Fail by trying. That’s what I said, right?
Thankfully, my failure in writing about humanity was caused by small successes in being human. My best friend from high school married last week, and between the all-week festivities, last-minute needs, and physical therapy appointments on the other side of town, the driving and attending left time only for eating and sleeping. And a few conversations whose opportunities would not roll around again.
I took them.
But Friday came and went and the outdoor wedding didn’t get rained out and my dress didn’t split and I didn’t fall off my platform heels and by midnight-thirty I was tucking in for the night before leaving the house again at 7:45am for a flight to Charlotte.
There I visited my nearly 95 year old great aunt and soaked in stories from before private telephones and paved drives and ready-showers, hearing ever-so-slightly-mixed memories of army desertions, hat-tipping, and baby-doll scalping.
Yes, baby-doll scalping.
I’ve failed at 31 days, yes. But by succeeding at something else.
A multitude of similar tradeoffs exist in my life. I could succeed at status updates, but by failing at what? I might succeed at keeping up with my favorite blogs, but at what cost? And if I want to succeed at being present, at living and experiencing this very moment, what will I have to give up?
And what I’m really asking myself is, do I want to give that up?
If I don’t, what will I have to fail at?

This past week the dude and I have been on holiday. We’ve eaten delicious food shared by generous hosts, picked up new shows (Nashville, anyone?), spent lazy mornings reading and had too much coffee nearly every day. It’s been a welcome and much needed holiday.