Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Letter to my Younger Self

Dear Julie at 22,

I look at your sweet face, and wish I could have mothered you better then. I know I did my best, but young one, I've learned so much in the past twenty years. I know there is pain behind your smile—a mess of stuff you don't even understand yet. I remember your senior year of college. There was good stuff going on, but there was also so much confusion and fear. It paralyzed you. The world was wide open, but you couldn't see it for the depression and anxiety made more acute by the weight of the opinions and expectations of others.

Dressed for Homecoming Court - 1996


I shake my head at the depth of your suffering, especially knowing how it would plunge you even further in the decade to come. That's why I'm writing you now. I'm writing as an act of mothering us both. I am telling you now what I wish you could have known then. I am sending a lifeline to my younger self. It's a marker of how far we've come, precious.


I want you to know that that elusive love you were always on the search for from so many places—remember that? Well you found it, darling. Not in the people or places you wanted or expected, but, oh my goodness, you found it in abundance.


First, your heart broke. And not once, but over and over again. It had to. It was in those cracks and crevices that the joy and light seeped in. Your breaks made you fierce. You didn't shy away. You kept loving and hurting, growing and loving some more. In the process, you collected a series of mentors who showed you the ropes of a better way. They gave you words and tools and courage. These mentors formed the foundation of your tribe. Then a select few of your peers grew with you. They loved you even when you were a mess. And they kept loving you. Your tribe grew and so did you.


After a lot of years of contemplation and even more years of unproductive stewing, you hit your “enough is enough” point. You finally got tired of your story, so as you were famous for saying, you “girded up your loins” and got busy changing and improving your life. It was the hardest thing you'd ever done, but in the process, you figured out that the fearful stories you conjured in your mind were scarier than reality.


The damage had been done though. You were one parched plant. Your self-confidence, self-esteem, and self-worth were wilted. In the process of transplanting your life in a bigger pot with fresh, more fertile soil, you received unexpected showers in the form of kind words and affection from friends from your past. It took awhile for you to believe these men's versions of the woman they saw when they remembered you. It took courage for you to believe that good, kind, smart, funny, beautiful men could be attracted to you. They helped you grow into this new vision and version of yourself.


These friends helped you see how a different story about you could point you in a different direction as you rebuilt your life. They told you they were proud of you, believed in you, and held your proverbial hand until you were ready to let go. You were afraid to do it, but you'd done far scarier things before, so you stared down the fear of solitude and not knowing what came next. You beat out the fear.

And then with all this new-found energy and verve, you found comfort in your own skin. You owned your skinny body. You treasured all it had done to nurture and support and nourish your baby. You moved in new ways and watched your body transform into a strong, lean vessel able to carry you through life, unburdened and free. You felt something new. It was a sexiness that you knew had nothing to do with how you looked or who was looking at you. It was all about attitude, belief, vision, and loving life. You came to love yourself in ways you never had before. You trusted yourself. You became your best friend. You loved your daughter and your tribe with a ferocity you didn't recognize, but that you quickly adjusted to. You built boundaries to protect that beautiful, broken, mending heart of yours. SEXY.


You figured out the qualities you'd like to find in a man, and then you set aside the list, and got busy living. You don't worry about the details or logistics. You know if he comes your way it will be wonderful, and if he doesn't, life will still be glorious.


You have no idea what the future will bring, and for the very first time in your life, you are enthralled. You know that you have what you need to weather whatever storms, sunshine, and wind blows your way. You call yourself a writer and a mother—your two most important labels. You want to teach yoga, to use it as a tool to help other people heal. You dream of the trips you will take. Beyond those plans, you are staying open. To trust that you can handle whatever comes your way. You know you can handle it. You know that worry is pointless, and that living in the present is the best way to spend your days.


This, dear heart, is a true story.


I know you can't believe it yet. You are listening to Mariah Carey's Christmas album on repeat months before the holiday. It's the only thing that comforts you these days. It's okay. Keep listening.  Hang on, and believe me when I tell you it gets better. So, so much better. The pain and effort is worth it. Every single tear, hurt, misunderstanding, and doubt. It is all worth it.


Love,

Julie at 42

Spring Break - Washington State - 1997

Surprise Milestone

     I love surprises, and what I learned yesterday definitely was a surprise.
    Before the essay became Rejection 8, I read it to my counselor as proof that I'd taken her advice to write the “hard stuff” as a form of therapy. I had expected to read a few excerpts, but the more I read the better it felt to read this piece to the person who had been so instrumental to my healing and progress.
     Yesterday, I read her another piece I was preparing to submit. Within the framework of this essay I was able to discuss with her how the writing had helped me clarify my feelings about a situation with which I have been wrestling.
     We discussed Rejection 8 and how important it was for me to write those words. “I blacked out your name and have been sharing it with clients.”
     I paused, breathing in her words.
     “Thank you. This is fantastic! What an honor. My words are helping people. In this case, this is better than getting published.”
     My counselor reaffirmed the potency of my piece and how it's helping people understand their circumstances. I am living my dream. I have actually accomplished the hard work of transforming my pain into something bigger than the burden I carried for so long.
     I left the appointment and texted a friend. “My words are helping people.”
     My friend didn't exactly write, “Duh,” but I know that's what she meant. Instead she told me that when I blog, my words “spread farther than you realize.” She also informed me that she uses my writing in a college course she teaches.
     As I read her text, I felt waves of elation, humility, gratitude. I also felt tears prick my eyes.
     This unexpected moment reinforced that what I've been saying I actually mean: I am writing because it is part of who I am. It brings me joy and healing and is a form of companionship with myself and my reader. When I say that I'm not writing to become famous, I have proof that I actually mean it. I am so honored to know that my counselor is using it as a tool for others who are finding their way.
     This is what it looks and feels like to show up, do the work, and let go of the outcome.
     “No part of our experience is wasted. Everything you've experienced so far is part of what you were meant to learn.” - Martha Beck
 
I like the glow of my laptop in my glasses. Up too late doing what I love.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Rejection #8

Tonight I received the latest rejection.

It was a solid rejection letter--a keeper:

"Dear Julie Steele:

Thank you for sending your work to Narrative. We are always grateful for the opportunity to review new work, and we have given [your piece] close attention and careful consideration. We regret, however, that [it] does not meet our needs at this time. We hope that you will keep us in mind in the future.

Sincerely,

The Editors"

I keep scanning my head, heart, and body for sensations. Do I need to cry? Do I feel disappointment? Am I discouraged?

It's the strangest thing. I am none of these things. Sure, I'm bummed that I'm out of the running for the $4,000 prize, but...that's not why I submitted it. I threw my work into the ring because it's a solid example of showing up, butt in chair, and doing the work. I feel relief that I don't have to wonder about this submission anymore.

It's the best thing I've written to date, but because of that, I know I've already won. There's more living and writing to do.

I have a lot of story ideas swirling this week--THAT's what has me feeling a little woozy. So today at lunch, I walked to my favorite nearby cozy, shady park, sat down on the grass, and worked on a messy first draft of a story idea that has captured my heart and imagination.


Another activity that helps ground me is to go through something old, decide what I need or can let go of and organize it. Tonight, I came home from work and went straight to the piles of papers documenting my writing life.

These projects always get messier before they get ordered. Photo evidence #1:


As I made my way through the "early work" (the college years are ESPECIALLY cringe-worthy given my broken heart at the time), I found this gem from 1985, photo evidence #2:


In the FIFTH GRADE, I wrote: "...I'll be out of college and be a writer or editor." 

Well, dang. More proof that Tammy was right. This writing seed has long been planted in me. I feel grateful every time I am reminded of it. It helps me stay the course. To remember that I'm writing because it's what brings me joy. It has the potential to encourage and help other people. These are the reasons I write toward rejection 9...152...300.

My writer's statement is:

     "To feast on words, explore their power and serve up writings      which inspire and encourage my readers and myself."


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

A Longish Post about Leadership

Beginning in middle school, I found myself on the “leadership track.” If there was an event or workshop designed to build leadership skills, I was invited to participate. In the 80s and 90s, the leadership being emphasized was the kind that put the leader front and center. It would take awhile for me to experience the power and value of a quiet, steady, behind-the-scenes kind of leadership. And even longer for me to recognize that that was the kind of leadership that I embodied.

I remember a few coveted leadership opportunities being given to other people. At the time, I was disappointed and confused about being overlooked. Wasn't this what I'd been primed for? What was wrong with me? What could I have done better to achieve this role?

Now I see the value (and good fortune) in those perceived losses. So often we learn far more from the nos than from the yeses. What I now understand is that another narrative was being written, and it would take some time, life experience, and perspective for me to recognize and appreciate the other story.

I stood on the edge of the stage in my high school auditorium. I was small in the cavernous, ornate space. The other teenagers attending the auditions seated in velvet seats beyond the stage were acquaintances. I didn't know yet they would soon become good friends. I had never auditioned for a musical. I could carry a tune, but could the director hear my voice over my nerves? They took center stage as my voice quivered and registered low in volume.

Days later those same teens gathered around the orange stage door where the cast list was posted. I was in! I was a nameless member of the chorus. Play practices dominated my after school schedule, and I quickly realized this nameless role was perfect for me: I could sing, dance, and enjoy the camaraderie of my cast mates without the pressure of memorizing tons of dialogue. From my marked spot on stage, I saw how the dedication of the chorus formed the backbone of the whole production.
 
I noted the times when the members of the cast—basking in the glory of their leading roles—weren't prepared. They stumbled over their lines. They couldn't get the timing of their solos. They tripped over the choreography. They relied on their natural talent assuming it would take the place of hard work or repetition. The director scolded them for these lapses, scratching his balding head. Why does the chorus have the choreography down? Why can we run through their songs without interruption?
 
Arriving at practice prepared and taking my behind-the-action work seriously was a form of leadership.

I bundled up in head-to-boots winter wear intended to keep out the cold. Shoulders up to my ears, I stretched my mittened hands over the open fire burning in the metal drum. I was a junior in college, vice president of the group forming a campus chapter of Habitat 4 Humanity. On this frigid Iowa night in November weeks before finals, we abandoned our studies and recreated a homeless night in the cold. It was intended as a lesson in appreciation and a reminder of what Habitat 4 Humanity was working to eliminate. Toes tingled with penetrating cold. We snuggled close to friends inside the shelter of a cardboard box. Some slept, others merely rested. The discomfort was bearable since hot showers, clean clothes, and warm breakfasts would greet us with the morning sun.

From cardboard shelters on snowy ground to planning meetings in the warmth of a conference room, this service work engaged my head and heart. I was a motivated, vital member of the chapter. I had ideas and knew how to implement them beside the other board members. I found my groove; I was in a leadership position, but in a supporting role to the president.

My senior year I ascended to president of the chapter. I missed the members who had graduated. We were still an active group, but something felt different. I was overwhelmed by my role as president. I didn't feel as effective as I had the year before. It wasn't that I was incapable of leading or didn't want the responsibility. While no one suggested that I performed poorly, I knew I was far more effective in the support role than I was as the figurehead. It was a gut feeling. And it struck me as an important thing to take with me as I graduated.

This behind-the-scenes leadership has taken me into adulthood. My day job entails writing gift acknowledgments for medical school executives. I write the letters, and other people sign them. The only visible mark of my work is the lower case initials that follow the upper case initials at the bottom of each printed letter. But the powers-that-be trust my judgment and the power I wield with words. I am often consulted on how to approach the delicate nature of donor relations using well- crafted words.

In a politically charged environment, I am finding my footing as a novice activist. I am working to figure out how to best use my voice and my energy to advocate for those who are voiceless and for causes that honor all of humanity, not simply a segment of the privileged few. I often have found myself overwhelmed and disappointed that I am not doing more. As I navigate this uncharted territory, I am reminded that it takes all kinds of temperaments and personalities to achieve great things. And so, I return to my strengths: calm under pressure, quiet confidence, empathic awareness of the needs of people around me, solution oriented, and optimism. I live and lead from those places, and I am certain I can make a positive impact. 
 
I have been a witness to transformation in the lives of two little boys. My friends have devoted months to training, home preparation, and heart and soul exploration to become foster parents. Shortly after their credentials were finalized, two young brothers were placed in their care. When we first met these children, they were shy and scared. Under the loving, firm, and consistent parenting of my friends, these precious boys have blossomed. They smile often. Their eyes twinkle. They run straight into my arms and shout my name with each visit. 
 
I am certain that I could not do what my friends have done. Theirs is the front and center leadership that does not come natural to me. But I have also learned that foster parents need supportive safety nets and safe places to share and recharge from the intensity of the parenting and advocating they do on behalf of these children. I can be the soft place for this family to land by babysitting, active listening, and checking in via text. I can be a member of the village that supports these children, and I am proud to do it. 
 
This post has taken me months to write. I struggled with questions. By asserting that I'm a behind-the-scenes leader, was I selling myself short? Was I falling for a message spoon fed to women that promotes fading into the background?

I marinated in these questions waiting for answers, to better understand what I was working to articulate. I've given a lot of thought to who I have become in the past two years. I am a vastly different woman. I trust myself more than I ever have. I listen attentively to what guidance my gut offers when I ask her for clarity. This quote from Martha Beck appeared in my email in-box one day a few months ago. It comforted me and reinforced what I've been working out in this post.

We typically think of leadership as a “superior” dominating the behavior of an “inferior.” That is not the kind of leadership that will help the Team, or save the world. Part of the transformation of human consciousness is understanding that we can lead from any social or economic position, if we access our power to direct our own thinking, make our own choices, and respond to our own sense of right and wrong.” 

I better understand that I will continue to grow and evolve. Perhaps someday life will call me to things that today seem unlikely or impossible. But if that doesn't happen, I feel confident and competent to express myself and lead in the ways that I have cultivated since I was a child.
 
Among the many differences in me over the past two years is the fact that I now direct my own thinking, I make my own choices, and I respond to my own sense of right and wrong. I also trust myself and honor the spaces I am leaving behind, the new ones I am living into, and the liminal spaces in between. I have heard repeatedly as I blog about the hard places, as I check off items from my bucket list, and live into my new life that I inspire people. I am surprised by this every time I hear it, but I also understand. By living truthfully and openly, I create space for others to do the same for themselves on their own terms and timelines. 
 
It's appropriate that I end this leadership post with the words of one of the presidents whose biographies I have read. His words encourage me to continue accepting the quiet role of leadership that comes naturally to me.

“If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.”                                                                                    

                                                                                             - John Quincy Adams

Sunday, July 9, 2017

More than a Memoir

My to-be-read list is so long. It rarely decreases because I am continually adding new titles. Since I have taken a hiatus from the presidential biography project, I am making my way through my list. There are books that have been on it for YEARS. I can't remember when I added them or whose recommendations they were or which magazine highlighted them. So I've begun to capture all of that information in my Wunderlist app on my phone. The one bit of technology that suits me very well.

All of that to say, I finished Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking - A Memoir of Food and Longing by Anya Von Bremzen yesterday. I know it's been on my reading list long before I captured titles on Wunderlist. I suspect this title was in a "you should read this" magazine highlight.

I wish I had captured this information because this is an entirely different kind of read than I would ordinarily be drawn to and I am curious how it wound up on the list. I am stalling with all of this context stuff because this book was so amazing, I do not know how to aptly review it.

I found two "proper" reviews that I will leave here and here. (There's a knack for writing reviews...it's a skill on which I can improve.)

The rest of the post will be my impressions and experience of reading the book. That'll take the pressure off.

The memoir took some effort getting into because so little of the subject was familiar. The Russian names and vocabulary slowed me up. But the storytelling did the trick. There are no adequate superlatives to describe Von Bremzen's writing. It is masterful in its own right, but then to consider English is one of four she speaks and isn't her native tongue--well, it left me speechless. She also has an extensive vocabulary, one that sent me to the dictionary on my phone frequently. These qualities astounded me and kept me reading.

I also read the bulk of the book on the Fourth of July. It was the ideal holiday plan for this introvert. I didn't feel like making plans and I didn't have any parental responsibilities, so I spent the day reading a chapter and then changing out my laundry. Reading another chapter, and another household chore, etc. It was perfection. The caption on that day would read: Lesson in Appreciation. I may be dismayed by the political landscape we are in right now, but pales in comparison to the decades-long traumas the author, her family, and their countrymen and women endured. This I must remember as I continue to work toward being an informed and active citizen.

The subject matter is gripping and astounding to read by an American perspective. Von Bremzen's account of life within the U. S. S. R. goes beyond the news reports and b-roll I grew up seeing and hearing. What's extraordinary about this memoir is her ability to weave the Soviet story, its propaganda, and its collectivism shortages with her experience of food, which was mostly in short supply or in dripping, reeking states.

She is such a gifted writer and storyteller that I didn't feel like I was reading a textbook, but I was definitely being provided a comprehensive history of a people and their political experience over one hundred years.

Given my relationship with the narrative I long lived in the kitchen, I am intrigued that such a title would pique my interest, but it did. I love memoir as a genre particularly because it's the one I feel most comfortable writing. I have read a lot of memoirs. Von Bremzen's has immediately become one of my favorites. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

This book also raises the bar very high when it comes to writing my own memoirs. It will be hard to not compare my efforts with hers. I am grateful to have this title to mentor me as I tell my own stories.


Saturday, July 1, 2017

Choosing Something Different than Anger

It takes longer to describe what happened than it did in real time.

I can't say my life flashed before me, but time did slow to a crawl.

Armed with an umbrella for a light shower, I set out for my daily walk at lunch time. My orange umbrella was in full bloom. It was working hard to ward off the wind made cooler by the random raindrops that were gently falling. 

I listened to the YoYo Ma Plays Ennio Morricone album. I caught my breath at a busy intersection at the top of a steep incline that lasts an entire city block. Since I listen to music as I walk, I am hyper vigilant about observing cross walks to avoid being "that" walker who misses some safety cue.

I looked up and saw the white pedestrian light illuminated. I looked once more before I stepped into the street. Without warning a car surged toward me and stopped with a lurch! I stopped and made I eye contact with the driver. She seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She remained frozen. I looked back at the crosswalk to make sure I hadn't stepped out prematurely. The white pedestrian was still gleaming.

I took a hold of my umbrella with both hands and made my way across the street.

My brain buzzed with the replays. Did that really happen? Oh my word! I almost got hit by a car! How did she not SEE MY ORANGE UMBRELLA???

I kept walking.

And then another thought occurred to me.

I don't feel angry at the driver.

I feel compassion.

We all have had distracted, preoccupied moments behind the wheel.

It definitely wouldn't have been good for me physically had she hit me, but it wouldn't have been good for her either. That's where my compassion was aimed. When we made eye contact, she didn't gesture in anger or act like I'd been in her way. In the few seconds we locked eyes, she looked as shocked as I felt.

I texted my best friend and told her about the near miss. I also told her that I wasn't angry.

"You may be later. You're in shock right now."

I was pretty sure that the anger wasn't going to come, and I was right. I have thought about the experience a lot in the past 36 hours, but anger didn't surface. Relief, yes. Anger, nope. I'm working hard on being more compassionate. I've been meditating a lot on the words Jesus says about loving one's enemies and praying for them. It is so hard to do, and yet there's spiritual alchemy in the practice. It has a neutralizing effect.

I am not suggesting that there's not a place for anger in the menu of human emotions. But it does require a lot of energy to muster up anger and then even more to figure out how to resolve it. I am encouraged by yesterday's response.

For so many years, I walked around with unresolved anger and confusion. I didn't know how to process it, so it stayed stuck in my body and mind and heart. Without healthy ways to voice these things, they turned inward and weighed me down. I was plagued by depression and anxiety. It was all I knew, so I never foresaw a time when I wouldn't carry the weight.

With the help of a counselor and the love and cheerleading of an amazing tribe of friends, I have written my way through a lot of the muck. I feel lighter and freer than ever before. Now that I'm aware of my past modes of reaction, I am in a better position to CHOOSE differently.

I am grateful yesterday's crosswalk near-calamity turned out the way it did. I am grateful I didn't spend time in an ambulance or the ER. The moment gave me the opportunity to practice what I'm working on. I am incredibly happy to know that compassion was my default response.

This life thing is a series of practice sessions. Every time we're confronted with something new (or not) we get to choose how we're going to react. And the beautiful thing is that if we don't like how we responded, we'll get other opportunities to choose differently. Though I'm okay with not having a repeat of this particular encounter. 
 



Friday, June 30, 2017

Month of June Wrap Up and other Miscellany

Hi! My name is Julie. I'm the woman who blogs on this site. I have improved my ability to take life as it comes, to love the moments as they present themselves and then float by, so I have been absent from blogging for an entire month--without apology. Something else at which I am improving.

Where did the month of June go?!?!

It has been a full, happy month. I have been writing behind the scenes. Working on stories whose times have come. Some are being submitted, others are simply being released like poison from my body. This writing life is healing me and teaching me and showing me how to live my best life. I am beyond grateful. I am also this much closer to beginning part two of Astrid's story in earnest, and that feels amazing. The anticipation of the hard yet euphoric work of creating a fictional world is building.

It's been a month of softball games (my girl hit a homerun!) and summer concerts by the river. Epiphanies arrived in the midst of church camp, walks at lunch, and sitting in a webinar in a conference with colleagues.

I downloaded a month's worth of photos and want to share some here with accompanying tales. What the following photos illustrate the most is that the little moments in life truly are the big ones. I am desperate to travel abroad (or even domestically) again, but it simply is not in the budget right now. Rather than lament that fact, I am learning how wonderful life is when you make adventures out of everything--as close as one's own front yard.


Here's the colorful note Cadence made me the morning after I made mac and cheese from scratch and invited beloved friends to share the meal. She loved it and told me over and over. 


Here she is at the library signing up for the summer reading program that she will likely not finish. I continue learning about how to mother a child who is so very different and yet so similar to me at once. I really cannot understand not wanting to read for hours on end, but that is not Cadence's jam right now. So instead of nagging her, I leave her be. She does love GOING TO THE LIBRARY, so I'm taking comfort in that and leaving open the possibility that one day she will find a book that captures her imagination and her interest. In the meantime, this is an important moment in my mothering journey. I am being faced with important questions. Do I really mean it when I say I want her to become her own person? As a matter of fact, yes, yes, I do. Some days that is harder than others. However, I persist. It is THAT important.


I recently celebrated my fifth anniversary at my current job and received a certificate of recognition. Another milestone, and with it, a better understanding of how my day job supports my real work, the writing. I have a new level of peace knowing how these puzzle pieces fit together and no longer feel the urge to make my day job be something it is not. I am reminded of Elizabeth Gilbert's wisdom about not making your craft feed you, but rather make sure you feed your craft. This makes perfect sense to me, and I have managed to carve out my life to do exactly this. Clarity is a beautiful thing.

 


 My sweet music-loving girl with me at our eighth year of free summer concerts. I hold my breath every summer thinking this is the year she'll say, "Nah, I don't want to go." But so far, she's still game. 


Our first foray into gardening. We bought soil, geraniums, petunias, zinnias, and delphinium and transformed two wheelbarrows into planters to improve our house's curb appeal.  It felt good to demonstrate launching into a project that I wasn't entirely comfortable with and showing how to navigate it as an adventure and an opportunity to learn. We had a blast.


After the planting was complete, we went to see Wonder Woman. (More about that in a future post.)


Our completed project later in the day when the sun didn't cast such shadows on the house.  I am overwhelmed by how much work my yard will require to look adequately landscaped, so...I decided to break down the overwhelm and start small. I have been amazed by what an uplift these flowers and their requisite maintenance have been--and I wasn't even melancholy to begin with.

 
 
The yoga practice persists. The daily time on my mat is toning my arms in impressive ways as well as helping me feel strong and disciplined in executing the healthy habits I have cultivated in the past few years.






I took my yoga mat to church camp. I'd been feeling a bit bored in the past few days, but there's nothing like yoga under the shade of trees on crisp summer mornings in the country to reinvigorate one's enthusiasm for the practice which feeds and nourishes me in so many ways.



Cadence and I hiked with camp friends. Another moment of joy and pause in the midst of nature. So happy to do interesting, healthy activities with my girl.


Last evening, Cadence and I hosted a dear friend for dinner in celebration of her June birthday. The evening was full of good food, lots of laughter, and the peace that comes with friendships marked by unconditional love and affection. It was a joy to make a pie for the first time in nearly three decades and to remember the friend who shared the recipe and other happy memories with me. It feels so great to have a growing collection of photos of me displaying foods that I made--successfully.


A friend came to town earlier in the month and we basked in time together without our children. We spent an afternoon at IKEA. I bought the clock above to help wean me from using my phone as a clock/watch. My friend also helped me find these curtains (2 pair for $25--a budget friendly way of sprucing up my kitchen while I wait for the energy and funds to repaint the main floor.


This last photo brings me to this evening. I put together this album when I returned home from a family vacation to Washington DC in 1990. The album has been stored in a suitcase ever since. I have decided that I'd rather use the post cards than let them languish in storage. I am reliving and honoring the memories far better this way than hoarding the postcards. My pile of things I'm ready to pass along continues to grow as does my sense of peace and tranquility with less.

I am stunned by how quickly 2017 is moving along. Ever since the 40/40 list, I notice the passage of time so differently. I am much more aware of the position of the sun and the moon in the sky at different times of day. I am much more comfortable spending an evening or an entire weekend alone, and when time is spent with friends I'm grateful for their presence in completely new ways.

I still consider my word of the year, Quiet, and am rely on its steadying effect and force in my life. When I catch myself wondering what next year's word will be, I remind myself to remain in the present, and trust that the right word will greet me when the time comes.

Monday, May 29, 2017

The Grass is Greener even in a Zumba Class

My friend texted me this morning. “The Zumba class taught by my friend is free and we can go as non-members. Wanna come with me this morning?”

I was on my own for the day and I've never experienced Zumba, so I jumped at the opportunity. An hour later, we were headed to class. 

I wasn't prepared for all the mental things I would confront as I worked to keep up. I kept moving and found myself formulating the key points of this post to the loud beats of the music.

You can take the girl out of ballet, but apparently you cannot take the ballet out of the girl. Zumba arm movements are not ballet, but for the life of me I couldn't stop making them. Thankfully, I was in the back of the class and it was so full that much of the time I couldn't see myself in the mirror. I had flashbacks of my ballet classes when I was learning a new combination and couldn't quite get it. Today, as I did back then, I caught myself mentally shutting down. As in meditation, each time I noticed that inclination, I brought myself back to the steps and kept moving with less judgment. The class progressed and in a sign of gentleness to my self, I concentrated on the footwork and let go of the arms. That helped.

The strongest impressions I had to work through were my perfectionism—I wanted to get the steps exactly right every time—and how out of place I felt as a skinny body in this class. What a strange moment to realize that the thing that brings many of the women to a class like this—their curves—are the things I'm lacking. Everyone around me was sweating. Since fans were blowing, I kept my long sleeve running shirt on the entire 90 minutes. That reminded me of playing t-ball in the heat of Kansas summers when I was eight. The team would run laps around the field to warm up and everyone else would be sweating, but not me. I thought it was the coolest thing to sweat—it was a sign you'd done the work. 

I estimate that I spent the first hour of the class over-thinking the steps and the perfectionism and skinniness. I finally decided that using this morning as an opportunity to try something new and to feel playful in my body was a better use of my mental energy. I also celebrated the friendship I have with the friend boogie-ing next to me. She loves Zumba and enjoyed every minute of the well-led class. I was grateful that I was with her—we know each other so well, there was no need to feel self-conscious next to her. I knew she wasn't judging or ridiculing me. She was too busy dancing her heart out. 

In moments like this, I can't help but think of my 40/40 list and the space it created for me to sample new things. I don't see myself seeking out Zumba regularly, but it was a great class and I am really glad I did it. I am also really grateful to be faced with the mental habits that still get me tangled up, and to see that with practice, they don't have the same vice grip on me as they have in the past. This is progress.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Sunrise, Sunset

When I included watching the sunrise on my 40/40 list, I had no idea what an impact it would make. At the time, it felt like a freebie and a list filler. I didn't envision its profound effect on me. Since that early morning, I pay much more attention to the position of the sun in the sky. I pay attention to the light and shadows it casts at different times of day. This attention feels spiritual. Like an internal metronome ticking a slow, steady rhythm to my day.

I recently read the book Learning How to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor. By way of exploring spiritual darkness, she researched physical darkness to understand all forms of darkness. She discussed how the electric light had changed human's relationship with the dark. Before electric light, people rose with the light and went to sleep when the sun set. Tangentially, she also learned that “sleeping through the night” has not been a thing throughout human history. Researchers have learned that pre-electricity, humans would have nocturnal periods of wakefulness, where they would rest until sleep revisited them. This was a comforting finding given my insomniac tendencies.

I am naturally an early riser, so early bed times are also natural. But Taylor's book had me pondering what it would be like if I decided to orient my days with the sun too. I wondered how different my days would be if I went to bed when the sun went down. How much would I have to adjust my evening's activities if I chose to stop when it got dark considering I spend my entire day away from home? I thought about doing this for awhile (on days when Cadence isn't home) and writing about my experience as this coming October's #write31days topic.

I told Cadence about it. 
 
Ugh. That sounds awful. DO NOT do that.” I laughed and asked if I had her permission to write about her reaction on my blog. 
 
Sure.”

My daughter is a night owl and a little bit opinionated.

Before my conversation with her, I had gone to sleep when I would otherwise turn on a lamp. I'd wake up and jot down notes for a future 31 days entry. This happened for a few nights, and then I got into a really good book. I didn't want to stop reading at 8:00, so I turned on the lamp. I thought this would make an acceptable entry. After a few days of taking notes, I decided I would not have enough material to fill 31 days of blogging, so taking my daughter's advice to “NOT DO” that topic.

But on given evenings, like last night, I still go to bed with the sunset. I watched the sun through my neighbors' trees. The sky gave quite a show. I laid on top of my cozy new comforter, hugged my pillow, and watched the colors change in the sky and in my room. I decided there wasn't anything else I felt like doing for the evening, so I washed face, slathered my face with my age-fighting creams, and brushed my teeth. It felt good to welcome the weekend with an early bed time. 

 

Thursday, May 25, 2017

When Breath Becomes Air - an AudioBook Treasure

I finished to When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi this week.

It is such an exceptional read/listen that I am loathe to say much about it. It is the memoir of a young neurosurgeon who is diagnosed with aggressive cancer months before he is set to graduate from his residency training. He faces his terminal diagnosis with such grace, clarity, and bravery.

Before he chose to pursue medicine, he'd considered being a writer, so when he found himself at his truncated life, he returned to writing and this breathtaking book is the result.

I laughed at myself during one of his surgical anecdotes. He was observing the pre-term caesarean delivery of twins. I had to turn it off for awhile--I could not "stomach" the description of the procedure. Not in one sitting. It's also strange to hear a surgery you have personally experienced described in such technical terms.

I had the privilege to volunteer at the pre-gathering for the School of Medicine's commencement program. I was surrounded by some of the best and brightest new physicians in the country. I helped them adjust the hoods that they wore for the ceremony. One of the things I do in my day job is to draft profiles for scholarship recipients. I am blown away by these students' stories. I enjoyed seeing them in person and recalling the anecdotes that led them to pursue medicine. It made listening to When Breath Becomes Air even more poignant and meaningful. And devastating.

His writing is so exquisite that it brought me to tears throughout the book and by the end I was audibly sobbing. I cried so hard (I needed a good cry) that I was exhausted when my tears finally dried.

The epilogue is written by his wife, Lucy. She said something that I haven't stopped thinking about: "What happened to Paul was tragic, but he was not a tragedy." What a beautiful way to frame the bad things that befall us all.

This TED Talk came to my inbox while I was still listening to the book. I didn't want to watch it until I finished his account. I have watched it, teared up, and marveled at the lessons this couple learned and their willingness to share them with us.

I wholeheartedly recommend this book.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Better than Before - a book recommendation



I am drawn to books on subjects that I know a little bit about with the express purpose of comparing notes. I read Rob Bell's How to be Here last year to test how well I was doing at living in the present. I read Ron Lieber's The Opposite of Spoiled to determine how I was parenting Cadence in the area of teaching her the principles of finance, consumerism, and generosity. The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown gave me a measuring stick for how I was doing as a recovering perfectionist.

You get the idea.

In this spirit of reading, I'm able to find myself in the pages of the books I'm reading. I can pat myself on the back in the areas that sound familiar and that I am already practicing. I'm open to the areas that reveal I still have work or exploration to do.

In other words, I am a life-long learner, and I love these reads.

My newest title, taken off my never-ending list of to-be-reads, is Better than Before – Mastering the Habits of Our Everyday Lives by Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project.

Rubin writes that there are four Tendencies (Upholder, Questioner, Obliger, Rebel) that guide how we create good habits and work to diminish bad habits. She uses these four tendencies to frame every aspect of habit forming throughout the book. What I especially liked was the way she wove her own habit forming into the book and the stories she collected about helping others think about their everyday habits.

What is particularly helpful is her assertion that what makes us different will absolutely affect the way we approach habit forming. She poses these questions: Am I a lark or an owl? Am I a marathoner, a sprinter, or a procrastinator? Am I an underbuyer or an overbuyer? Am I a simplicity lover or an abundance lover? Am I a finisher or an opener? Am I a familiarity lover or a novelty lover? Am I promotion-focused or prevention-focused? Do I like to take small steps or big steps?

I am an Upholder, a lark, a marathoner, an underbuyer, a simplicity lover, a finisher, familiarity lover, am prevention-focused, and take small steps. Knowing all of this helps me better understand how and why I approach habits the way I do.
 
I was particularly interested in contemplating my big, goal-y year of 2015 against the assertions of this book. That year of the 40/40 list and novel writing was unlike any other year in my life. I now understand that as an Upholder, I “respond readily to outer expectations (Dan's encouragement to write a page a day) and inner expectations (my desire to complete all 40 activities between the date range I set.)

I recognized myself here too: “They're self-directed and have little trouble meeting commitments, keeping resolutions, or meeting deadlines...They want to understand the rules, and often they search for the rules beyond the rules—as in the case of art or ethics.”

Rubin talks about the relentless quality to Upholders. Yep, that's me. And about it's dark side: “the gold-star seeking, the hoop jumping, the sometimes mindless rule following.” 

Yep, me and those damn rules. I often resent how rule following I am, but reading that proclivity in this context helps me chill out.

I also like reading about other authors' "processes," what a writing life looks like for them. This book did not disappoint. Rubin and I are very similar in the habit department, so it was fascinating reading as she walked through her day and her habits. From the groundwork she laid, I better understand how and why I write at the times I do and why the daily habit (when I'm doing it) works so well for me.

This book reinforced the notion that the better we know ourselves, the better able we are to understand our actions, our motives, and our achievements and flaws.

This book will stick with me for a long time, and I will definitely add it to the list of titles I offer when I'm asked for recommendations.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Rejection #7

After waiting for two weeks and a day, I finally learned via the Women's National Book Association web site, that my essay did not win the contest. Congratulations to the winners! I look forward to reading their work.

I am bummed that my bio is still lacking a publishing credit, but thrilled to now be free to submit it to the next place I have in mind.

The thing about celebrating the rejections is that it means I am writing! I can't control what gets published, but I can control what gets submitted, and the only way to submit is to write.

As a wise friend once told me, Writers write. He's absolutely right.

293 rejections to go.

Onward I write and submit!

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Woman of the House - Vol. 6

One thing I have learned about myself is how easily overwhelmed I can get. As I observe this tendency, I have noted that it's usually mundane, everyday things that can set the overwhelm into motion. It's a stress response from way back that has become habit. I was raised on unhealthy doses of "things must be perfect" and "avoid mistakes at all costs," so my circuitry didn't get the practice it needed in error making and course correction.  Overwhelm has been a protective state because until recently it thrust me into temporary mental paralysis. Now that I have labeled this thing in my life, I honor that it is what it is. I haven't tried to shame myself out of it. I've simply found a way through it: I break the overwhelm down into smaller steps and proceed incrementally--without judgment or apology.

This insight was helpful when I planned the purchase of a new IKEA bed frame and  Casper (mail order) mattress.  This is the breakdown of the larger project:

1. Purchased disassembled bed frame.
2. Returned to IKEA to exchange bed frame for correct size. (Thanks Cadence for pointing out that I had purchased the full instead of the queen.)
3. Set a date with friends who would help me assemble the frame.
4. Returned to IKEA to purchase galvanized metal beam. (Two cashiers commented on my not buying the $10 item with the other pieces. I explained Operation Underwhelm. They were polite, and continued with their customer service tasks.)
5. Friends spent a Saturday morning assembling the bed sans wooden slats or actual mattress on the premises.
6. Ordered mattress online.
7. Made first trip to Home Depot for slats. (I chose this option based on friends' recommendation and to save some money.)
8. Mattress arrived ahead of schedule.
9. Casper instructions about space between slats required a second trip to Home Depot.
10. Carried up box containing mattress from porch to entry way to second floor bedroom--solo.
11. Unpacked mattress, watched it fill out.
12. Scratched my head and wondered aloud, "How am I going to get this mattress onto the platform on my own?
13. Texted friend to ask if she was available to help. (She lives 10 minutes away.)
14. Resolved to accomplish this task alone.
15. Did it with much shimmying, running around the mattress back and forth, and deep sighing.
16. Placed newly washed, brand new linens on my new bed.
17. Slept well and satisfied by another job well done.

When I review the steps it took for me to accomplish this project, it's tempting to chastise myself for all the little detours it took me to get this job done. But I also know that throughout the entire 17 steps the only times I felt overwhelmed were carrying the box that ways more than me up the stairs and maneuvering the mattress on the platform bed. And then I smile because I managed those things on my own after all.

The more I practice this strategy for reducing overwhelm, I am certain I will exercise new practices that will make the overwhelm diminish over time.
Assembly is beginning.



This circular piece had me endlessly fascinated. I love IKEA engineering.

Lots of steps to get to this finished project. Time for slats.


On the way up the stairs.

Progress, but first, the box slid down and I caught it before it reached the bottom.
Success!
Now for snipping the mattress out of its protective covering.
More unwrapping.
As soon as I cut into the plastic, I heard a whoosh of air.
There she is. How in the WORLD am I lifting it onto the bed?

Let the running back and forth begin!

Tada! Part One
Tada! Part Two
View from my new bed. Sweet dreams, indeed!
It is getting much easier for me to ask for help without feeling like I'm wimping out or not capable of taking care of myself. I am grateful to my friends Tracy and Juan who helped me assemble the bed. This purchase has been one I've been planning for for two years. I am grateful that I'm able to wait for the things I want and choose the right times for the next steps forward. I have been sleeping so well in my new bed. The space feels lighter, and I have a daily reminder of my ability to get done what needs to get done--on my terms.


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

The Cure

I spend so much of my time in daily commutes listening to audiobooks that I miss whole swaths of new music, much to my daughter's disdain.

On one of the rare moments the radio was on, I heard a snippet of Lady Gaga's new (it's new, right?) The Cure. It piqued my attention because I really liked the quality of her voice on this track. I also liked that it was a little “poppier” than some of her creative works. When I first meet a new song, I tend to listen to it on repeat. For hours. Days. Sometimes weeks.

The more I listen to a song, the more I hear its layers: the bass line, the harmony, the bridge, the lyrics. The lyrics intrigued me. It was clearly a love song. One devotee singing to her beloved about fixing the other, which was a bit of a turn-off. I mean, in this brave new world I am navigating, I understand so much better how “fixing someone” is a problematic relationship goal. But I could get on board with her assertion that her love could make a difference, so I kept listening.

As I listened repeatedly, and admittedly overthought this song, a deeper meaning and change in perspective emerged: I can buy into the lyrics when I hear it as an anthem of self-empowerment and self-love.

I'll undress you, 'cause you're tired
Cover you as you desire
When you fall asleep inside my arms
May not have the fancy things
But I'll give you everything
You could ever want, it's in my arms


These words speak to the theme of physical self-care. In the past two years, I have put myself to sleep early in the evening, and have been surprised each time I wake up nine or ten hours later. Sleep is a healing tactic, and I have embraced it. I have had to examine my relationship with food and appetite. To confront why I tend to eat better and more frequently when my daughter is with me. I wouldn't dream of not feeding my daughter, why do I think it's okay to skip meals when I'm alone. When you (under)weigh what I weigh, this is a real issue. I have returned to a daily yoga practice, which is good for the heart pumping inside my chest, but also for mental clarity and my soul. As my practice grows, so does my physical strength. My self-confidence, self-worth, and self-esteem are boosted, too.

If I can't find the cure, I'll
I'll fix you with my love
No matter what you know, I'll
I'll fix you with my love


I have spent a lot of time with a trustworthy, reliable counselor. She has helped me name my wounds, how they occurred, and given me the tools to heal by feeling the hurt, grieving the losses, and not getting stuck in the past. What I am learning, is that I am the only one that can fix what's been broken, and self-love and self-trust are the tools with which I must employ to get the job done. I used to believe that other people had to admit their mistakes, to own up to things, for me to be able to heal. I know now that not only is that unlikely to happen, but I am in charge of my healing. I also know I am more than capable of doing it. All I can count on is me, and I have proved to be a dependable companion.

And if you say you're okay
I'm gonna heal you anyway
Promise I'll always be there
Promise I'll be the cure (be the cure)


This reminds me that sometimes I hide things from myself when “I say I'm okay,” but I'm actually not ready to face them. “Heal you anyway” means I'm going to keep working at peeling back the layers until I'm able to look the pain in the face. I will always be there—I will not betray myself again. I'll be the cure—I'm the one who can fix my broken places. Places that will end up being stronger than before. Places that will make me kinder and more compassionate toward others who are walking or have walked similar paths. After all this repetitive listening, it turns out I am my own cure. 
 
The Cure requires solo work. It's painstaking. It's long and sometimes seemingly endless. But oh my goodness, on the other side of this sad, grueling work is FREEDOM. Beautiful, sweet freedom. 
 
I'm so grateful I stumbled onto this song. It's now my anthem. The tune I'll dance to after a long day at work. The song I'll pump myself up with before another first date. The song that I'll bounce to in the moments before I take the stage for my TED Talk. (This is a dream. I'm dreaming BIG, and waiting for the topic and the opportunity to find me.)

What's your pump up song of choice?



Saturday, May 6, 2017

Why I Did it






At three my mom could put my hair into a fist-sized bun.

"You know, she has so much hair I really should charge you for an adult cut." This is what the hair stylist said to my mom when I got my hair cut. I was four.

I have always had a ton of hair. And luckily, it's always been thick and healthy. For the first twenty years, I was a long-hair person. Then in college, I went short. Since then, I've had it every length-- a bob, a swing, and long, straight locks. I have donated my hair twice.

Today, I took in this magazine ad for inspiration.


I knew my stylist would be nervous, but I was insistent: the hair salon is THE ONLY place in the world I can be impulsive. This wasn't even an impulsive move...I've been planning and preparing for it for months. I was ready for a change of scenery, and after all, it is only hair. It will grow back if I don't like it or don't want to maintain every-three-week hair appointments.

There are deeper reasons for this haircut. I subscribe to Rob Bell's "Everything is Spiritual" dictum. Even haircuts.

In the years when I was more self-conscious, less self-confident, I didn't believe I had much going for me in the looks department. I had big, blue eyes and long, thick hair. Those didn't seem the attributes the boys were into, but I made the best of mine.

I have grown into loving myself inside and out. This hairstyle is one way of asserting that what I look like does. not. matter. I have so much to offer the world that has nothing to do with what I look like. I wanted to test that belief in a physical, tangible way. I know that there will be people who think I shouldn't have cut my hair or don't like it. That is perfectly fine. It's my hair and my decision. This extreme cut asserts this truth for me. What matters is what I think of it, and I love it.

The haircut also feels like a continuation of the shedding of physical stuff I have been evaluating and letting go of. The lighter I travel through this life, the happier I am. Could a super short hair cut add to this mindset? Less shampoo and conditioner. Less time getting ready in the morning.

It's a reminder that nothing is permanent. I have no idea how long I'll wear it this way, but in the hour I've had it short, I get the sense it'll be awhile.

My heart was racing as my stylist put the clippers to the back of my head. It felt good to be scared and to do it anyway. Facing our fears with courage and adventure is good for us. What change do you want to make that scares you?

I say, Go For It.

That is A LOT OF HAIR.



Not quite done with the razor comb. Look, my silver streak still shows!

I promise it looks better in person. I absolutely Love. It.
PS: I am proud of listening to myself and doing what I wanted to do. More proof that the forties keep getting better and better.


 



Wednesday, May 3, 2017

To Kill a Mockingbird - Reflection

I have lost count how many times I have read or listened to To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. It's more than a dozen times.

The book was required reading my sophomore year of high school. Our student teacher, Miss Collard, taught the book. I only remember her name now because it was the answer to a quiz question I missed.

I returned to the book as an annual ritual in early adulthood. And later got the audioversion read by Sissy Spacek as a Christmas present. So now that I'm thinking of it, I've probably read/listened to it closer to twenty times.

The thing about reading the same book so many times is that with each pass, the reader/listener is a different person and hears different things. For years, I read the book and aspired to be like Atticus. This was a goal long before I became a mother. And then I had a daughter, and I listened to his conversations with Scout and redoubled my efforts to be like him.

For years I read it only as a reader, but in recent years, I've begun approaching it like a writer studying her craft. Now when I listen, I am mesmerized by the mastery of the storytelling. (How did Lee nail it on the second rewrite?) I marvel at the pace, where Lee used dialogue vs. prose, the sense of place and plot. I am stunned by the consistency of Scout's voice--it's mixture of childlike perspective, explanation, and wisdom beyond her years. And how she slowly and expertly ages Jem from a young boy into an adolescent without missing a beat.

The timeless quality of the story has always struck me. Though it is set in depression-era Alabama, it's never felt outdated or old-fashioned. It reminds me of My Antonia by Willa Cather in that respect. It tackles ages-old difficulties and human drama. And now listening to it with the backdrop of a new presidential administration, the story has never felt more relevant with its theme of discrimination of race, sex, and class.

During this listen, I adored Atticus as usual, but it was Miss Maudie Atkinson that piqued my interest. My pivot away from Atticus this time has to do with the fact that I now have a child old enough to discuss big, important topics with, and I feel good about my ability to do so. Atticus's cool, calm, composed way of explaining things--hard things--has settled into my bones in the years that I was childless. Waiting dormant and ready to be put into action. With Atticus as my guide, I've found my own approach to discussing the hard bits of life with her and I am pleased with my competence in the area.

Miss Maudie Atkinson is a minor character in many ways, and yet, she plays a large role in the Finch children's small world. She is a voice of reason when life gets chaotic. She is a moral compass not only for the children, but for her neighbors and the entire town of Macomb. She calls it like she sees it, and isn't one bit wishy-washy. I want to be like Miss Maudie Atkinson, and heaven knows how much we need her type--male and female--in the world right now.

I am fascinated by what captures my attention each time I pick up this story. It truly is like comfort food for my head and heart. I will never grow weary of it, and I miss the characters every time I come to the end of the story. I can't wait to introduce my daughter to this novel.