Recently I’ve gotten to know two professional organizers/ downsizing consultants, Laura Moore of ClutterClarity LLC and Wendy Arundel of The Mudroom. The two of them have very different business models and work styles from each other, but in talking to both of them, I’ve found interesting points of intersection between my work and theirs.

In some ways, it’s not surprising at all. To start with the most obvious point, there’s a significant demographic overlap in our clientele. I work almost exclusively with seniors in their seventies, eighties and nineties; though both my personal organizer friends have clients of all ages, they frequently work with seniors in the process of selling homes and downsizing.

But in that same commonality lies an interesting difference, which Laura pointed out to me recently. Seniors who commission me to help tell their story through self-published memoirs are often at a peaceful, contented place in their lives, one in which they feel happy to be recounting their histories, or are feeling flattered that this is something their children urged them to do, or are excited at the thought of creating this unique gift for their families, or simply find it gratifying to have someone – me – visiting with them regularly for the sole purpose of hearing about their lives.

For Laura, on the other hand, clients this age are often at a bit of a crisis point. Often people don’t hire personal organizers or move managers until they believe they have a problem they need to solve. They feel pressured to clear out and sell their home, or they are anxious about the constrictions of moving into a much smaller space. Unlike me, she is more likely to meet them at a high-stress time in their lives than a reflective one.

But in the best-case scenario, our work overlaps at a point of symbiosis. Decluttering is difficult for all kinds of people; particularly so for seniors, because for them it’s often less about sorting through paperwork or ridding one’s closet of outdated fashions than it is about getting rid of a lifetime of keepsakes: treasured objects that no one else really seems to want or value.

But sometimes, where Laura and Wendy leave off is right where I pick up. Seniors who move to condos or assisted living centers or in-law apartments in their children’s homes can’t bring all their treasures with them, but they can bring their memories. So sometimes, the goal of memoir writing becomes to turn material treasures into written reminiscences.

Mostly, this works in symbolic ways. Clients tell me the stories of their past and then find that with all the details recorded on the written page, it isn’t so important to them to have the tangible items anymore. Chapters about travel replace the need for souvenirs from around the world. A description of the meals a long-gone mother used to cook makes it easier to dispense of old, seldom-used but sentimentally valued cookbooks. A narrative about the writer’s wedding day can free her up to finally hand the crumbling lace wedding veil over to a granddaughter who will repurpose it for a crafts project.

But sometimes we do this in tangible ways: what Laura has dubbed “memoirs of stuff,” almost like an art catalogue from a gallery, in which a client describes in meticulous detail the history and provenance of a number of favorite possessions or pieces of art, and then feels finally comfortable giving away or selling those possessions because she has the book explaining each object’s importance.

I was surprised, a year or so ago, when a client whom I’d met with several times in her elegantly appointed but very large and mostly uninhabited home emailed me the week after her memoir was published to tell me she had decided to sell the home. She had never mentioned this possibility while we were working on her book. And when she told me, she didn’t overtly draw any connection between finishing her memoir and taking the enormous but potentially rewarding step of giving up her home for someplace smaller, easier to maneuver around and closer to family. But I sensed a connection anyway. She’d told me so much about her home, and all of it was included in her memoir: now she could comfortably leave it behind.

The timing isn’t always right for my organizer friends and me to try to share clients. My memoir clients aren’t necessarily quite ready to think about moving. And the organizers’ downsizing clients may be too preoccupied with the logistics of moving to invest time in the more meditative process of telling me their story. But the overlap exists nonetheless. Telling stories can release our need for material objects, and the stories live on for as long as we want them to – without requiring anything more than an inch or two of shelf space in a bookcase.
 

​“You made it so easy,” marveled one client who finished writing her memoir with me recently.

“I put a lot of work into it, but it was all worth it,” said another client not long ago.

Two very different reactions. So which is it when you write your memoir? Is it easy, or is it a lot of work?

I like to think that I can make it easy for my clients, of course. That’s essentially the value proposition of any kind of consultant: we make the process go more smoothly for the client, regardless of what the nature of the endeavor might be. But in reality, it’s whatever the client chooses for it to be: as easy or as difficult as you want to make it.

That’s not meant to sound threatening. I don’t mean difficult in the onerous sense; I mean more in the sense of how intricately you choose to immerse yourself in the details. For many of my clients, the whole project of completing a memoir takes little more than four to six hours of interviewing, a couple of read-throughs, a couple sets of revisions, and an hour or two choosing two dozen favorite photographs from throughout their lifetime. My graphic designer never fails to please with her first draft of a cover; the client and I both do a final round of proofreading, and we’re done.

In that sense, writing your memoir is easy.

But some clients need more time and more immersion in the process, and that’s fine too. After all, writing your memoir shouldn’t be a trivial undertaking. It requires consideration and contemplation. For some people, that comes naturally throughout the interview process, but others need to think and rethink how they will talk about certain segments of their lives.

Meanwhile, many clients bog down in the photo-selection phase: with shoeboxes full of old snapshots, they become overwhelmed by the task of choosing just twenty or thirty to include in the book. When that happens, I encourage them to try to choose photos that tag specifically to anecdotes and references within the text, or I help make the choices myself. With one client who couldn’t even face the task of going through boxes of old photos, I simply took my portable scanner to her house and walked around removing her favorite snapshots from walls and tabletops, scanning them right there and then, and thereby including in her memoir just those photos that she loved most.

Depending on who you are, how you see your life story, and how you approach the process, you might be someone who finds it easy or you might find it difficult. What I can promise, though, is that I do all I can to make it as carefree as possible for each client. After all, we all know how to write. If I didn’t offer the value proposition of making it simpler for you, you could just as easily do it yourself.
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My goal is to facilitate the process, whether that means making it easy or just making it less difficult. Are you uncertain about whether this is a challenge you are ready to take on? Let’s take it on together and find out.

​My 96-year-old client has two daughters and a son as well as three grandchildren. As we wrapped up the final draft of her memoir, she provided favorite photos of her earlier years as well as more recent ones of her children and grandchildren. We placed the snapshots from her childhood in France and young adult years in England throughout the narrative, and my graphic designer made a two-page collage of the recent family photos to place near the end of the book.
 
I thought we were just about done, but then my client had another idea. Her son was a studio artist, and she wanted to know if we could use some images from his work as well.
 
We could, of course. The son, with help from his sister, chose some of their favorite examples of his wide range of work: a mural, an illustration,  some paintings. He furnished a photo of himself working in his studio as well.
 
I was struck by what a good idea it was on my client’s part to include these artwork images. Most people who know my client will never visit her son’s studio or see his work in a gallery or on a building exterior. But these few pages in which his work is reproduced will remind them of his talents. The quality of my paperback books certainly doesn’t do justice to full-scale pieces of art the way a real art book with oversized pages and a glossy finish would, but this format makes it accessible to anyone who pages through his mother’s memoir. Not the same as seeing the real artwork, to be sure, but a reminder of what kind of art he makes.
 
It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about the multiple purposes that memoir pages can serve. My primary goal remains to tell people’s stories through narrated text, but so many other images and ideas find their way onto these pages as well. I had one client whose daughter wanted her mother’s distinctive handwriting not to be lost to future generations, so she asked her mother to handwrite a letter for the end of the book which I reproduced as an image. The words and ideas in her letter could have been communicated just as well in regular print, but this approach captured her unique penmanship as well. Another client had a long-deceased father who had written amusing poems about his children as they grew up; my client had me copy several of his poems into her memoir. A client who had kept the toast her husband gave at their wedding decades earlier asked to have the toast reprinted in the memoir. A client who helped smuggle downed military pilots over enemy lines during World War II had images of her secret service identity cards reproduced in her memoir.
 
All of these examples remind me that while from an aesthetic point of view paperback books may not be the best medium for anything but words, books remain arguably the most accessible format we have. People can exhibit artwork, photos, even special documents in frames on their walls, but only visitors who come to their homes will see those mementos. Books make materials of every kind – narratives, yes, but also images and poems and song lyrics – available to anyone who picks up the memoir and pages through it.
 
If you are thinking about a memoir project, consider what other components you might want to include in addition to text. Snapshots, yes, but what else? Images of art, postcards, letters, poems, songs? All of it can be captured in the pages of your memoir – taking the story beyond words on paper and turning a book into something almost like a three-dimensional creation.

If you’ve ever participated in any kind of creative writing class, you have no doubt heard what is perhaps the oldest piece of advice in the realm of writing: “Show, don’t tell.”

But for some reason, sometimes even people who have accepted this advice in other forms of writing don’t believe that it applies to memoir. When I was speaking about memoir writing, and specifically about my work helping people to write and self-publish their memoirs, to a large group at a retirement community a year or so ago, one woman relentlessly pushed this point with me, asking how I, as a ghost writer, could possibly communicate the innermost feelings that her memoir would surely be expected to reflect. I explained once again my process of interviewing my clients, walking them meticulously through the stages and events of their lives, uncovering memories and anecdotes and details in order to commit their story to paper.

“But I don’t see how your retelling of what I did could possibly show how I was feeling,” she insisted.

I would argue the opposite. When clients are telling me about their lives, their actions tend to communicate how they were feeling far more accurately than any emotive adjectives or adverbs would – and my job as memoir ghost writer is to ensure that I faithfully re-create those scenes from their lives in order to reflect their emotions and moods, their moments of fear or concern or anxiety or excitement or anticipation or joy, as fully as possible.

And so when a client tells me how he or she was feeling at a particular moment and I don’t feel as if their narrative has brought us sufficiently to that emotion, I ask them to back up a step or two, describe what was going on. A client recently told me that the moment she glimpsed the man who would later become her husband, “there was a sense of immediate attraction.”

“And what happened at the moment you had that sense?” I asked her.

“We were in an art gallery when we spotted one another across the room. He ran across the floor, lifted me up and spun me in a circle. Everyone else in the room burst into applause.”

That’s a show-don’t-tell moment: the action reflects exuberance, passion, excitement and a sense of promise.

I thought of this again when a different client told me that even as a young girl attending Catholic school in France in the 1930s, she had a mischievous and slightly rebellious streak.

“What’s something you remember from that time?” I asked her.

She laughed. “The girl who sat in front of me in the classroom had long braids. Once I tied her braids to the back of her chair without her noticing until she tried to stand up.” This same client later helped smuggle downed pilots from the British Royal Air Force across continental Europe to Gibraltar, where they could board ships back to England. A rebellious spirit, indeed – and the actions to bear it out.

I think too of a client who described how as a little boy he spent hours in a grass ravine near his family’s apartment, examining every leaf, rock and insect he could find – this intellectual curiosity led to his earning a Ph.D. in physics. His wife, in turn, told me that she loved living in a tiny apartment full of relatives when she was a little girl because she could listen to the grownups talking over her as she fell asleep – and she grew up to be a lifelong extrovert, exuberant in her enthusiasm for meeting people.
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So indeed, as we look at memoir as a reflection of who we are, we might think of our innermost selves – our souls or spirits or essence – as consisting more of feelings than of actions. But I would argue that this is not the case. “Show, don’t tell” is as relevant in memoir writing as in any other kind of writing. Show me what you did, and in doing so you will find yourself demonstrating who you are and what lies in your heart. 

In spring of 2012, I was assigned to write a feature for the Boston Globe on an octogenarian who had become a Senior Olympics medalist in bicycling. As I left his home at Carleton-Willard Village, a senior graduated care community in Bedford, Massachusetts, after our interview, I thought about the other articles I had covered at that same senior community: one on World War II veterans putting together an oral history project; another on a group of women who had started a compost program and a victory garden and were supplying the kitchen with fresh vegetables all summer. “Three stories,” I mused to myself. “But dozens of residents. How many stories am I not hearing?”

I wanted to hear everyone’s stories: the defining moments of their lives, their most formative experiences. So I proposed an idea to the administration: What about a community memoir project, a compilation in which each resident who wished to participate would tell me one story from his or her life?

The administration gave me the green light. Forty-seven residents signed up, and six months later our book was in print: The Experience of Our Years: Residents of Carleton-Willard Village Remember the Moments and Events That Made Them Who They Are Today.

It was a joy to work on this project and a joy to see the finished book in print. And at the time, I thought I’d found my new career direction. Other senior communities would surely want to do their own community memoir compilation, I thought. What a wonderful way to make a living this would be.

For a variety of reasons, I soon learned that I was wrong. Other senior communities I visited, though impressed with the book and intrigued by the idea, did not have the same kinds of priorities as Carleton-Willard Village and did not feel that this was a good move for them fiscally. So instead, my memoir business grew in a different direction: Rather than community memoirs, I eventually developed a portfolio of individual memoirs, working one-on-one with clients or couples to create a book out of their life story.

And so I abandoned the idea of community memoirs at senior centers. But in spring of 2017, I was pleasantly surprised to get a call from my contact at Carleton-Willard Village. She pointed out that it was now five years since we published The Experience of Our Years. Perhaps it was time for another volume.

Sign-ups went up on the bulletin boards and I started the interviews early last summer. This time thirty residents signed up – some new to the community, others who had opted not to participate the first time around but had second thoughts after they saw the book. Once again, I heard stories about adventures and decisions, heartbreaks and triumphs, careers and families, travels and relationships. Similar themes, yet entirely different stories from the last time. The youngest participant this time was 79; the oldest, a former town clerk who won several commendations for her years of service to the town of Arlington, was 103.

The book – The Experience of Our Years, Volume II –  launched today on site at Carleton-Willard Village and at Amazon.com. I’m honored and delighted to have had the opportunity to work with the residents of this unique community once again. They are a fascinating, insightful, articulate and diverse group of men and women. Needless to say, I’m already hoping to be invited back in another five years.

Checking my book order site on this last day of the month, I see that 27 copies of Juanita’s memoir have been purchased in December. Unlike most of my clients, who go into a memoir project with the urging of their family members, Juanita was one of the few who worked with me on her memoir in secret, intending it as a surprise for her family. At a multigenerational gathering in Kentucky on Thanksgiving weekend she unveiled her newly completed project; after that word must have spread quickly, because 22 copies were ordered in the last week of November. That’s in addition to the 25 Juanita ordered from me directly to give away to her children and grandchildren at the Thanksgiving weekend gathering.
 
Juanita ordered 25 books because, like most of my clients, she envisioned a project that would be of personal interest to her closest circle: her grown daughter and son, her grandchildren, some nieces and nephews, a lifelong friend or two.
 
And like most of my clients, she underestimated. Delighted with their mother’s accomplishment, Juanita’s daughter and son quickly announced their mother’s memoir on Facebook. Soon their cousins and childhood playmates and former neighbors all wanted copies of their own.
 
Fortunately, the printing technology I use makes this easy. The state of the art of “print on demand” means that anyone can purchase a copy at any time, just as easily as purchasing any best-seller or other commercial publication on Amazon.
 
After about three years of working with seniors to write and self-publish their memoirs, one rule of thumb I’ve discovered is that every client underestimates how may people will want to read their book. “But who will read my memoir?” new clients sometimes ask me. “You’ll be surprised,” I tell them. My books are designed for easy reading. They’re light in weight and appealing in design. It’s easy to page through them, start here or there, pick them up, put them down, resume later.
 
But most readers don’t dabble in and out. Most readers consume these books from beginning to end, which attests not to my skill as a ghost writer of memoirs but to the innate curiosity nearly all of us possess about each others’ lives. Humans are curious beings. We want to know what happened, and when and how and why. That’s why we study history and biology and anthropology and psychology. And it’s why we read about one another.
 
Have you thought about writing a memoir or other personal narrative? Have you held back out of uncertainty about whether anyone would want to read it? Take heart from Juanita’s experience: 49 unanticipated readers beyond her immediate family in the first month after publication. Another client ordered twenty books for his initial print run. The printer made a trivial error in the estimated delivery date and recompensed for it by printing and shipping an extra twenty books. “I’m not sure we need an extra twenty,” I confessed, thinking that it would be more useful to me to have a credit with the printing company. But I was wrong; my client had already promised twenty more copies away as word spread of his project.
 
Not everyone wants their project to reach a general audience, of course, and that’s fine too. A small number of my clients have asked for “hidden” access, an order link available only to them and not publicly searchable. That option is easy for me to put in place from a technical standpoint, but hardly anyone takes advantage of it. Writing your memoir takes a lot of thought and contemplation, even if you work with a ghost writer. Even those clients who were on the fence about privacy when we began usually soon decide that they want their words to be read, their story to be known. That is, after all, why they chose to tell it.
 
Who would wish to read your memoir? Children and grandchildren? Siblings and spouses? Long-time friends? Colleagues? Sometimes picturing your audience is the first step toward starting your project. If you can picture just one reader, it might be time to start writing. Contact me any time to discuss a memoir project – your audience is waiting!  

​For many of us, Thanksgiving dinner with family and friends is an annual November tradition. If you are among those fortunate enough to be partaking of a holiday feast this month, take a moment to envision the gathering you’ll be attending or hosting. Who will be there? Picture the elders you expect to find yourself among. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, beloved family friends, elderly neighbors. What will they wish to talk about? What stories will be told? What stories will be overlooked?

Maybe you believe you’ve already heard all your parents’ or grandparents’ stories. Maybe you know all about them: where they come from, whether their childhoods were fun-filled or difficult, whom they loved, who loved them, what ground – literal and metaphorical – they have covered in the years since.

Or, to pose the fundamental question that I use when I do memoir anthologies with nursing home residents, what were the formative experiences, events or circumstances that made them who they are today?

Maybe they’ve already told you all about their lives – at other holiday gatherings, or in settings so informal throughout the years that you can’t even remember when you heard this story or that story. But could you retell the details of their stories to your own children or grandchildren? Could you explain the connections, nail the chronology, put the pieces together so that it made sense even when told secondhand?

If these questions compel you to grudgingly admit that maybe you haven’t listened to or retained the stories of your elders quite as well as you might wish, there’s no need to feel bad about it. As I often tell my clients, it’s hard to put stories in order, to provide all the context. People may lack the time or patience, whether to tell these stories or to listen to them. Or to remember them.

If you are not sure you could answer the fundamental question of what were your elders’ most formative experiences, or if you simply can’t remember some of the details along the way – what happened to their own parents, when did they make that trip overseas, what was the long-ago job through which they met their spouse – it may be time to capture the stories more formally. A family memoir is a chance for your older relatives or other loved ones to see their story commemorated on paper, with all the details they wish to share and with photos as well. In the end, in place of semi-remembered anecdotes, they’ll have a book to hold in their hands – a compiled story of just what happened when. Of what indeed it was that made them the person they are today. And you’ll have that book too.
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There are many ways to get this done. An elder person may choose to sit down and write their story out themselves. Or they may want to work with a professional memoirist or personal historian like me, experienced in asking the right questions to tease out all the right details. Some of my clients do a combination: they start by writing out some stories from their lives themselves, and then ask me for help filling in the gaps and missing details.

​Can you think of someone in your family who would like to do a memoir project? Thanksgiving and the other upcoming holidays are the perfect time to consider a project like this. I am always delighted for the opportunity to talk about memoirs. Please be in touch at any time if you’d like to talk about a possible project for yourself or for someone in your family or circle of friends.

​The questions among the mothers started early in the summer. “Are you afraid to see him leave?” we asked each other. “Have you been secretly weeping as you watch him pack? Are you dreading saying goodbye when the time comes?”
 
And throughout the summer, I’ve had to admit that no, I haven’t been feeling weepy or sentimental about my son’s upcoming departure for college. Not because I don’t love having him at home with us; not because I don’t worry, as the other mothers do, about what might happen once a child is far from home. But because my sense that this is the right thing at the right time is even more powerful than nostalgia.
 
In a way, it’s not surprising. I was never one of those mothers who posted photos of her preschoolers with captions like “Oh, please don’t grow up so fast!” I enjoyed every phase as it unfolded, but I also welcomed each new one as I watched my kids develop new skills, new interests, new kinds of independence with each year that passed.
 
But I also knew that with this, the biggest transition yet of Tim’s life, my general sense of good cheer might change. It was hard to ignore the articles flashing across my Facebook feed with headlines like “It’s normal for Moms to grieve their departing college freshmen.”
 
Would that be me, when Tim finally moved into his dorm four hundred miles south of home?
It could happen, but I don’t think so. As I write this, our family of four is packed into our Prius which is stuffed with Tim’s belongings – clothes, electronics, bedding, dorm accessories, textbooks. And so far I’m still feeling happy and excited for him.
 
Mothers say goodbye to their sons for all kinds of reasons. Mothers see sons go off to war. Or off to prison. We know mothers who haven’t lived long enough to see their sons depart for college. This was already something I’d thought about, but tragedy drove the point home to me anew last week, when a childhood friend of my husband’s lost his teenage son in a fatal accident. No, I thought, thinking back to those articles in my Facebook feed, sending a child off to college is not cause for grieving. Grief is for when you lose a child altogether. As we send our son off on new adventures, another set of parents is beginning a process of mourning that will last the rest of their lives. Our excitement on Tim’s behalf has been tempered this past week with overwhelming sorrow for our friends.  
 
I do understand why parents feel sad when a child leaves home, and my feelings might change once I see his empty bedroom. But for now, my overwhelming emotion is gratitude. Yes, I’ll miss him. He’s a joyful presence and a lot of fun to be around, and our household will feel diminished by his absence. And even having gotten this far, he’s only at the beginning; it still may not all work out according to the way he imagines.
 
But just being here to witness his dreams coming true is a privilege for me. Thanks to a combination of hard work on Tim’s part, financial planning on our part, and a huge helping of good luck, Tim is on his way, exactly in the way he’d hoped it would happen. To every thing, there is a season, as Ecclesiastes tells us. Now it’s Tim’s season to try to make his next set of dreams come true, and my season to watch with hope and love as that happens. 

​August 15 marks the ten-year anniversary of my daily running streak, or, as some of my fellow members of the U.S. Running Streak Association call it, my “streakaversary.”

And when the president of the U.S. Running Streak Association emailed me yesterday to ask me if I’d submit an update for the quarterly newsletter, my first thought was to confess that the past year has been more difficult to complete than the nine years that preceded it.

Like most runners, I’d had a variety of aches and pains over the last few years. Sciatica came and went for short time periods. Bunions threatened to form. Knee pain would exist for a day or two. But this year brought something that wouldn’t subside. When a friend commented at a Labor Day weekend party on the limp that I had been pretending not to notice, I finally Googled the painful symptoms I was only retrospectively willing to acknowledge I’d had all summer, and self-diagnosed posterior tibial tendinitis.

My husband isn’t a runner, but he is, at times, the voice of reason, and he gave me a solution. “Don’t stop running. You don’t have to break your streak,” he said. “Just take it down to a mile a day until you feel better.”

I didn’t want to cut back to a mile a day, but I didn’t want to break my streak either. So I did something I occasionally do as a last resort: took my husband’s advice. And over the next couple of weeks, logging just a mile a day, I started to feel a little bit better. I saw a physical therapist, who confirmed my self-diagnosis of posterior tibial tendinitis – “post tib,” she called it, as if referring to an old friend – and  told me to stop running. Like most streak runners, I ignored that advice, but I still got better, over the months that followed, and by Thanksgiving I was back up to two or three miles a day.

Yet I couldn’t seem to do more than that. My ability to endure longer distances – the five- to ten-mile weekend runs I had enjoyed over the past several years – seemed out of the question. It wasn’t anything orthopedic; it was something that felt somehow more intrinsic. It was as if the inner drive impelling me to run more than two or three miles at a stretch had just evaporated.

But then sometime in the spring, I noticed something else. Ever since the tendinitis had disappeared in late winter, I hadn’t had a single ache or pain. Not one. Not in my feet or ankles or knees. None of the sciatica that had recurred in occasional stints over the previous couple of years. No incipient bunion pain.

I couldn’t ignore the obvious. I was no longer running more than three miles a day, usually closer to two. My weekly average mileage was about fifteen or sixteen miles a week, whereas previously it had been about twenty-five. I couldn’t imagine ever signing up for another half-marathon or 10k. But I felt great. I was consistently pain-free in a way I hadn’t been in years.

And my pain-free status lasted until Memorial Day weekend, when, while running along a quiet country road near home with my dog, I glanced sideways to see if I recognized anyone in a group of neighbors standing in a driveway, failed to see that my dog had also stopped – broadside in front of me – to check out the same group of neighbors, and found myself airborne, sailing over my immobile dog.

Tally for that misstep: one broken rib and one sprained big toe. Both hurt a lot, but both, like all the other injuries, could be run through. If I didn’t push myself too hard.

And so here I am at my ten-year anniversary of streak running, with no particular reason or desire to stop. Actually, when I started drafting this essay, it was only August 14th, and I’d completed only nine years and 364 days of running. There was a time when I would have been far too superstitious to write about reaching my ten-year anniversary one day early. I wouldn’t have wanted to utter a word about it until my August 15th run had come and gone – which I’m happy to say that now as I post this blog, it has indeed.

But superstition isn’t really an issue for me anymore – not  because I believe if I follow enough superstitions I’ll never break my streak, but because now I know someday I will. Maybe it will be in my eleventh year of daily running, which starts today; maybe not until another decade of running has come and gone. Maybe from another bout of tendinitis; maybe another broken rib, though in fact that experience did convince me to stop running with the dog. (She gets a nice long walk every day once I get home from my run.)
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Nothing lasts forever; it’s as simple as that. The streak will end when its time has come. But ten years are behind me, and my hope is that there are another ten years ahead. For now, there’s only today’s run. And after that, tomorrow’s run. Because, of course, that’s how any streak happens. It’s how any relationship happens. For that matter, it’s how any lifetime happens. One day at a time. For as many days as it lasts.