But trust me on the sunscreen...

This morning, as I got ready for work, I found myself marinating on several lines from the article below. You might recognize the little tidbits of advice from the 1999 hit single "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)" made popular by Baz Luhrmann. These "life lessons" have been ascribed to many people including Luhrmann and author Kurt Vonnegut, but they were actually written in 1997 by Mary Schmich, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, in an article entitled "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young."

Individuals can gain valuable insight from someone who is looking back at his/her own experiences—and that's just what this is. Enjoy!

Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd rather be rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for Graduates.

I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt. Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on.

Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

There's a tiny little heart I've enclosed like a little surprise...

If you like what you see, please visit my friend Lisa's blog for more drawings and general awesomeness.

Paradigm shift...

For so long, you were there.                          And I was here. 

Then I was there.                                          And you were here.   

And we could never seem to meet           

                                            in the middle.    

For Lindsey...

a friend getting married.

May you and Jason grow old together, sharing the same pillow.

“The Key to Love”

The key to love is understanding…
the ability to comprehend not only the spoken word,
but those unspoken gestures—
the little things that say so much by themselves.

The key to love is forgiveness…
to accept each other’s faults and pardon mistakes
without forgetting, but with remembering
what you learn from them.

The key to love is sharing…
facing your good fortunes as well as the bad, together;
both conquering problems, forever searching for ways
to intensify your happiness.

The key to love is giving…
without the thought of return,
but with the hope of just a simple smile,
and by giving in but never giving up.

The key to love is respect…
realizing that you are two separate people, with different ideas;
that you don’t belong to each other,
you belong with each other, and share a mutual bond.

The key to love is inside us all…
it takes time and patience to unlock all the ingredients
that will take you to its threshold;
it is the continual learning process that demands a lot of work,
but the rewards are more than worth the effort…
and that is the key to love.

Give me your hand...

Give me your hand, let's dance. 

We'll make up the steps as we go. 

As long as your hand's in mine, love, 

no one can tell us things we don't know. 

The rarity of falling stars...

The weatherman speaks of the rarity 

of stars falling from the sky, 

silver streaks on a black ceiling 

appearing and disappearing. 

Hours before sunrise, miles from the lights 

of the city, we stand in an open field

circling in place to see them 

fall, trailing their brightness. 

We drive home over gravel roads 

treading fallen stars underfoot, 

the pink hue of the sky marking the end of 

a night I will not live to see again. 

What if all things this beautiful, 

this marvelous, happen while we sleep? 

The lining of her shoes...

She spins the thin metal arrow of the broken compass. Wherever it lands, she will go—sure-footed, with her eye focused on the horizon. Tucked in the lining of her shoes are slips of paper with magic words, waiting for those quiet moments along the journey when she needs to stir things up.

Rereading C.S. Lewis...

An excerpt from The Four Loves. 

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." 

Appreciating the silence...

After my bath, I slipped on my nightgown and walked across the linoleum floors and old tattered carpets of our lake house. I was 6 or maybe 7. My mother sat in an over-stuffed reclining chair and my grandmother sat on the couch, both with a glass of wine. They talked and watched Saturday evening television, laughter filling the room. 

Not finding my grandfather in the living room, I went searching. I pressed my face against the glass of the front door and looked out into the night. I quietly opened the heavy door and pushed the old white screen door into the darkness, hoping to find him there.

The porch, with its AstroTurf flooring, was enclosed with a thin screen all the way around. As one of my feet touched the scratchy green I heard him rustle in the dark, his voice low and calm, "Shh...Missy, come over here beside me." I walked slowly, lightly and felt my way to the huge rocking chair sitting beside his. I crawled up into it and from that height—where my feet could not touch the ground—we would sit. Every once in a while his big, gentle hand covered mine and he'd say, "Do you see the deer? Can you hear     them?", and we would watch and listen in silence as the deer came up almost close enough to touch. 

I remember falling asleep sitting beside him on those hot summer nights and the way he moved in silence as he lifted me all at once into his arms and tucked me safely away in bed.