An Afternoon of Conversation at All Seasons

huge-2016_04_21_3728No matter how much you plan, when you’re doing something for the first time, you never know if reality will match up with your vision. The goal of the Picture a Conversation ™ program my husband and I created for the senior residents at All Seasons of Birmingham (MI) was to inspire a sense of community and encourage the residents, many of whom were newly arrived, to begin to get to know one another.

Martin and I planned a short talk about our own “creative conversation.” He spoke about his philosophy as a photographer and what draws him to a scene. I talked about the inspiration I draw from his images that guides me in writing the meditations and discussion questions featured on each Picture a Conversation card. Following this short Powerpoint presentation, our plan was for the residents, in groups of three or four, to use individual cards and engage in some talk and sharing. My description sounds so artificial and staged.  But I knew from our testing days that when people just take that first step and start talking, everything flows.

Those were the hopes for our afternoon at All Seasons, although there was a moment that gave me pause. A man with a walker looked into the room and said, “I’m not sitting with any women.  I’m tired of hearing about grandchildren and gall bladder operations!”  He hesitated in the doorway until I gestured toward three men sitting together.

After watching a few more residents slowly make their way to the various places we had arranged around the room, I realized that my plan to have them move to different tables for each conversation session would be a disaster.  Instant modification — instead of having them change tables, we’d just bring a new topic to them.  That worked. Seven women had gathered themselves together despite our setting up tables of three and four.  I knew this would hinder conversation, but they insisted on staying put.

L. J., Williams, the Life Activities Director, timed the program right before dinner in hopes that some new table companions might be forged. There were snacks, lemonade and wine on hand to help oil the skids.  Martin and I went from table to table, sharing in the conversations a bit, helping to move things along when needed.  When I came around to the group of seven women, I saw that they had divided themselves into three and four and were talking away. After about fifteen minutes, we called a short break for more food and drink and to distribute a new conversation card.

By the second conversation session, everyone was comfortable and jumped right in.  We looked around the room, thrilled to see all the residents, even the gallbladder averse man, engaging with one another.  There were smiles on people’s faces, They were animated and laughing together. I worried that there was so much talking going on that it might be hard for some to hear.  No matter.

What does fun look like to you?

What does fun look like to you?

For the third round, we moved from small-group conversations and opened the last question up to the entire room.  The card we chose features a snowman on the front; the reverse offers three questions about making time for fun in our lives.  I invited L. J.  to speak first and he talked about walking his dogs and the opportunities those walks bring him for connecting with his new neighbors.  He called out for other responses and several hands reached for the mike. One woman talked about the activities she enjoys at the residence. Another spoke of family times. The last woman rose to speak said this, “We all have come from different places.  We all have families.  But you are all my family now.  I have fun with you.”  Applause sounded from all corners of the room.  IN that moment, reality bested my imaginings.

As I reflected on the afternoon, the 1985 movie Cocoon came to mind. If you’ve seen it you know the scene when the aging residents of the retirement home dive into the pool of the house next door and are instantly rejuvenated as they swim through the life-force infused water. It doesn’t take Hollywood. It doesn’t take magic water.  All it takes to come alive is to have a great conversation with people eager to listen and share from the heart.

 

If you’re interested in our hosting a similar program, please contact us —                                              debra at pictureaconversation dot com.

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The Conversation Beneath the Conversation

debra-emma-walking-down-the-streetWe weren’t sworn enemies but we had had words. Well, she’d had words with me while I held my tongue. At the time, my daughter thought I was a being wuss, especially because I’d never called this mother about the times her daughter had hurt mine. During the conversation in question, I said what I thought was appropriate — that our daughters, at fifteen, could settle their own differences; if she wanted to meet with me we could do so with our girls and the school counselor. She said I was an unfit mother and a phony. In my mind I was taking the high road but was my daughter right? Should I have responded in kind,  recounting  the times her daughter had mean-girled mine to the point of tears? My pounding heart closed my throat on a whole ton of words, all justified. For months I silently castigated myself. What kind of a mother doesn’t stand up for her daughter, or herself, in the face of such an attack?

We’ve bumped into each other from time to time. I decided long ago to take a page from the “kill ’em with kindness” rule book.  When I saw her at the post office a few years ago, she hesitated. “Come,”    I said moving toward her. “It’s time for a hug.” We caught up on where our daughters were and what they were doing. Hers wields a scalpel; mine a very cool iPad stylus. They are both healing lives and spirits in their chosen professions.

When I saw her this week at a show, I moved from behind my table to greet her and give her a hug. She hugged me back. She looked good; I looked good.  The kids are good.  All is good. Thank God.

I knew way back then the source of her pain, and that’s why I had held my seemingly chicken-hearted tongue. I knew then, as now, that I wasn’t walking in her shoes.  This week I heard more consciously another layer of the conversation that had kept me quiet all those years ago. Because this is likely what the mother was really saying: “It’s not fair your daughter is healthy and mine had cancer. I’m furious that your daughter has gorgeous long dark hair because I’ll never forget the months my daughter had none. You are unfit because in the darkest parts of my soul I fear I am unfit, else why did my daughter have to suffer through chemo? You may think you have all the answers but I cannot find the answer to this question: What did I do to make my daughter get cancer before she even got her period?

In our rational moments we all know how little of this great big life we can control. And yet as mothers, we still feel we should, and ought to, have the power to keep monstrous things from hurting our children.  So when X and I cross paths, I greet her kindly.  I hug her because were her shoes ever on my feet, I don’t know how I could cope. Maybe on some level, my hug is an irrational talisman of hope that my kindness today will bless my daughter, keeping her and even her one-time nemesis,  safe for a lifetime of tomorrows.

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Sign Me Up

See you on the roads!

See you on the roads!

It felt weird.  Squirmy. Way out of my comfort zone to say the least. My husband thought it was a terrible idea, convinced it wasn’t worth the money. I’m used to that being his set point. It’s what happens when a creative marries a realist. The creative is all about taking chances, each one a stepping stone to something greater; the realist is all about the cost of the mortar and being sure everything stays safe. He shared my feeling that doing this was a wee bit déclassé. But it wasn’t like I was planning to walk up and down Woodward Avenue dressed in a panda suit, flailing my arms and shouting at passersby.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

All we were talking about was ordering a magnetic sign for my car. Thirty bucks tops. I’m sure I could have gotten it cheaper online but supporting our local business owners matters to me. On a whim I stopped into Fast Signs Birmingham and got a sense of what was possible. Two days later I had my sign.

Andy walked me to my car and waited as I decided where best to position it.  Once it was affixed, I realized this sign was as much car art as it was advertising. I was offering up to my fellow drivers a beautiful photograph that would dance through the traffic as I went about my day. Maybe someone wavering about making a life change will see the sign and take it as a message (a sign!) meant just for her. Or him.  Perhaps the butterfly will bring a smile to someone having a bad morning. Will this generate orders or increase my website traffic?  Time will tell. For now every time I get into my car, I’m reminded that if you don’t step out of your comfort zone, you’ll never take flight.

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Time for Some Chutzpah

Wisdom Card

Whose wisdom has made a difference in your life?

When I have three conversations in a week, all variations on the same theme, I know something is afoot.

Conversation number one was with a fellow writer.  Some years ago she wrote a beautiful memoir about raising her severely disabled son.  She told me that she had decided to stop giving the book away because it was just too much trouble.  I asked her what she meant that she was giving the book away.  Just that she said.  She wasn’t charging anything.  Not even postage.  Someone asked for ten books and out they went.  I asked her why and she said that she didn’t feel comfortable asking for money and she was OK with that.  But she was tired of shlepping to the post office. Her compromise is to send people a link to a free book download from her website.

Conversation number two was an email exchange with a friend, a brilliantly creative calligrapher who also paints and has designed tile and glass installations as well. In last week’s blog she described her participation in her city’s beautification project thus:  This summer I was asked to put paint on a utility box.

“Putting paint on a box” is how she devalued her creation and execution of four vibrant murals painted on an enormous metal utility structure.  I couldn’t help but reframe reality and send it to her: She, among other superlative artists who reside in this major North American city, was chosen to be a part of said city’s beautification plan.

Conversation number three was with a friend I’ve known for 40 years. She knows me better than anyone but my husband. I was sharing with her an ongoing frustration with a loved one. Although we were speaking over the phone, I could feel how intently she was listening.  She offered her response in broad terms about the human condition and the ebb and flow of all loving relationships.

“You are so wise,” I said. “You have such a way of listening carefully, without judgement. Some how you invite people to see their situation from a slightly different perspective, shifting maybe only five degrees, but it makes such a difference.”

“You said that once long ago,” she replied.  “You called me wise. I had the chutzpah to believe you.”  She is now in rabbinical school and is training for chaplaincy work with hospice. The world is already a better place because in that moment when I praised her for her wisdom, she chose to own her gift.

We have to have the chutzpah to believe in and to claim our strengths!  Not dismiss them as insignificant, but all out recognize that we have each been given something that is distinctly ours with which we can better our corner of the world. Whatever it is, it is of value. We shouldn’t feel dirty asking to be respectfully compensated. We shouldn’t minimize or downplay what we have to offer.

Having the chutzpah to own our gift doesn’t mean we’re better than anyone else. I’m a good writer. I move people with my words. I enlighten and entertain. I’ve even caused a few conflagrations. I’m taking that gift in a new direction with Picture a Conversation™ — inspiring people to deepen their relationships through the simple act of having a conversation. I’m a good writer, yes, and one who can be peevish, short tempered, a procrastinator. I’m still working on not offering unsolicited advice to my beautifully adult children. But I do not duck when praised for my writing ability. I’m good at what I do and am thrilled when I hear my advice column has helped someone or that my children’s book is a treasured favorite.

Enjoy your gift. Share it joyfully. Revel in it and grow it. Be comfortable expecting compensation. You’ve been given something no one else has been given. Have now the chutzpah to own it.

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Caught in Conversation

 

Darvick-Picture-a-Conversation-IMG_2408

L-R: Edie (Catholic), Judy Lewis (Jewish), Bro. Al Mascia, OFM (Catholic) and R. Kahn (Muslim) Co

Caught in Conversation is the brainchild, or maybe I should say heartchild, of Mary Gilhuly. Because I don’t know that the brain could come up with, and keep advocating five years for, a gathering of Jews, Christians and Muslims to come together for dinner and conversation. The brain would serve up a heap of reasons not to — it could get heated; who would show up?; why bother?  where ?

I’m one of Mary’s tiling volunteers at Song and Spirit. For the purposes of this post however, Mary was the force behind this week’s Caught in Conversation held at the Muslim Unity Center here in Bloomfield    Township. Over one hundred people signed up.

Envision the setting — twenty tables covered with white cloths, each one set for six.  I know, it sounds like the set up for a joke — two Christians, two Muslims and two Jews show up for dinner conversation.  We began with blessings led in turn by Hazzan Steve Klaper, Imam Elturk of IONA and finally Brother Al Mascia. Whispers in Hebrew, Arabic and English rolled through the room, three quiet waves of gratitude for the meal before us.

I was a bit trepidatious. How would I, a pro-Zionist  Jew feel in a Muslim community center?  Would the conversations be stilted? How was this really going to work? The most contact I’ve had with women wearing a hijab has been a casual wave around town. But I believe in the power of conversation; how could I miss this?

Darvick-Picture-a-Conversation-IMG_2409Over felafel sandwiches, chicken rollups, and salad we introduced ourselves.  At our table was a Catholic man who serves on Song & Spirit’s Board of Directors; a young man who is making his initial vows to become a Franciscan friar; two Muslim women, one a doctor, the other an attorney;  a Jewish woman I know from tiles and me. It was an evening of learning; a night of uncovering similarities; a meal over which assumptions were set right and customs were shared.

The doctor at our table recalled her surprise upon realizing the parallels between  Muslim and Jewish burial customs. The board member assumed that rabbis, like Catholic priests, do not marry or have families. Not true, but without an evening like this, how might he have ever known? The young man beside me, a postulant in the Franciscan order, told of us his plans to become a friar —  pursuing a divinity degree, taking vows of poverty and celibacy. It was quite moving hear a young person filled with such dedication to his faith eagerly on a path so different from that of his peers. Adjacent to our table, six mothers discussed the challenges of keeping their teens connected to church, mosque and synagogue.

The six of us discussed Original Sin and how something that is expunged by baptism in the Catholic faith doesn’t exist for Jews or Muslims.  We learned of a moving Muslim birth custom — whispering the call to prayer into the ear of a newborn so that the first words the infant hears are sweet words of tradition and not the whisperings of any evil spirits that might be hovering near by. It made me wish that I had whispered the Shema to Elliot and Emma at their moments of birth.

Granted, we were a self-selected group open to learning and new experiences. The night’s purpose wasn’t to solve global crises, but to engage in positive religious dialogues that the world beyond our dinner tables rarely notices or envisions. I think we all felt a sense of safety from the pundits and politics. The briquets of today’s rhetoric-soaked sound bites fuel little that brings harmony within or without. Our goal was to lay down a few hefty logs of community and kindle them with hope and conversation, not ignoring our religious traditions but because of them. I wondered if such a gathering could happen anywhere else in the world but America.  Likely in Israel. And Canada. But France? Lebanon? Egypt? Last night was about being ourselves and bringing ourselves to the table precisely because we are Americans of different religions.

As I was leaving, one of the women from the Center called out to me that she hoped we would do this again.  I said I hoped so.  In Sh’Allah, she said. I nodded, which prompted her to ask if I knew what it meant. “Of course,” I replied. “It means Baruch HaShem. May it be God’s will.”

I’m not so Pollyanna-ish to think that an evening’s program will change the world. But you have to start somewhere and a civil, engaging and heartfelt conversation is a pretty good place to start.

 

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Sprite and the Broken Clasp

Thanks always to Martin, whose photos grace my posts and whose listening heart graces my life.

Thanks always to Martin, whose photos grace my posts and whose listening heart graces my life.

In a sea cottage at the edge of the marsh where the waves washed the shore, a sprite was sobbing. Not just sobbing but all out howling the kind of howls that hitched her little chest, turned her eyes into rivers and her nose into a gooey faucet.

No one knew exactly why Sprite was crying. Could have been the way the sheets tangled her ankles during the night, or that the last of the oatmeal got eaten before she came to table. Or it just might have been the fact that the air that summer morning just didn’t feel right. Since she wouldn’t stop her wailing, the olders in her midst timed her out, even though the power to rescue herself from this utter meltdown was so far beyond her that the gulls flying skyward heard her shrieks through their cawing and squawking.

Her mother tried muting her with a promise of ice cream after lunch. This did nothing to stop her hitchy chest. Her father tried silencing her with the threat of no bedtime story. That did nothing to stop her rivery eyes. Her grandmother tried stilling her with the wheedle that her crying was upsetting her grandfather, her cousins and even Aunty. Which did nothing, but absolutely nothing, to stop her faucety nose. But that last wheedle did catch the ears of Aunty who was just waking up from a totally wonderful nap in the hammock overlooking the marsh.

When Aunty heard her name invoked in a try to stop the sprite’s hitching, rivering and fauceting, she spun from the hammock, crossed the wooden decking, and knelt down in front of the sprite — eye to eye, nose to nose, chest to chest. Nobody, but nobody, uses Aunty’s sensibilities as a threat to stop a sprite from sobbing.

“I’m here,” said Aunty, “What’s up?” Sprite’s cries escalated, forcing Aunty to adjust her hearing aid a bit.  “Breathe with me?” Aunty tried. The sprite shook her head, “What’s wrong?” Aunty finally asked. “Why are you crying, Sprite? Why are you crying?” Aunty waited, still kneeling in front of the sprite, even though her knees had only the least bit of kneeling left in them for the morning.

Sprite opened her tiny fist and held it out to Aunty. On her palm lay a broken hair clasp. It was silver and gold; the picture of the queen that adorned it had fallen off. “Oh, my goodness,” said Aunty. “Your hair clasp has broken. What a terrible, terrible thing. A terrible thing.” And then she waited again, quietly honoring the sprite’s sobs.

Bit by bit, Sprite’s chest began to unhitch and her cries slowed. “It’s an awful thing to have something you love break,” said Aunty, “especially when you’re just a sprite. It’s no fun when you’re an older, either, but when you’re a sprite, well, it can feel like the end of the world, huh?”  Sprite nodded, wiping her nose with the hem of her nightgown before Aunty could pull a handkerchief from her back pocket.

“Why don’t we try to fix it?” Aunty asked. Sprite looked up, her blue eyes twin questions of such a possibility. “We can try,” replied Aunty. “And if it doesn’t work, you can still keep the Queen’s picture in your treasure box. What about that?” Sprite considered this for a moment, then nodded, and raised her hand to Aunty.

“Things break,” Aunty told Sprite as she lifted the pieces from her palm. “Sometimes we can fix them, and sometimes we just have to gather up the brokens and save them as we go.”

Sprite let Aunty wipe her eyes with the handkerchief. “Isn’t this the morning you’re making drip castles on the sands?” Sprite nodded in remembering. She hugged Aunty a quiet hug and scampered to the shed for her shovel and pail. Aunty watched her go, knowing full well wisely, and fiercely, just how many brokens it takes to make up a lifetime…

 

I wrote this grown-up’s fable after a conversation with a little person who was bereft because something she treasured had broken. Sometimes all it takes to mend our “brokens” is a quiet conversation with someone who will listen.

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A “Sprained” Conversation

What a blessing to have use of my thumb!

What a blessing to have use of my thumb!

I fell recently and my wrist, while not broken, was still hurting. The hand surgeon confirmed that nothing was fractured and sent me to the local medical supply place for a brace.  It was a long wait in a place devoted to the old-age infirmities that can befall us — adult diapers, walkers, splints, crutches and more. I signed in and counted the names above mine. It was going to be a long wait.

I picked up a magazine and took a seat next to a woman who was also waiting to be seen. Minutes passed.  Long minutes.  Then a quarter of an hour that turned into a half hour. The woman began talking to herself not so sotto voce,  “I’ve been waiting over an hour to be seen. I KNOW I didn’t have an appointment. But I didn’t KNOW I was going to break my wrist today.” Then her mutterings escalating to curses. I tried to voice commiseration that I hoped would ease the tension. Truth be told, she was just saying what the rest of us were thinking; we just had better filters in place. But I grew uneasy. Would she go from words physical venting?  Did she have a gun? Had she broken her dominant hand?  Could she shoot left-handed?

The receptionist said they were moving as quickly as they could.  Things quieted down, and then I heard crying.  The woman’s body language projected utter defeat —  shoulders slumped, head in her hands, completely withdrawn. Through her cries she whimpered that she was in pain. That it was her twins’ birthday and she needed to get home to celebrate, but how could she make them a cake with a broken hand?  In that moment, the whole drama shifted from a one-person play to a scene in which we all had a part — we were all in some degree of pain; we all had somewhere else to be; we were all wondering how we would handle the physical tasks that, pre-injury, we did on autopilot.  Again, this woman was projecting what all of us were confronting within.  And for this poor woman it was just too much. She was overwhelmed, and simply could no longer cope. Or maybe she was coping better than the rest of us by expressing exactly what she was feeling and facing (minus the cursing, mind you.)

So I started a conversation.  Tell me about your kids.  How old are they? How did you hurt yourself? Turns out her kids were 17, a boy and a girl.  Like me, she had taken a spill in a moment of distraction. She confessed to being an impatient person.  I said the same and joked that the universe was probably testing me by giving me a situation requiring patience.  Trying not to sound too preachy I gently suggested that maybe this was an opportunity for us both to try and go with the flow.  And because I write an advice column, I couldn’t help but add that at 17, her kids could wait a bit. Her physical well-being had to take priority so that she could be there for them later.   A minute or two passed; it was finally her turn. I didn’t see her again.

We are so wrapped up in our own worlds, our own hurts, our own lives. Random conversations are beautiful reminders that we are not as separate as we think and that sometimes, simply talking to one another helps to mend what is broken, yet unseen.

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Image First

Darvick-Hydrangeas-FenceNo one will ever figure out which came first, the chicken or the egg.  But at Picture a Conversation, it’s always image first, words second.  I mine Martin’s trove of photographs from our travels until one stops me in my tracks and speaks to me about our relationships. Or our troubles. And our triumphs.

Occasionally, I’ll see a flash of something that gets my thoughts tumbling and a theme begins to emerge. Can Martin frame the visual flash into an artful photograph that I can work with?  Our partnership is really about translation. Martin’s images speak to my heart.  How do I translate, in as few a words as possible, what my heart heard?

We were walking in the neighborhood and came across this bright white fence with a handful of hydrangeas peeking through. I loved the sweet simplicity of pink and white and realized the buds had to have breached the fence slats before blossoming. My thoughts began seeking  a theme. Break free from the crowd….Sometimes life calls on us to push through to the other side. Maybe, Find your place in the sunlight. Or Sometimes the only way to blossom is away from the crowd.

“Can you get a good photo of this?” I asked Martin. Our rule is that every photo has to stand on its own as a great image. I don’t know if this one will make the grade, but I wanted to try just the same.  So he took a few shots from a lot of angles, and I snapped a few as well.

If we do decide to use it as a prompt, next comes writing the questions that will spark meaningful conversations our concept is known for.  Recall a time when you had to make a radical change to blossom. How did you feel leaving others behind? What did you discover on the “other side of the fence” as it were? Did you find your place in the sun? 

Or what about now? Leave a comment and start the conversation. Add another to join it. Or share this post and start a face-to-face conversation on your own.

Until next time……

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Reveling in Lupine

In this week’s post, the conversation veers a bit. With pictures, lots of pictures.

UnknownTo visit Maine in June is to slip into the pages of Barbara Cooney’s glorious children’s book, Miss Rumphius. Fans will recognize the eponymous Miss Rumphius as the one who made the world more beautiful by scattering lupine seeds through the fields and headlands, along the highways and country roads and tossing them into hollows along stone walls. Of all her books, this remains my favorite, not only for the lupines, but for the gentle admonition to leave the world a more beautiful place.

We were visiting our former neighbors and forever friends who moved to Maine four years ago. When Shelby left, I gave her a copy of Miss Rumphius. Her first spring, she began planting lupine in the field beyond her barn. We arrived last month just in time for the blooming. I was ecstatic. Color does this to me. Somehow those shades of blue and purple send my spirit soaring and I walked the edges of Shelby’s lupine field in utter color ecstasy.

Shelby's lupines beyond the barn.

Shelby’s lupines beyond the barn.

I always thought that the flower got its name because its bushy blossoms resembled a wolf’s tail. (Lupine is wolf in Latin.) Reading a wildlife journal I learned the plant was so named because of the mistaken belief  the plant wolfed down the soil, depleting it of all nutrients. In fact, it is just the opposite. Lupine, similar to the soy bean, returns nitrogen to the soils where it is planted.

Years back, Shelby and I tried growing them here in Michigan. We’d get a halfhearted stalk or two that would never reseed and soon moved on to hardier choices. As with people, flowers do best when planted where they can bloom. For lupine, this means Maine’s salty air and wide open fields of dry soil. For the rest of us, well, it’s our life’s journey, to find the right conditions for blooming.

For those of you also smitten with these glorious spikes of cobalt, purple, and rose — enjoy!

 

IMG_0476

And now a conversation topic to get you texting less and talking more — What would you do to make the world more beautiful?

 

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Picture a Conversation — Tell vs. Sell

Picture A Conversation - 25 CardsWhen my first book was published back in 2003, I was thrilled. Seven years, 60+ interviews, two publishers, 10 months with Toastmasters learning how to tame the butterflies in my stomach. Finally, the books arrived. Review copies were sent out. It was time to start selling the book and begin recouping at least some of the costs and time I’d expended for so many years.

That was my focus — selling. I was thrilled to be on book tour, to be a keynote speaker, to give a lecture at my son’s college and more. But the yardstick of success I carried with me in those days was how many books I sold at the end of each event. If I didn’t reach my target, I didn’t feel successful. I never allowed myself to feel deep in my bones the glow of satisfaction that I would have, had I only shifted my focus from selling books to absorbing just how much the book and my talks inspired people.

Yes, I was gratified when a woman approached me after a lecture on pursuing dreams, and said she was going to start painting, something she had always longed to do. Yes, it was thrilling when a college student, now a cardiologist in Boston, told me he had decided to do what it took to go to med school despite bombing his MCATs the first time around. Another young man, whom I met in Russia, said my book inspired him to reclaim a religious heritage he knew nothing about save for a few hazy stories from his grandmother during his childhood.  It was quite moving to hear how my words had transformed people’s dreams into action. But was that success? Back then I didn’t think so, because I was so obsessed with transforming the numbers in the red column into the black.

This time around it’s different. I’m a good deal older. Time and experience birth perspective. Instead of seven years, it’s been one long and intense year of researching, beta testing, meeting with fabricators and printers. It’s been the assembling of 27,000 cards and the folding into shape of 1000 boxes to create 1000 sets of Picture a Conversation that yes, it is now time to sell. There’s no escaping the red numbers in the debit column.

Except this time I do not feel that old compulsion to sell. Instead I want to tell. I want to tell people of our journey.  I want to share why I believe it’s crucial for us to text less and talk more. I want to tell mothers, Here are great conversation prompts. Create a weekly dinner ritual that will inspire the conversation you crave. I want couples to know, Here’s something to spark conversations. Find your way back to each other by talking.    I want to tell any and everyone who will listen that having meaningful conversations recaptures the closeness that true conversation can bring.

Sure I want those red numbers to turn black, but that’s not what gets me out of bed each morning. What gets me out of bed is the message Text less. Talk more. What gets me out of bed is my belief in the power within each card to inspire fun and enlightening conversations where they might not otherwise happen. What gets me out of bed each morning is the joy that I feel in telling, not selling.

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