Random Connect Points:
Reba's Stories

USC’s graduation this weekend makes me realize it’s been 40 years since my graduation with the best speaker possible for a journalism school grad – Walter Cronkite! Several days after graduation, I packed my car heading to DC to start my first job as a Congressional receptionist. In looking back, I tried to remember if I was concerned that my first job mainly involved answering phones, giving tours and driving my boss to the airport. After all, I believed my resume illustrated strong leadership skills, solid job experience and good writing samples ( and yes, it was appropriate back then to include age and marital status on a resume ). As best I can remember, I was thrilled with that first job. I knew turnover was high in Congressional offices, and young staffers could move up quickly if given the chance to prove themselves. I had my sights set on being a press secretary, after all. That newly minted young professional had no idea what was in store for the next 40 ye

The books I enjoy the most typically sit unfinished with one chapter remaining. They deliciously hang out in my reading stack or on my audiobook list the same way the last bite of my favorite chocolate cookie sits wrapped up on the counter. I savor the thought of it. I visit it occasionally. I conjure up visions of slowly consuming that last morsel. “It. Goes. So. Fast.: The Year of No Do-Overs” is one of those books. It sat unfinished in my audiobook app for five days. I just didn’t want it to end. This book is the memoir of NPR anchor Mary Louise Kelly ’s “year of no do-overs” as her 18-year-old son entered his senior year in high school. Her job as the anchor of NPR’s afternoon news show, “All Things Considered,” meant she went on air every weekday at 4 p.m.   - the exact time of her sons’ weekly Monday soccer games. (Her younger son was a high school sophomore at the time and also a soccer player). Every year, Kelly had told herself, this would be the year that she would m

Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. That’s one of the many reasons I walked out of Square Books in Oxford, MS , recently with writer and illustrator Maira Kalman’s newest book,“Women Holding Things. ” I knew her of art only because one of her paintings depicting a soulful basset hound graced the cover of Strunk and White’s latest edition of “The Elements of Style.” That dog enticed me to upgrade my college-issued version of this grammar book several years ago. After picking up the display copy of "Women Holding Things" on the bookstore table, I was immediately intrigued by this book’s title and cover art. I flipped the book over to look for the typical reviews or author bio. To my delight, I found only the following quote: Nothing on the dustcover or the book flaps gives the reader any intel about the author, the artwork or the contents of the book. As I flipped through the pages with sparse words and expressive paintings, I found myself holding this book close with

Today is the 14th anniversary of our “Gotcha Day” with our much loved Dixie. We had her in our lives for almost ten years. She loved riding in the convertible, hanging at the beach, sneaking into the kitchen trash can and sleeping on the furniture. But most of all she loved her people. We miss her every day but she taught us that beloved dogs don’t die, they just give our hearts more room to love another.  Read my tribute to Dixie here.

I started the year trying to resume the discipline of keeping a handwritten journal. This process of deliberately writing by hand has reminded me how it so often results in a flow that’s very different from writing using a keyboard. Research abounds about how hand-writing spurs creativity and encourages memory paths in ways writing using a keyboard doesn’t.  This Fast Company article  references  research that  says p ressing a key doesn’t stimulate brain pathways the same way writing by hand does. “It’s possible that there’s not the same connection to the emotional part of the brain when people type, as opposed to writing in longhand.” This got me to thinking about a poem I’d written several years ago  about writing by hand . Normally I don’t write poetry, but it just kind of flowed out of me in a writer’s workshop. On the first day of the workshop, the instructor said we would be writing by hand. Write with a pen? On paper? Surely, you’re kidding, I thought. I write with a pen only w

It felt awkward in my hand like what I wrote had to be right the first time. Doesn’t everything have to be right the first time? Scribbling with the pen is messy I can’t fix what I get wrong A drop from my tea cup smears the ink a bit It’s messy What if I think of a better way to say it? I can’t delete it once it’s there How do I fix it without being messy? My head goes faster than my hand can write I can’t keep up It's getting messy What if I miss words or lose them to another random thought It’s messy Words are now tumbling too fast Fingers with the pen can’t keep up It's messy My fingers get a little tired from the pen There’s a ridge on my finger It looks messy from leaking purple ink Writing becomes illegible scribble I’m getting lost in this stuff that’s tumbling out It’s getting really messy Ink shows thru from the other side of the page Makes it hard to read through that mess This doesn’t happen with keys It’s

"Practice makes perfect.” Surely a mantra we all heard as children…whether it was in sports, spelling, music or math. This was a standard line repeated by grown-ups who were just trying to help us learn. Practice is a good thing…right? But perfect? Rarely possible. Over the years, I’ve come to understand perfection is a false master regardless of the task. My perfect custard might look like your messy pie. My perfect swan dive might be your belly flop. Perfection is subjective. It’s as inaccurate a measure of success as coloring in the lines is for creativity. In her new book, The Lives We Actually Have,  author Kate Bowler tackles the gremlins of perfection this way in one of her 100 blessings for imperfect days: “ … In this culture of more, more, more, make me less. Less tidy and afraid, less polished and buttoned up, less prideful and judgmental. Turn down the volume of my expectations, and let me hear the birds sing…” These beautiful words lead me toward th