Yesterday I made cookies. I was somewhere through the creaming and adding when I was filled with something that made me stop and wonder just what I was feeling. Looking into the bowl of thick, gloppy stuff, I realized it was some combination of peace and hope and memory. Gratitude.
Not long ago it was fairly frequent that I figured a bowl of cookie dough and a glass of whiskey made a really tasty and reasonable supper. They were nights I hadn't fully prepared for, nights that were regular and predictable, but would still sneak up on me every week. Every week, I judged myself. Some weeks I made cookie dough. I was very blessed in that time to have two people in particular who would simply sit with me, without judgment of any kind, and share cookie dough. One would also share whiskey. Both would let me talk if I needed to, or sit quietly and eat. Or we would watch something on Netflix to make us laugh or cry.
The gratitude I felt yesterday was related to all of those things. And because that time is behind me. And for the memory itself. I'm grateful that I have dear friends who know my heart - not simply because they do, but also because they are willing to listen to me, to look at me and into me. To play "worst case" with me, and also to talk about far-fetched dreams that really mean something else I'm truly aiming for.
Once upon a time, I thought I had hope, that I knew what hope was, is. The other day, emailing a friend, I said that I felt something I couldn't quite define, but it was small, deep, and good. I liked it. In the course of describing it, I realized what I was feeling was real, honest to goodness hope. It's smaller than I pictured it, but stronger, in a nebulous and changing kind of way. Where I'd thought hope was supposed to be something grand and visible to everyone around me, I discovered this hope is mine and mine alone. This hope is attached to the dreams I have that develop into goals - goals that are changeable, malleable, flexible, and even discardable. This hope feeds my soul, rather than my judgment. I spent a whole lot of my life thinking that a goal was permanent; once it was set, it had to be attained, or failure was the result. I never knew there were other options - modifying goals, maybe (but only to make them harder to reach), but scrapping them? Never. Hope, I'm discovering, is related to true humility - seeing yourself for who and what you really are. Knowing, acknowledging gifts and flaws, and working to improve both. I think hope is what feeds that growth.
this hope is what came from those cookie dough and whiskey nights. It's what had me washing those dishes the next morning, and making it through another week. It's what's pulled me away from that self-judgment zone; or rather, is pulling me away, as I still run into it more often than I'd like. It's what brings me peace when the unavoidable "unpleasantries" crop up, as they do almost daily. Because it's always there. The Big Hope I thought was so definitive seemed easier to lose, to have to look for and work for. That hope left me feeling hopeless, and therefore like a failure in some ways for having lost it or let it go. This new hope, this small nugget of reality, is with me regardless of what I see in front of me. Quite often it peeks around my shoulder and looks at me without saying a word until I realize its presence and smile. Like the best of friends, like a lover. This hope stands by me in the pain and hurt, and in the good times, too. This hope says, "yep, that'll be fun, if we get there" without ever saying "that's impossible." Sometimes it does ask "is that really what you want?" And sometimes my response is "yes, it is what I want, even though I am fully aware that it's not what I need, or maybe even not what's best for me, but for today, it's what I want to dream about and wish for." And there's no guilt in the wishing. This hope laughs with me and cries with me, and showed me how far I've come - with a bowl of cookie dough.
I have miles to go. And I'm looking forward to every one of them: steep and rocky, rough and uncharted, smooth and freshly paved, fast, slow, and in between. I have hope as a companion.
Showing posts with label challenges. Show all posts
Showing posts with label challenges. Show all posts
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
motivated by purpose
I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....
Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.
Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.
One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.
But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.
It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?
And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.
Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.
Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.
One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.
But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.
It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?
And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
open doors
Many times in life we find ourselves in a place we didn't expect to be. Sometimes the surprise is quite pleasant; other times, especially painful. Unfortunately, some of us, many of us, perhaps even all of us at one point or another, see others in their places and try to imagine ourselves there, saying "I could never..." "I wouldn't want to...." "How does one survive...." The thing is, could and will, want to and have to, are so closely related they are indistinguishable in real life. Survive is a misnomer. Much relies on mindset, and support. I never would have imagined myself a single mother with no job at the age of 47, and if I had, I certainly wouldn't have considered using words like "free," "happy," "loved" to describe myself. And yet, that's where I am. My household is preparing for all possibilities, which means being open and honest with each other - something new to all of us. For the first time in my life I'm not hiding some part of my feelings, some chamber of my heart. We're sharing appropriately, which is also new (and sounds really, really odd in writing!) and so very refreshing!
Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.
One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.
Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.
Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.
One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.
Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
free my heart
"God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to."
These words, supposedly said in an attempt to comfort, haunted me for over a year. At first because they felt like an admonishment for having held on so long, and then being forced to let go. Later because they fed the age old question of why. Why does He allow certain things to happen. There were times when the words came at me sideways, along with another question: Then why on earth did He wait so long to make it happen? Eventually, because the result was, indeed, a far better place, I let them go, the words.
So I was surprised when they whispered at me this morning as I brushed my teeth. But today they came at me from a different place - somewhere under some memories, some great weight that had been lifted and carried away, but whose imprint will remain at least for a little while. "God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to." No, I thought, He couldn't. Rather, He wouldn't. That would have meant the loss of free will. What I understand about God's will is that it is for us, not against us. God's will in this is not what happened, or how, but the result. God's will is related to the open door in front of me, not the slammed and bolted one behind.
Yes, I do believe that God aids in opening and closing of doors - possibilities, options, opportunities - but nothing in God's will seals off something that was inherently good. Strength shows itself in compassion, in Love, in small kindnesses in difficult moments. Strength comes from God. "Feel some compassion for a weak man showing his weakness." Words that landed on me far more softly than I thought they should in the moment. The truth is, God didn't need to stop either event. But that doesn't mean He made them happen, either.
What God did do was to allow me an infinite range of options for responding. He'll allow that I choose to protect myself. He'll allow that I spend an evening getting rip-roaring drunk (safely at home). He'll allow that I dream the (once) impossible as clear, legitimate options. He'll allow that I use my voice, even in the censored state I to which I must agree. He'll allow that I have moments - days, even - when I forget that He is my consolation. He'll allow that I choose to trust this time. He'll allow that I choose to feel free. He'll even allow that freedom sometimes feels frightening. (Be not afraid does not mean that I shouldn't ever feel fear; it means that I should not take fear on as a state of being. Something I had done for a very long time.)
The future itself does not look anything but bright, shining, and inviting. The practical is, in some moments, pretty daunting. Its range is the same as the sky - from cloud cover to a raging storm. But the storm will pass. It always does. With nicks and dings and maybe total destruction, but I can face it. I am worthy of this challenge. And those words cannot haunt me any longer. God's will be done, which is in Love.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
no platitudes, please
"Meet them where they are" is a cardinal rule in ministry of any kind. Truthfully, I believe it is a rule in just about any relationship. For a while, I thought that might mean knowing the other's likes and dislikes, interests, hobbies, taste in music. As I grew in youth ministry, with the help and guidance of some really amazing and down to earth youth ministers, I began to realize there was more to it than that, more to meeting someone than the externals. Knowing where someone IS is only part of the equation.
I'm in the process of extricating myself from a painful and difficult relationship. Generally speaking, I have never been in a better place - for the first time in my life I have confidence in my abilities, my choices, my future. I can make decisions without second guessing every single aspect of the choices, the outcomes, the effects on others, judgement from others. I can laugh. My therapist asked me once when we were talking about holding in some painful emotion, "Would you try to contain joy?" I know him well enough that there is likely a biblical reference there, and yet my honest response to him was, "Yes, I do have to contain my joy at times." I went home sad that day, with the realization that joy and sorrow are equally important to feel, to acknowledge, to express, to share. I've come a long way since then.
There are times, often days in a row, when I am inexplicably irritable. Perfectly normal, I know, and yet in this process I find my analytical mind looking for connections to the 'stuff.' Sometimes there is one, and it's abundantly clear. Other times there probably isn't one, but I find myself determined to find one - not to blame someone else for my mood, but to better define my feelings and, more specifically, my responses to them. Somewhere in my most recent cranky days, I realized how frustrating it is to me, how much it feeds the mood, when the people I turn to offer nothing but advice. It occurred to me that I needed someone - anyone - to meet me where I am; to minister to me.
Over the days prior to "the mood" I had seen a few memes and posts related to compassion. It took longer than I'd like to admit to make the connection. Meeting someone where they are means to have compassion for them. The kind of compassion that is based on knowledge that we all are travelling the same road, each at their own pace, with obstacles and assistance that cannot be equated with another person's experience. I can't measure my suffering, or my joy, against what another person feels or experiences - that's fair to neither of us. Continuous well meaning advice begins to rankle me because it often comes from an angle that I am not yet ready to work with, or from a direction I've already gone, or - especially grating - in the form of platitudes and extensive definitions of faith and love (the two things that in all of this I have had very little trouble embracing).
A few days after a particularly trying exchange with a well meaning person in my life, I received a text apologizing for offering clear shibboleth instead of compassion. In part, she said, "..I know how platitudes and rational explanations of faith are really not helpful or consoling. It only hurts more." It was the first time I was grateful that I had spoken honestly to someone outside of my initial tight circle. For the first time, I could breathe with someone of my own faith background.
If you want to help me, if you want to walk with me, you will need to meet me where I am. You will need to be compassionate to be consoling. You will need to understand that I don't want or need reassurance that my Father loves me, and always has, and always will. I have that reassurance from Him every minute of every day. What I need from you is understanding that I am hurting sometimes, and a majority of the time, I'm not hurting. And that even if I am hurting, there are lots of other causes (which is something I, too, am working on understanding!) related to my job, my house, the state of the world, and maybe even the phases of the moon. Those who have been walking with me all along know that it's been a really long while since I've been in "a mood" - a longer span than ever in my life - so they are rejoicing that I am experiencing a new-to-me emotion. Walk with me instead of deciding what direction I should take. If my direction goes where you don't want to go, move on.
I'm good with that.
I'm in the process of extricating myself from a painful and difficult relationship. Generally speaking, I have never been in a better place - for the first time in my life I have confidence in my abilities, my choices, my future. I can make decisions without second guessing every single aspect of the choices, the outcomes, the effects on others, judgement from others. I can laugh. My therapist asked me once when we were talking about holding in some painful emotion, "Would you try to contain joy?" I know him well enough that there is likely a biblical reference there, and yet my honest response to him was, "Yes, I do have to contain my joy at times." I went home sad that day, with the realization that joy and sorrow are equally important to feel, to acknowledge, to express, to share. I've come a long way since then.
There are times, often days in a row, when I am inexplicably irritable. Perfectly normal, I know, and yet in this process I find my analytical mind looking for connections to the 'stuff.' Sometimes there is one, and it's abundantly clear. Other times there probably isn't one, but I find myself determined to find one - not to blame someone else for my mood, but to better define my feelings and, more specifically, my responses to them. Somewhere in my most recent cranky days, I realized how frustrating it is to me, how much it feeds the mood, when the people I turn to offer nothing but advice. It occurred to me that I needed someone - anyone - to meet me where I am; to minister to me.
Over the days prior to "the mood" I had seen a few memes and posts related to compassion. It took longer than I'd like to admit to make the connection. Meeting someone where they are means to have compassion for them. The kind of compassion that is based on knowledge that we all are travelling the same road, each at their own pace, with obstacles and assistance that cannot be equated with another person's experience. I can't measure my suffering, or my joy, against what another person feels or experiences - that's fair to neither of us. Continuous well meaning advice begins to rankle me because it often comes from an angle that I am not yet ready to work with, or from a direction I've already gone, or - especially grating - in the form of platitudes and extensive definitions of faith and love (the two things that in all of this I have had very little trouble embracing).
A few days after a particularly trying exchange with a well meaning person in my life, I received a text apologizing for offering clear shibboleth instead of compassion. In part, she said, "..I know how platitudes and rational explanations of faith are really not helpful or consoling. It only hurts more." It was the first time I was grateful that I had spoken honestly to someone outside of my initial tight circle. For the first time, I could breathe with someone of my own faith background.
If you want to help me, if you want to walk with me, you will need to meet me where I am. You will need to be compassionate to be consoling. You will need to understand that I don't want or need reassurance that my Father loves me, and always has, and always will. I have that reassurance from Him every minute of every day. What I need from you is understanding that I am hurting sometimes, and a majority of the time, I'm not hurting. And that even if I am hurting, there are lots of other causes (which is something I, too, am working on understanding!) related to my job, my house, the state of the world, and maybe even the phases of the moon. Those who have been walking with me all along know that it's been a really long while since I've been in "a mood" - a longer span than ever in my life - so they are rejoicing that I am experiencing a new-to-me emotion. Walk with me instead of deciding what direction I should take. If my direction goes where you don't want to go, move on.
I'm good with that.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
thinking it through
"You must be so proud!"
Actually, I'm proud, yes, but no more proud than I was yesterday, or the day before, or when he was 2, for that matter. My sons do what they do and are who they are because they were raised that way. They were raised with the expectation that they would become fine young men, and they are. Each and every one of them. I've always been proud of them. I've always loved them. I've always known they would be uniquely and truly them. Who else could they possibly be?
Nor can I take credit for them taking to heart all that they were raised hearing. If I could, the dishes would always be done and the laundry put away on laundry day. In truth, I'm quite humbled when I think about the men they are becoming. The young women my two oldest are dating are beautiful, inside and out; self-assured, kind, warm -- exactly the kind of woman I would want in my sons' lives. But again, I'm not at all surprised. Their friends have always been the sort that I was happy to have around. All of the boys' friends have been solid people. I've loved them all, and still do, with all my heart.
"You must be so proud!" The intonation is often tinged with surprise, or something like it. Proud, yes, but not at all surprised. We've been talking about this for a long time, whichever this this is. And we're probably more aware of any possible pitfalls than you can imagine, because devil's advocate is a fun game sometimes, and sarcasm is not always veiled anger -- it can also be just plain funny when used properly.
Here's the thing, I'm recovering from long-term external definition of my emotions: someone else telling me (or trying to tell me) how and what I'm feeling. So, frankly, when you say "You must be..." my hackles get raised. Immediately. My problem, I know. And I know I don't always handle it as well as I'd like, so I've been working out how to improve the interaction. Clearly I can't tell every you all of this every time. I will tell you now, though, it lands on me as you telling me what I feel. Even when you are someone who doesn't know me well. Which is exactly who you are, because the people who do know me don't say things like that, although there are precious few of them with whom I've talked about this. They just know to express their own feelings. When you tell me how I feel, my instant reaction is a desire to say, "No, I'm actually rather nonplussed," because I'd like to see how many people know what that even means. But that is misplaced sarcasm, the sort that is veiled anger.
"Drew, I want you to know that I am proud of you, but no more proud of you for this than I was proud of you when you were 2. Is that okay?"
"Actually, I think that makes sense coming from you. I mean, you're my mom. If someone else were to say that, it might be weird."
"Then that's what I might say: 'I've always been proud of him!'"
"Sounds good to me."
And pray for him. And for me. And for all of them. I do, every single day.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
vision of me
There are times in life when the varied pieces of experience and interest seem to be spread wide and messy, and completely unrelated. Looking at them, one wonders how they could truly be part of one creation, one whole. Without direction or diagram, focusing on only one piece at a time, trying to make sense of it on its own merit becomes habit. However, without the broader, fuller view, justice is not done to the parts cast aside and ignored, even temporarily.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
dig in
So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.
Who's in?
Who's in?
castles and moats
There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.
What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?
Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.
I read this today:
Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...
What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?
Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.
I read this today:
We need to withdraw from time to timeSound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.
from all unnecessary cares and business.
Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
a double three
I missed posting yesterday, although I did not miss knowing what to say. I went through my list before sleep last night, knowing I would get to it today. Here's yesterday:
#1 That nifty effect our brainwaves have when we "connect" with someone. It's an actual thing, and it means so much to know that when there's that click, there's also increased creativity and positivity. I just wish I could remember the name.....
#2 Those people in my life that feel like they've been part of it forever. The ones I can talk with for hours, or sit in silence and not feel the least bit awkward.
#3 Laughter at work. Something that is currently kinda related to the previous two. Some days there's more, and some days there's none, but I really think there is ssomething terrific about being able to have genuine and spontaneous laughter while working. You can feel free to call me crazy.
And then there's today:
#1 Daily Mass. I wasn't going to go today, but I did and was very grateful for the message. And all the rest that comes with going to Mass. I walked in knowing I needed some centering, and walked out with a fresh outlook.
#2 The friends who encourage me to go to daily Mass! They employ different methods - and some of them may not even know they have that influence, but they do. I love each of them in a very special way.
#3 Classes to take! I registered for two classes today. I love learning, stretching, growing. I've missed being a student.
Monday, September 1, 2014
the third three
#1 Our home. It's often a mess, and there are repairs to be made and redecorating/remodelling dreams scattered all over the place, but it's cozy and homey and ours.
#2 Our church. I feel as at home there as I do sitting on my balcony, whether I'm there for worship, for fellowship, to volunteer, or at work, I feel as right as rain. I've been asked a number of times, "Don't you ever get tired of driving there?" I don't. Does one ever get tired of going home?
#3 The seasons. Tonight as I sit on the balcony, it's much darker, feels much later than the same time a month ago. The night sounds are different, too, and I know that before long we'll have to put the funiture back in the shed and move inside again. But that doesn't matter tonight. Noticing the splendor of the little changes is an opportunity to give thanks for the experience of the day.
I am so very blessed!
Sunday, August 31, 2014
second three things
On day two, my thankfulness is different. But each day's gratitude must be related to my particular story, and my particular blessings.
#1 My brokenness. It hurts more some days than others (like today), but without it I would not have a chance at seeing my growth or progress. It's slow (to me) but steady, and occasionally I can see glimpses of the mosaic in the works. This one is also interesting to me because of the readings and the homily at Mass this morning. Everything is related, and without pain or sorrow or other unpleasantness, the true joy, the miracles, the wholeness are not as clear or obvious. Not as full.
#2 Pray-ers. Mosaics require a considerable amount of sticky, messy, goopy stuff to make them hold together. When I can't mix it all in myself, I have friends I can ask to help me out. That's new to me, and I don't always remember to, but they are there for me -- and I for them.
#3 Pinterest. Yeah, I know; it doesn't exactly fit with the others, but today it was particularly helpful! I had a whole bunch of zucchini to do fun things with, but not so many ideas for what fun yumminess to do. (The reason is related to #1 above. Everything is related!) I made really delicious muffins, thanks to Pinterest, and found another I will use tomorrow, as well as a cucumber recipe to try. A win!
Even on a bad day, I remembered to look for the positives. That's a bit of growth in itself! In fact, in the middle of an internal stuggle that had me crying out to God while standing in the middle of my kitchen, I realized that I was, indeed, thankful for the struggle, as it gave me a chance to find in myself the tools I've learned I have and give them a try. It's a little crazy, but in the best way.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
first three things
Normally, I don't "do" challenge things that are on social media. For whatever reason, they make me feel kind of like I'm getting chain mail, which I was warned about hundreds of times in elementary school. (Not only is it illegal, it's unsavory; the work of evil minds.) This, however, is different. This is actually an exercise I've been working on--and often putting off or "forgetting"--and is worth the thinking time. The same friend who 'suggested' me for it also recently tagged me in a photo posting exercise which I have not yet done, but have been mulling over. So, here goes. Day One of Three Things For Which I Am Thankful.
#1 My faith. God loves me. I love God. Those simple truths make all the difference. God lets me be me, flaws and all, and brings me back in for a hug when I mess things up--even if I meant to. I talk to Him every day, and do my best to listen. Even when I don't understand what or why or how, I have faith that His plan is for the long-term--and is in His time. Today I have some hurt I'm helping friends bear. Faith makes that both easier and harder.
#2 My husband. It's been a crazy ride, some of which I would rather not repeat, but none of which I would trade or give up. He makes me laugh, he lets me cry, he disagrees with me, and he supports me. He is real, and he allows and encourages me to be real, too. Since the day we married, we have been family, and I cannot imagine--or remember!--any other way.
#3 Words. There is such delight in finding the words to express oneself. Today I read words that brought me joy, and words that cut me to the quick. In between, words raced and bounced through my mind, across my heart. around my being, and found themselves in songs I heard, conversations I took part in, and prayers that rose from my heart to the heavens.
These three are intertwined, as are all the 'parts' of my life. I cannot fathom the strength of any without the others today.
#1 My faith. God loves me. I love God. Those simple truths make all the difference. God lets me be me, flaws and all, and brings me back in for a hug when I mess things up--even if I meant to. I talk to Him every day, and do my best to listen. Even when I don't understand what or why or how, I have faith that His plan is for the long-term--and is in His time. Today I have some hurt I'm helping friends bear. Faith makes that both easier and harder.
#2 My husband. It's been a crazy ride, some of which I would rather not repeat, but none of which I would trade or give up. He makes me laugh, he lets me cry, he disagrees with me, and he supports me. He is real, and he allows and encourages me to be real, too. Since the day we married, we have been family, and I cannot imagine--or remember!--any other way.
#3 Words. There is such delight in finding the words to express oneself. Today I read words that brought me joy, and words that cut me to the quick. In between, words raced and bounced through my mind, across my heart. around my being, and found themselves in songs I heard, conversations I took part in, and prayers that rose from my heart to the heavens.
These three are intertwined, as are all the 'parts' of my life. I cannot fathom the strength of any without the others today.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
perhaps one day
I have a pain in my shoulder. I call it my shoulder, but if I were to point to it, you might say it's in my back. I know it's my shoulder because when I lift my arm one way, there is a clicking feeling in my shoulder, and if I lift it another way, the pain is less. We're not talking super evident pain: if you didn't watch me or know me, you might not notice, because I rarely mention it. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. On occasion, it interrupts my sleep or makes me feel especially tired. I know of something I can do to alleviate the pain, but it requires a partner, and sometimes the need to explain to someone is just not worth the energy to me. I can live with it, so I do. Every once in a while I do wonder why it hurts in the first place, since it comes and goes with no rhyme or reason, no obvious causes. When I do mention it, I get the usual questions: What happened? Did you do something to it? Have you been or do you need to see a doctor/chiropractor? How long has it been like that? Perhaps one day I'll find out what it is that makes the same spot hurt again and again.
I have a pain in my heart. I call it my heart, because it's easier to explain that way, but in reality, I feel like it's a pain in my soul, because sometimes it affects my ability to pray, to give, to receive. And where it hurts is not a physical place, but a place I can feel, nonetheless. Sometimes this pain makes it impossible or difficult to eat, to sleep, to get out of bed. Other times, it is almost impossible to notice. But it's always there. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. I know some things I can do to alleviate the pain, and I am in the process. When I mention it, I get a variety of questions: What makes you think that's okay? Do you really think praying/therapy/talking/sharing can help? Can't you just get over it and move on?
Both sources of pain have forced me to take a good look at who I surround myself with. I'm learning what a safe place is. I'm learning that I don't have to rely on myself. I'm learning that the important thing is how I will get through, moving forward; how I will use what I learn. I am blessed with spirited and strong children who challenge me, a loving and generous husband, and friends I can easily call family, as well as family members who have shared experiences, and are willing to listen. Most of all, I am blessed with a desire to pray and open my heart, even when it hurts, when it feels like it's crumbling, cracking, and falling apart. I look forward to the day I can step back from the mosaic that is my heart pieced together and see the beauty as others see it. Right now I'm too close to see anything but the details, and the work is too new to truly appreciate progress.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
cool little story
Yesterday, I shared a cool little story with a new friend, and he said, "Sometimes the answer is right there in plain sight. We just miss it." Or forget to look. My story in a nutshell: I was having trouble with a meditation on the Centurion whose servant was healed. I wrote about my difficulty in the devotional book, and my son came and read a passage from his book--mostly unrelated. The next night, he told me about leafing through his bible and coming across a story he found interesting....the story of a Centurion whose servant was healed. He proceeded to tell me about the footnotes and references that explained--very neatly--just what it was I'd been having trouble with. I thanked him for sharing, and told him about my frustration the night before. Then I thanked God for the wink.
This morning, driving to church, I remembered that I had not read the daily readings in a couple of weeks, and had missed at least a day in my devotional, and wondered (yet again!) why it is so hard to develop and keep good habits, when bad habits--even new ones--seem to develop on their own. The next thought I had was that the answer is right there in plain sight. That's when I realized what I was missing. The answer really was right there.
God gave us free will. We tell the kids that all the time. We talk about it. We know it. I know it. And that is the answer to my question. I fall easily into bad habits because I simply don't make a choice. Here's the thing: when I choose, or decide, to make a change for the good--to pray with my devotional, for example--each day I need to further make the choice to follow through with the decision. Each and every day. Why? Because I have free will. When I don't decide, when I let my guard down, or just wait too long to say, "now it's time to read this and pray," there is a golden opportunity for someone else to make an offer. It's far simpler and easier for me to just sit and do nothing at all, or to play on my phone, or even to do the dishes just because they are sitting there, than it is to determine that it is now time to pray--or exercise, or whatever else it is that would be the good habit to form.
I've recognized this before. I blogged once about reading some advice regarding the decision to be married each day. The fact that I am a married woman is not changeable, but how I feel about that--on days when one or both of us is stressed or grumpy, sick, or whatever--is something I can decide to work with or against. I can't necessarily change how the daily situation makes me feel, but I can determine how, or if, or when, I will deal with it. Making that decision purposefully has been a game changer for me. Why I did not apply it to other aspects of my life is one of the mysteries I am still working on solving.
My life is a prayer, and I am working toward seeing it that way each day, not just when I remember to think about it.
This morning, driving to church, I remembered that I had not read the daily readings in a couple of weeks, and had missed at least a day in my devotional, and wondered (yet again!) why it is so hard to develop and keep good habits, when bad habits--even new ones--seem to develop on their own. The next thought I had was that the answer is right there in plain sight. That's when I realized what I was missing. The answer really was right there.
God gave us free will. We tell the kids that all the time. We talk about it. We know it. I know it. And that is the answer to my question. I fall easily into bad habits because I simply don't make a choice. Here's the thing: when I choose, or decide, to make a change for the good--to pray with my devotional, for example--each day I need to further make the choice to follow through with the decision. Each and every day. Why? Because I have free will. When I don't decide, when I let my guard down, or just wait too long to say, "now it's time to read this and pray," there is a golden opportunity for someone else to make an offer. It's far simpler and easier for me to just sit and do nothing at all, or to play on my phone, or even to do the dishes just because they are sitting there, than it is to determine that it is now time to pray--or exercise, or whatever else it is that would be the good habit to form.
I've recognized this before. I blogged once about reading some advice regarding the decision to be married each day. The fact that I am a married woman is not changeable, but how I feel about that--on days when one or both of us is stressed or grumpy, sick, or whatever--is something I can decide to work with or against. I can't necessarily change how the daily situation makes me feel, but I can determine how, or if, or when, I will deal with it. Making that decision purposefully has been a game changer for me. Why I did not apply it to other aspects of my life is one of the mysteries I am still working on solving.
My life is a prayer, and I am working toward seeing it that way each day, not just when I remember to think about it.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
three minutes
Opening my notebook tonight, planning to jot some things down for book club (Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis), I came across some other words I'd worked on a while ago. I remembered at the time being frustrated and disappointed with them, but could not recall whether I had ever shared them. At a meeting, an 'assignment' was given to write up a 3-minute version of our own faith story. I know I never delivered it at the next meeting, but thought I might have posted it. Poking around my blog posts to see, I learned quite a bit about myself. Earlier this evening, I had asked for some clarity in pinpointing a question or two I need to ask. The posts helped a bit.
Anyway, the words. The request was for three minutes on my faith journey, a conversion story. I found a post about my frustration with it (the elusive three). Here is what I finished with. (You could say, where I gave up.) Today, I find it to be spot on in describing where I'd been!
At one time, I thought faith was something we "got," probably at birth. Either we had it or we didn't. And if that was the case, I was very blessed, inheriting faithful attitudes from my parents and grandparents, and attending Catholic school for 8 years.
In reality, I was a faith trust fund brat, never learning about or internalizing what I was exposed to. Never learning how things worked--mostly because I was afraid asking questions would make me sound dumb. I squandered my faith by petitioning all the time, thanking occasionally, and rarely making any real effort.
One day, in the middle of a personal crisis, I realized I was down to my last faith dollar--and I really needed help. I took that last dollar, and told God I was giving it to him. I had nothing to lose. Thy will be done. His will. And I breathed and I laughed, and he told me to keep the dollar and invest it.
I prayed; for the first time I really prayed. I spoke, I listened. I laughed, and I began to ask questions; to look for answers. I started to get personal with God, to think of Jesus as a friend, to remember that the Holy Spirit was in me.
It's not always easy. I'm not always the most attentive friend.* But every day I start fresh, looking toward God, knowing that Jesus is the best kind of friend: the kind that is always looking out for me, always ready to listen, always offering a hand to guide me. Prayer and learning are my best investments in faith. I still have tons of questions, and some of them have answers someone else can give me. Quite a few, the ones that offer the most in return, are the ones that require deeper searching--in my heart, walking with the Lord. And I've never felt so rich.
*I forget. I get stuck. I get scared.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
reaching out
We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.
I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.
Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.
Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.
This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.
Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.
I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.
Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.
Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.
This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.
Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
on my way
There's something truly special about moments when things come together as a result of careful planning and coordination. All the hard work developing ideas and finding ways to implement them seems worth the effort, the time and energy, and even the stress and headaches that may have been a part of the planning.
Why, then, does it sometimes seem strange to see when things come together by some other means? I sometimes allow myself to believe, I think, that I am the only one working on plans for me. I make calendars and lists of goals, hopes, wishes, chores. I plan out times for grocery shopping, exercise, reading, cleaning. I determine who and what I will or will not allow to shape my moods, my feelings, my days.
Sometimes, though, those plans get derailed. Sometimes even hijacked. For a long time, I chalked it up to 'life.' Things happen--or don't--for many reasons, and though I always believed that the reasons must have validity, whether I ever saw it or not, I never really thought much about where 'life' was taking me. Instead, I would consider how this curve ball could be fit into my plan. I spent a good deal of energy on molding my own mud.
As I've learned about faith in general, and my own faith, I've begun to see things a little differently. For a time, I tried to find patterns. I was actively searching for the arrows on my path. I kept asking God to make the directions clear for me because I am not good at subtlety. After a while, I realized that wasn't getting me very far. Looking outward was not going to lead me where I needed to go.
So I started looking at the people around me. I cleaned house, so to speak, and seriously considered (again) who was in my life, in my circles, in my world. Some I began to share more with, and some less, and I thought I was finally on the right track. Until I realized that no one else was going to get me where I needed to go.
I thought I was back where I started, and I was a bit confused. What was I missing? I was working on focusing my energies, I was praying, I was talking to people so I wouldn't lose myself in that dark place in my head that I'd found myself in so many times before. Not knowing where to turn, I stopped. Right where I was, and sat myself down right in the middle of the path. "Where do I go now? What am I missing?"
Looking inside is harder. Understanding personal motivation is difficult; sometimes even painful. Seeing and hearing what comes out of one's own heart can be humbling, frightening. The only place for me to go, to move forward, was inward. I cut myself off a little, without withdrawing completely. From the shelter of my heart, I watched what was happening around me; listened to the sounds around me--voices, noise, music. As I watched, listened, read, I paid close attention to what my heart said, how I felt, what emotions and memories were stirred. And then I asked myself why. Why that memory? Why that emotion? Was the reaction expected, surprising, welcome? Some things hurt. Some things were surprisingly beautiful. Oddly, some memories that had always seemed painful began to feel joyful. Even more strange, I felt far less confused. Frustrated, yes; looking inside, it's easy to get lost.
About this time, probably because I was not focusing outward, I began to see connections. Still, I thought little about them, other than the fact that they were there, and I was seeing them. Nothing fancy or earth shattering, nothing truly exciting, but I did find myself sharing them sometimes with the people close to my heart. A couple of months ago, all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with connections. My heart raced, my head swam, and I was terrified because I could see all these pieces coming together, but I couldn't see what they had to do with each other. It was like a hundred lights pointing at one spot in the distance, just outside of my range of vision. In a moment when I felt I needed a spiritual advisor or a prayer partner, I had no one to turn to. I wouldn't have known which to call anyway, so I texted a friend who suggested I start writing a list, and that I pray for courage.
Making the list somehow reminded me to be thankful for each point of light. And also helped me to see other connections. Seeing them doesn't overwhelm me nearly as much these days. Possibly because I'm allowing them to shape my mud. I'm remembering to thank God for the timing of things, for the unexpected, even for the painful. I still don't know where I'm going, but I don't really expect to know. For a long time, I thought knowing where I was going was the important part of the plan of me. I'm getting more comfortable with following, allowing.
I'm on my way.
Why, then, does it sometimes seem strange to see when things come together by some other means? I sometimes allow myself to believe, I think, that I am the only one working on plans for me. I make calendars and lists of goals, hopes, wishes, chores. I plan out times for grocery shopping, exercise, reading, cleaning. I determine who and what I will or will not allow to shape my moods, my feelings, my days.
Sometimes, though, those plans get derailed. Sometimes even hijacked. For a long time, I chalked it up to 'life.' Things happen--or don't--for many reasons, and though I always believed that the reasons must have validity, whether I ever saw it or not, I never really thought much about where 'life' was taking me. Instead, I would consider how this curve ball could be fit into my plan. I spent a good deal of energy on molding my own mud.
As I've learned about faith in general, and my own faith, I've begun to see things a little differently. For a time, I tried to find patterns. I was actively searching for the arrows on my path. I kept asking God to make the directions clear for me because I am not good at subtlety. After a while, I realized that wasn't getting me very far. Looking outward was not going to lead me where I needed to go.
So I started looking at the people around me. I cleaned house, so to speak, and seriously considered (again) who was in my life, in my circles, in my world. Some I began to share more with, and some less, and I thought I was finally on the right track. Until I realized that no one else was going to get me where I needed to go.
I thought I was back where I started, and I was a bit confused. What was I missing? I was working on focusing my energies, I was praying, I was talking to people so I wouldn't lose myself in that dark place in my head that I'd found myself in so many times before. Not knowing where to turn, I stopped. Right where I was, and sat myself down right in the middle of the path. "Where do I go now? What am I missing?"
Looking inside is harder. Understanding personal motivation is difficult; sometimes even painful. Seeing and hearing what comes out of one's own heart can be humbling, frightening. The only place for me to go, to move forward, was inward. I cut myself off a little, without withdrawing completely. From the shelter of my heart, I watched what was happening around me; listened to the sounds around me--voices, noise, music. As I watched, listened, read, I paid close attention to what my heart said, how I felt, what emotions and memories were stirred. And then I asked myself why. Why that memory? Why that emotion? Was the reaction expected, surprising, welcome? Some things hurt. Some things were surprisingly beautiful. Oddly, some memories that had always seemed painful began to feel joyful. Even more strange, I felt far less confused. Frustrated, yes; looking inside, it's easy to get lost.
About this time, probably because I was not focusing outward, I began to see connections. Still, I thought little about them, other than the fact that they were there, and I was seeing them. Nothing fancy or earth shattering, nothing truly exciting, but I did find myself sharing them sometimes with the people close to my heart. A couple of months ago, all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with connections. My heart raced, my head swam, and I was terrified because I could see all these pieces coming together, but I couldn't see what they had to do with each other. It was like a hundred lights pointing at one spot in the distance, just outside of my range of vision. In a moment when I felt I needed a spiritual advisor or a prayer partner, I had no one to turn to. I wouldn't have known which to call anyway, so I texted a friend who suggested I start writing a list, and that I pray for courage.
Making the list somehow reminded me to be thankful for each point of light. And also helped me to see other connections. Seeing them doesn't overwhelm me nearly as much these days. Possibly because I'm allowing them to shape my mud. I'm remembering to thank God for the timing of things, for the unexpected, even for the painful. I still don't know where I'm going, but I don't really expect to know. For a long time, I thought knowing where I was going was the important part of the plan of me. I'm getting more comfortable with following, allowing.
I'm on my way.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
frogs and branches
This morning's homily began with a story, a riddle [in part, and paraphrased slightly]:
Resolutions are something I've not made on New Year's Day for quite a long time. There are a number of reasons for that, none of which I really think make any difference as an argument for or against the practice. It's just something I've not done. Lately, however, I've found myself making resolutions randomly here and there. Most of the time, they have to do on some level with finding myself again, or maintaining the me that I have found.
After hearing this story this morning, though, and the thoughts that follow regarding making resolutions versus making changes (also known as following through), I resolved to stop simply making decisions, and start acting upon them. Each morning, I climb the stairs to work, and resolve to do, say, or behave (or avoid same) in a particular vein, ask (pray) for guidance in same, then climb into bed at night apologizing for falling short and resolving to do better the next day. I've honestly wondered what I've been missing.
Silly me, I've been sitting on the branch, eyes bulging.
So, my resolution is to jump when I decide to jump; to think and pray about decisions, of course, but to do that before the decision and then go with it. Go. With. It. The decision may be to get involved, or to not get involved; to speak or to stay silent. And to realize that what I see when I look back on my day has to power to affect my perception of myself, of my value as a person, a mother, a friend, a worker, a wife, a daughter of God. And ultimately, that last is my responsibility, each and every day.
The homily ended with words something like this: "Lord, you will certainly make life challenging for me. I trust that you will not make it impossible." Jumping off the branch is the challenge; making a decision is easier than following through.
A boy approached his father and presented this question: "Three frogs sat on a branch over a pool. One decided to jump in. How many were left?" The father responded that two frogs were left on the branch, as one had jumped into the pool. The boy repeated the story, asking his father to listen more carefully. The father then replied, "Oh, I see! None were left, because when the first jumped, the others followed." The boy shook his head and said, "No, Father. You see, the frog merely decided to jump into the pool. He did not yet jump, so all three frogs remained on the branch."
Resolutions are something I've not made on New Year's Day for quite a long time. There are a number of reasons for that, none of which I really think make any difference as an argument for or against the practice. It's just something I've not done. Lately, however, I've found myself making resolutions randomly here and there. Most of the time, they have to do on some level with finding myself again, or maintaining the me that I have found.
After hearing this story this morning, though, and the thoughts that follow regarding making resolutions versus making changes (also known as following through), I resolved to stop simply making decisions, and start acting upon them. Each morning, I climb the stairs to work, and resolve to do, say, or behave (or avoid same) in a particular vein, ask (pray) for guidance in same, then climb into bed at night apologizing for falling short and resolving to do better the next day. I've honestly wondered what I've been missing.
Silly me, I've been sitting on the branch, eyes bulging.
So, my resolution is to jump when I decide to jump; to think and pray about decisions, of course, but to do that before the decision and then go with it. Go. With. It. The decision may be to get involved, or to not get involved; to speak or to stay silent. And to realize that what I see when I look back on my day has to power to affect my perception of myself, of my value as a person, a mother, a friend, a worker, a wife, a daughter of God. And ultimately, that last is my responsibility, each and every day.
The homily ended with words something like this: "Lord, you will certainly make life challenging for me. I trust that you will not make it impossible." Jumping off the branch is the challenge; making a decision is easier than following through.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
to let go
Yesterday I came to realize that there is quite a difference between a scar and a scab. A subject came up that I never thought I would be able to talk about matter-of-factly, and there was no pain, no discomfort, no anger or frustration. What I felt was compassion, understanding. And when I realized that, it occurred to me that healing had created a scar, a slub in the fabric of my life and who I am. It will always be there, which I knew, sometimes more visible than other times, but I suddenly understood that scars can indeed make us stronger.
Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)
Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.
So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.
"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.
I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.
Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)
Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.
So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.
"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.
I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.
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