TGIF :: Cherries & Pits (+ Buds!?)

#89 || A simple practice that we could all use right now

Mar 21, 2025

I write to explore living undimmed—present and self-aware of escapist drinking, eating, snark, exercise, shopping, sex, work, drugs—even grooming—so we can truly show up. Sometimes, like today, I pontificate on the experiences in between, offering practices and ideas that we might share an appreciation for. Prior posts are available here. Thank you for trusting me with your time.

Form & function

These days, our family eats dinner at one of two tables: the Mak Table—a rectangular table in the living/dining area that seats up to eight—and the Gordhamer Table, a round table tucked in the kitchen corner, cozy for four, maybe five.

On nights when we’re all home for dinner, one of the boys usually calls out while setting the table, “Which table tonight?”—a familiar check-in that happens by the napkin drawer. It’s an unspoken ritual: We seem to never use paper napkins at the more formal Mak Table and I don’t think we’ve ever used cloth napkins at the more casual Gordhamer table.

For years, we almost always sat at The Mak Table. This meant nice napkins, often a candle or more, and more formalities than I am guessing most families incorporate for a habitual weeknight dinner: The oldest female (that would almost always be me…) picks up her fork before anyone else can eat (I know…), no one eats the last of anything shared until it’s been offered to everyone else, water is poured for others before ourselves, proper silverware placement, and everyone finishes eating before anyone gets up (we ditched the “May I please be excused?” years ago, but that was a thing for a while too).

It’s a family tradition

All of this traces back to my mom—with support from my dad, too. Growing up, our dinners were formal affairs: china and silver, proper serving dishes for sauces, a bottle of wine on a silver coaster for my parents, and relentless attention to my brother’s and my table manners. We were corrected at nearly every meal. For years.

Interestingly, I don’t remember many, if any, of our conversations. What did we talk about at dinner? One memory stands out: my dad asking about a movie I’d claimed to have seen the night before. I squirmed and dodged, trying not to admit I hadn’t gone to a movie at all. That was a lie. In the pre-teenage-GPS-tracking era, I often told them I was doing something benign, while actually heading to a boozy party at a friend’s house—parents out of town for the weekend.

As my dad continued to ask for a peculiar level of detail about the movie, my mother eventually chimed in “Leave her alone already!” making it possible for me to escape as they bickered. I’ve always wondered if my dad knew I’d come home hungover that day and was using that dinner table chatter to blow my cover. I guess I’ll find out later today. (Hi Dad :)

Dualities

I digress. The point is, I grew up in a household where weeknight family dinners were formal affairs. A chance to chitter chatter about our days, or the news, or our community in some way—and gradually over the years, master our table manners. I thank my parents for these skills, but boy, what a road it was to learn them.

So like so many things in a two household family, my teenage sons get two versions of weeknight dinners together: (1) What they experience at their dad’s house and (2) what they experience at ours. I can’t comment on what happens at dad’s because it has been 7+ years since we all ate together regularly (“regularly” because we do all eat together occasionally, and of that I am beyond grateful—and maybe even a bit proud). But I have been paying closer attention to what happens at ours, and this second duality that we together navigate under our roof: The Mak Table vs. The Gordhamer Table.

The kids never vote for The Mak Table. They prefer dinner to be casual. When we eat at the Gordhamer table, we serve ourselves from the prepared food on the stove and counter, grab our own waters, put all of the sauces and condiments we may want right on the table, and there are no candles. Simple…and, frankly—usually more fun. Why? Everyone is just a little more relaxed. The kids have pretty good table manners at this point and I think it’s my job to let them now learn to use them (or loosen up on occasion) depending on the context. So, we are together learning how to adapt to different environments, not be too rigid, keep it light when we can.

The might of connection with Cherries & Pits

Regardless of the table selection, we do prioritize connection. With everyone’s busy schedules and my eldest on the brink of high school graduation, how we use these moments together is more important than ever. It’s why we love Cherries and Pits. It’s our family’s version of a tradition—often seeking to replace small talk with a deeper engagement, I guess.

For years, we’ve had a ritual of going around the table, each of us (guests included) sharing something good and something challenging. Examples of cherries I’ve heard recently include time with friends, starting the baseball season, an inspiring meeting, improving weather, prized ceramics work, a successful climb while recovering from a ski injury, and a fun weekend ahead. Pits have included too much homework, loathsome (and expensive) car repairs, the flu, worries about a loved one, an intimidating public speaking project at school, and surprise expenses.

Adding a bud

Then recently, my youngest son chimed in with “and my bud is…”

“Bud? What are you talking about?!” the eldest reacted.

“Instead of cherries & pits, we can do roses and thorns—and buds. Or just add buds.”

And so we continued—adding a third reflection that night: a bud—something small, full of potential, exciting, and just beginning to grow.

Our conversation shifted to ideas, inspirations, and hopes—early inklings of things we’d love to see take shape. Turns out, we all really needed that.

What hold potential right now that we want to nourish?

Can we spend a little less time relishing what’s already great or lamenting what’s hard—and instead shift some of our attention toward what’s just beginning to grow?

For me, I have a renewed fascination with calligraphy, (finally) started strength training (thank you,

Elena Brower

and

Laura McKowen

!), and I am getting ready to fire up my social media again after a much-needed break. I’m also feeling the stirrings of excitement for some imminent summer explorations, my son’s upcoming launch into college, and a handful of long-term projects that are finally starting to bear some fruit.

Future facing

ClearLife is, at its heart, about listening deeply to ourselves—trusting our inner voice, and stepping back from the various forms of dimming that hold us back. The habits that numb, limit, or quiet us may offer short-term comfort, but often, what we truly need is to feel more, not less. Sometimes, the very sensation we avoid holds the insight—or the healing—we’ve been looking for.

Noticing our joys and challenges is an important beginning—but at some point, it’s just as vital to tune in and attune to what wants to grow. Where are we headed? Where do we want to place our attention, time, and energy? Is there a relationship, project, or quiet intention asking for care—something we can honor, even with just a few small steps?

Last week, I bought a calligraphy guide, a few pens, and some beautiful paper. It’s all still sitting on the windowsill by the ~~kitchen~~ Gordhamer table, but the seed has been planted, an intention set. There’a bud there.

One kid wants to learn scuba diving. Another is diving into investing. We’re still in the research phase of one and early steps with the other, but I love that we’re putting energy toward these sparks—together, simply by sharing.

Onward, together too

Whether we’re gathered around the candlelit Mak Table or squeezed in more casually at The Gordhamer Table, what matters most is that we keep doing our best to show up with presence, curiosity, care—and levity. I love our addition of the bud to our evening reflections too: a gentle nudge to not just notice what is, but to honor what’s becoming. These tiny beginnings—new skills, fresh interests, quiet hopes—deserve our attention too. Because living undimmed isn’t just about cutting back the noise; it’s about making space for what wants to grow too.

Love ❤️

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