Success Was and Is...

I was participating in an online forum the other day and someone asked for advice on attaining success. This actually turned out to be a forum topic I could personally answer with just a few clicks of the keyboard, because this very question posed itself to me, only hours before.

For as far back as I can remember, I held one visualization of having “made it”. I would have attained success when the start of my work day included strolling down a big city street, swinging (not too hard as to hit a passerby and start a city scene, though), a leather briefcase (you name the designer), walking into a skyscraper to ride the elevator to the 21st floor, plopping down in my soft as a baby’s skin leather chair, and making two complete rotations to capture (1) the amazing city scape and (2) my employees peering into my office window. This mini success commercial has been with me for so long that although my day begins with dropping my daughter off to school then racing in a four door sedan to the park and ride, every now and then, I replay my commercial and smile.

What I did not realize in those pre-career, dare to dream days, was that most roads have pebbles, stones and people on them that can make you trip, completely fall or knock you down. I’ve had a few unexpected stumbles and some intentional pushes, that left me with badly scraped and bloodied knees. As these scenes were nowhere in my success commercial, I was never sure what to do after a fall. Should I turn around? Place a call to the city office for them to fix their roads? Do I push the one who pushed me back? The decisions, scrapes and blood sometimes paralyzed me. Most of the time I just wanted to disappear. I did not want to see the red drips. I did not want to walk – it hurt. I did not want anyone to see me looking like anything but the pretty, professional, briefcase swinging woman who lived in my mind.

Today, as I walk my city streets, a simple glimpse at my reflection in a glassed building puts me face to face with the woman I have become…A woman whose scarred knees bring back memories of the shared stories, pain and laughter of those who too had fallen on their roads…A woman whose limp has given her a new definition of having “made it”. Success, for me, is having the courage to stand up and keep walking no matter how many falls or failures there have been - - and perhaps getting a few good rotations in a top of the line recliner.

An African Christmas

Christmas for many people, is most special as a child. Not all children, however are fortunate enough to have their year long wishes come true, but they hang on to hope nonetheless. My husband is from Accra, Ghana and his childhood Christmases were quite different from mine. Here is a description of a Ghanian Christmas celebration as written on www..santas.net/africanchristmas:

"In Ghana, on Africa's west coast, most churches herald the coming of Christmas by decorating the church and homes beginning with the first week in Advent, four weeks before Christmas. This season happens to coincide with the cocoa harvest, so it is a time of wealth. Everyone returns home from wherever they might be such as farms or mines.



On the eve of Christmas, children march up and down the streets singing Christmas Carols and shouting "Christ is coming, Christ is coming! He is near!" in their language. In the evening, people flock to churches which have been decorated with Christmas evergreens or palm trees massed with candles. Hymns are sung and Nativity plays are presented.

On Christmas Day, children and older people, representing the angels in the fields outside Bethlehem, go from house to house singing. Another church service is held where they dress in their native attire or Western costumes. Later on there is a feast of rice and yam paste called fufu with stew or okra soup, porridge and meats. Families eat together or with close neighbors, and presents are given."

Although the Christmas celebrations of my husband's childhood are quite different from mine, we celebrate with shared joy and eagerness all the same.

The Miracle of Memories

A conversation i was having with a couple of friends today took me back to one of my favorite childhood memories. We were sitting at a lunch table and there were Keno cards beside us. One of my friends asked where the screen with the Keno numbers were. I had never played or even heard of Keno, but I recollected and began to talk about the remembrances I have of playing PoKeno at my grandmother's house.

I last lived with my grandma about 20 years ago. Her house was one of refuge. It was a place to go if you wanted to feel good. You didn't have to be good or smart or pretty to get into grandma's house. You just had to have a way to make it there. Sometimes I would ride my bike, the bus or beg for a ride. When I needed a few moments of safety, I found a way to my grandma's.
Each time I would mount the steps, the red rosebush that grew along the stoop rail, seemed to bend a little so that I would notice, touch and adore them before entering the home. Once inside, the gleeful braggings of card players, the beat of soulful music and the succulent aromas of southern comfort food, welcomed me. Very rarely if ever, were words of love ever expressed. They didn't have to be. It was clear. Grandma's house was filled with a love that went beyond words. The smiles, the sounds and the smells said it all.