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's desire 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 that 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 it 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. Is it that we never ask (or want to be asked), "Tell me, what fuels you? What makes you glad to be alive?"

I just read an article about Kitty Lunn. She teaches dance from her wheel chair. "The dancer inside me doesn't know or care that I fell down the stairs and have a spinal cord injury," Kitty tells the reporter. "She just wants to keep on dancing."

Yes. The dancer inside is alive and well.    

While working as a family physician in a Native American hospital in the Southwest, Carl Hammerschlag was introduced to a patient named Santiago, a Pueblo priest and clan chief, "You must be able to dance if you are to heal people, he admonished the young doctor. "I can teach you my steps, but you will have to hear your own music." The good news is that the music is already there.

I learned a new word not long ago: Sankofa (in the Akan language of Ghana). It is often associated with the proverb, "Se wo were fi na wosankofa a yenkyi," which translates "It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten."

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.

So it wouldn't hurt to change the way we talk. We ask, of each other, daily, What did you do?" Why not ask, "What surprised you today? Where did you see God incognito? How was the dance?"

Every year, without exception, I overhear, "Can you believe it? August already. Summer's almost gone." Resignation rears its head... the seed of scarcity even tainting our appreciation of summer. Here, we start with a meager summer window to begin with... so why would we be afraid to squeeze every drop?

Blackberries have begun. Warm from the vine, a burst of candied heaven.

The vegetable garden is hitting its stride. Tomatoes each night at the table. On the patio tonight, the thermometer reads 84, there is a breeze out of the south and Van Morrison is in the air, "These are the days of the endless summer. These are the days, the time is now. There is no past, there's only future. There's only here, there's only now." Indeed. These are not days to miss, although each one of us seems to be rushing on to something more. Tonight, I hope that I will give myself the permission to walk out into the night and say to the perfect half-moon, "It is enough."