My 2026 Wish for You: Be Illogical

 

Back in the day when my biggest journalism aspiration was to carry the Sunday paper ALL BY MYSELF, I lived like a rich girl. Those steps I'm about to tackle lead to the front door of a pillared mansion, with a yard that ran from the street in front to the street behind. 

I lived in this glorious three-story home for such a brief time that I have no memories of it. But I do know why I lived there: My mother and father rented the house because they could -- and, by God, they wanted to live in a mansion. The stay wasn't lengthy, but it was lovely. When they ran out of rent money, we packed our bags and moved to a small apartment in a far less fabulous part of Kansas City. 

The Cambridge Dictionary doesn't cite my parents in its definition of "illogical," but it could: "not reasonable, wise or practical, usually because directed by the emotions rather than careful thought ..." 

Moving into a home you can't afford isn't reasonable or wise. It certainly isn't practical. Moving into The Mansion was a ridiculous, romantic adventure -- and well worth every ridiculous, romantic moment. Mom and Dad talked fondly about our family's time in that house for the rest of their lives. We used to drive by it and smile -- I still do now and then. It's beautiful, and it was ours.  

Throughout our lives, many of us are are awfully well-trained to be reasonable and practical. Think things through. Look before you leap. Solid advice; I've given it to my girls. Maybe this coming year, we should give ourselves permission to do something simply for the joy of it. Logical or not. 

My wish for you in 2026? May you be illogical. May you dream big. May you dream small. May some of those dreams come true. May you surround yourself with people who love and support you. May you find joy and create it. May you live how you want to live. May you carry the loads you're meant to carry all by yourself -- and may you ask for help up those steps when you need it. 

Happy New Year, dear hearts! 

New Year's Resolutions: Lose the Right Weight

Since I am the only Jewish momma many of you have, I feel obligated to tell you the truth. In the New Year, you do need to lose that weight.

Lose the weight of the world. Your shoulders are strong and beautiful. They were never meant to carry the universe. Keep doing what you can to make our world a better place; we need you more than ever. But, as you do, remember that the world will keep spinning even if you stop pushing.

Lose the weight of the past. You made mistakes. You didn’t do your best. You spoke in anger. Maybe you messed up this year. Maybe you’re still fretting about something from decades ago. Or, perhaps the weight you bear stems from another’s action. Someone wounded you, abused you, broke you. No matter what your past burden, dear heart, let this be the year you let it go.

Lose the weight of expectations. I don’t know if it’s your expectations weighing you down or expectations imposed upon you. I do know that fear of failure can paralyze progress. This year, expect to do your best. Do it. And applaud your effort regardless of the results. Step by step gets you where you’re going.

As we look ahead, let’s stop measuring success by how many pounds we lose. Let’s measure success by how many lives we enrich. Let’s measure success by how generously we give, how wholeheartedly we laugh, how deeply we love.

This year and every year, let’s be kind to each other. Let’s be kind to ourselves.

Here’s to a happy, healthy year for all of us. May you lose what you need to lose, find what you hope to find, and pause long enough to remember: It really is a wonderful world.

(This post is an edited excerpt from Look Up: Your Unexpected Guide to Good. I'm always editing; that's one of the joys of writing. Happy New Year, peeps!)

 

Mom's Wish for You

Last Sunday, I woke up; poured myself a cup of coffee; snuggled up on the couch with the newspaper; and immediately thought, "Oh, I need to get ready for bingo."

I don't need to get ready for bingo. My bingo buddy died four years ago today. Very early on a Sunday, by the by. I got the call while I was there on the couch. With my coffee. And the paper. Right before I got ready for our weekly bingo date.

Ah, well. Memories. You never know when they'll pop up. Happily, after four years without Mom, a bingo flash doesn't spark tears. I'm more likely to smile, raise my coffee cup in a silent toast, and go about the day. 

That's not to say I don't miss her, of course. Heck, my grandmother died 46 years ago and I still miss her all the time. But the trite expressions are true: The passage of time does smooth the rough and jagged edges of grief. 

Today, on Mom's yahrzeit, I have a candle burning in her memory. And, I want to share the lesson she taught that is shaping my life as I ease into retirement:

Be willing to be delighted. 

What are you doing today? Resting? Driving home from a family gathering? Shopping? Doodling? Reading? Playing bingo? Whatever is on your list, go into the experience with Lillian's perspective. Be willing to be delighted. Look up. Look for the good. 

God knows it's easy enough to see all the awfulness these days -- so don't take the easy way out. Look for something wonderful and unexpected, even if it's tiny. The perfect sentence in that book you're reading. A bite of food with exactly the right mix of turkey and stuffing. A friendly grin from the stranger at the service station, a silent acknowledgement that you're both freezing while pumping gas. Whatever. 

There are delightful moments all around us, waiting to be seen. Or heard. Or felt. 

Or remembered. 

Lillian Marie Sokoloff, my favorite poet
"B7, Go to Heaven!"
God love you, Mom. 

The Secret to Success

Hard to believe, but this month marks 20 years (20 YEARS!) since I launched Sokoloff Harness Communications LLC. Best of all, it’s my final business anniversary. I plan to retire from my two remaining clients at the end of the year.

To celebrate the achievement, I thought about listing 20 lessons learned as a creative entrepreneur. But let’s be real. Ain’t nobody got time for that. So, as my anniversary gift to you, here are my top five tips:

1.    Listen more than you talk. As you listen, make and maintain eye contact.
People want to be heard. People want to be seen. Be the person who truly pays attention, and watch clients, colleagues, and kids gravitate to you. Positive attention is a powerful magnet.  

2.    Sandwiches should always be cut on the diagonal and arranged on the plate like a butterfly.
This is true whether you’re serving a grilled cheese sandwich to a toddler or making a peanut butter sandwich for yourself – and no one else is home.

3.    I don’t have to tell you why turning your sandwich into a work of art is an essential life lesson. You will figure it out.
Besides, my why won’t be your why. We all have our own whys.

4.    Manners matter.
Thank you for remembering this.

5.    Life gets easier when you give up the need to always be right.
Not a critical issue? Let someone else win. If the most competitive fool in the universe (aka, me) can do this, you can do it too. Hmmm. I’m retiring. I hereby bequeath my “most competitive fool in the universe” title to … well, you know who you are.

Now, listen closely because I have one more thing to tell you. This is the true secret to success:

Help others succeed.

Driving Desmond Tutu

All the lovely tributes about Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the Nobel Peace Prize winner who died today at the age of 90, are missing one key point: Desmond Tutu glowed.

A joyful activist for equality and justice, Archbishop Tutu radiated; he filled the space around him with an expansive, inclusive, golden aura of light and love and peace and kindness.

I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since.

I was captured by the glow when Archbishop Tutu and his gracious wife Leah visited Kansas City in 1996. As one of their hosts during a visit to the University of Missouri-Kansas City, I had the privilege of driving them around town. They eschewed a limo or police escort; after years of leading protests against apartheid in South Africa, the Archbishop reportedly preferred to avoid police cars.

I was embarrassed to open the doors to my small, old car. I shouldn't have worried. They were clearly delighted to get in the backseat together and relax a bit, out of the spotlight.

As l drove this loving couple to the airport, we chatted like old friends. I asked him about the risks he faced daily, the dangers he put himself in as he fought for change. I don’t remember his response (I believe it was essentially a shrug and a, “One does what one can,” kind of answer), but I do remember Leah, resplendent in colorful South African garb, looking directly in my rearview mirror and rolling her eyes. 

I could have asked dozens of questions as I drove, but Archbishop Tutu had other ideas. He wanted to ask the questions; he wanted to use our limited time together to learn about me and my life.

“You are a young woman with a career and a family,” he said. “How do you manage? How do you balance all the demands?”

He asked. He listened. This gentle, strong, world-changing leader wanted to know about me.

I was honored by his interest; he was grateful for my time. Several days after their visit to Kansas City, I received a handwritten postcard from the Archbishop, thanking me for all I had done to “look after” him and his wife and letting me know they enjoyed themselves “hugely.”

Archbishop Desmond Tutu was all of the things the tributes note — he was ebullient and inspirational. He was heroic, powerful, and courageous. He was a sage and a leader. 

He was a man. A son, a husband, a father, a friend. And he glowed. 

In the words of my religious tradition, may his memory be a blessing. May his light always shine.

 

Tell a Story Day

Not sure what story you'd like to tell? 

No worries -- it will come to you. 

For now, be willing to listen. Really listen. 

100% Lillian: Lullabies and Love

Look Up: A Centennial Celebration wraps up on this very special Friday -- 100 years ago today, Sophie and Issie Eisen welcomed baby Lillian into the world. 

Lillian loved music her entire life, and learned how to play the piano as a child. It was a rare day that didn't find Mom singing a song, or humming along as someone else sang. When Village Shalom, her retirement community, brought in entertainers to perform for the residents, Mom was always in the front row, singing along and clapping enthusiastically. 

Matter of fact, one of her few complaints at Village Shalom was that not enough of the "old people" showed up for these weekly performances. (She also felt that those who did show up weren't nearly appreciative enough. Mom was a big believer in applauding the talents of those around her.) 

Mom's love of music -- and her appreciation of talent -- drew young people to her. They'd come to Village Shalom as part of a volunteer group or with a simple desire to connect, and be captured by the magic that was Mom. 

A delightful young woman named Sarah visited Mom regularly for years; Mom treasured a CD of Sarah singing some of their favorite songs. Paris Naster -- like Sarah, a musical theatre star -- met Mom back in 2017 and kindly sent an email, telling me how much she enjoyed their encounters:  

"We connected almost immediately and began singing," Paris said. "I have gone to see her about three times since and each time is wonderful. She shares with me her pride in being a Jew, her adoration of her family, and wonderful stories that bring joy to both of us ...

"I brought my Mom to meet her the other day and she said, 'We could be famous, you and me. We'd make a great team and an even better album!'"

Mom and Paris. They do make a great team.
If the video below of them singing doesn't work,
please forgive my technical 
incompetence and click here. 

Along with music, Mom loved children. I like to think that I top the list, followed by Harry and Eva or -- more likely -- Kate and Mary. (Ha! My blog, sibs. Write your own stories.) Put her love for music and children together and what do you have? Lullabies, of course! Mom wrote the music and lyrics for four beautiful lullabies -- one each for Harry, me, and Eva, and then the Choo Choo Song for all three of us. 

Over the years, Mom sang Hello Sandman; See Me, God; It's Nighty-Night Time; and the Choo Choo Song to us, our kids, and dozens of other lucky children. And the lyrical loveliness didn't stop with Mom: My sister, who recently retired from the MU Child Development Lab, rocked countless more babies to sleep to the tune of these songs.

The lullabies are part of Mom's legacy of love, so it's only fitting that they are Mom's centennial birthday gift to you. If you would like the sheet music to all four lullabies, leave your email address in the comments here, or send an email directly to me. It will be my great pleasure to send you a PDF of The Lillian Sokoloff Songbook. 

Because, lord knows, we can all use a little more Lillian in our lives. 

Big thanks to my friend Linda Sweenie
for translating the lullabies into sheet music! 

Oh! When you get the music and lyrics, remember that the classic Choo Choo Song is adaptable. The original version says, "Three sleepy children, just got on the train ..." because there were three of us. Make it work for your family. 

And, this is VERY IMPORTANT: You have to sing the Choo Choo Song last, right as your little one is drifting off. And you absolutely need to add the "Whoo! Whoo!" train whistle sound at the end. Lillian is listening for it. 

xoxo