Well-read

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who live in houses with those tall libraries, the kind you need a rolling ladder to get to the top shelves.  Actually, I’ve never wanted to live in that kind of house; I just want to be the kind of person who’s read all those books.  And actually, I don’t want to read them; I just want to have read them.  I guess what I really want is an accumulation of knowledge, to know what they’re talking about when I read references to Middlemarch or A Tale of Two Cities.  I’ve always wanted to be well-read.

Which is maybe why I determined this summer was the perfect opportunity to brush up on the classics I’ve missed.  I’m not sure how or why I summoned a call for Roots from the library.  But when I read the synopsis, it sounded exactly like my kind of book: autobiography, 1800s, family relationships, history.  It had my name written all over it.  Except it was thick.  Over 800 pages.  And a classic of sorts.  It made me nervous.  I hated the idea of investing time—any amount of time—into starting it if I wasn’t going to finish it.  So I began tentatively.  With Kinte back in Africa in a village in the 1700s.  Which was ok for awhile.  But I got antsy.  I knew there was more to the story, but we were spending a long, long time talking about his village life.  So I glossed over a few pages here and there, returning to pick up some of the missed details if I got lost.  I wasn’t enjoying reading about his life.  It was nothing I could relate with.  I learned some things along the way, but I didn’t exactly look forward to curling up on the couch with it—although that’s exactly what I did.  It was somewhere after the first 100 pages (I think) that I felt I needed to make a decision.  Was this story worth my time?  It wasn’t a difficult read.  The language was familiar and easy.  I was able to keep track of who was who.  The hard part was focusing on the story at hand instead of worrying about the other books I was anxious to get to.

Which prompted me to pose the question to my online friends a couple weeks back, basically I wanted to know if they felt it was worth the time and effort to read classics or should we stick with reading what we like (assuming they’re not the same thing)?  So they weighed in, most of the opinion that life is short, read what you want.  Which is generally my philosophy too.  But are there books that are good for me just as there are foods that are better for me?  And just because I’m old enough to choose both my foods and my books, shouldn’t I be smart enough by now to make good choices instead of just eating and reading junk?

I eat a lot of cookies, and I read a lot of novels.  It’s not like I’m into salads and Wuthering Heights exclusively.  But I’ve always wondered if I was missing something by not including avocados in my diet, and over the years I’ve been curious about some of the books they set on those tables at Barnes and Noble, feeling a little out-of-the-know by not having read many of the familiar titles’ innards like Silas Marner.  I hear speakers I respect allude to them and I long to have the same exposure, the same inner knowledge.

I think back to the long, dark evenings of the 1700 and 1800s and even the earlier part of the 1900s.  Reading was a mainstay of entertainment.  I believe readers wanted rich details, a thick book they could lose themselves in.  I think people were generally less distracted back then, more able to focus.  That, and many of the “classics” to us were contemporary novels to them; daily life depicted in books was familiar to them and the language was current.  For me to wade through a serious novel takes a good deal of concentration.  And a nap beforehand so I’m wide awake.  It feels like work.  It conjures up feelings from high school, the anxiety of not having read the assigned chapters in 1984 and, even after comparing it with the Cliff notes, still not feeling certain about what was happening.  I hate being told what to do (and read) and so for me to be tied to a list that some random people have pulled together based solely on their opinions… that doesn’t sit well.  If you type in something like 100 Best Books of the 20th Century, you’ll get a variety of responses.  But I originally just wanted to know if reading the true classics (the ones branded right there on the covers) warranted the effort it would take me.

On the one hand, I believe in self-discipline, in doing hard things.  Our world has swung way too far the other way, indulgent and somewhat lazy.  We  balk when something would stretch us to discomfort.  I want to push myself, to know that I can be tenacious, that I have it in me.  It’s not about saying I’ve read the classics.  Who would I tell, how on earth would that come up in conversation, and why would anyone care what I’ve read?  That sounds so braggy anyway.  I know lots of people who have run marathons; I guess for a minute it awes me, but what I really care about is what kind of person and friend she is, not that she’s impressive.  And maybe that’s just me, I’m not inspired by much other than genuine kindness and humility.  So choosing literature has nothing to do with showcasing my bookshelf; it’s really me wanting to know what good literature feels like.  Just because a few scary-looking rock bands have huge followings doesn’t mean they’re worthy of it all.  And just because a book has remained in the top slot of a best seller list for several weeks doesn’t mean a thing to me.  However, when it comes to the true classics—the ones that show up on list after list of 100 Books to Read Before You Die—I simply wonder if they’re worth the effort and if that’s where I should spend my time. 

But on the other hand, life is short.  There are already so many demands on us, shouldn’t our leisure time be simply for relaxing?  Or should we juxtapose recreation with just a little bit of learning?  I’m not sure what you’re up against, but I know a lot of you have trade and professional journals to keep up with.  Like many of you, I try to stay on top of my lessons and church materials.  I try to read the newspaper every day and a slew of magazines that filter through our house.  I’m not that great at any of it, but I make an effort.  And so when it comes to books, should I try to be mindful and choose the best literature?  Or is it good enough to go the Doritos and a Diet Coke book route?  And yes, I know there’s a middle ground.

What does it even mean to be well-read?  I thought I knew.  I thought it was obvious: someone whose read all those thick leather-bound classics.  But as I thought about it, I realized maybe I had no idea what it really means.  Did you know you can look up that exact phrase?

The first little box that popped up: knowledgeable and informed as a result of extensive reading

Merriam-Webster: well-informed or deeply versed through reading

Thesaurus.com: bookish, educated, knowledgable, literate, studious, well-informed, cultured, scholarly, versed, widely read

From there, it was pages and pages of random people just writing in what they thought.  Most agreed that it’s got way less to do with quantity than quality and that it’s having read a variety of genres.  So having read several hundred lusty love novels does not make someone well-read.  And yet, these days it may have less to do with simply having made your way down the high school suggested reading list and more about reading (and listening to) a wide variety of opinions from Ted talks and podcasts to current novels and nonfiction in addition to those we consider classics. 

And delving just a little deeper—the real crux of the issue to me—what does it matter if we’re well-read?  Why do I hold that term in such high esteem?  I’d honestly never thought about it before.  But as I had a decision to make about my book, I felt to ask myself what my motive was.  What was I hoping for?

Probably the strongest reason for me wanting to read it was to prove to myself I could.  I’ve always wanted to feel smart.  And I did through elementary school.  Even until high school.  It’s been downhill ever since, and I honestly wonder if I’m just not intelligent enough to understand some of these esteemed books, to keep track of so many characters and plot twists.  Will I have to keep a dictionary beside me? I just wanted to see if I could make it through a thick book like that.  I’d tried others before (Little Women, Tess of the D’urbervilles—actually I was enjoying it but had to turn it back in) and always gave up, distracted or discouraged because I couldn’t really get into the story.  And so I wondered if I even had the smarts to read hard books.

But here’s what I’ve noticed.  I’ve known some extraordinarily intelligent people in my life.  But some of them are just complete idiots; they’re arrogant and essentially unable to relate to people in a warm, personal, humble way.  I’ve known some people who aren’t traditionally educated.  And yet they have figured it out.  They have common sense, they understand people, they make you feel better by just being around them, they seem to have a broad intelligence that doesn’t necessarily come from books, but from being engaged in real life and with people.

So is to be well-read the ultimate objective?  Or is it a means to a higher goal?  As I’ve thought about all this, as I’ve mulled over Roots the past couple of weeks, I’ve determined that the real purpose behind leisure reading (for me) is to learn something new but also to be entertained, to escape or transport myself into a life other than my own, to see life from another vantage point.  Our society is fascinated by wizards and werewolves, mysteries and Main Street because we get to experience life as we never could otherwise.  Even the stories we can absolutely relate to envelop us because the outcome or choices are a little different than the lives we’ve led, it’s not exactly the same, we glean new insights to life as we stand back and look at the characters’ (and inevitably our own) experiences from a new angle.

By exposing ourselves to a wide variety of media—and especially books, we begin to appreciate not only our differences, but we start to notice our sameness. In my mind, that’s what being well-read leads to: a realization that we have so much more in common than we think.  Good literature can lead us to develop a deeper compassion and understanding and sympathy for humans in a variety of ages and circumstances by exposing us to so many more scenarios and feelings than we could live through in just one lifetime.

As I read about wars through the ages, slavery, refugees, orphans, businesses, fashion, farm life, urban issues, poverty, athletes, animals, inventors, politicians, theories on education, nutrition, parenting, the environment, peanut allergies, autism, and religion, I’m inevitably becoming more aware of the world we live in.  Ideally, in my mind, reading in all its forms should lead to a broader mindset, a greater appreciation for the myriad peoples, cultures, ideas, sacrifices, and issues that make up our world.  And then our reading should propel us to do something to improve the world, to take what we’ve read and make some sort of difference.  Our reading should make us different than we were before.  I think that’s what good literature has the potential to do.

So, in answer to my question about classics, I believe in them.  I believe they have stood the test of time for a reason, specifically because they make us think.  They take us outside of ourselves.  They may cause discomfort, they may heighten our awareness, they may propel us to make changes, to fight, to empathize.  They conjure up emotion.  

As to whether I believe in reading them personally, for now I’m taking a lighter approach to understanding humanity.  I’m excited about my current bed stand stack, my non-fiction, my biographies, my Ted talks, my historical novels, my book group selections, my contemporary novels recommended by friends.  I do try to be selective.  To vary my choices.  To choose quality.  To read what interests me regardless of what’s mainstream.  With each book I read, I feel like I’ve gained some insight. Into a pocket of life or history I didn’t know much about before.  Into a person’s mind, someone who’s dealing with something I have no experience with.  Into another side of an issue, helping me see another way of looking at a complex controversy.  Regardless of whether these books have been or will ever be on some revered list, they have merit simply because they have all changed me in some small way.  While I think I will always wish to be what I have generally considered a well-read person who has taken the time to ingest the classics like so many I admire, for now this is where I am and decidedly want to reside for a bit longer.  There may likely come a time when I have long, dark nights to fill up as a grandma living alone with little to distract me.  I imagine I’ll pour over the books I once thought tedious and bask in the richness of the authors’ well-written stories. I’ll probably surprise myself by how well I enjoyed them.  And maybe then I’ll finally know what well-read feels like.  In the traditional sense.

Cautious

One of my biggest fears growing up was quicksand.  I lived in San Diego so I’m not sure how that got stuck in my head, but for some reason it made the short list.  Not so much anymore.  Currently it’s bears.  Mice.  Getting kidnapped and shoved in trunk (actually more of a life-long fear).  Being asked to serve as a general women’s leader in the church and having people know I have no idea about the scriptures stories.  Losing my husband or kids.  Going to jail.

I don’t know how likely any of those scenarios are, but I can tell you that I base my actions around my fears to some extent. Well, when possible.  I live on a (tiny) farm.  Obviously mice abound.  I also live in Montana and tent-camp all the time, even in Glacier a couple of times where bears have been seen only days before; we hike in the mountains (with bear spray).  I’m trying to learn my stories and keep all the bible characters straight (possibly a lost cause).  Just in case.  I avoid sketchy scenes and rely on my intuition and confidence to avert possible kidnappings.  I also don’t travel to the middle East much.  But the jail one is tough.  Because I’m afraid of doing something on accident that will kill someone.  Not with a gun.  With my van.  Vehicular homicide.  Manslaughter.  Those words pierce my soul.  And cause me great anxiety.

With that fear in mind, I swear I’ve had the thought a million times to not text while I’m driving.  Which I’ve dismissed so often.  The roads we travel are fast and somewhat empty.  And so I’ll admit I’ve called my mom and Todd and others when no one’s around.  But over the years, I’ve become more hesitant about doing that and definitely more vigilant.  Because that thought persists.  I don’t know if it’s God or the ad campaigns. 

But I think it’s God warning me.  I think it’s Him telling me no message or conversation is worth a possible disaster.  My biggest fear is causing an accident and killing someone—not me, but an innocent victim.  We hear this happening all the time.  Maybe mostly among teenagers?  But I’ve seen countless grown ups over the years coming toward me, drifting into my side of the road, which is scary as we’re facing each other just feet apart on these two lane roads going 60-70 miles an hour.  As I look back to see what the problem was, they’re nearly always on their phones.  I’ll be honest, I’ve got my phone right beside me.  My van is my office and I have all sorts of equipment within arm’s reach: tape, scissors, notepad, cards, pens.  My phone is just an extension of all that.  You know how uptight I am about wasting resources of any kind, but time feels like my most valuable of all and I maximize every minute I can, especially when I’m driving.  That’s when I can make appointments, arrange activities with friends, do my church calls, talk with family, check in with the kids.  But I’ve felt strongly to be on-guard, to really be mindful about what I’m doing.  And so I look forward to red lights, my go-ahead to text and call. I know it just takes seconds; I know I could just punch in the numbers when I’m moving, send my reply, just be quick, no one would know.  And yet, all it takes is bad timing.  A second without looking.  Averted focus.  Loss of concentration.  It could all change in a moment.

I’ve thought about this a lot.  I’m pretty lackadaisical about most things.  I don’t mind messes at all.  We’re not a scheduled family by any stretch.  We’re not hard-core.  Except when comes to driving and texting.  Or our marriage.  As I’ve driven—with nothing to type and only my mind to keep me occupied—I’ve had plenty of time to consider what other parts of my life I’m that careful about.  Probably not our animals (they’ve certainly been left out all night, gone without food and water, overheated, been left in the cold) or our doors (can’t tell you how many times they’ve been left unlocked and even wide open to the snow and elements overnight).  Not my health (you know about my cookie issues—yesterday it was six) or what I read (I’m super inconsistent).  I definitely thought about my spirituality and considered it to be at the top of this two-item list.  But I realized that my convictions don’t change because I don’t read my scriptures one day.  That sort of takes some time. That has to do with habits.  But then I thought about parenting and our kids.  They are absolutely up there on my list.  But I actually decided there are very few mistakes we make with our kids that will completely change everything.  They’re flexible. Forgiving. Obviously, when they’re young, one mistake can kill them.  Flying off a counter, pouring oil on a flame, stuff like that.  So yeah, I guess that counts.  I was thinking more of interactions, the relationship.  And maybe we could consider marriage in the same light.  I believe it takes years for a marriage to fall apart, just like our convictions or other relationships.  And yet, just like a moment’s indiscretion with texting, our marriages can crumble in an instant. I don’t drink, but I’ve lived long enough, read enough and listened to enough country songs to know a night out can change everything.  Which is why I say a marriage is different than any other relationship.  Because it’s the only one with that kind of intimacy, the one relationship where you take your hands off the wheel for just a moment, and you’ve crashed.

As I’ve thought about the ramifications of being distracted, I’ve determined to be more cognizant of what I’m doing.  Am I finishing up a text as the light turns green?  Am I coming across as flirty with my guy friends?  Or to their wives? Am I calling my mom even though the road is mostly empty and I know nothing’s coming?  Is it a good idea to ride or be alone with a guy I’m not married to?  To become a little too casual in a relationship? I’m not a risk-taker by any stretch.  But I’m a little lazy with parts of my life, a little nonchalant, a little carefree, I’ll give you that.  But as I’m driving, as I think about my husband, I’m wide awake.  It’s one thing to hit a deer you never saw, it’s one thing to lose your spouse to a heart attack.  But to cause a catastrophe that could’ve been avoided, to paralyze a teen for the rest of her life because I just had to send my RSVP to a baby shower? To tell my kids life with their parents under one roof, all their stability and security is gone because I thought it’d be fun to feel young again and attractive to some guy?  Totally not worth it.

And maybe it’s a stretch.  And you might disagree.  Maybe it’s not a big deal to catch up on some business while you have the time in the car and the road’s fairly clear.  Maybe it’s just bantering and laughing with a good friend, nothing more.  And you’d be right.  Most of the time.  But I’m not a risk-taker.  I’m not into taking chances.  Not with something as important as a life.  And definitely not with my marriage.  I’m not saying we can’t come back from a slip.  An auto accident may not cause lasting damage, maybe no one gets paralyzed, maybe no one dies.  This time.  And there’s almost always a way back even from an affair.  But maybe not this time.  What I am saying is let’s be cautious, let’s be disciplined, let’s not take something as serious as marriage or life for granted.

All or nothing?

I’d been trying to schedule a good two-hour block for weeks.  I’m gone most days till right before school gets out, so a good chunk of time that size had been eluding me and I couldn’t figure out how to make it work.  All I needed was to get the ironing finished up.  I love it when everything’s done at once, twenty or thirty coat hangers propping up crisp collars and holding out sleeves.  No obstacles when it comes to getting dressed, everything’s ready for the taking.  I’m usually pretty on top of the ironing because it’s one of the housekeeping chores I actually love.  But I just haven’t been able to gather as many minutes as I need in one place.  So a brilliant (obvious) idea came to mind.  Instead of 20 shirts, I just did three.  Took less than ten minutes.  Nothing.  I can totally keep up on a schedule like that.  Just funny that it took me so long to realize that it was never a matter of all or nothing.  It could be part.

I thought about this again as I slid a letter into Bronwyn’s scrapbook, one from her missionary brother.  And another picture in beside it.  I’ve had her scrapbooks out for days, the idea of getting to them rattling around in my brain since last summer; here we are a year later.  But as I put that one piece of paper into the binder instead of the little drawer beside it, I felt a teeny bit accomplished.  I do this with our missionary son’s letters every week.  I’ll print out the ones he emails us, and I’ll three-hole punch the ones we get in the mail.  I download pictures and have printed quite a few.  Nothing fancy, I haven’t embellished a thing.  But instead of waiting till I have a huge chunk of time when I can do a beautiful professional book (that, let’s be honest, would never happen), I’m content with adding a page here and another next week in a regular white binder.  It’s been nearly two years and his 2-inch binder is heavy and thick with pages and memorabilia.  And so are the other kids’ books.  It doesn’t have to be either the fancy, beautiful kind or nothing at all.  It can be in between.

Like all the women in my family, I’m the worst when it comes to homemade treats just hanging around the house.  Never had a candy stash. Or stopped at the gas station for a drink.  Or been tempted by open bags of chips in the pantry.  But chocolate chip cookies are my drug  of choice and I’m a binge eater when it comes to a) fresh ones right out of the oven, b) crispy ones with milk when I’m chatting with the boys, or c) anyone else’s any time they’re around.  It’s bad.  But I also want to be healthy.  And so I’m constantly teetering: carrots and peppers just to be good and then cookies and milk.  I’ll indulge.  Once in awhile I’ll go overboard.  But I pull myself up and dry off.  Just because I lose my balance and cave now and then doesn’t mean I give up on myself and my mostly healthy habits.  

And I have super strong opinions about dieting.  I don’t believe in them.  I don’t think it’s good for our bodies to make dramatic—but temporary—changes, only to go back to “real life” after the weight’s gone.  Too many desperate people have tried diets and have been disappointed when they inevitably go off their diets.  I don't think it's good to have large meals followed by hours with no food, all and then nothing.  I believe our bodies need consistency when it comes to fuel, three meals with a couple of small healthy snacks.  I believe in a hearty breakfast.  I don’t believe in banishing certain ones like fruits and grains; rather I believe in eating a colorful array of all sorts of foods God’s given us.  I know that’s maybe not a popular opinion, but I’m convinced that diets aren’t sustainable.  Small life-changes that we can live with forever, yes, totally on board.  But on and off again, no sugar, no bread… I’m just not convinced that all or nothing is the way.

I think about this idea a lot when I have a decision about exercising in the mornings.  I’m pretty much on auto-pilot as far as exercising goes, just a habit I adopted many, many years ago.  But sometimes I’ll get a late start and don’t have an hour.  So I bought a bunch of 20 minute workouts.  I know it’s not optimal, but I always feel like I accomplished something.  It always feels better to have done a little kick-boxing, a few ab exercises, some weights, or just a couple of cardio routines than to have skipped it altogether.  Even if I have zero time, it never hurts to do a few stretches, a few sit ups, some jump rope, just five or ten minutes of moving around to help wake up.  It doesn’t have to be a choice between a major workout or nothing.

That’s why I don’t get into these extreme exercise programs.  Is it something I can see myself doing at 70?  Why would I spend all these hours creating huge muscles that—when I stop—will just turn to flab? I believe in mixing it up, in cross training, in using weights, in pushing ourselves, of course!  But to train for a marathon for six months and then take six months or a year off of from exercising?  No, I don’t believe in that.  I think it’s way better to walk a few miles every day and never run a marathon in your life.  I think we’d come out ahead in the long run.

I like my little sister’s philosophy.  She has three school-aged boys living with her and her husband in a 1400 square foot house.  She’s feminine and and loves to create an atmosphere that showcases her love of beauty, but that’s hard given those parameters.  Since she can’t have everything she’d love (because there’s no room and because fragile decorations could get broken), she focuses on small reminders.  She loves delicate, beautiful jewelry, a little bird that might sit by her sink on a shelf, a tiny picture frame with a scene from a piece of the country she loves.  I admire her for her eye for beauty and her determination to embrace it as she can.  My mom was like that too.  We grew up in an apartment, and we all wanted a house more than anything else.  But instead of giving up because her dream wasn’t being fulfilled, she made our apartment as nice as she could by painting it every year, bleaching the grout in the kitchen tiles regularly, cleaning the insides and outsides of our second-story windows, and keeping it tidy and nicely decorated.  I love that she taught us this principle, make the best of what we have, it doesn’t have to be either your dream house or squalor.

I’ve thought about this idea so often over the years, all or nothing.  Because I think we’re tempted by it.  I’ve known people who subscribe to this philosophy, and I sort of feel sorry for them.  Because it’s as if there are only two choices: perfection or failure.  And none of us is no where near either.

I’ve wondered if it even applies to the most important parts of our lives, like maybe parenting.  But not at all.  If we gave up after every parenting mistake we’d made, we wouldn’t have made it through week one with our newborns.  We’re constantly readjusting, learning, trying, apologizing, and getting back up.  It’s not as if we’re either “that” kind of mom or we’re not, we’re just us.  Our kids want security, consistently, stability, to know they’re loved.  They want parents who are level-headed, who they can rely on, who will be there.  They don’t need a Pinterest or Facebook-worthy life, and we don’t need to feel like failures because we aren’t providing that.  I think the one area we might want to consider being perfect in is our love.  But just because we aren’t there yet doesn’t mean we give up.  We can steadily make progress, we can improve, we can keep trying. We can practice being unconditional with our love; we have ample opportunities to try again and again.

Originally I thought that if parenting wasn’t, then church was for sure the one exception, that I’d found a loophole.  But it’s not.  Those who want church in their lives are on a committed-continuum.  There’s no room for all or nothing.  Because who among us is perfect and who among us has no hope?  I know what you’re thinking, you’re either hot or cold, in or out.  Yes, of course I know the scripture.  But the problem I’ve seen is when we’re over-zealous but then burn out.  Or when they focus on one teaching to the exclusion of many others.  What good does it do to have one holy day on a Sunday and do little else regarding what you learned the other six days?  Isn’t it better to read from the scriptures and pray a little every day than to do it all in one day so you can take the other days off?  I know I’ve succumbed to this mistaken philosophy over the years, feeling like if I don’t study the scriptures hard-core for the day then I’m not really acknowledging how much I love Heavenly Father and appreciate the scriptures.  And yet, I’ve softened over the years and realize and accept that sometimes I’m just going to read a chapter or a few verses and recognize that I’ve invited the spirit into my life, I’ve learned some things, I feel closer to Christ and more hopeful and committed, and I’ve thought about some teachings from a new angle, all from just from a few minutes.  Other days I have a little more time and can delve into a deeper study, spend more time, research, inquire.  But I don’t beat myself up because that’s not my reality every day.  Same with service and family scriptures and everything else “churchy” we do.  We aren’t excellent at any of it, and we don’t spend even half an hour reading as a family every day, but we do read a little most mornings and touch bases again with a little more in the evening when our teenagers are around.  Not anything to emulate, but we’ve managed to keep up for years.  You know I believe in small and simple things.  And no where is this more applicable than when it comes to our feelings about God and what we do about them.  Heavenly Father cares way more about our small and steady steps toward him than he cares about where we are on the path; the last thing he wants us to feel is discouraged and hopeless because we don’t seem to be keeping up with some arbitrary, self-imposed expectations.  He’s not an all or nothing God.  He understands that our faith will waver, that we’ll have questions, that trials have the potential to create distance, that sometimes we’ll be upset with Him, that we won’t always live up to what we profess to believe, that we’re weak, that we’re human.  He knows and accepts all of it.  He created us, He knows us.  All He asks is that we turn toward Him, not to be perfect. 

I could go on and on.  Because I believe this principle applies to so many arenas of our lives.  I’ll give you that there are exceptions:  we need our parachutes to be perfect.  We need engineers to be flawless with their calculations when building our bridges.  Obviously there’s a place for getting it absolutely right .  But when it comes to behavior and habits, maybe it’s not as important to be 100%.  “I’m getting there,” “I’m stronger than I used to be,” “Our relationship is improving,” “At least I took a walk today,” “I’ll start with one class.” These are healthy and hopeful assurances that allow us to simply be better than we were yesterday, reminding us that small but consistent habits will yield better returns than (admittedly admirable) major efforts that aren’t sustained.