Sometime late into the mid-1960s early 70s, while watching after-dinner television, I saw my first plate spinner. Unless you're of a certain age, you won't know that we didn't always have 300 channels and shows like America's Got Talent. We were lucky to have three television stations (four if you had public access), and typically watched shows like The Ed Sullivan Show (or later, The Gong Show) for talented musicians, unusual talents, and headliners of the day. 

Erich Brenn (yes, I looked it up, my memory has its flaws) had his audience holding their breath while he teased us with bowls that might crash and plates that he continued to twist and spin. Brenn's act (and those of other individual humorist spinners) was mere foolishness compared to some of the Chinese acrobatic plate spinners who somehow managed to keep handfuls of pole-balanced plates spinning during elaborate performances.

I remember it like yesterday. . . I signed up for Dale Carnegie Training—which is mostly about being able to communicate better with others as well as being a better human. I had the good fortune of having one of the old-time trainers, Bill Dyke. Bill had been with the company long-term and had known Dale Carnegie. Though up in years, Bill remained active and jovial, leading us through twelve difficult challenges as the weeks progressed. 

One challenge we were given was to finish something we'd put off for a long time or that had yet to find its finish line. I remember one fellow had done some remodeling and never put the window trim around the windows. For over fifteen years they had been trimless, molding collecting dust in a corner. He would finish that during our course. For me, I had my own back pocket project that I'd squirreled away for more than fifteen years. Bill asked me, couldn't I just give it a little bit more, even 10%? No, I told him, I didn't know where I'd find that 10%, I didn't know where else I could spare a minute. I felt totally maxed out. (It would take another year before I could finish it—or so I thought.)

I unexpectedly found myself at the end of an era this week. Although I hadn't planned on it, the events over the week quickly made it inevitable... but more on that in a moment.

What is an era? It is when you have devoted your time, money, and effort to something in your life. It's likely something that has a piece of your heart (but not always). It may last years or only months, but it is a part of you in some way and has helped shape you into who you have become.

Early in the 90s, I joined a writer's group. I had made the "mistake" of commenting to a friend who had just become its president that I loved organizing things. We would joke about it years later as I had no idea what it would lead to, but I think she had an inkling. 

Starting out as a contest coordinator and a host for several writer's retreats, I would go on to become a board member, then later, as the annual conference coordinator. I raised my hand enough during my years there that I eventually won their highest award of Meritorious Service. Voted by the members, I received a clock to indicate the passage of time I'd given.

I've always maintained one should never take on two major projects at the same time. (I even proclaimed such in one of my books.) So, of course, I'm totally ignoring my own advice and have taken on two big things. As my good friend and author, Doc Nell Rodgers likes to say, "Sometimes I need to read my own damn book." 

Nonetheless, I also believe it's important to follow your intuition, and I didn't always do that.

Project one has been to select, tag, and pack some of our massive 20th Century collection of antiques.

About a year ago we learned that, due to the sale of the company, my husband was being forced into retirement. Not working after forty-four years has been a massive change, one he has taken to slowly. However, we had always planned that selling off our collection would be part of our retirement plan, the shift just came three years sooner than we thought. (I'd tried warning him that my intuition said differently, but like men with driving directions, he didn't listen.)

On my thirteenth birthday, I received a colorful and fun gift. The toy was a plastic bubble filled with gumballs. Levered arms controlled by buttons on the outside allowed the user to capture the gumballs like an arcade claw machine. I was thrilled. I took it to my room, retrieved my first few gumballs, stuffed my mouth with gum, and then. . . . I heard a catastrophic "snap!" A crucial part had broken. Being cheap plastic it could not be repaired.

I can't fix that.

My father had major life-saving surgery in 1963. They replaced his aorta from his heart down into the groin with some type of dacron material. Over the next twelve years, he'd have several more surgeries to repair the repair, including the eventual loss of a leg. Finally, they told my mother they couldn't fix it any more. My father passed away in 1975. I was fifteen.

I can't fix that.

Throughout your childhood, you were taught to live within the guidelines governed by your parents, teachers, and others. As you matured, you may have become stuck in the monotony of routine and caught in the expectations of others where. . .

. . . you lost the freedom to be you,

. . . you pushed your dreams aside, and

. . . true happiness felt unreachable.