Last summer, Judy approached me one day when I was walking by an old church.

“I see you walking by here every day!” she said.

“Oh, yes. I need to walk!” I told her.

Judy is an associate pastor at this Episcopal church. She did not appear intent on getting me to church, but she was excited because they were having silent meditation in the chapel. She wondered if I might like to join.

“It’s open to anyone?” I asked.

“Every Tuesday night from 6:00 to 7:00. Stay as long as you want!” Judy said.

So I came the next Tuesday. Judy keeps the door open, and she puts a little sign on the sidewalk, inviting anyone to come in. I arrived a little late, after others had come, and I quietly took a seat, imagining I might sit there for 20 minutes or so.

But there was quiet music playing, and the chapel was so peaceful. It was old and small, and the pews were dark oak. There was an altar with round, golden icons over it and candles burning on it. The windows were stained glass. It smelled like old churches do, at least ones where they occasionally burn incense. The sun was still up, and the afternoon light made patterns on the stained glass. Before I knew it, Judy rang a large singing bowl, which made a resonant sound that hung in the air, and the hour was up.

“I hope you come again,” Judy said. And I did.

All summer, the attendance varied. Some people came in for only a few minutes. Some stayed the entire hour. Every week, I arrived promptly at 6:00 and took a seat in the front.

And the hour became important to me. It’s hard to say why, because meditation is not so much a thing I do, as a thing I don’t do. My busy brain quiets for a time. Thoughts come and float away, and very slowly I feel emotions floating to the top, things that are important, things I should have noticed, things I might have forgotten.

And at the end, Judy rings the bell.

Then I left for Mexico. I told Judy I’d be gone for a while. But the first Tuesday we were back, I went to meditation. There was no one there but Judy.

“Is meditation happening?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Sometimes we get more people than other times. Last week, I was here by myself.”

So Judy sat quietly, and so did I. And no one joined us on that cold winter night. And that is how it has been ever since. The sidewalk is cleared of snow. The little sign sits by the open door so anyone walking by will know they are welcome. But this winter, it has just been Judy and me, sitting at opposite sides of the tiny chapel for an hour in silence.

“Does it bother you to open the chapel for just one person?” I asked. I felt bad about Judy lighting the candles and sitting for an hour with only me in attendance -- when I’m not even an Episcopalian.

“No,” Judy said. “I need it, too.”

And the next week it was the same. The quiet was the same. The same dark outside. The same smell of burning candles and a sense of peace that seemed to settle right into my bones.

“Thank you,” I told Judy again. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said.

And people say that, you know. But I wondered if Judy wasn’t telling the truth.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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"I miss our conversations!" Marilyn wrote to me.

I don't know Marilyn well, but I like her very much. "You want to get a coffee sometime after Christmas?" I asked.

Life starts to pick up and get moving again in early January. After hibernating in a cookie-induced coma for two full weeks, we've had a brief reprieve from normal. Now, with enough cookies consumed to keep us safe from a sudden cold snap and make the zipping of our trousers just a little more challenging -- now we are ready to face the world again.

And I am ready to make time for people. That is my goal. I've never had coffee with Marilyn, but I used to chat with her on my walks several times a week. Since she moved, though, I never see her. So I suggested coffee, and she thought that sounded like fun, and I wondered why I don't do more of that. I decided I would. And the new year is a good time to start.

I googled: "How long does it take to make a habit?" and the answer was "66 days."

At first, I was surprised it was that long. Then, as I thought about it, I was surprised it was that short. This says to me that it probably is a pretty accurate answer, because I always imagine that I'll form a new habit in two days, but if I'm still doing it two months later, then I figure it's a habit.

And making more time for people is a good habit for me to cultivate.

I have tried to foist my friendship on unwilling participants in the past. I've insisted that we have a lot in common, and I've kept in touch with no prompting and tried to be encouraging when no encouragement was requested. These have been long-distance relationships, conducted online, usually with other new writers. I would imagine the long-distance relationships enjoyed by writers in the past, swapping letters and having long and meaningful conversations over the years as they wrote and grew and changed.

None of this has come true for me.

Instead, I keep writing and writing with fewer and fewer replies, and I get the distinct impression that the person I'm writing to is filled with growing dread every time something lands in their inbox. They are not interested in sharing their journey. Maybe their journey isn't going the way they'd like. Maybe they've opted for a different journey altogether. Whatever the reason, they find my continued attention annoying. I finally realize that I am being a pest, and my feelings are hurt. I feel unwanted and embarrassed and a little lonely.

I think having coffee makes more sense.

It is better to see people face-to-face. It is better to ask them how they are doing and then quietly drink coffee and wait for their reply. For all the convenience of online communication, nothing can compete with a cup of coffee and a real talk. Because if someone is willing to take the time for a cup of coffee, I think it's a good sign they would like to be my friend.

And so this will be my new habit. Even if it takes time away from whatever I'm working on. Even if I have to drive someplace I have never been for coffee.

Instead of chasing friendship, I will meet people wherever they are. I will make the investment necessary to cultivate friendships with people who would like to be friends.

In 66 days, I'll let you know how it is going.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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Yesterday I saw a friend, Bridget, whom I had not seen for a full year. "How have you been?" she asked.

"I have learned a lot about myself this year," I told her. But at the time it was hard to say just what I’d learned.

It's the time of year when we think of what we've learned in the year behind us and make resolutions for the new year. I try not to make New Year's resolutions. All the studies show that motivation wanes by February -- if we're lucky. Changing my life by flipping a switch on December 31st is not a feasible plan. I remind myself that it is the small changes that matter. It is the daily habits that add up. It is the incremental improvements I make every day and week that result in lasting change.

But not this year. This year, I'm making a New Year's resolution.

And the only reason I don't think I'm being foolish about the whole thing is that this year, I'm not making a resolution because I feel I've failed at something or need some kind of serious improvement. I'm making a resolution to do more of the same -- a lot more.

Because sometimes, as I sift through my life for the things I wish I did better, I miss what really matters. I forget how good my life is -- how strong my relationships are, how fortunate I am to have the friends and family I have, how lucky I am to have a mind that still works and a body that does what I need it to do.

This year, for whatever reason, I spent a lot more time doing things I truly enjoy, and I spent a lot less time beating myself up for not doing things I thought I should do.

I decided not to worry too much about what I ate and, instead, ate a lot of things I really love, and -- to my surprise -- I stayed exactly at the weight my body likes to be. I knew that writing brings me joy, and worrying about what will happen after I've written causes a lot of stress. So I let go. I worried less. And I discovered that worrying less left a lot more time for writing.

I spent more time with friends. I reached out more often. I said "yes" to invitations. I listened to my husband Peter's advice and, if I felt like sleeping in, I did. I talked to more dogs. I ate more cake. I listened to more music.

This year, I just got a little better at living in my own skin, at trusting myself, at letting myself enjoy what I was doing and spend more time doing it.

Since retiring, Bridget has taken up diving. She discovered she has a talent for taking beautiful photos of tiny fish that are seldom seen and almost never photographed. She loves it. She does it whenever she can. She hopes that she might be able to do it for another 20 years. And that is her resolution: to stay healthy enough to keep doing this new thing she loves for as long as she can.

That is my New Year's resolution -- and my New Year's revelation as well.

Maybe I work hard enough right now. Maybe I'm healthy enough, fit enough, smart enough today. Maybe the self-improvement projects can be put on indefinite hold to make more time to do all the things I love.

And Bridget and I agreed: We needed to see each other before another year had passed.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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