Barbara Brooks created Flamingo Strategies LLC to help clients stand up and stand out, through telling and sharing their stories of impact and purpose.
Hacking Away at Happiness is her blog.
In boxing, to pull a punch is to hit less hard than one can. In writing, it’s to be less truthful. So, friends, I’ve hit the pandemic wall. And I’ve got to get a handle on this.
I write this blog about nothing in hopes it gives us something. It’s a place where we can sort and order our pangs and longings. It connects us to each other. That’s not nothing—is it?
Thanks to Bernie, I’m knitting again. I’ve been smitten by those mittens, and it’s time to share some love. And for the world to wrap and turn.
Counterintuitive head scratchers thrill me to no end. Why? Surprise activates curiosity, excitement, and wonder. It intensifies our emotions by about 400 percent.
Since Covid, we’ve all been drinking more. Wine. Whiskey. Bone broth. Coffee and tea. And lots and lots of lemonade. Loaded with sugar. And watered way down. Made from silver lemons.
By definition, to concede is to admit, acknowledge, accept, recognize or confess. This Thanksgiving, let’s use our words. A sincere concession goes a long way.
Time—like temperature, or space, or stimulation—is relative. The 2020 election is just two sleeps away. Change can’t come quickly enough.
With more than a million people dead worldwide since February, the line between persisting and pestering is no longer the point.
I want to hear laughter when I crack a joke. I want to hear silence on the line and know we both are thinking. If a friend is choking on tears, I want to hear that too.
Despite the dire nature of the holiday, I found tremendous comfort, again this year, in the familiarity of the prayers and songs of the season.
Once in a while I’m lonely or cranky or scared. But I am not hollow or barren or profitless. And neither are you! So let’s be aimless together.
I probably should have written less. But to paraphrase Mark Twain, I didn’t have time to write a short blog post, so I wrote a long one instead.
We have work to do, my friends. We need to act and talk and learn and fight—all at the same time. We need to talk and act and screw up and learn some more.
As roommates, we do our subsistence tasks quietly—without eclipsing what makes a life true. Right speech. Right action. Having fun. Being real.
Why not practice each day at being a little more imperfect. We could leave the bed unmade and admit we’re just fumbling in the dark.
Until now staying home, having patience, waiting out the danger, has felt both sad and necessary. But today, I’m feeling mad than sad.
Life is an improvisational art form. Interruptions are sources of wisdom, not counterproductive distractions. They prepare us for Adulthood II.
The desire to be heard—across vast physical and emotional distance—is what makes us human. I’m desperate for connection yet afraid to go out. So it’s time to hit the road.
In the past seven weeks, two of us survived the virus. One closed a business. A mother and a father have died. We decided to wing it and say a prayer.
Some people are making lemonade right now. Others are choking on the sour. But unless we ask, unless we listen, we don’t really know who’s who.
