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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.

If I was a literary figure my tragic flaw would be that I give up too easily.  Hopefully without sounding too full of myself I have to tell you that for most of my life I’ve had enough things come easily to me that I haven’t had to work hard for much (I know… I know… I know how it sounds.  Really, I do).  And as a result, I don’t have much grit.

Grit is that thing that keeps us going.  It’s perseverance and stick-to-it-iv-ness.  It’s essential to success and conversely related to intelligence (chew on that, eh?).  I’m working on becoming more gritty.  My six year old son is a model of grit development and I’m following his lead on this one.  But, before I go and get so gritty that I can’t even remember not being this I want to impart some of my giving up expertise.  So I’m debuting a series of posts, right here, right now about giving up.  T

First thing you can go right ahead and give up: People Pleasing.

Earlier this week I did a presentation at a conference.  It was a new workshop that I had created specifically for the occasion and I was curious to hear what people thought.  So curious, that I dismissed all offers to help clean up and once the last participant was gone gathered up all of the evaluations and hunkered down to read them.  Most were good, several were great and then there was one that said I was being preachy, they felt talked “at” instead of “with,” and that my voice lacked passion.  OUCH.  It stuck with me and may have for the whole night if lower on that pile of evaluations hadn’t been one that said “too much group discussion/activity, more lecture.  we came to hear from the expert.”

What could I do but laugh?

It hurts when people don’t like something we’ve done.  We tend to jump right into them not liking “us” and that’s where the hurt really starts to grip us.  For some reason, their opinion can feel like it’s strong enough to knock us off the foundation of our own self worth.  But only if we let it.

If we are intent on the goal of people pleasing then yes, it will be like a wrecking ball plowing into a paper doll balancing on a needle…  but let go of the need to please anyone but yourself, and you’re you–your human form–standing on a mountaintop and the opinions of others are like soft breezes brushing by.  Do you feel them?  Yes.  Might one blow some dust in your eye every once in a while?  Yes.  Do you get blown off that mountain into a valley of doubt and shame?  No.  You stay where you are, strong footed in the stance of your worth.

Go ahead and give up on people pleasing.  And stay tuned for more things to give up on!

Lately I’ve been having a fair amount of those “it’s all worth it” parenting moments.  Keep in mind (I’m talking to those of you who still haven’t decided whether to take the plunge), it took six years to get here.  Sure, there were a few before, but not until now do I stand the chance of getting several in a week…  Worth the wait?  I’ll get back to you on that (right now I’m leaning toward yes).

Yesterday my son and I decorated the house for Christmas.  The heart warming began when he helped me (moaning and groaning the whole way while I giggled and simultaneously validated his dramatics) haul the tubs up from the garage downstairs, and then made a big showing of valiantly moving things out of the way so I could carry in the final load on my own.  He made it through 75% of tree trimming before his “hip was killing him” and he needed to rest, and before that he was joyfully exclaiming “I love decorating for Christmas!  It’s my favorite part!”

I can’t even begin to describe (although I’ll probably try) what it feels like to experience these moments.  When I realized last year that he was suddenly a kid and not a baby anymore I was freaked out to all hell… I didn’t know how to be a kid-mom, I had gotten really good at being a baby-mom.  I didn’t want a new job!  Ah!  Without noticing when it happened we must have successfully transitioned into our new roles, because now when I see my six year old son express his humanity my heart feels like it’s going to explode, I get tears in my eyes, and my skin feels frosty and tingly warm all at the same time. It’s a little a lot like falling in love.

A whole lot of Christmas cheer and an unusually small amount of whining made it no surprise that I found myself grinning from ear to ear on the couch that evening.  I turned to my partner, still grinning, and said “I’m happy.  I love my family.  Really cool people live here.”  Heart warmed.  Flying high

Then I learned, via Facebook, that someone I went to elementary (and middle, high, and even some college) school with died a few days ago.  And within moments I felt myself falling fast.  I was aware enough to watch it happen, but felt helpless to the drop.  I tried holding back the tears, unsuccessfully… and when I couldn’t hold those back I worked on holding back feelings of embarrassment for my reaction.  I hadn’t spoken to this boy (more accurately a man) since… he was a boy-quite literally, but even without a present day relationship his death brought up so much in me.  What do I do now?  Do I reach out?  Do I go to the funeral?  Do I post on Facebook?  Should I have reached out sooner?  Does my sympathy matter?  Why am I so upset?  He was my first crush (back in 4th grade) is that a good enough reason to feel so devastated?  Am I sham for having all of these feelings?

And I fell all the way down into a mush pot of doubt and fear.

Suddenly the heart warming nature of parenting felt like the heaviest oppression: oh my god.  i am responsible for another person’s life.  shit.  My appetite was gone and the the thought of another slice of pumpkin pie nauseated me: still, I found a way to polish off half a bag of reese’s peanut butter cups.  I had been out that morning doing errands and making smart financial choices: and all I wanted was to go back out and buy everything.  EVERYTHING.

It was amazing how quickly everything felt different.  It was amazing how real both felt.  And it was amazing how helpful reaching out and writing about it was.  And how different it felt to look at my family through a lens of gratitude rather than fear.

It’s hard to understand why young people die.  Beliefs in higher power, fate, karma… all get tossed front and center and challenged with “whys?”  I don’t claim to know why this young man left this earth.  But I know for me it created another opportunity to realize and remember… it’s all real.  The joy AND the fear and everything in between.  A human brain can only handle so much at once, and what we give attention to is what we will feel.  I’m going to choose joy today.  I can feel the fear behind me still…  eventually my awareness of it will fade.  Until then, I’ll just work on learning to fly again.

I love the holidays.  I love the lights and smells and sounds.  I love decorating for Christmas.  I love eating way too much pie (and then eating it again for breakfast).  I love presents.  I love it all.

I also think that I love holiday gatherings.  I watch holiday movies or the holiday episode of my favorite TV shows and my heart is warmed by the family togetherness… and for most of my adult life I tried over and over and over again to replicate the feeling I got from watching those scenes in real life.  And it never worked.

It’s not because I don’t like my family, I do.  It’s not for lack of the dramatic moments, we have plenty.  It’s not for lack of any of the essential sights, smells, or sounds, they’re all there.  It just doesn’t feel the same as watching it on television.  Which makes perfect sense, because it’s not television.  It’s real life.

And in real life I am far more of an introvert than an extrovert.  I get overwhelmed in crowds.  I am sensitive to loud noises, temperature conditions, and lighting.  I have a million dietary sensitivities.  I have both gift giving AND receiving anxiety.  And I REALLY like wearing sweatpants and watching holiday movies (in a room where I control the temperature, sound, lighting, and available snacks).

Last year, for the first time ever, I opted out of the family Thanksgiving dinner.  My son will always spend Thanksgiving with his father per our divorce agreement and I was starting to realize how little I actually cared for the whole occasion.  The plan was to bake pumpkin cinnamon rolls, go to the movies, and eat chinese takeout for dinner with my girlfriend.  I don’t think we ended up finding an open Chinese place but overall, it was a great day!  A day of celebration completely free of obligation that set unrealistic expectations and got in the way of pure enjoyment.

We repeated it again this year.  Went up to Idyllwild and then ate a horrifically processed tasting meal at IHOP on the way down the mountain.  It was awful, yet there was still something about being able to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted that felt delectable.  A binge viewing of House of Cards on Netflix rounded it out.  Today, I spent all day in the kitchen roasting a chicken, baking a dairy free pumpkin pie (with a gluten free gingersnap crust), grating potatoes, frying latkes, and smashing the leftover potato chunks with heaps of butter and garlic.  More House of Cards is on the menu for tonight and I couldn’t be happier.  I am comfortable.  I nurtured myself by doing things I wanted to do.  I love my family more than ever and can’t wait to see them for Christmas.

This Thanksgiving, more than ever, I am grateful for the freedom to choose to be authentic to myself.  To care for me and put my own needs first.  Happy Thanksgivvukah!

No matter what you believe, you probably believe you have a purpose.  Either because you’ve discovered it and you can feel it running through your veins like electricity in the moments you get to plug into it… or because you haven’t yet and you can feel the gaping space where you think it should belong.

And either way, you’re probably in a hurry to do something about it!  Ack!  Must.  Live (or find).  Purpose.  It’s a totally natural and expected reaction.

The thing about purpose, finding or keeping pace with it, is that you’ve got to slow down to make it work.

Slight detour to tell a story before returning to make a point: When I was a kid I didn’t know that any other musicians existed besides The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, & Carole King (maybe including a duet with James Taylor) until I was on the bus in 4th grade and people were asking whether I liked Michael Jackson.  Michael who?  It was embarrassing then, and for some reason the embarrassment lingers (because whenever anyone asks me what kind of music I listen do–which is a question that LUCKILY slows to a trickle once you pass 30–I realize I would still prefer to stick to those three).  Anyway, detour over.

One of my favorite songs as a child was the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel.  I had no idea what it meant then, and even reading the lyrics now… I’m not sure I do… but the first few lines are pretty straight forward.

Slow down, you move too fast.
You got to make the morning (although, I thought it was moment–which made more sense) last…

And I hear them in my head all the time!

The thing about purpose is that it’s about being connected to those forces (no matter what you believe they are) that are bigger than us.  And it’s not just being able to see each other from across the room, in our mind’s eye, or sensing awareness… it’s about keeping pace with those forces.  Anyone here ever been in marching band?  You know what it means to be in step?  If not, you can probably imagine… it’s moving your feet to the beat of the music taking a step with your left foot when everyone else does and a step with your right when everyone else done.  Being in step.

To live your purpose, you want to be in step with (I’m going to take liberties and call it…) the universe.  And to be in step with the universe you need to slow down so you two can (find each other if you need to) come up alongside each other, figure out the beat, decide on a direction, and step off together–left foot first–rolling from heel to toe to keep your upper body steady (wind instrument players get that part).  Then, you can take off running.

Go for it.  And go slowly.

Over the last six months or so two, somewhat contrasting, scenes have been on repeat in my household.

Scene 1: Opens with some variation of the line “Momma, is Santa real?” starting at a place that’s relatively benign and when my response of “what do you think?” wore on his nerves, worked it’s way up to “Momma.  For real this time.  Tell me the truth.  IS.  SANTA.  REAL?!”  To which I responded “oh look, a squirrel/lego movie poster/pizza place/cloud shaped like a hammer/insert something fascinating here.”

Scene 2: Is triggered by a discovery of a lego that wasn’t supposed to go to school hidden in a backpack, vitamins tucked into the shag carpeting, or a handful of Pokemon cards showing up out of nowhere and tends to end with me saying something like “I need you to understand how important it is for us to be honest with each other.”

The lying, sneaking, and hiding occurrences were starting to get uncomfortable.  I almost typed “out of control” but really… he’s six, he’s experimenting, it’s normal, he’s still bad enough at it that it’s easy to spot, and it’s no more out of control than any other part of life (which, of course, means that it’s completely out of control, but that’s not usually what people mean when they say that).  The conversations always went well.  Each time he seemed to be persuaded that being honest was, while sometimes difficult, ultimately less painful than the consequences of deceit.  Then, because he’s six… and no matter how good our relationship is I am his primary oppressor (read: person who sets limits on the fun stuff like screen time and junk food!), something else would come up and he’d try out lying again.

I always dreamed that my parenting style would have resulted in a dreamlike relationship of mutual trust and intrinsic respect… but no matter how good (or not–because I have my own connection-breaking moments) a parent I am, it doesn’t change the fact that a whole lot of shit went wrong.  It’s about as stable as it’s going to get and his life is still a mess.  There are new transitions every other day and even though he’s getting used to that as a lifestyle…  inconsistency (even being consistently inconsistent) doesn’t breed confidence and trust.

My whole job as a parent is about connecting and repairing when connection is lost and it was getting a little hypocritical up in here.  I was firmly rooted in my chosen values when explaining the importance of honest being a two way street.  I wasn’t just saying, it’s important that YOU be honest with me and I get to do whatever I want depending on the moment… yet, when the moments of truth came (pun intended) I tended to answer questions with questions and change the subject.  And the lying and sneaking continued.

A few weeks ago he asked again.  About Santa.  And I told the truth.

Here’s what I think the truth is.  Santa abso-fucking-lutely exists (I didn’t use that language).  I happen to believe, similarly to what I believe about the other supposedly old, bearded, white dude who lives far north (ahem, g-o-d), that he isn’t the story that has been concocted about him… but instead is an idea or spirit.

When I was 12 and discovered the wrapping paper “Santa” had used that year under my mother’s bed I had enough information to conclude that my mom was the one putting the presents under the tree every year.  I was also completely unwilling to let go of the idea of Santa Claus so I decided then that Santa just didn’t visit the homes of middle class kids like me.  Santa and his magic were reserved for the people who were truly in need.

I hung onto that belief for a long time… long enough, in fact, to see it come true.  A few Christmases ago when I was in need, and couldn’t provide the Christmas that my son had become accustomed to, loved ones (acting as the spirit of Santa) sent gifts to our home and filled the space under our meager tree.

So that’s the truth about Santa that my son learned.  Momma is the one who puts the presents under the tree (then we had to clear up that they are purchased in advance and hidden and that he isn’t left home alone, sleeping on Christmas eve while I go shopping).  Santa’s magic is there for people who really need it.  I also fessed up (after multiple lines of questioning) to being the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy (which was met by a squeal of excitement and “THANK YOU FOR THE TEN DOLLARS!”)

And just like I hope he learns (eventually), the honest conversation I had been dreading turned out to be painless… it was quite lovely, actually.  And since then we’ve been able to have all sorts of rich conversations about the intentions of Christmas and managing expectations and it feels damn good.

So that’s it, Santa.  In the name of family values I told the truth about you.  You will no longer get credit for the work I’ve been doing (5 of 6 years).  Hope you’re okay with that.  xo