I’m tired and in quite a bit of pain today. I’ve had back and jaw pain for two weeks now and it seems to be regressing instead of improving, so as I sat down to think about what I want to talk about today, nothing came to me. I’ve been feeling like no one is here lately, too. I hope that’s not cause I am disappointing you. It’s been a rough spring here and while I am a little worried about the summer, I am also hoping things are improving now.

So since I didn’t have much to say, I went into my archives. I’ve been writing here since 2000. That’s a long time. I thought maybe I can dig up something pithy for you from the vault. But it turns out I am too tired even for that. As I visited the archives, however, I realized how many things happened in the last ten years of my life. Ten years ago I was:

• working on Wall Street
• living in New York City
• engaged (a month away from getting married)
• volunteering at the New York Society for the Deaf
• taking classes at NYU and the New School and learning Japanese
• accepted to Teach for America
• volunteering at Housing Works Used Book & Cafe (still love that place)
• visiting museums, the opera, and walking a lot
• reading voraciously, writing novels

And my life up until then had been quite amazing. I’d accomplished most of my life goals already. I’d moved to the United States, graduated from the college of my dreams with honors, met the man who would become my best friend and, later, my husband. moved to New York City, lived in London and Tokyo, and finally gotten my green card.  I was about to leave a seven-year career on Wall Street to teach in the South Bronx. I was about to get married to my best friend. I felt like life was pretty magical.

What I didn’t know then was that there was so much more to come. So much more magic that I couldn’t even fathom it. In the last ten years, in no particular order, I:

• started and quit being a 5th grade teacher (hardest year of my life, bar none.)
• got married
• took 3-months off to travel across the country with Jake
• visited almost every National Park in the continental US.
• went to the Cayman Islands and went diving
• visited the Seychelles
• moved to San Diego and then to the Bay Area
• took some interesting but crappy jobs
• went camping for the first time
• had my first son
• and then my second son
• accepted a job at Google
• learned to take photographs, started my own photography company, took hundreds of thousands of photos
• learned to scrapbook, got into it quite a bit
• started doing art. drawing. art journaling.
• started exercising
• learned to drive (still working on the freeway)
• made friends, lost friends
• kept reading and reading and reading
• transitioned to work from home full time
• became an American citizen
• owned a first car and then a first home.

And much more. It might not seem like a lot but it is. I got married. I had kids. I moved to the West Coast. And I became a citizen. All of these changed my life in ways I couldn’t have predicted. My husband and kids have given me a deep sense of belonging. My home has given me an opportunity to finally lay down some roots. Even on my worst day, I now feel a sense of peace and belonging in ways I never could have imagined in 2002.

Had you talked to me in 2002, I would have said I’ve already accomplished all my personal goals by then. And maybe I had. I’d moved here, gotten my green card, held a steady job and found a solid partner. What I didn’t know then was that, for me, peace came from a much different source. While all of those things mattered and created the groundwork, my family is what gave me my biggest sense of purpose in my life. Not just being there for them, but also wanting to be the best version of myself around them. They are the source of my drive,  joy, and peace. And I am deeply grateful for them. For Jake, without whom none of it would ever have been possible.

And I am grateful for this little slice of the web that’s been with me for the whole journey. The audience and the contents have changed a lot over those twelve years. But I love that I have bits and pieces of my life, my thoughts, my feelings preserved here. I love that I can go back to April 2001 and 2002 and see what I was writing about then. I can see all the high points and the low points and everything in between. It’s magical.

Which is why I write here so often. Even when you’re quiet. Even when I get no comments. Even when I am tired and in pain. Because it feeds my soul to see it, to read the traces of my life. Because I can’t wait to see what the next ten years will bring. And see what new hobby I will tackle next. What I will be thinking about. What joys and sorrows I will face.

And I can’t wait to capture it all here.

When I was little, on the rare occasion I had to borrow a book from my sister, she always made a point to tell me not to crease the spine. You could clearly tell the difference between her books and mine. Not only did I crease my spines but I folded the edges of my pages and did whatever else I wanted with my books.

I’ve come to realize they are a representation of how I like to live my life. I am not one to keep things tidy and on the surface. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to experience it deeply. I can’t do that if I am worried about creasing the spine. Just like I can’t really have fun in the rain if I am worried about getting dirty. When we’re not running away from it, rain can be so much fun. Puddles, splashing, licking, dancing, letting the water wash over you. It’s exhilarating.

That’s why kids seem to enjoy it so much more than we do. They don’t worry about getting messy. They look at rain and see joy. We look at it and see mud.

Sometimes I am so worried about mess, dirt, imperfection that I miss out on so many opportunities. I miss out on experiencing joy and adventure and euphoria. I miss out on having fun with my kids. I miss out on having fun in general.

That’s the thing about life: it’s messy.

You can’t really experience it without creasing the spines. Without letting go every now and then. I am one of those people who’s constantly scared to let go. What if I stop doing so and so and it all falls apart? I don’t want to be scared to let go. I can start with occasionally and with small things. Take one unabashed step. Without abandon. Something small. Maybe it’s going out in the rain. Or getting in the car and driving nowhere. Or having ice cream for breakfast.

Small steps lead to big steps, so I have to take those first.

Small steps show me that I can get messy and let go and the world doesn’t fall apart. Everything doesn’t come undone. If the foundation is there and it’s solid, I can take risks. I can get messy. I can dive in. I can take chances.

I don’t seem to hesitate when it comes to my books. I love a well-worn book. It’s a sign that the book was read, loved, cherished, carried around, and deeply used. That’s what books are for.

And that’s what I want to do with my life: when I come to the end of it, I want to have it be well-worn.