online, nor at the racetrack which is just a five-minute drive from my house.  The only bookies I’ve had contact with are the actors who play them on episodes of Law & Order, and the only times I’ve set foot in a casino have been to dance—salsa and Chicago stepping.

Never before did I consider myself a gambler. Now, however, I see that I gamble all of the time — weekly definitely, and daily often.  It’s almost always when I’m driving.  I eat while driving, drive & talk without an earpiece (if it runs out of juice), and sometimes even text when traffic is moving slowly.  (Oprah would be mad mad that I haven’t taken the pledge.)

Today, while driving, I realized that I had a problem. I grabbed an apple out of my bag, relieved to be able to curb the hunger that was attacking my stomach. Then I proceeded to start driving while eating. I was controlling the steering wheel with my left hand, while using my right hand (which is also my best hand) to hold the apple.  As apple juice ran down my chin, I realized that I had unintentionally and unarguably put myself and everyone else around me in danger. What if a car turned into my lane, unexpectedly? Or what if a kid ran right in front of my car, chasing a stray ball?  Although I might see them in time, I most likely wouldn’t be able to respond in time. How could I, with only one hand on the steering wheel ready to respond? To turn or swerve quickly, I would definitely need the right hand that had chosen to clutch that red apple.

This conversation ran in my mind, mid-transgression. I discarded it quickly, though, telling myself, “What are the chances? That won’t happen. And even if it did, you could respond in time.  You’d just have to drop the apple.”

I listened to myself. I was full of it. 

There would be no time to drop the apple because I would have just one second to respond, and it could be the difference between a car accident and a close call or maybe even the difference between life and death.

I didn’t want to hear it, though. I wanted to believe that I was the exception — that my life would have all sun and no rain. Surely I was immune to the stuff that other people had to endure. And surely I could talk, or eat, or apply make-up while driving (all legal, moral activities) without any major or life-altering complications.  I knew that I could.  If there was a rule, I was the exception.  And if there were odds, they were definitely in my favor.

So, I kept on driving. And eating.

Birthday Wishes

This year my birthday felt different.  It felt different because I’m different.  I’m more sure of where I’m going, more confident of what’s deposited in me.  I linger neither on the past nor daydream about the future.  Instead, I live each day with purpose. I choose to do the things that make me happy—reading, thinking, listening to music, even if they bore other people. I surround myself with those whose beings bring me joy – good friends and family.  I make decisions based on not just what I want for today, but for what I want for my life. I try to choose wisely because I will never get today back.  And tomorrow will be over in another twenty-four.  I focus not on what I can’t do, but choose to embrace all that I can do. And if I can’t, why not learn how? 

I have yet to create my bucket list, but I’m beginning to think about what I’ll put on it once I do.  Yes, we only get one life.  I am making the most of it.  Happy Birthday to me.

What Are The Chances?

Most of us live our lives asking ourselves the question, “What are my chances?”  What are my chances of getting caught speeding on this freeway? What are my chances of being the one to win this raffle?  What are my chances of getting this girl to go out with me?

We consider the probability of our success: not very good, okay, 1 out of 100, 1 out of 10,000, 1 out of a million, and we respond accordingly.  The greater the probability or likelihood of us succeeding, the more likely we are to attempt it.  And the lower the probability, the less likely we are to try.

But there’s a problem when we begin to make life decisions based on mathematical probability, when we allow statistics to dictate what’s possible for our lives.

First of all, we are allowing mathematical reasoning to stop us from pursuing something that we want.  Now, I believe that you should go after whatever you want (assuming it’s moral and not hurtful to anyone), whether it’s a desire to learn the piano at the age of fifty (my grandma did this) or a goal of becoming a medical doctor at sixty (my friend’s mom is in the process of applying to medical school).  It’s been said before, but you do only get one life. Why let a number stand in your way?

Secondly, we’re people, not numbers.  We have infinite potential to match any number’s infinity.  As individuals and as a race, we are constantly redefining what’s statistically possible. Grandmothers are giving birth to newborns. (Now, whether they should or not is another conversation.)  New world records in track and swimming and other Olympic sports are commonplace.  We can do more than was ever thought possible.

Thirdly, when we automatically assume that we won’t be the one to succeed, we are saying that we don’t believe that we could be the one blessed enough to receive the prize.  Some of us believe that nothing good ever happens to us and that we never get a break. Yes, we’re magnets for all the bad stuff life has to offer.  We devalue ourselves.  And in the end, not a lot of great stuff does happen to us, not because it couldn’t have, but because we never even tried.

But truth be told, “it” happens to every-day people all the time, maybe even each day. Every day, a not-so-hot-looking guy asks a gorgeous girl to go out on a date, and she says yes.  Every year, a student who didn’t have Ivy League school grades receives an acceptance letter from Harvard. Every week, some housewife who entered a contest for a free mini-van gets the news to come and pick up the keys to her new cherry red Dodge Caravan.  And every year, some guy gets to quit his day job because he has finally become a full-time “working actor.”

Now, sometimes those who beat the odds do appear to be lucky. (Like the guy who sits on his couch all day only to win fifty million dollars in the California lottery!)   And sometimes, they are.  They do absolutely nothing to deserve the prize, and they get it.  But usually, the one who wins worked really hard to be able to win. The college basketball player who got drafted to the NBA dedicated years of his life to practice and gym work-outs before he became a part of the small percentage of college athletes drafted. His hard work increased the probability for his success and helped him “beat the odds.”

Work it so that you can either increase the probability of your success or so that you can you can beat the odds.  Either way, you gotta work it. Work hard. Work a lot.  Work smart.

A mantra that I developed in high school is “Somebody’s gonna win it! Why not me?”  Asking this question has led me to enter writing contests, scholarship contests, beauty contests, and the occasional raffle. And while I’ve lost more than I’ve won, I’ve won more than most people. I’ve travelled throughout California, the U.S., and the world for free because I had the audacity to hope. (Okay, not really.)

“Why not me?”  It’s a bold question, and I’m excited to see where else it takes me in life.

Why not you?

Shopping for Shoes (Men)

(Note: This picture does not do these shoes justice.)

I went shopping for shoes this weekend.


My shopping trip should have been simple. I knew exactly what I wanted: a pair of brown strappy heels perfect for summer days in the office. 


As the weekend approached and the various commercials advertising great deals aired, I thought that I was sure to find what I was looking for.


On Friday, I went to five stores near my house, but found nothing.  Not a problem, I thought. I still had time.


On Sunday, I checked Nine West, Aldo, and six more stores and found a few pairs that I liked.  I spotted a pair of Mary Jane flats that were super cute, even though they didn't have straps and weren't heels.  But, the store didn't have them in my size.  Then, I spotted a pair of brown pumps. They were open toed, very lovely, but had no straps. Plus, they were a little more businessy than what I had wanted.  Should I buy them, I wondered.  I decided to.  They were cute, on sale, and I could return them.  I knew that I could probably find a pair that I liked better somewhere else, but I wanted to have them as a back-up, just in case, because I was tired of looking.


On Monday, I made my way to Nordstrom's Rack and DSW.  I told myself that if I didn't find a pair at either one of these stores, then I would just keep the shoes I had found at Aldo.  The Rack, with tons of cool, chic shoes, was a feast for my feet.  It had flats and heels in every color and size.  (Gladiator shoes and flip flops were in particular abundance on this day.)  Then I spotted the most gorgeous pair of two-toned brown strappy heels. The price: two times what I had budgeted to spend on shoes.  I tried them on, just to see how they felt, and they felt like silk, and for a split second, I almost felt as if I were Cinderella.  The shoes felt like they belonged on my feet.  They looked great and felt amazing.  I walked around the store wearing them, imagining what it would be like to own them, even though I knew that I couldn't afford them. So, after a few moments of convincing myself that it was silly and emotionally turtuous to prance around the store in shoes I knew that I wasn't going to buy, I took them off.


Headed for the exit, I spotted a pair of brown flats, with straps. They were cute, comfy, and well within my price range. I liked them. My mom liked them.  I was going to buy them.  But then, I envisioned myself wearing them, and I was bored.  They were boring. They had no pop, no pizzaz.  So, I left the store, frustrated.  Nordstrom's had hundreds of pairs of shoes in my size, and I had found nothing.  I got in my car, further upset by the fact that I had paid two dollars to park.  Would I have to deduct that two dollars from my shoe budget?


I drove to DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse) pseudo-confident that I would find something, "If I don't find anything here," I told my mom, "then there's no hope."  Immediately I headed to the sales rack.  A beautiful pair of brown leather heels waved hello to me.  They had straps and were definitely what I call Bad Mama Jamma Heels. They were just what I was looking for.  And, they were the same price as the back-up shoes I had purchased at Aldo.


I put them on, and checked out my feet in the mirror.  They looked really good.  I felt like a model in a magazine.  I decided to wear them while I shopped, to see how they would feel on my feet after an extended period of time.


As I walked, I noticed that the shoes didn't offer much support. In fact, they felt kind of loose, even though they were my size, an 8 1/2.  I told myself that I would just have to make sure that I was careful when I walked, relying on myself, rather than my shoes, for support.


"Do these shoes look big?" I asked my mom. "Yeah, they're kind of bulging,"she said.


"Really? You think so?"  I didn't want to hear the truth--that my perfect pair of shoes wasn't perfect-- that I had been looking for three days and had gone to more than fifteen stores for this let down.  Neither did I want to acknowledge the fact that my feet were really starting to hurt. 


So, I took the shoes off, and put them back on the rack. I tried to convince myself that I would find another pair that I liked, but as I searched the racks, I found nothing.  I decided to check the section of size 8 shoes, though, before I left.  Maybe I could find a shoe there that fit me; sometimes shoes ran a little small or big.  Then, I came across the same pair of brown leather shoes, in a size 8. I grabbed them, just to see if they fit.


They did. There was no bulging, and I felt fully supported.  They still hurt, but what four inch heels don't?


I put them back in the box and walked them to the register. I bought them.  Once home, I took them out of the box, just to admire them.  Now, I'm just figuring out the best outfit to debut them with.


As I was shopping, I couldn't help but compare shopping to dating.


I feel like I know what I want, what works well for my personality and lifestyle, and what doesn't.  I'm in my thirties, now.


Finding what I want, however, isn't always so easy.  The search is filled with promising starts, dead ends, frustration, fatigue, and hope interspersed between.  


Sometimes I feel tempted to settle for a pair that I like, versus waiting for pair that I love, or maybe even adore.  


And then there's still the issue of longevity.  Will I even like my pair of brown leather strappy shoes next season or next year?  Will they fit my feet five, ten years from now?  Will I want them to?


I'm learning that in shopping, patience (coupled with selectivity), is everything.

Mid-Year Reflections

Today is the first day of the second half of 2010.  Hard to believe, huh?


This year is not at all what I envisioned it to be, but it's better than I could have dreamed it could be.
I began the year with a list of goals totaling eight pages.   Half way into the year however, I've scratched off many of those goals and put some on hold.  Why? Because I'm discovering (slowly) that it's okay.  (See blog post It's Okay.)  It's okay not to get so much accomplished; It's okay to rest more and not maximize every moment.


Day by day, I am learning the meaning of what God said ten years ago, when I was asking what I should do with my life.  He told me, "Who you become is much more important than what you do."


My being a loving daughter is more important than my being a prolific writer.  My being a compassionate friend and colleague is more important than my being a highly sought after speaker.


So, as I reflect about what I've accomplished during the first half of 2010, what stands out isn't just what I've accomplished, but whom I've become in the process.  I am grateful that I am more loving, and compassionate, and patient than I was six months ago.  I am less fearful, and anxious, and driven.


As a result, I look forward to the rest of this year, not just for what I can accomplish, but for the internal work that can be accomplished in me.


How has the first half of the year gone for you? Whom do you want to become?

Finishing Well

I’m not a big sports fan, but when I do watch sports, I usually just watch the end of the game because what matters most is how it ends.

I think that it’s the same in life.  What matters most isn’t how well we start, but how well we end.   Our final years, months, and days are what stand out the most to people because these are the last memories we leave them with. 

A father who was absent from his son’s life, but restored the lost connection in his final years is remembered not as the absentee father, but as the father who had the strength of character to make amends for years of neglect.  A minister who preached the gospel for decades, but then ended up embezzling money at the end of his career, is remembered not for how he helped people for years, but how he stole.  Former NFL quarterback Steve McNair isn’t remembered as a great football player; He is remembered as the football player who was shot dead by his mistress.

Sadly, our beloved Michael Jackson is another example. He entered our hearts a cute little boy with the soulful voice of a full-grown man.  He exited the public stage, however, a victim of drugs and excessive fame, under a cloud of allegations.

As I’ve thought about Michael one year after his death, what has struck me is how sad I am, not about his physical death, but about the circumstances of his death.  The last decade of his life was filled with myriad tabloid articles, tales of abuse, questions about his sense of identity, and accusations of being an unfit parent.

His death, although technically ruled a homicide, has left some wondering if an addiction to prescription drugs preceded and facilitated the overdose.

All of this has left a shadow over Michael’s memory.  Yes, we have celebrated his music, his impact on pop culture, and his noteworthy humanitarian efforts.  But his legacy remains tainted by a strange mesh of rumors, poor personal choices, and unexplainable behavior.

His family is working hard to restore his public image, as evidenced by the elaborate public funeral, the televised family funeral, and the carefully crafted interviews of Michael’s former staff.

I don’t know if their overtime plays will prove fruitful, though.  Unfortunately, Michael’s game is over, and it didn’t end well.

The Lakers - A Lesson in Love?

One of my friends told me that she applied one of my job search tips (June 14 post) to her dating life, and that it worked! Today, I realized that the Lakers, too, provide insight into our love lives (or at least mine).

All day, I've been debating if I want to watch all of the Championship game between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. The issue is that I've had too many painful experiences while watching Lakers games. Often, while eyeing the score (especially if it's close or they're trailing), my heart begins palpitating. I swear. My blood pressure ascends, and my stomach feels like I ate a can of bad tuna fish.

But when the Lakers are ahead, (not by too much, cause that's too boring), I enjoy watching. I watch the screen enthusiastically, waiting for Kobe to make some ridiculously difficult shot. But when it's close, then it's difficult for me to keep my eyes on the screen. I check Yahoo! to see if I have any new email messages. I scan facebook for any interesting updates. I work hard to distract myself from the pain I'm experiencing while hoping that the Lakers will win in the end.

I realized that I interact with my love life the same way. If I'm winning, and all seems to be going well with a guy, then I am enthusiastic about him and the situation. I give my undivided attention and I am completely engaged. However, if the score is really close or I seem to be losing (he's giving me mixed messages and he has too many of the signs of the guys written about in He's Just Not That Into You), then I begin to panic. My heart begins to fear breaking and knots begin to form around the tuna fish that definitely is in my stomach.

I want to change the channel - drop him before he drops me. The pain of hoping for something that may or may not happen has become unbearable.

Now, I'm realizing how immature this is. We've all heard that there are no guarantees in life, but I'm seeing that I want there to be. I want to know that my emotions will be safe, and that my hopes (especially the ones closest to my heart) wont' be dashed.

So, what's a girl to do now?

Well, I'll start off by watching all of the Lakers game tonight. I will watch when they're ahead and root when they're behind. I will hope, always.

If I can do it for the Lakers, whom I've never met, then maybe I can do it for the next guy that I'm really into.

What Are You Shooting For?

Watching the third quarter of tonight's Lakers game was like watching a live, play-by-play lesson in tenacity. The Lakers had a twenty-point lead over the Boston Celtics, but would they keep it? I had seen many games where the Lakers managed to lose after having possessed a two-digit lead. To me, they were defending champions, and they were champions at botching it in the final quarter.

Would tonight be the same? Would they maintain their lead, or would they start strong but finish behind? I knew that their intensity level would determine it. They could be tempted to think that victory was all but guaranteed; twenty points was a large number, even an intimidating one. The Lakers could decide that all they needed to do was maintain their lead. Or, they could decide that twenty wasn't enough. They could make it their goal to demolish the Celtics, to send them back to their hotel rooms tired, demoralized, and embarrassed.

And that's exactly what they did. The final score: 89-67.

Watching the Lakers fight complacency and play through pain and injuries schooled me. Do I stop pressing once I reach a certain level of success, thinking that I can coast to the finish line, or do I work with the same determination and sense of urgency that I did to reach that initial level of success?

Hopefully the Lakers will shoot for another demolition and clinch a back-to-back championship.

6 Lessons Being Broke Taught Me

I never cared much for money or material things, hence my contentment with years of employment in the non-profit sector. I’ve been fine to buy most of my clothes on sale at Macy’s, T.J.Maxx, and ROSS. (I’ve purchased dresses for $0.99 before.) But now that I have a “respectable” income and way more money than expenses, I find myself missing the good ‘ole days of being broke.

(Now let me qualify the word “broke” here. This isn’t the kind of broke where you can’t go on vacation where you typically go due to a shortage of funds. And this isn’t the kind of broke where you can’t get your nails done every week cause you’re cutting back.)

This is the kind or of broke where you debate if you can afford to spend a dollar at Del Taco cause your stomach is barkin at you, but you don’t typically eat at Del Taco because who knows if that’s really meat in those tacos. This is the kind of broke where you don’t drive anywhere (outside of work) because your gas has to last you until…  This is the kind of broke where your friends only invite you out if they’re footin the bill because everybody close to you knows that you ain’t got no money.

So, here’s what being broke taught me:

1. Getting more usually leads to wanting more.

Once you get one more pair of jeans or another pair of shoes, you just want another one—this one in a different fabric, or cut, or color. Desire breeds desire, and contentment is a shunned enemy.

2. Sometimes, you have to make tough choices.

Which is worse: Going an additional $15 into debt because you are too proud to tell someone that you don’t have the money to go out with them for lunch or risking embarrassment by being honest and potentially being treated to a good meal?

3. Just how important money is.

It isn’t everything, but everything you want to do involves it. Making it (or having access to it) is paramount. I no longer have any idealistic, youthful notions about money. In fact, I respect it a lot more now, as I do the good book’s advice: “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’”

4. Although it’s rare to get something for nothing, bartering is a beautiful, underutilized practice.

For more than a year, I managed to get free pictures in exchange for posing for free. I traded my smile for photos. Check out my website (www.yougochante.com) to see the results!

5. Having less leads to greater appreciation for what you do have.

One of my favorite activities is finding a quiet nook at Starbucks or a local bookstore and reading or writing leisurely for hours, a cup of hot cocoa in hand. At the zenith of my broke days, however, I might be able to afford one excursion every four to six weeks. But when I did, I savored the experience. I walked into Starbucks, a smile on my face, and thanked God for the opportunity to be able to purchase a drink, and not be one of the coffeehouse “moochers” who plugged in without purchasing a single item. I would read my book, knees tucked into my chest, and feel true gratefulness. I wasn’t thinking about all the times that I couldn’t purchase a drink. I was thankful for the one that I was having in that moment.

6. I want to live a life of continual gratefulness, even though I’m not broke any more.

Right now, I sit in my living room as I write. I was going to drive to Borders, but I didn’t want to spend three dollars on a drink. (I don’t think my frugal ways will ever leave me.) So instead I write snuggled up in a sleeping bag on my couch, grateful that I have a quiet, cozy place from which I can work. In fact, I’m grateful just to have a couch and a home.

What has being broke taught you?

“It’s Okay”

Monday was the worst day I’ve had in a long time. After I hit my alarm clock, I laid back down, pulling the covers over my head, refusing to venture out. I don’t want to go to work. Maybe I can call in sick. I wasn’t sick. I just had a bad case of dread.

I had an important deadline to meet, and I had a bad feeling that I wasn’t going to make it, despite my best efforts. From Thursday to Sunday, I had tried to write the piece on five separate occasions. The results? Twelve sentences, half of which were cliché-laden. Some were pretty okay. Others sucked. But worse, nothing was clicking. I brainstormed idea after idea, changing approaches and playing with tone. In the end, though, false leads were my only leads.

As Sunday night neared, I knew that I was going to have to call the show’s director and tell her that I had nothing. Again. I had missed my original Saturday morning deadline, asking for more time. I dreaded having to tell her that I had nothing to give her, nothing to present to the composers and the choreographers who were gathering the following day to put music and dance to my words. It was worse than any scenario a horror writer could have dreamed up for me. It felt as if I was in a living nightmare—one that I had self-produced.

I had given my friend an enthusiastic “yes!” when she had asked me if I wanted to perform spoken word as the Walt Disney Concert Hall. I had viewed the sketches of the hall before it was built in downtown Los Angeles. It was an architectural feat, rivaled only by its masterful musicians. The idea of performing there had been too tempting to pass up.

But now, I was wishing that I had given an enthusiastic, "no!" So I pulled the covers over my head, convinced that if I didn’t start the day, I wouldn’t have to face impending failure. Slowly, I peeled myself out of bed and sat on my chair to pray. I cried. I told God that I didn’t want to fail. I asked for some sort of inspiration, again. Maybe this time He would provide some? Then something said, “It’s okay”.

I asked God to help me believe that.

At work, I tried not to think about the project too much. I just prayed that God would enable me to be okay with whatever the outcome.

Once back at home, I grabbed my laptop, said a little prayer, and began looking over my notes. I had allotted myself one and a half hours to complete the piece. I knew that if it didn’t come during that time, then it wasn’t gonna come. I stared at the words, but it felt like they just stared right back at me.

I waited to feel the inspiration that comes when I write. I waited for a feeling, or an image, or a string of words. I waited, but nothing came. I sat for twenty minutes. And then another twenty. And then I cried. Again.

I could have remained there another fifty minutes, but I knew that my problem couldn’t be fixed with time. I had nothing, and nothing was going to come. I had known it all day. I had a date with failure, and I was out of rain checks.

I would have to tell my friend and the director that I had failed, and that I was a spoken word artist with nothing to say.

Tears fell on my laptop as I typed an email to the director, detailing my failed attempts. I was slightly embarrassed, but was too tired and spent to be completely embarrassed. I had done my best, and for the very first time my best was nothing.

Never before had I missed an important deadline. Never before had I been unable to deliver on command. But surprisingly, the cloud of mini-depression that had been hanging over my head the entire weekend was gone because I knew that it was alright. I had tried, and failed. And tried, and failed. Received help, and tried, and failed. I did all that I knew to do, and I fell short. It felt awful, but Monday was the first step in knowing that it really is okay.