Brené Brown tells the story of meeting a young woman at a media conference. She is exited to meet the woman--an accountant / jeweler--because she had bought a beautiful pair of earrings from the woman's online store.

"How long have you been a jeweler?" Brené asks.

The young woman blushes and answers, "I wish. I'm just a CPA. I'm not a real jeweler."

Brené writes, 'I thought to myself, I'm wearing your earrings right now, not your abacus.' She pointed to her ears, "Of course you're a jeweler." The woman smiles and replies, "Well, I don't make very much money doing that. I just do it because I love it."

Since when did our passion require an apology?

Since when did following our heart require some kind of justification?

And tell me, what's the detriment in being just a CPA?

It's as if there is some capricious seed of scarcity that takes root in our spirit, and measures everything we do or yearn for or desire against some unattainable bar of "never enough." For whatever else happens, when it comes to our heart, we believe--and convince ourselves--that we're not jeweler enough. Or writer enough. Or parent enough. Or friend enough. Or...fill in the blank...enough.

Whenever I lecture about gardens, I'm introduced as an expert. But I do not consider myself so. Years ago, I wrote Soul Gardening as a call for amateurs, those of us who enjoy the air and watch for miracles. Amateur, that is, from the French: "one who loves" or "for the love of." Amateur is that part of us still thrilled by the miraculous sweetness of a freshly picked strawberry, or by the way the wind drifts through the wind chimes, heartfelt as a prayer, or by the reassuring strains of contented chatter coming from the finches who convene at the stream feeders. Somewhere along the way, there is something that gets under our skin. And that something begins to slowly transform us from the inside, regardless of whether we've ever planted a garden, or whether we know a Delphinium from a daisy.

'Tis true. This insidious reminder that we are not enough has always been an opportunity to hammer guilt. As in, why haven't I done enough? What's the list and when is to be completed? What's the best I can accomplish and be productive? Lord knows, it is essential to have something to show for my day. (I'm as tempted as the next guy--there is a sense of well being from having a clean desk.)

There are two sides of this coin. One, we are susceptible to the cultural hook that what we are paid for, is who we are. And we park our identity there. "So...what do you do?"

Two, we sell our passion short. And we never ask (or want to be asked), "So, what fuels you? What makes you glad to be alive?"

"The Way" is a poignant and inspirational story about family, friends, and the challenges we face while navigating loss, including the loss of our expectations. Martin Sheen plays Tom, an American doctor who comes to St. Jean Pied de Port, France to collect the remains of his adult son Daniel (played by Emilio Estevez), killed in the Pyrenees in a storm while walking the Camino de Santiago, known as The Way of Saint James. Rather than return home, Tom decides to embark on the historical pilgrimage to honor his son's desire to savor the journey. What Tom doesn't plan on is the profound impact the journey will have on him and his "California Bubble Life". In flashbacks, we learn that his son died estranged, embarking on a life Tom called wasteful and frivolous. In one scene Daniel tells his father, "That's just it Dad. You don't choose a life, you live one."

But we don't teach this do we?

A woman in a George Leonard Aikido workshop asks Annie, George's wife, "Why are you still going to class? I thought you've already gotten your black belt."

As if some need for achievement doesn't allow us to choose, again, today.

Here's the deal: Only those of us who choose to learn, to grow, to try, to continue on a journey, to risk and fall down, to get up and try again and to follow their passion will live wholehearted.

In the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, High Court Judge Graham Dashwood (Tom Wilkinson) has for many years been retiring "any day now." During the retirement speech of a colleague, Graham declares, "Today's the day." Off to India he goes, with a group of British retirees. There, Graham ultimately reunites with his former lover, who embraces him joyfully and explains he has lived a generally happy life in an arranged marriage of mutual trust and respect. After confiding to Norman that he is finally at peace with himself, Graham dies of a heart condition and is cremated in a traditional ceremony arranged by his ex-boyfriend.

From this paradigm I see differently.

I don't change reality.

However, I do change my presence. From a presence of scarcity to sufficiency.

It is sufficient enough to know that today is a good day to live.

To right a wrong.

To forgive (beginning with my self).

To be a jeweler. 

To embrace.

To offer a hand, or a kind word. Or both.

To hope.

To delight.

To wonder.

To wander.

To sit still.

To laugh out loud.

To question.

To dance.

To drink that bottle of wine (from the cellar saved for a special occasion).

To savor.

To love.  

To lose. 

To die.

Our autumn colors have seized the day. Yes, it is raining outside my office. Although the verb, "to rain" is putting it mildly. Even so, given our extended summer--through mid-October--the theater of the leaves has enjoyed an extended run. Big-leaf Maple leaves now a butternut squash yellow, many Japanese maple leaves are the color of Dorothy's ruby shoes, and our Euonymus are ablaze in a fiery red. I see the trees and shrubs and I am giddy, not knowing what to do with such emotion. These are not days to miss, although each one of us is rushing on to something more. Tonight, I hope that I will give myself the permission to walk out into the night and shout to the sky, "It is enough."