I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve listened to another’s story of distress, fear, or grief. Each one shared with me that when talking to someone about what they were going through, the typical response went something like this: “Well, let me tell you about…my cancer diagnosis, my cousin’s cancer diagnosis, my ex, my dysfunctional boss, my struggle with depression, my loss, etc., etc…”

The medical assistant took his blood pressure. “What was it?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “They didn’t tell me.” My father was raised in the era when you did what the doctor told you, no questions asked, like most people in his generation.

The medical assistant took his blood pressure. “What was it?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “They didn’t tell me.” My father was raised in the era when you did what the doctor told you, no questions asked, like most people in his generation.

This quote has been our immediate family mantra for at least the past 25 years. There are similar versions of this quote, but I was told this particular quote was from the Lakota Sioux. It’s a simple saying that’s concise, clear, and at first glance – easy. But this is one of the most powerful and difficult maxims I’ve come across.

For many years now, I’ve suggested that we each have a word that is meaningful – a word that describes our focus and goals…just one word. The word I chose was “balance.” My word has never changed over time. It’s a valuable and descriptive word for me even though I never fully achieve it. But it’s always there – waiting for me to arrive.

It was 5:00 on a hot summer afternoon in northwest Oklahoma, and I was six years old. Unaware of the time but aware it was suddenly dark as night, I put on my pajamas, ready for bed because I was certain it was bedtime. Then I heard the sound of “the train.” My dad and brother struggled to hold onto the rope that held the heavy wooden door of the underground storm cellar in place, keeping our family safe as the tornado roared overhead. It was over almost as quickly as it appeared. The bright sun was out again, and even as a six-year-old, I felt silly for being so certain it was bedtime. It’s a funny thing to remember over the years, but that experience taught me that changes happen quickly, having a plan was important, and my certainty of the situation wasn’t accurate.

When I was a little kid, I remember thinking, “I hope I get an “A” on the spelling test!” Or when I was in high school, “I hope I get a Superior rating at the state piano competition.” And as an adult, thinking, “I hope I get that job!” Or, “I hope everything falls into place so we can move to Colorado.” Those are a few of the “hopes” I remember over the years. We can all reflect on past hopes for positive outcomes for both small, relatively inconsequential events as well as those that are life-changing.

Some people like scaring themselves to death…you know, the scary movies, zip-lining, the thrilling and heart-pounding amusement rides. Those have never been appealing to me, although I have daughters who love that type of thing. We obviously experience those activities differently. For me, those are frightening, scary times to be avoided at all costs; for them, eagerly sought experiences.

I readily admit it: Fall is my favorite time of the year. I have friends who thrive in year-round summer weather and never miss the changing seasons. But I need autumn. I find it’s an easier time, when I’m not suffocating in 105º heat or freezing in 30º below temperatures. Autumn takes little effort, and for me, it’s a time of respite and reflection…a time to catch up with myself, to be more mindful, to breathe easier.