A note to my readers: Are you reading the blog? No? Why not? Just this week, you could have read all about trying to find the most ethical dog food, finding an incredible (and incredibly easy) recipe for hummus, and letting go of some old distractions to make room for new possibilities. The best thing is - I don’t just want you to read the site - I want you to be a part of it. Share ideas, connect with other people. Check it out at www.moremindfulfamily. wordpress. com. It’ll be awesome, I swear. Lousy days are like fine whines In the world of lousy days, there are so many varietals. Some have a bitter nose, but a bright finish. Others open with a spray of cherries and freesia only to disappoint with a thick taste of freshly paved asphalt. Some lousy days are like a stubbed toe. And not just any stubbed toe. They’re like the stubbed toe that happens after you’ve let go of all hesitation and selfconsciousness to perform a spectacularly joyful series of pirouettes around your living room. The living room where someone has left a toy truck or deployment of sharp little army men or a set of metal, 20- pound weights.

These are not tragic days. They’re not life-altering days. They’re just lousy.

They’re days that feel like a full-body stubbed toe, and they’re darned disheartening. I started my week with one of those. It wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t like learning that someone I thought was my best friend was secretly making fun of me behind my back. It was just one of those days that began full of energy and enthusiasm and optimism, but ended with a bruised ego and some difficult introspection.

``Drat this examined life,’’ I thought as I was leaving work. It may be worth living, but it’s by no means easy.

Sure, I could have told myself that little setbacks are inevitably going to be balanced by little victories. I could have reminded myself that health and family and friends are more important than anything else.

I could have clung to the faith that, just when I’m feeling most cynical and frustrated with the world, one of my children will smile just so or utter some supreme words of comfort that puts everything into perspective, causing the clouds to part, the sunlight to warm the earth, the birds to chirp a rousing concerto and all the girls who were mean to me in middle school to arrive on my doorstep and apologize, telling me they were just jealous of me because I was so pretty in that awkward and unathletic way.

I could have turned my frown upside-down.

Or, I could have used a lousy day as a perfect excuse to forget about my goal of being more mindful, go on autopilot, glaze over and defer thinking about it. Which is what I chose to do. I’m not proud of it, but at least I am aware of it. I was mindful of my choice of mindlessness.

Driving home that evening, I clicked on NPR to let the news of other people’s hardships and very real tragedies drown out the sound of my own trivial disappointments.

As news of unspeakable urban warfare gave way to another installment of the series ``This I Believe,’’ my waxy, half-present attention turned fully to the story at hand.

The series invited individuals to submit essays outlining, as you might expect, what they believe - those core ideas that run so deep they’re almost indistinguishable from identity itself.

This installment was from the writer and arts entrepreneur Jim Haynes, who has hosted a regular weekly dinner party for 50- 100 plus guests at his Paris apartment for the past 30 years. He doesn’t send out invitations. People call, write or email, and when the night’s guest list is full, it’s full.

On the celebrity side, his guests have included Allen Ginsberg, Molly Ivins, Chloe Sevingy, Yoko Ono and many others.

But I don’t get the sense that Haynes is doing this because of celebrity. As he described in his ``This I Believe’’ essay, ``People from all corners of the world come to break bread together, to meet, to talk, connect and often become friends. All ages, nationalities, races, professions gather here, and since there is no organized seating, the opportunity for mingling couldn’t be better. I love the randomness. I believe in introducing people to people.’’

I tried to imagine it - opening your house every Sunday evening to whomever would come because you believe in the importance of connecting people to each other. What a remarkably generous act.

Haynes uses his natural good memory to facilitate these introductions, memorizing ahead of time everyone’s name, home and vocation or avocation. This isn’t a smarmy, self-interested, careerist push - it’s a genuine stab at making a difference. Haynes summed it up:

``Like Tom Paine, I am a world citizen. All human history is mine. My roots cover the earth.

``I believe we should know each other. After all, our lives are all connected.

``OK, now come and dine.’’

If you’d like to dine with Haynes, you can visit NPR’s website and send him an email. The address is http:// www.npr.org/templates/ story/story. php?storyId=99172304. If you go, I want to hear all about it.

I realized after listening to this story about inviting the world for dinner every week for three decades that it’s probably a good idea to let the things you believe in most take up the most time in your day-to-day attention.

And while I believe deeply and wholly in generosity and reaching out to other people and doing good in the world, I spend a whole lot of time thinking about my own stubbed toes and disappointments and frustrations.

I’m not proud of it, but I’m happy now to be a little more aware of it.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger wants to know who would sit around your table if you invited the world to dinner. And what would you eat? You can add your comments at www.moremindfulfamiliy. wordpress. com, or email her at Villagewordsmith@gmail. com.