It was the beginning of rush hour, and the Green Line train was almost full, forcing us to stand. As soon as we boarded I grabbed the bar on the back of the seat nearest me and adjusted my stance to absorb the jerk which I knew would follow as soon as we started.
I noticed a man sitting in the aisle seat a few rows back, and two things about him immediately grabbed my attention. One, he was sitting with his back ramrod straight, and two, he was obviously ex-military, wearing a black corduroy baseball cap embroidered in red and yellow letters that said “Marine Veteran” and a badge that read “Vietnam Veteran” above the pocket of his denim jacket.
His self-assurance was fascinating, yet I also found his eyes-front posture intimidating because the aviator sunglasses hid half of his handsome face. I aimed my gaze over his head and out the window and wondered what he’d experienced in that war that was more humiliating to those who fought in it than any other in America’s history, and how it had shaped him.
During the first week of spring, the temperature dipped into the twenties, the daffodils lay prostrate on the walk, and I devoted an entire day to cleaning out my files. 
I usually begin thinking about a column a few weeks before I sit down to write it, but the month of January flew by so quickly and the approach of the deadline for this month threw me into a panic.
Long ago, I vowed never to write another column about resumes, but something a client said to me a few weeks after being laid off by the Fortune 200 company where she had worked for over fifteen years changed my mind. 
I am writing this on the Friday morning after Thanksgiving. Because I like to finish one holiday before leaping ahead to the next, I am making this a quiet day, a space to reflect on what this annual feast, now so narrowly focused on eating and football, really means.
Every event or conversation that upsets or displeases us is made up of two components: what actually happens in real time, and what our head does with it afterwards. We have little or no control over many of the difficult things which occur in our lives, but we can change our response to them.
I’ve been aware for some time now that what causes my clients the most pain in their professional lives is not the weight of their responsibilities, the heavier workload due to the economic downturn.
I regularly work with clients who have creative goals—making pottery, writing poetry, actually using the sketch pad they’ve purchased or been given as a gift. Sometimes these aspirations come up almost apologetically: “Of course, it’s not practical and I have so little time, but what I’d really like to be doing is—”
People who vacation on Cape Cod would probably find it strange that someone who lives here would leave in July.
Growing a lawn, rather than isolated clumps of grass, is a problem on a sand bar, which is a good description of outer Cape Cod, where I live.
Sometimes I’ve just had it with the absurd extremes marketing goes to and I have to stand up and say, “Enough!”
