Category: export

As most of you know, I am in love with JH and have been for several years.  But as my mother taught me, love isn’t enough.  And she’s right.  As much as I want the Beatles song to be true, love isn’t all I need.  I need love, honesty, trust, communication, connection, vulnerability, space, time, attention, affection, respect, autonomy, listening, and a whole host of other things.  And I get those things in my relationship most of the time.  Still… in 4+ years it hasn’t all been rainbows and unicorns.  Well, it has, but the unicorns get grumpy.

As happens in most relationships, annoyance set in for me recently.  JH used to worry when I said I was annoyed because she DOES NOT like feeling annoyed AT ALL.  It is high on the list of feelings she would prefer not to have.  I don’t love being annoyed (okay, maybe in some sick way I do), but I don’t mind it.  I do not strive to live an annoyance free life.  I’d trade mild annoyance on a daily basis for never having to feel anxiety ever again (if you are a genie or fairy reading this, please consult with me before granting this wish.  I haven’t really thought it through).

I didn’t realize how much I was letting annoyance take the lead until one day I felt drastically different.  When I looked at her, no matter what she was doing, saying, or not doing or saying… all I saw was THE MOST ADORABLE PERSON EVER.  I was so grateful!  What would have been mildly annoying last week, was SO CUTE!  SQUEE!  Nothing she could do would annoy me.  I saw her through a lens of gratitude and appreciation. And through this lens, everything was coming up rainbows and unicorns (as it should).

The shift happened in a moment when I was frustrated and reached out for comfort instead of pushing away.  I cried, let myself be seen and heard, and then listened when she talked instead of dismissing her words as unwanted advice or criticism.  I received what she was offering me in the way she intended (and almost always intends it): as an act of love.  I’d get into specifics, but that’s not really the point.  The point is about the lenses.

My apologies to anyone who has never worn glasses or contacts…  I hope you still get this.

You know when you go to an optometrist and put your face up against that contraption with the interchangeable lenses?  Image for reference.

The optometrist, quickly cycles through different lenses and asks you to compare your experience.

One.  Or Two?

If you wait too long to answer because you’re squinting to try to see if you can see better through two or not which is not the point at all, they repeat.

One.  Or Two?

Two (for sake of argument)

Two.  Or Three?

and so on and so on it goes until you’ve compared several different lenses and land on one that helps you see most clearly.  Nowadays, a modern optometrists office has a machine you can stare into ahead of time that measures your eyes, guesses your prescription, and the whole lens comparing process takes just a few moments compared to whatever it took before when it was based on a human’s best guess instead of a machine’s.

That was what it was like to notice my lens shift with JH.

To be clear, the experience between the lenses isn’t that different in a literal sense.  One will be a little bit brighter, the other a bit sharper.  There probably isn’t a “right” or “wrong,” there’s just the one that you see through in the way that you feel most comfortable and satisfied seeing.

And isn’t that just the way of things, eh?

It’s easy to grow comfortable seeing through a lens of annoyance, or judgement, or fear.  And then amazing to realize how much more joyous life can be when seeing through a lens of appreciation.  And although it happened to me totally by accident, I am clear that this is a choice I can make.

Just a few days after I noticed I was seeing through a rosey-er lens, I felt the annoyance lens start to creep back in.  I nodded at it slightly, thanked it for its noble service, and sent it on it’s way.  I’m choosing a lens of appreciation (and the adorableness it yields) on purpose.

Perspective is a fascinating thing.  If social media really is to be the death of us (no one I know has said this, I’m just being dramatic) I suspect it’s because we don’t realize that what we see on our feeds has been tailor made to reinforce the lenses we’re wearing.  We are all seeing something completely different.  Where my feed is filled with videos of cops dancing with children of color at block parties, rational explanations for why #blacklivesmatter isn’t actually divisive at all, puppies, kittens, and articles about emotional intelligence…  my police officer friends’ are filled with stories about officers being shot at, protests restricting access for ambulances carrying sick children, new weapon technology, and puppies & kittens.  And I think (this is just a hunch) we don’t realize that we’re not seeing the same things.  And I don’t even mean perspective wise.

We could each look at the same kitten video and come to wildly different conclusions.  When the way we get our information about the world is through a vehicle like Facebook, we are LITERALLY seeing different things.  And we don’t realize we’re seeing different things, which is why it makes it even more difficult to understand how someone else could come to such a radically different conclusion than we did.

Turns out, they (the people with the other lenses) are not idiots.  They, like you and me, have simply set up their life in a way that they receive information that validates their beliefs.  They are looking at their version of the world through their lens.  And their lens is not bad or wrong, and your lens is not good or right.  Each lens simply represents a way that each of us feels most comfortable seeing.

Where the magic happens, is when we seek to change our lens.  To try on the lens of another.  And to realize that each lens we wear is a choice.

There may be a time in my life when I am embarrassed by the choice to write this, but right now I’m embarrassed about not having written it sooner, so here we go.

The ancestral makeup that generates my skin tone is one half Irish/Scottish (there was some debate among family members) and one half Mexican/Hungarian.  I have a fair, sometimes ruddy complexion that burns quickly, freckles, and generally doesn’t get along well with the sun.  And for years I’ve avoiding identifying with this, the largest organ in (on?) my body, because of the story I assume you think it tells about me.

I grew up in a medium sized suburban city (Orange) in the middle of a very conservative county (Orange) in Southern California.  And it was there that I learned to dislike “white people.”  Now, let me be clear… my dislike of “white people” has little to nothing to do with an entire race of people (and much more to do with the mainstream culture of my town) and has even less to do with my beliefs about whiteness now (we’ll get to that).  It was instead, just a good ol’ cognitive distortion, assembled with experiences to create a series of beliefs like:

• I don’t like “white people” because they value sameness, and I feel different
• I don’t like “white people” because they keep their emotions tucked behind a firm layer of social nicety, and I want to shout everything I feel aloud
• I don’t like “white people” because they go to church where – based on the few times I was dragged along – the main event was sitting still for an hour and hearing about being unworthy, and I… well, I just don’t like that
• I don’t like “white people” because they vote republican, want to keep all the money they make, and are quick to judge others as lazy, and I see systemic inequities (I didn’t know those words then) and want to help
• I don’t like “white people” because they’re boring, and I (even though I am) don’t want to be

In other words…  I don’t like “white people” because I don’t think they like me, and I’m all for pushing others away before they can leave me.

My two sets of grandparents, all living at the time (and now down to just one of four), were the embodiment of this division I saw in the world and felt within me.

My white grandparents lived in a 2 bedroom, manufactured home in the Joshua Tree Desert.  They had a huge satellite dish on the side of the house that brought in, what felt like, 3 channels.  There was also a shuffleboard court and a swing outside, a remote control toy General Lee, an organ, and an autoharp.  And it was quiet.  Both of my grandparents were soft spoken.  I never heard either of them raise their voice.  They went to bed early and woke early.  My grandma made us pancakes with club soda in them which made them light and fluffy.  They had Corelle dishware. They wanted to hear me play the organ (or my clarinet, or saxophone).  They wanted to play a card game with us.  They wanted to hear about our days.  They showed up to all of our performances.  They came to be with us for all the holidays.  They are what I know now to be idyllic grandparents, and I would do anything to go back in time to be with them and appreciate them, but I was bored.

The other side of my family is where the action was.  My Hungarian grandmother’s Mexican husband had died years before, but the 6 half breed children they’d had who were now adults are where I identified with my Mexican roots.  My grammy and her husband (a retired police detective with some loose genealogical ties to Edgar Allen Poe, white – but famous) lived in San Clemente in a 2 story house just a couple blocks from the beach.  There wasn’t much of a yard, but inside the house was a maze of rooms, nooks, crannies, and places where treasures were stored.  There were pink depression glass dishes we weren’t really supposed to use, but did anyway.  Up the dark, carpeted, floating stairs my grandpa had a collection of clown paintings and figurines that were classically creepy.  And there were always people around.  Loud people.  Arguments.  Food.  Drink.  Drama.  Showing up for and being concerned about me was limited at best.  There was plenty to want for.  It was dramatic.  It was, in retrospect – not particularly healthy, awesome.

And so my beliefs about race, including my own, were cemented.  “White people” were boring and I didn’t want to be one. “Brown people” were exciting and I wanted to be seen as one.

The issue with this is that I didn’t have much brown people cred.  First, my skin wasn’t brown.  To get a tan I would have to diligently avoid burning by religiously applying 80 spf sunscreen multiple times a day while spending at least 8 hours in the direct sun daily for at least two weeks.  I also didn’t speak Spanish.  Not even Spanglish, which I’ve since picked up.

Then in Jr. High, Stephanie Knecht, whose blond bangs were sprayed to an impressive 5″ height, furrowed her overdrawn brows at me as she shoved me into a locker and accused me of “mad dogging” her.  Stephanie, the resident white girl that hung with the cholas, was my lily white ass’ only potential in with the crowd I supposedly identified with… and that didn’t work out.  So, I just gave up figuring out who I was, or what I was and stopped thinking about it.

I intentionally distanced myself from the community I grew up in (by the way, my parents were totally lefty liberals… I guess they just thought suburbia was safer) and sought out a feeling of belonging elsewhere.  A bunch of other dramatic stuff happened that is irrelevant at the moment, but I’ll write a book some day.

When I started working in Diversity & Inclusion a few years ago, the question of my racial identity came up again.  No one asked me outright, but I assumed it was the question on everyone’s mind (for the record, I have NO idea if it actually is/was).  In response to the fear of in-credibility (<– if that word does not exist, it should) I played up my most “diverse” dimensions.  I got an asymmetrical haircut with a shaved side to be more visibly queer.  I started wearing an Our Lady of Guadalupe and darker lipstick any time I was facilitating a diversity training to give hints at my Latin/Catholic heritage.  I stopped wearing cardigans over my flabby arms to make sure everyone knew (who didn’t) that I was also a fat person.  I debated changing my last name to my mother’s maiden name (which I won’t tell you because it’s the answer to so many security questions).

It turned out all of my worries were for naught.  I’m good at my job because I’m good at being in a state of learning and moderate discomfort.  And the diversity cred I perceived I needed to be taken seriously hasn’t been an issue partly because I work within a framework that heavily emphasizes honoring ALL dimensions of diversity (beyond race, ethnicity, gender, age, and sexual orientation) and expects/allows for self identification of all dimensions.  I still worry, though, but mostly about other things.

And then Alton Sterling and Philando Castile were shot.

And instead of turning away, I looked.  I watched.  I read.  I listened.  I did not push away the hurt.  I did not push away the discomfort.  I dove in and I learned something important: I am white.

In the 30+ years I spent trying to distance myself from my perceived  (insert: actual) race I was missing a BIG piece of the puzzle.

While I still, and will likely always, value the dignity that comes with inviting someone to self identify, and I still struggle with the reality that race (a mere social construct) has so much weight, I will never again discount the truth that race matters and perception is reality.  I may not feel like a “white person” (based on the beliefs I had about white people when I was child which have since been discredited through the process of maturity), I LOOK like a white person, and that’s what matters.  Because looking like a white person is a privilege.

White privilege is likely, at least in part, why I have been offered jobs, been approved for rentals, been able to shop in peace, been able to sass the police without any harm befalling me, been granted social niceties, and generally been kept safe, lifted up, encouraged, and celebrated by the communities I engage with.  Everything I wrote about in this piece, and likely more than I have even realized, is a function of white privilege.  Wondering about my race is a privilege that people of color do not have the option to do – the world gives them PLENTY of information about their race and what it means about them.  Changing my appearance to convey different messages about myself is a function of my privilege – my skin color, the foundation of my physical appearance ensures I will convey “safe” to most people who cross my path no matter what my hair or makeup look like.  Even writing this, expecting it will be read, and the likely reality that no harm will befall me because of it is a function of my privilege.

And I didn’t realize until all too recently… that by trying to distance myself from my whiteness, what I was really trying to distance myself from was feeling guilty for my privilege.

I am sensitive to inequity.  I can’t help but see it and I want it to go away.  And somehow within my childlike mind I was successful in doing the mental gymnastics I needed to do to safely distance myself from taking responsibility for the parts I play in maintaining the systemic inequity society is entrenched in.

White guilt is an easy next step once you’ve stumbled upon the truth of white privilege.  I am hoping to skip over it, but the truth is I’m on shaky ground and I don’t know what will happen.  The first feeling I had when I truly allowed myself to witness the depth of the injustice people of color live with daily was anger.  I am not comfortable with anger, but I knew it had a message for me so I sat with it.  And what anger taught/reminded me is that I am not effective when I am angry.  My gifts are compassion, forgiveness, humility, and kindness.  When presented with the question: what gifts do you have that you are not using?  My answer was: all of them.  Time to change that up.

Right now, I believe that the most important thing I can do as a person of privilege is use my privilege to create safety and space for people of color.  I can close my mouth and listen to people of color.  I can use the safety my privileged appearance inspires in other white people to gently influence perspectives and behavior change.

When I see inequity, I do something.
When I witness a microagression, I do something.
When I hear racism, systemic or individual, I do something.
When I have an opportunity to educate, I do something.
When I am asked to help, I do something.

Even when I am not asked…  I do something.

—–

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” – Desmond Tutu

I have a history with new year’s resolutions.  Namely breaking them.  And then swearing off them as I prefer not to do things I don’t anticipate will be successful.  In recent years I’ve played with intentions instead.  Feeling less pressure to do anything other than sit back and let the universe take the reigns and make the magic happen.

This year I’m going deep.  I’ve made a vow.  It all happened on New Year’s Eve in a mini meditation retreat at Insight LA in Santa Monica.

A few mornings before the retreat I was in tears about going. I had agreed to it.  Even been the person to initiate the registration after the invitation from JH had been sitting in my inbox for weeks (ignored by me, patiently waiting from her).  Still, there was some dread.  Some fear.  She had just returned from a month at a Modern Zen Buddhist monastery.  I’d been meditating 3 to 10 minutes a day… most days.  Could I keep up?  Was I good enough?  Was it going to be uncomfortable?  Was I going to be judged for my relative inexperience and my obvious lack of skill?  The answers my fear provided in order were: No. No. Yes. Definitely.

I didn’t want to go anymore.

I had already committed, through conversation with my naturopath, purchasing of a book, writing and mailing a check for a registration fee, and many many hours of discussion with JH, to a different relationship with my body in the new year.  I was going to be participating in a group who, along with me, would remove all grains and sugars from their diets and explore the changes to their spiritual body as a result.  My confidence level was high going into this new way of life.  Even though I had NEVER been successful at implementing anything like it before, I was certain I could do it this time.  And I was sure that SOMETHING was going to come up in the silence of meditation that would shake that confidence.  I was dreading it.

We went.

The retreat opened with the teacher guiding us through a ritual.  He explained that the bodhisattvas made vows daily.  Vows to take on the suffering of all.  Something like:

However innumerable sentient beings are, I vow to save them.
However inexhaustible the defilements are, I vow to extinguish them.
However immeasurable the dharmas are, I vow to master them.
However incomparable enlightenment is, I vow to attain it.

These vows give them direction.  When repeated daily, and worn with a protective garment (for them, their robes – for us, knotted blessing cords) they provide steady guidance toward the fulfillment of those vows.

And then, without the need to take on any more than what causes our own suffering he invited us to make a vow that will set the compass of our hearts.  With my eyes closed and my breath at the forefront of my attention the vow came easily.  I vow to value, prioritize, & choose (above all else) WELLBEING for: my body, mind, & spirit; those of my family; loved ones; & those whose I may encounter and can impact.

Red strings were passed around and knotted, first for the belief we hold most dear, second for compassion, and third for our vow.  We tied them on and knew them to be for our protection.  Protection from what?  For ourselves of course!  The rest of the evening was spent in silence.  And in the remaining hours of meditation I did not suffer.  I soothed myself when soothing was needed.  I felt my heart take the lead and set direction toward my vow.  I connected to the power within me to live without suffering.  And the new year rang in with a soft bell, a tearful smiling kiss with JH, and hope.

Happy New Year.  May you find what you seek in the silence when you turn your attention to your heart.

Thank you for the warm reception back to the inter webs friends!  It was quite heart expanding.

My commitment to myself has already wavered, as things tend to do when I don’t put them in my phone as calendar appointments or reminders.  But the good news is that as soon as I realized I had been forgetting to pay attention to myself (my commitment to myself was a minimum of 5 minutes of daily singularly focused self attention: could be blogging, drawing, meditating, walking, etc just has to be intentional), I decided to blog.  Back.  On.  Track.  Woot!

My family just returned from a road trip up to Oregon and back home to Los Angeles and it was lovely.  I wasn’t sure if I was a road trip person.  The road trips of my youth were forced, awkward visits to grandparents I didn’t know how to appreciate when I could or sick dad consolation prizes that felt scary and unnerving.  And I often have a lot of anxiety about visiting other people.  I worry that I won’t spend the right amount of time making it worth their while.  I’m worried that my family (JH and The Boy) won’t like the people we’re visiting and they’ll be uncomfortable and then I’ll be uncomfortable.  I worry that I won’t know what to say or how to act or basically anything required to be a social being.

And on this trip, somehow that magically faded away.  We spent every night in the bed of someone generous enough to offer us one, after eating the dinner they made for us, and departing on the breakfast they made too (people are SO generous)!  And I didn’t go into it knowing how the exchange of energy was going to work.  But instead of fretting about “making it worth their while” I just let myself show up, be kind, and wait for the gifts to be revealed.  And they were!  We came and took sleeping space, food, water, and air and in return we gave conversation, meditation sessions, a playmate for siblings who usually have just each other, dishwashing, vacuuming, hugs, love, and authentic presence.  And it was more than enough.  And I never worried that it wasn’t really.

And I was reminded of something my great friend, JM, says, if we’re going to make up stories in our heads, let’s make up good ones.

The story I used to have in my head about traveling/visiting was one where I was a “taker” and other people “givers” and that being the opposite from my usual role in life… was not something I could take.  The stories our minds make up are intensely convincing no?

Just before the trip I realized I couldn’t find The Boy’s iPod (and he was leaving on an airplane with his Nana the next day and “needed” it).  I used the magical “find my iPhone” feature on iCloud and got cryptic readings about whether the device was connected to the internet (it wasn’t, then it was, then it wasn’t, then it was…) and the location where it was last recorded.  And I, not recalling that I had taken it out of my bag in the car earlier and tucked it into the glove box, concocted an elaborate story in my head about how I must have dropped it getting out of the car, someone in the neighborhood found it, they were busy stealing it and connecting it to their internet connection when they saw the LOST message I sent to the device, so they shut it down, and turned it back on again in curiosity, and shut it down again out of nervousness.

And then I went to look in the car.  And found it.  And got a reality check.

If we’re going to make up stories in our heads… let’s make up good ones, eh?

xo
KM

This past weekend I had the pleasure of giving the keynote address at the Women’s Wellness Retreat at Camp Arroyo, a YMCA camp operated by the YMCA of the East Bay.  90 women from all walks of life were in attendance taking the weekend as an opportunity relax, rejuvenate, pay extra care to themselves, connect, and take on challenges.

Arriving at camp, I felt intimidated.

I haven’t been having the smoothest couple of months.  It’s a time I would have described as “not being at my best.”  For reasons related to parenting, work, and life in general I’ve been pushed past my limits and out of my comfort zones. And I’ve reacted by stress eating, raising my voice, shutting down and worst of all: not writing.

As I started to get to know the ladies at the retreat, and not let them know who I was as often as possible, my old friend doubt joined the party.

“What do you have to offer any of them?” she chimed in.  “You can here to talk about authentic self care after months of putting yourself last… They’re already here, they already know everything you have to say.”

“Gee, thanks for your encouragement there, friend” I had the sense to respond.  “Your feedback isn’t welcomed right now, be on your way.” And she kept her voice quiet but showed up in my body in other ways (a stress dream about speaking after not having oreoared at all, anxiety in my stomach, chest, throat, shoulders, neck, and head…).  I continued to make it known that while I knew she was trying to help, I wasn’t interested in hearing from her by sharing my nervousness with a few new friends.  And when Saturday night came I stood up in front of the room and did what I had promised. And as it turned out, there were women there that needed to hear from me.

And reflecting about doubt’s contribution to the weekend got me thinking about what it really meanest to be at our “best.”

I think of my “best self” as the one who is compassionate, patient, kind, intelligent, creative, mindful, and committed.  And under stress, my capacity for all of those things is limited…  in some cases I seem to lose touch with those qualities completely.  I become judgmental, angry, rude, short sighted, limited, mindless, and want to give up and walk away.

Here’s the thing…  those things I described above, are not traits, they are feelings.  That best self FEELS compassionate where her opposite FEELS judgmental.  They are not me, and they don’t come and go… they remain static. All that changes is my sense of connection to them.  I am always my best self because I am always doing my best (and so are you).

Best is as good as it gets in the circumstances.  And how you and I show up in any room at any moment is our best.  It’s easy to look back and evaluate behavior and choices and say what we could have done differently… if we were truly able to, we would have.  Sometimes we do!  Sometimes we stop ourselves mid nag and change our language or tone.  Sometimes we change course when we’ve headed to dessert table for another helping and refill our water glass instead.  Sometimes we delete the text message we just typed instead of pushing send because we know sending it wouldn’t be helpful.

We do our best with what we have in the moment.

We are always at our best.

Have you heard of this “word of the year” trend?  It’s a bit of a substitute for making new year’s resolutions.  I haven’t made resolutions for years.  Some time ago I realized the process of choosing resolutions and promptly not following through on them was a surefire way to set myself up to feel failure and subsequent shame… so I stopped doing it.  

What happened next is that I started looking at every day as an opportunity learn and grow.  I almost wrote change there because I think that was the intent at first, but since then I’ve learned that striving for constant change is remaining in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction with myself whereas being open to learning and growth is just being in the state of living, not always moving forward, but being.

I can see now that my failed resolutions were a product of not being connected to my true desires and not honoring the commitments I made to myself (because they weren’t commitments I really wanted to make!).  When this happens often enough, a sense of self trust is lost.  What’s funny is that if I were to make resolutions now I would be much more likely to be successful because I would choose things with purposeful intention and my relationship with myself is strong enough that I wouldn’t be willing to betray my own trust any longer.

I learned earlier this week about the idea of choosing a word for the year and before I was even through reading about it and thinking about whether I’d do it the word was echoing in my head:

SUCCESS.

Success is never a word I would have chosen before.  I would have gravitated to a more that I judged as more “noble”  like love, forgiveness, compassion… and those are the words I’ve been working with rather diligently the last couple of years.  But I’ve done enough.  Truly.  They’ve received enough of my attention and affection that I’ve built a solid foundation in the values that are important to me.  They aren’t going anywhere.

Late last year I was shopping at a jewelry sale and gravitated towards these bracelets that are a piece of cord with a single crystal strung on them.  They were called “Prescriptions for Life” and were perfectly packaged in plastic cylinders that looked like medicine bottles.  I picked up every single one and was putting the one that supported Love in my basket when I felt the “Success” and “Luck” (also: follow through) staring at me.  I bought those instead… and those bracelets (that I’ve worn every day since) mark the first moment I allowed myself to prioritize success and accomplishment.  That’s all it takes.  Do one small thing to plant a seed and watch as it melts into your intentions and infuses your experiences with new life.

I am ready to experience success.  I know I don’t yet know what that means, what it feels like, or what I will need to do or let go of to get it… but I am prepared to find out.  Success is the word for this year.  Success is the experience I will have.  Success is what I’m worthy of.

My high school drama teacher (at one time the sole distributor of life altering wisdom I paid any attention to) said that one of the biggest mistakes most people make is believing they’re the only one who feels/thinks the way they do.  Time and time again I’ve found this to be true… and it’s comforting to take solace in the company of being known, heard, or understood even if it’s just by someone who isn’t in the same room (or maybe someone you don’t even know yet).  Shared experiences and being able to see ourselves in others contributes more toward the goal of world peace than anything else I can think of.

In recent years I’ve become acquainted with the second cousin to this life lesson…  that, another of the biggest mistakes we make is assuming that everyone thinks the way we do.  When we send a card to someone who would love to have lunch with us, they may not be receiving the love we sent.  Instead they’re focusing on the lackthey feel from the non-existent lunch date.  When we have a great plan for the way a project is going to go at work, the person we’re presenting it to (who has the same exact goals) may not see the “greatness” we’ve devised.

I forget this lesson a lot.  Many of us probably do.  The holiday season is a common time for me to be confronted by it again and have an opportunity to circle around it, look at it from all sides, pick it up and toss it around, get to know it better, and start to understand it.  Besides serving as a reminder to not make assumptions about what others need, feel, or think… this phenomena seems to be what creates cultural expectations or societal norms.  It’s the huge space taking energy that leaves little wiggle room for those practicing outside the traditional.

Earlier this week I posted on Facebook about my partner and I exchanging rings.  We had been “string married” for fun at a kid’s birthday party months before and found out we loved wearing our “rings” (so much so that they got rather worn out and nasty by the time we took them off for good).  As an interim solution to meeting the desire for symbolic commitment without wanting to be “engaged” to be “married” (because we simply haven’t decided yet if that’s the path that matches our desires or practical needs) we decided to get silver rings engraved with a quote from a favorite movie.  Photos of two, wide silver bands brandished with “because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible” and their background story accompanied a Facebook “life event” reading “Got Ringed.”

I was expecting a lot of excitement and fawning about how adorable the idea (read: we) is and was surprised instead by a flurry of congratulations.  The reaction felt like we had announced an engagement, which wasn’t the intent.  It was lovely… there’s not much better than your friends and family celebrating your love… but it felt off.  I wondered if I needed to clarify.

It took me back to planning the wedding to my now former husband.  We wanted it to be picnic style.  We didn’t rent chairs.  We asked people to dress casually and prepare to sit on the ground.  There were many questions about it, challenges of it, and lots of prodding/reminding from us that this would not be a typical wedding… still, not a single person arrived in anything less than their Sunday best, expecting a chair.

Somewhere along the way we’ve invested so much in the guarantee of sameness that I fear we’ve begun to rely on it as a way of validating our worth.  Even I, who encourages people of all walks of life to live as their authentic self, got a little down in the dumps and insecure feeling about the modest, intentional Christmas we had while looking at pictures of piles of gifts pouring out from underneath trees.

I have felt different my entire life.  As a child I acted it out on purpose with mismatched socks, bowler hats, and neckties (wow, I was a hipster before it was cool) hoping someone would see and appreciate it.  Then I learned to squash it when that plan backfired, and now I’m back to acting it out again… in a more digestible way.  And encouraging others to do the same.

It can be lonely though…  when I realize that not everyone thinks like me after a long time of forgetting, the first reaction is an old familiar ache.  Being different isn’t easy.  Still, every time I think I’m different, or alone in being different, I find out I’m not.  Thank goodness for that.  May the cycle continue to push and pull on all of us until we’ve stretched into the fullest expressions of ourselves, living lovingly, side by side with our most similar and different neighbors.

Happy New Year!

I judge people.

We all do.  It’s part of the human experience.  And while some might say that the goal of a mindful life is to live free of judgment, I like to remind them (and really, myself) that living free of judgment includes judgment of the judgers.  So, I judge.  I notice.  I correct… rinse and repeat.

This week I’ve done a lot of judging other people for what ruffles their feathers.  Really?  You’re upset about food spilling on your sweater?  Or that you can’t get moving done today that movers are coming to do tomorrow?  Or that you’re not going to get to have dessert after a day of eating every sweet thing you could get your hands on (that one was my son)?  And it wasn’t even that I couldn’t understand why these things were upsetting… it was more that people held on to their upset when they were clearly in situations they couldn’t control.  The sweater was covered in sauce, the moving wasn’t going to get done today no matter how badly you wanted it to, and eating your weight in goodies for lunch is a reasonable substitute for dessert.  Let it go.

I started to interpret their distress as “they are letting stupid stuff upset them” because although I was aware that I sometimes let things upset me they’re definitely not stupid…  And then I watched myself.

Things I have “let upset me” for longer than 2 minutes this week:

• Tablecloths that didn’t arrive at a party on time
• Not getting to arrange the fake snow drape on the table the way I had envisioned
• Being asked to fill up hot water bottles to warm the bed
• People asking me questions they think I should know the answer to
• Being asked to know my 2014 vacation plans
• Dinner plans changing from Vietnamese to Thai
• Ill fitting pants
• I could go on…

We all have a thing, sometimes things… big things… That thing that triggers us no matter the circumstances because it’s tied tightly to our core issue–that main lesson we’re here on this earth to learn in this lifetime.  And, as it turns out, we have a lot of small things too.  And none of them are stupid, they are all reflections of our feelings and needs and every emotional experience we have is valid.

The thing about that big trigger is that it’s trying to get our attention to give us information.  It’s trying to tell us which direction to go, what to watch for, and how to begin the process of healing.  And the small stuff, well…  it’s distracting us.  Yes, every conflict is a lesson.  Yes, noticing your responses to things (even the small ones) can give you insight into yourself, others, and the world.  And if we can stop, take note, and move on we are building up our resilience as learners to take the big trigger head on.

But when we get all wrapped up in the small stuff and are constantly being triggered, without  pause for evaluation or self inquiry, we can’t tell the difference anymore between the little helper lessons and the GREAT BIG LESSONS!

I encourage you to give up sweating the small stuff (and it’s not quite all small stuff) so you can notice when the big stuff arrives and have the time, energy, and focus to work with it.  Your life, even when it feels like it isn’t, is working with you to help you become the best version of yourself.  It isn’t always easy.  It isn’t always painless.  But it’s worth it.

Tonight as I was watching and tending to the fire in my fireplace I sat in quiet contemplation (well, really I sat half listening to an episode of Curious George and zoning out while staring into the flames hoping for an extra dose of prana for my tired body).  And the longer I sat there and  stared the more I realized I was watching my life play out in the fireplace.

The mortared bricks, built specifically to safely house a roaring fire have a distinct purpose on this earth and although they could certainly be effectively used to display candelabras, transport mythical gift giving beings, and even just sitting empty increase the market value of a home… the fireplace is meant for fire.  It’s meant to be piled with wood.  Not so much that all the air is crowded out, but enough that the pieces work together, feeding off each other’s energy until the roaring flame takes over.  It’s  meant for this one job.

Lighting the fire isn’t easy.  Sometimes the wood is wet, or so hard and dry that even after igniting it burns out quickly leaving a thin layer of char behind.  It requires a constant source of ignition to get going.  Fiddle with it too much and you can literally smother it before it even gets started.  It needs room to breathe to really set ablaze, and when it does, oh wow, does it feel like it could go on forever.  The power that’s evident in the sounds, colors, patterns, and vibrant heat coming off of it… it seems unstoppable.

Until it starts to wane.  More fuel is always needed.  A log can’t burn forever.  And as it burns it splits apart, pieces that are no longer serving the burn fall away and may even ignite something else on their way down or from their new resting place in a last burst of life.  New wood must be added to keep the power roaring and careful attention must be paid to the when, where, and how new fuel is added.  Some pieces will burn bright, hot, and be charred quickly, others will be slow to catch but burn deep and slow giving more warmth throughout the night.

Eventually the fire will start to die down.  Without feeding it the burn will slow and soften until it’s nothing more than an orangey glow, crackling and glistening while still giving off the heat of life.  At this point it takes nothing more than a quick burst of air to turn glow into sparks and see flames rise again.

The fireplace is me (and all of you).  We’re here for a reason and while there are many things we can do, and do well, we have been designed for a specific purpose.  Unlike the fireplace that never questions its role and ability to hold fire we get distracted by thoughts and fear of getting burned.

The logs are our life’s work… the wet ones are taking us away from our intended purpose and the fire is refusing to light, refusing to give any energy to something so far from what’s meant to be.  The one’s that are so hard and dry that they’re perfect for burning are so hard to get lit because it takes all of our energy focused on a goal to begin to live fully in our masterful design.  When we question and try to overwork ourselves and our lives we may end up interfering with our own success through sabotage or simply trying to control too much.

The kindling and matches are the people, places, things, and experiences that move us closer to our whole selves.  They’re our healthy relationships, our self loving practices, kindness, compassion, forgiveness, and anything that allows us to let go of the cold that doesn’t serve us and receive the warmth of catching fire.

A roaring fire is us living as we’re meant to.  We still need more logs… self care is essential and burn out is real.  Left unattended the fire will quiet and soften but it will take a long time to completely go out.  With just a little more attention, care, and fuel it will quickly reignite.   The fire wants to keep burning as much as it is inclined to go out.  It’s a delicate balance kept alive by the care and consideration of thoughtful tending.

The fire is going to go out at some point… luckily the one in your soul works on a longer timeline than the burning wood, but in either case you can always come back to it.  You will always be the fireplace and so with fuel to burn and a spark to start it  the fire has a place to show up and burn bright.  Sometimes you will live without your fire for a great length of time… years even.  One day you might realize you’ve never lit a fire in the home of your soul.  It’s never too late, it’s never been too long.  When you find yourself cold, disconnected, in need of comfort… it’s waiting for you.  It’s waiting to let you see yourself ignite into the fullest expression of your powerful purpose.

 

Every life story has the moment (or momentS depending on the tragedy level of the cards you were dealt) where everything completely falls apart…  Your husband gets sick (and I’m not talking man-cold although we know how devastating that can be), you lose your job, you find out about your partner’s infidelity, your best friend/parent/dog dies.  And in those moments are invitations to the greatest version of your life you could ever imagine living.  In those moments are opportunities to realize that everything you’ve been holding on to as your safe reality is gone and you are still standing.

You’re still breathing.

You’re still you.

You survived!  It’s a miracle!

I have people in my life right now who are living in this moment.  Each one has a different version of the falling apart story.  One, in particular, is dealing with the discovery of infidelity, reality of addiction, and ultimately the pain that comes from a relationship ending… and in doing so I am struck by her incredible bravery.  This is the perfect opportunity for her to sit on the couch for days, eat cookies, watch movies, cry, sulk, blame, and let her bruised ego take over (and believe me, a healthy dose of that is a welcome part of recovery from this kind of pain).  But instead of adopting those as a primary coping strategy she is completely recognizing and fully accepting the invitation to soften and let go that came in the form of her life falling apart.

Because she’s choosing to.

These moments of crisis don’t come with automatic enlightenment.  Accepting the invitation is not the easy road to choose.  These events rip us up by the roots and throw us into the great unknown and it’s most aligned with our brain’s desire to maintain same-ness and together-ness to desperately scramble for bits and pieces of what was and using lots of glue, tape, and string put it all back together again.  It doesn’t matter that most of the pieces aren’t there…  some part of us is convinced that there’s some way to assemble what’s left and have it look the same as it always did.  It takes bravery to turn away from what was to start to receive what will be.

The unknown, the “what the hell am I going to do with this pile of remnants”, is one of the scariest places to be.  And when we find ourselves there (because that part isn’t optional) we can choose in that moment to give up on holding on or to grip on to the little bits that are left.  In the choice of gripping, our despair will likely deepen.  Because the longer we hold on the longer we are nose to nose with the reality of our lost life.  In letting go, we widen our perspective and can grieve what we’re saying goodbye to while seeing the next great thing coming around the corner.

This friend said to me, words that felt like echoes because they resonated so deeply in my soul where the seeds of my transformation are still sending off new shoots and leaves: I don’t want to stay small.  I am more powerful than I’ve been letting myself be.

Wow.  How beautiful is that?

It is not easy to let go.  It is not easy to stop holding on.  But I can promise you, that on the other side of doing it… just beyond the initial heart softening that comes from surrender, is peace.  Peace in knowing that you can live as your big, brave, beautiful self from that point forward.

Go ahead and give up on holding on.  You’re worth it.