Teaching the Good Stuff

Taking Up the Gaps

Embarrassingly, I’ve written about my Costco aversion before. Probably more than once. But with Walmart and any mall a close second, there is nothing else that sends me into a cold sweat of panic.

My logical-minded husband doesn’t quite understand my neuroses, in fact, Costco is his happy place. He makes a big event, taking Auggie for lunch, and coming home laden with sweatshirts, the next size snow-pants and jumbo bags of trail mix and Cheez-its. (ok- the Wangens do eat an abnormal amount of Cheez-its.)

But I can’t do it. I don’t know if it’s the insane parking lot, people pushing oversize carts and constantly pausing mid-aisle for no conceivable reason, or the florescent lighting that sends me into a mild panic attack. But yesterday I had no choice.

Two weekends ago I was hit with a four-day fever, rendering me unable to attend the spruce pot workshop that I had planned with dear high school friends. And for as much as I struggle with it, I will say that Costco does a beautiful job with spruce pots. In the past we’ve gotten pots for around $30 that look like they were artisanally planned by master arrangers.

And although I asked sweetly, my dear husband has been to Costco twice now and forgotten to get my spruce pots. Fearing that they would run out, I made the decision at 2:30pm yesterday on Saturday afternoon to face my fear.

I do realize the drama quotient is getting precariously high in this story, but I truthfully said a prayer before pulling into the full parking lot. There was a lot of positive self talk and patience, but I emerged twelve minutes later with two spruce pots in a giant cart.

As I drove home, I felt significantly lighter and then shortly after a bit ridiculous. Of all the issues people deal with on a normal basis, I should be thankful that I’m fortunate enough to even spend money on spruce pots. My shoulders fell in resigned humility as I silently prayed for a second time in the hour. This time thinking of the former coworker entering hospice care, the student family at my school struggling with employment, and all the other issues slightly bigger than my distaste for Costco.

My Costco story didn’t come full circle for me until this morning in church. I happened to sit in the pew behind two beautiful fellow adoptive families. I’ve watched their families grow over the years, in awe of the blessing of adoption. At one point during mass one sweet tiny girl shimmied and worked her way down the pew and climbed up in the lap of another dad. And no one batted an eye. I smiled in appreciation and marveled at how easily people take up each other’s gaps. Just as my dear husband fills in my Costco gap (joyfully no less), we are here to cover each other in all our needs and flaws.

And although the oversized carts, crowds, and florescent lighting are not my jam, I can hold babies in church, or cover for a frustrated teacher. As we enter this week ahead, I pray that I am sent gaps of others that I can cover, and thankful for those who cover mine.

*** I am in the midst of this gem of a book I Take My Coffee Black by Tyler Merritt. He is simultaneously hilarious and gently instructive of some racist roots in our country. I would put this in the ranks with White Fragility and How to Be an Anti-Racist as a must read.

Perfectly Sucky

Back in October, 2015, I carried a newborn Auggie in his bucket car seat through a blustery parking lot and into the doors of a local mom’s group. I settled into the squishy floor seats with a group of ten or so other new moms and smiled at the room.

Because Auggie was adopted, I tried to make jokes about how quickly I’d lost my pregnancy weight and how I didn’t have any nursing pain at all. (Looking back, I’m not sure why the other moms didn’t smack me on the spot.) At the time, I thought I was being a supportive member of the group; showing up freshly showered and comfortable- the adoption process (although not free from emotion) allowing me to keep my body and hormones intact. I shared newborn advice- having already had an older child biologically- in hopes of being a valuable and knowledgable contributor to the new mamas support group.

As the weeks went on, I watched friendships form. Other group members exchanged emails and cried on each other’s shoulders. I remember feeling invisible- sitting at the far end of a long table in the back room of a nearby restaurant as the group chatted to each other in small circles. I assumed I didn’t fit in because my child was adopted and I couldn’t share that bittersweet joy and pain of giving birth and healing next to that tiny human in your care. In hindsight, I realize it had nothing to do with my lack of shared experience and everything to do with my lack of vulnerability and tendency towards perfectionism.

I’m finishing up Brene Brown’s latest book; Atlas of the Heart, and yesterday from my favorite deck chair, I read something that reminded me of that mom’s group seven years ago. In the ‘perfectionism’ section it said, “people with high levels of perfectionistic traits:
* Behave in ways that result in perceived and actual exclusion and rejection by others.
* Feel socially disconnected and have fewer social connections.” Gulp.

I’d like to think I’ve become a better group friend over the last couple years. So here’s how my mom’s group redo would go: I’d skip the cute heeled boots and curled hair- showing up as I am because biological or not- babies are still up all night and tired is tired. I’d hold the hand of the tearful moms- remembering how hard it was to be healing after giving birth and simultaneously trying to care for a tiny fragile human. I’d admit to the group that I woke up every day for weeks, terrified that someone was going to take this child from me- and I’d lean on the group for healing friendship from years of loss and infertility.

In our friendships we gravitate towards the honest and real, the humble. I strive to be the kind of friend who nods and listens, offering love before advice. That’s the thing about having “perfect” people in our lives- on the outside, they don’t make us feel valued or needed since they appear to already do it all.

Although I enjoy learning new things and being good at other things, I pray that I am never perfect, but just flawed enough to be a friend that someone seeks out.

*** So in the name of vulnerability and imperfection, I do not have a book to recommend this week. I read a few pages here and there, but mostly nodded off to episodes of Alone on Netflix. (Great show, actually.)

Exhausted and Thankful

Well, I knew it.
Without the luxury of space and time, the writing falls to the wayside.

These days the question I’m asked most frequently (besides, ‘where is Charly going to high school?’) is ‘how is your new position‘? My usual response is ‘busy’. Often followed by elaborations of ‘eye-opening’ and ‘the needs out there are huge.’

And as much as I’d love to expand in a sentimental word-filled homage, I simply don’t have the creative capacity. But there are certain gems left shining after the dust cloud clears at the end of the day that I don’t want to forget…

First and third grade are heavenly. Having taught fourth forever, I adored (and still do) that age. BUT… now working with all grades the past month, I am struck by the delight of certain developmental ages. I watched first graders run our school’s “Fun Run” fundraiser and I smiled the whole time- friends holding hands while running, dancing without a care…pure joy. And third… they are just starting to feel out understanding how life works. They wear their hearts on their sleeves and have yet to put filters up on their emotions, such a wonderful cross-section of early childhood and adolescence.

Purpose is everything. Even though I am so thankful for the learning and training I got last year on sabbatical, it is so refreshing to feel a sense of purpose. Although the jury is still out on whether I’ve deemed my new position indispensable, having a greater role beyond the domestic and maternal one has proven essential to my mental health and happiness. Kids need that purpose too. To feel important to the community- real and worthy of connection.

BYODJ (Bring Your Own Darn Joy). In every moment, I could choose the flaws. To let the heaviness of all the tough things choke out the light and hope. In these moments, a dear friend and I have taken to saying BYODJ as a reminder to choose that joy. To wear the sparkly pants that make our hearts smile, to have the 1:30 pm cup of coffee, and smile every morning at the kids who don’t want to be at school and say, “I’m glad you’re here”…and mean it. In a post earlier this fall I declared my decision to no longer be reliant on other people and events to make me happy. Best decision ever.

Rock skipping lessons and fall colors on the lake…

So while I might be creatively (and physically) exhausted, I am currently beyond thankful for the treasured side-effects of that exhaustion.

*** Working full time has certainly not lent itself to the voracious book-a-week habits as last year, but I am soaking in every word of this one. Expecting nothing less from the great Brene Brown, Atlas of the Heart is so timely for where I am at right now. She defines human emotion and behavior, making her readers want to be a better part of society.

The Other Side of the Glass

Last weekend I chiseled tiny specks of white paint off the windows in our cabin shed. Having recently mastered (or survived) our first attempt at using an electric paint sprayer on the small interior walls, fine sprays of white splatter somehow evaded our protective newspaper and clung to the glass in clusters.

Every time I felt confident about the interior side of the glass, I went outside to find several glaring spots of paint that I had missed. I continued in and out of the shed for about an hour before I acquiesced and declared it “good enough”.

I’ve thought a lot about those windows this past week. Not that I’m bothered by the fact that they weren’t perfect, but more about how important perspective is in all we do.

I’ve shared with many of you that after close to two decades in a classroom teacher role, I’ve started a new position for this school year. And not just new to me, but a new position in the district itself. As a “Student Advocate” I’m trying to support all students and teachers- in whatever is needed, but particularly with behaviors.

Yet one thing the first few days on the job has taught me is that the school looks entirely different when you look at it as a whole. Admittedly, I teared up a few times this week; not in sadness or frustration but in appreciation of my fellow teachers. The Kindergarten teacher who has to start with ‘basic German Shepard’ and teach them how to walk, where to put things and how to essentially do school. (They DO NOT get paid enough. When teachers get raises, Kindergarten teachers are first in line. End of story.)

I saw patience and kindness at every turn. Classroom teachers are coordinating a small business and they do so with flawless love. Having spent the first part of my career holed up in my own small business of a classroom, I wasn’t given the gift of seeing my fellow coworkers in action- and it’s a work of beauty.

Seeing this whole school perspective has above all showed me the power of the village. Scooping up the hand of the one who forgot how to get back to the room after the bathroom, coworkers willing to share supplies and cover when someone hasn’t had a break yet. Tending to the gentle hearts that are new to the school, the city, the state… or those for whom transitions are plain hard.

Just as I hung up my paint scraping chisel last weekend, I am reminded that while schools will never be perfect, from my perspective most are much, much more than just ‘good enough’.

Declarations from the Deck on a Thursday Night

My second year of teaching, my principal called me into her office at Arkansas Elementary in Aurora, Colorado on the tenth day of school. She grimaced in sympathy as she told me there was a staff overage and I was being transferred to another elementary across town. I thought. My life. Was over. There’s something about unexpected events that pull the rug out from under us- our breath catching in our throats. I survived that school move as any rugged 23-year old would, but I often think of that moment when shifts happen.

Change has been a theme the last few years, but especially the last six months. Some of it is so good; the new position I get to be in at work this year for example. And other things have blindsided me, knocking the wind out and challenging what I value and choose.

As much as I try or would like to control change, I’ve come to some hard, bottom-lines this Thursday summer evening on the deck.

#1 Change is constant right now. Just when I think I have a handle on our surroundings, something happens. Given the last few years medically, culturally, and societally- I am exhausted from being shocked. And some are closer to home- families leaving my kids’ school, or staff moving on from my own school…but as much as I try to predict and control the change, the only thing I can rely on is that change will happen.

#2 Change is someone’s dream. As much as we feel personally affected by someone’s change…people, society, is moving and shaking right now. I’ve never heard from so many friends and colleagues making career moves. It’s just time.

#3 Change encourages others. Especially in schools. I’ve seen too many people panic when teachers and staff move on in flocks. But guess what? Perhaps that friend looked at another and was inspired. Likely it wasn’t about the “bad” situation to leave, but motivating each other to be brave and think boldly. To try that thing that’s been bubbling in the peripherals for way too long.

#4 I am done giving power to the changes of others to influence my mood. Although change is hard, I am in control of my choices and my family. And guess what…I’m pretty darn happy with those right now.

This is a time of shifting, and a bit of atmospheric unrest. But can we settle into the nooks and crannies of the unrest and create our own platforms for stability? I know we can.

Throwing Fish

I decided I was going to be a teacher during “I Have a Dream” week in third grade. By fourth grade I started my own babysitting business- perhaps under the literary influence of Kristy and her team of kid-kit wielding sitters in The Babysitters Club Series. (For the record I was NINE…so nobody hired me.)

Almost every part-time job I had through high school and college involved kids and obviously my career as a teacher indicates I enjoy being around them.

But even back in the nine-year-old days, I worked so hard to show up for those kids. I played dollhouse, I threw footballs. And even working at Children’s World daycare down the street from the University of Minnesota, I rallied my tired college self to make sure those kids had fun and felt special.

My point is not to brag about my endurance and energy for kids, but to wonder- what happened to the lack of enthusiasm in working with kids on teams and camps today?

My husband and I have noticed the last few years a lack of passion on the part of some of the coaches and camp leaders our kids have had. And even if they weren’t feeling it 100%, the “poker face” couldn’t even be summoned. Maybe the paycheck is just not worth it these days. Maybe kids are harder to deal with (which I know first-hand can be true).

It feels like we have spent a large part of our summer coaching our children on how to handle coaches and camp leaders that are “mean” (their words). And while I think this is a crucial lesson; how to deal with ‘difficult’ people… I can’t help but wonder where more of the good ones are?

Today my son starts his second day of a week-long day camp. A camp we have treasured over the years with my oldest, and has an absolute reputation for youth leaders with positivity and well… fun. This morning I had to coerce him into the car- he was very reluctant due to the fact that one of his group leaders yesterday was “very mean”. I’m praying that maybe his leader comes around today. Perhaps he has an extra Rockstar energy drink and rallies to make this week special for those first graders.

I can’t help but think of the Pike Place Fish Company story. Long story short, the owner started a worldwide phenomenon; starting first with throwing fish to the customers all in the name of fun and play. The idea has branched into business seminars and teachers’ conferences- sharing that no matter what your job is; CEO, camp leader, or fish counter worker, you make your day fun. YOU choose your attitude. If you look up The Fish! Philosophy story you’ll find that this place has huge success in employee satisfaction and longevity.

My hope is that the uninspired coaches and leaders out there find their fish to throw. And maybe it means stepping away from working with kids if that doesn’t work for them. Let’s show our kids today that life can be enjoyable; that despite all the serious, intense issues these days, a playful, happy childhood is possible.

*** I’ve been reading fiction like crazy these days. Authors I can’t get enough of are; Fiona Davis, Taylor Jenkins Reid and Shea Ernshaw. For my fellow non-fiction fans, I am working my way through another gem; Connections Over Compliance by Lori L Desautels. THIS is what our school discipline goal should be! Connecting with kids, teaching them how to regulate themselves and their bodies. Schools have known for a long time that the arbitrary ‘punishments’ of the last century have ceased to work with 80% of our population. It’s time to shift!

Faith in Humanity

The other night we headed down to the dock with armfuls of lifejackets for a post-dinner, pre-sunset pontoon ride; a family favorite. As we rounded the last leg of our slow cruise, the pontoon suddenly died. My husband and brother-in-law sheepishly hypothesized an empty gas tank while my mother-in-law shook her head in mock exasperation, having asked repeatedly about fuel levels the last few days.

One of us half-jokingly called out “help”, which sent the six and nine year-olds into nervous whimpers. But I couldn’t have felt more calm. Perhaps the anxiety was buffered by that extra glass of sauvignon blanc, but more likely the fact that it was a holiday weekend and I knew our fellow lake neighbors were plentiful; in yards enjoying a late dinner on blue-flowered paper plates, or bobbing on the waves in pontoons like we were.

A kind gentleman came down to his dock to keep us from crashing, just as another pontoon approached. After generously sharing their emergency two gallon gas tank, the collective determined it wasn’t a fuel issue and we just needed a tow back to our place. Friendly arms reached across and held on to side-by-side pontoon seats; a floating caravan of giggles and shared stories of lake history and home towns.

We waved goodbye in the now darkness, having gained a new set of friendly faces and a story to add to the family reserves. After a new battery was secured, we dutifully delivered payment cases of Coors Light and White Claw the next day and thanked our new friends- grateful for their unhesitating willingness to bail us out and joked that if it happened to them, we’d be there.

Halfway back home today, our long weekend punctuated by a carful of damp towels and recycling, my morning coffee necessitated a pitstop. As we pulled up to Casey’s gas station in Blaine, my son jumped out of the back- grateful for the stop as well. Drying my hands, I stepped out of the restroom to see someone closing the men’s room door carefully.

A burly man in a leather biker jacket and piercing green eyes threw his hand up in a warm innocence- “Don’t worry”, he said, “I’m not a creeper”. I smiled and quickly noted that we need to add ‘locking the door in a gas station bathroom’ to the list of six-year-old life skills training.

The kind man felt the need to further explain his ‘non-creeper’ status by sharing that he has four kids, and just celebrated his 30 year wedding anniversary. While we waited and chatted I learned that besides the anniversary trip to Florida, he just walked his oldest down the aisle last week, and that tragically one of his children didn’t make it past 20. (And yes, at this point I realized that getting my kid a bit more fiber might help speed up this process.)

After reminding Auggie to go back and wash his hands, my new biker/teddybear friend looked at me and said, “I’d choose it all again too. In a heartbeat.” As tears budded in both our eyes, I fought the urge to hug him, settling instead for a hearty wave next to the Slim Jim endcap. “God bless you- have a good day”, he said, waving back and turning into the restroom. “Bless you too!”, I called, thankful to be in the right place at the right time for such a delightful interlude.

Both our boat-towing new friends and my Casey’s gas station buddy renewed my faith in humanity. Not that I’d lost it, but between tragic stories from family of dear friends and horrific parade shooters on the news, I relished the reminder that people are in general, good people.

Even now as I write, curled on a soft chair on the deck; my favorite spot in the entire house, I am still emboldened by these connections. Of course my writing time is interrupted shortly by Charly requesting a ride home from a hangout and Auggie needing an early dinner before karate.
But you know what? I’d chose it all again too.

*** I’ve taken a hiatus from my non-fiction book a week quest and instead am devouring fiction and memoir. My favorite this week was inspired by a Jen Hatmaker podcast. The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan is consuming and funny. Written in 2008, I can’t believe I’m just now getting to it. Her writing makes me want to be a better writer.

Love Letter to Summer

I’ve started three blog posts in the last month, only to abandon them halfway, the intense content eclipsing my drive to write; causing me to pause, only to start a new post the next week.

I wouldn’t call it writer’s block necessarily…it feels more like writer’s overwhelm. But the need to write is bursting. Like restless legs under sheets at night, or a pot of pasta foaming over on the stove.
Writing is how I receive the world; a filter through which rational thoughts land and shuffle.

So today, I choose summer… letting it take over; grateful and unrushed. As is.

Summer is dark strawberry curls
a freckled arm grazing the spray off the wake.
quick to experiment with the line between
innovatively precocious and disrespect; a true teen.

It’s an overflowing planter box on the deck; tall tomato plants tangled
with twisty sweet pea vines.
Mid-morning sun filtered through heavy leaves,
the smell of tree blossoms still lingering.

Summer is lazy afternoons
My boy and his dad. Snuggled chest to chest over the years;
same chair, more grey, same hearts.
proving that lack of genetic material is quickly
obsolete in the presence of strong love.

My feet pounding ground in the early morning.
Watching the sunrise over my shoulder at the top of the city.
Choosing to run before the heat of the day threatens
to choke out my mid-forties endurance, only to fall exhausted onto the steps- breathing in sweet bird song and feeling once again the anxiety tampered down.

This world is heavy
super-charged politically and
full of traumas and injustices to rally against
And someday I’ll finish those posts.

But today is summer.

*** If you didn’t see my post last week on this book, here it is. A History of Wild Places feels like bottled summer. It’s a love letter to life in the woods, delicious descriptions, and good fiction. I highly recommend it.

Dopamine and Oxytocin

*How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?
…ten tickles. (tentacles)

*Why does a mermaid wear seashells?
… B shells are too small and D shells are too big.

Ok, perhaps those fall in the category of “Dad Jokes” or groaners, but these last few days have reminded me of the necessity for laughter. When the news is heavy, we cannot continue to flood ourselves with details of the darkness without coming up for air once in awhile.

When I first expressed interest in working full time in trauma informed behavior supports, one of my long-time teaching mentors asked me a hard, honest question. He asked if I’d be able to handle that; just working with the toughest kids all day. Going from behavior to behavior, often taking the brunt of the anger as it comes out sideways.

I’ve thought a lot about that question. And I’m sure anyone in the behavior professional industry will tell you you have to be 100% intentional with balance. Finding a way to be aware of matching the uppers for the downers. It might mean surrounding yourself with coworkers you can laugh with, getting lost in a mindless show or book, or being silly with a little one. In some ways, this is the beauty of being a classroom teacher. Most days, the struggles and the successes even the score. You may have an angry kid tear up a paper one minute, and in the next have a student finally understand the concept of rounding. It’s yin and yang.

My sister and I just had a talk yesterday about the power of laughter. We were both having heavy days- caught up in the aftermath of the Texas school shooting, anniversary of George Floyd, and other traumatic news in the headlines. We exchanged stories about our boys, and repeated funny tweets and memes going around. As we ended our conversation, I felt physically lighter, swinging my purse cheerfully as I walked into Target.

And it’s brain science really. Laughter trades the stress hormone cortisol with oxytocin and dopamine- chemicals known to produce pleasure and contentedness. And as much as a bad rap social media takes, it is also a tremendous source for funny tweets and anecdotes and humorous viral videos (Have you heard of Bad Lip Reading? Please search it up. You won’t be sorry.)

Throughout this trauma training journey, I’ve met people who have dedicated their lives to trauma care. I’ve had conversations with teachers in extreme and sometimes violent residential settings, and social workers in the children’s trauma ER. Inevitably in the conversation, I end up making some sort of awkward cheesy joke. Most likely it’s a response to nerves, but it’s also my go-to when things get too intense. I’m sure there are some who read that as unprofessional, but I think it’s why I continue to lean towards optimism…which could not be more important when talking with children in trauma.

Perhaps for every hard situation we guide kids through, we can counteract with play and laughter. A reminder that although life is sometimes unthinkable and unexpected, it’s also beautiful and playful.

And it’s essential to note that allowing laughter and happiness doesn’t mean we are discrediting the seriousness of the trauma, but in fact intentionally balancing our hearts and minds so we can take that next step forward. So on that note…

Why is it a bad idea to fart in church?
…you have to sit in your own pew.

*** In lieu of a book link (although I’m reading a GREAT one on teen girls…stay tuned), I’m linking some of my favorite humorous links when I need a dopamine dose.

#1 My cousin Mike Brody is a comedian. He is effortlessly funny. Here’s one of my faves, “When You Join a Fancy Gym”

#2 The aforementioned Bad Lip Reading. NFL is always solid, but The Stranger Things one had me crying laughing.

#3 This link with 25 misheard situations. I. Am. Dying.🤣

#4 Classic go-to… Kid Snippets: Math Class (Adults acting out kid skits)

When Does Learning Become a Delight?

I despised them when I was in college. Sitting there, all fresh (NOT moving slowly this morning as a result of the kegger at Sigma Chi) in the front row of the lecture hall. Raising theirs hands, taking lengthy notes and having the audacity to….well, enjoy learning. They frequently asked long questions in the very last minute of the class, causing us all to be held hostage, witnessing whatever additional answers the professor gave.

If you can’t relate, I’m talking about the smattering of older adults in undergrad college courses. At the time I was so annoyed with their energetic attitudes, directly contrasting the sea of 19-year-olds just trying to make it through to the other side… but now, ironically, I am them.

It’s actually a shame. That the gift of higher education is forced on us during a developmental period in our lives when most of us are exhausted from learning. I’m sure I don’t speak for everyone, but I know I did little more than the bare minimum in college. With the exception of my elementary practicums that took us directly into classrooms for hand-on learning, I simply crammed and memorized, taking little joy in the acquisition of novel information. I know I was not alone in the sentiment of “I can’t wait to just be DONE.”

So taking this year of learning has been such a gift. I’ve come to deeply enjoy conversations with intelligent, thoughtful friends who are not only saving the children, but have new ideas for the current world. I’m excited to act on a question, a curiosity, or writing theme. For example, the other day I woke up and thought, “I wonder how many stores at the Mall of America are original?” Having been there for that summer day three days shy of my fourteenth birthday in 1992 when the massive mall opened, I have memories of a very different mall than the current one almost thirty years later. After a bit of a search I was able to find that up until 5 years ago, only 40 original stores remained (mostly big chain stores like Macy’s and Victoria’s Secret). But it made me think of the joy of following that mini quest. And while I do realize it’s 80% having the time to do it, I’m also inspired to reinforce that joy with my own children and students. Learning should be fun. We should be allowed to follow the white rabbit through the hole when our curiosity is piqued.

I’ve talked a lot about Mister Rogers in former posts, but he continues to be an inspiration and model. He was the master of making time for learning; pausing to ask questions about everything from crayons to wheelchairs to divorce. Looking into the summer, as we are bouncing from camp to activity, I need to make time to channel my inner Fred Rogers, to carve out moments for caterpillar research with Auggie. To assemble summer outfits with Charly, and embrace learning for the sheer joy of expanding creativity and knowledge.

** Inspired by a recent podcast by Brene Brown, I ordered Bittersweet by Susan Cain. She talks about how embracing sorrow and longing are the key to leading a balanced, healthy life. After reading the first ten pages, I almost abandoned it. There was so much support, and encouragement for sadness and melancholy that I was terrified it would dull my optimism. But as I read on, I realized having a realistic balance of emotions would actually fuel that very optimism. This was the best book to push my inner thoughts of what I value, and ties perfectly with the theme above.