I had the grand opportunity to help “crew” a sailboat on Lake Erie this week. In sailboating, I soon learned, there is no such thing as just going along for the ride. What makes it fun is that every passenger soon gets an assignment, whether it’s as elementary as swabbing the decks or as advanced as hoisting the sail.

A newcomer to sailing, I was definitely in the “swabbing” category. Mopping requires no particular knowledge of sailing terminology. Starboard or port, a deck is a deck. A sail, however, is not just a sail. It is a main sail, mast, jib or boom.

The voyage – which happily took us from harbor to lake and back to harbor without mishap – reminded me of a few principles of life balance that are worth noting:

If you’re off course, even a small adjustment of the sail can make a huge difference.
If you’re “dead in the water,” it’s handy to have a back-up motor of reserve energy that can move you to a better place.
And – very important – You can’t do it all yourself.

Here’s to smoother sailing!

Outside the cottage we rented at Lake Erie last month, there was plenty to gawk at. Kayaks gliding and occasionally capsizing, sailboats disappearing in the distance, and a variety of long-legged birds. But the sight that garnered the idle speculation was a particular hydrangea blossom outside the cottage.

Unlike its bronzy pink siblings on the bush, this one was decidedly purple – a perfect match for the painted bench outside our front door. Happily gawdy, it had found a way to stand out. We speculated on the cause. Perhaps a resident had dumped coffee grounds on the bush, changing the soil from alkaline to acid and steering this new blossom toward blue. Perhaps it was a separate plant altogether – a premise dismissed by the acid-alkaline crowd. Or perhaps – and I hope – it was simply a middle flower child looking for a way to make a statement.

You take life in gulps! You eat too fast. You’re going in six directions.

Words of my mom. To me. All my life and hers when she was still living.

Was this the observation of a wiser, slower generation? Or a wiser, less frantic woman? I think the latter.

Growing up, her sisters said, she was the last to finish a meal. When I was growing up, she was still the last. Ultimately, in the independent living dining room, she was still the last.

“I’m just a slow eater,” she would say. “Go on if you have to.”

But no one ever did. They sat. They told her their stories. She listened and chewed. They waited.

Although she regularly apologized for the delay, I can’t remember anyone complaining. She wasn’t a dawdler. She was a savorer and a listener. Someone easy to sit with. Someone who took it all in.

Looking back, I have to admit she was right about the gulping. It’s an excellent habit to break. Not that I have. But I’m working on getting the six directions – whatever they were – down to five.

Mom would be proud.

Three times in the last two days, conversations with friends have turned to the question, “What is success?” It’s a good question. How do you measure it? Coincidentally, the same question was the timed writing topic this week at the Sunday afternoon writing workshop Jen Richards hosts at her soon-to-be closed (sigh) Worthington consignment store, On Second Thought, whose great success has been as a community gathering spot with Jen at the helm. Anyway, here’s my 10-minute shot at answering the question. I’d love to hear yours.

Success is not measured in dollars or inventories of adult toys or even inventories of impressive adult connections.

This is not to say traditional measures of success are bad. It’s fine to drive the Lexus or pilot your private plane. Every once in a while, though, to keep things in perspective, it might be a good idea to skip a stone across a pond.