Not All At Once

Hi Kiddo,
{a letter to my son}

In the last week you have revealed to me so  many new corners of your character, and you simply amaze me.  You got some news that had to be the hardest thing you have encountered in your short but full nine and half years.  It breaks my heart to be the bearer of any news that interrupts your otherwise perfectly placed focus on MineCraft, Soccer, pitching for your little league team, mastering the kendama,  and of course chasing the dog around the backyard.  Someday, all of this will make much more sense  to you.  Maybe you will even see how it is in a crazy way even better for you.

For now, though, I wish I could really tell you how impressed I am with you, how in awe I am of your bravery, your determination to be a big boy. Your willingness to not only bend with and lean into this change, but that you can find some upsides so readily.

I can see the ripples of fear creeping up around your edges from time to time, and yet you somehow find a way to rise above it and knock it down, almost like your own version of emotional whack-a-mole.  That, Bug, is true courage.  If you only knew.

The questions you ask me are far more insightful than some conversations I have had with adults; you find the crux of it all more succinctly than I ever would have.  You face your fears and ask me the questions anyway, even though I bet you somehow know that you are not going to like the answer, or know that at least you will not totally understand it.  I don’t like ambiguity now, decades ahead of you; you somehow are able to roll with this ambiguity with no ambivalence.

I wish I had had what you somehow have in abundance when I was nine and a half. If I did, perhaps you wouldn’t have to.

When I pushed too hard, trying to help you, comfort you, I could hardly comprehend how you knew what you needed and even more, that you knew exactly how to ask me for it. With an analogy. “Mom, it’s too much advice. All at once.  Too much advice mom, is like a bunch of rocks too close together “, you said, and then told me that, “it should be more like a long string, strung out over time.  Not all at once. Ok?” 

I hear ya kiddo, you are speaking my language and I am astounded by your wisdom.  You have my word to not barrage you with too many words too close together; but whenever you need to take a rock from that pile, you know I am right here next to you and will take your lead. Maybe together we can out to ‘your bridge’ and go throw it in the river.

We are just starting this new adventure and you have shown me that you are possibly stronger than your mom. You are showing me how brave you are, how truly adaptable and resilient you can be and I could not be more proud of the person I get to call my son.

You, growing up, is a long game and even though you and I both want it to all be ok for you right now, let’s both try to remember that you need to take your own time with things.  I want you to know that everything I do is for you – so that things are better for you.  So that your easy laugh and smiling eyes are always what people see first when they meet you.

Love,
Mom

Ps: that wrestling match tonight? I totally won!

Holding Tight the Laces

Let it Go.

There are a hundred ways to say it. A hundred things we would be better off for letting go of.  Old resentments, misguided worry, a weary worn out grudge, the past, unrealistic expectations, that which we cannot control, a broken heart,  a million what-ifs and of course all the coulda-shoulda-wouldas.

Let it go.

We have all heard it, we have all heard ourselves say it to someone else in compassion or perhaps even exasperation, and maybe we have muttered it under our breath for our own benefit when we have worn ourselves out worrying or troubling or obsessing about something, or someone, and finally, at last know there is nothing else we can do.

Let it go.

A simple little phrase. If only it were that simple.

It seems to me that this this is one of those lessons we have to learn over and over. And then, perhaps, again.  Turns out, that along with our hearts, our brains are not programmed for change or loss. I learned this from a new perspective recently while reading a terrific article about dealing with change.  It hit home when I read that…

When we run into a roadblock, suddenly information we trusted has broken down. Where does the other road lead? How long will it take? Is it dangerous? What we don’t know tends to scare us, and change creates a lot of things we don’t know. As a result, we tend to act pretty irrationally to try and prevent change, often without realizing it, and make our lives unnecessarily problematic.  {via Lifehacker}

Letting go is saying yes to loss. Choosing to say goodbye to something.  Even the things in our lives that take up unnecessary space, cause pain, or rob us of joy somehow settle in as something familiar and letting  go creates an unexpected emptiness.  Letting go is an active invitation of the unfamiliar, and somehow, we are strange creatures who cling to what is familiar, sometimes just what takes up space, even when it doesn’t always feel good.

As an eighth grader, I had begged my my parents for new roller skates for my 14th birthday. Begged and bargained. And finally, they gave in and agreed that would be my gift that year. I got to pick them out – white leather boot, blue wheels and stopper, and even a bright blue pom-pom on the toe.  While the surprise element was zero, the anticipation factor was high; I loved knowing that by a certain date, those skates would be mine, all mine.  My birthday finally rolled around and the skates were safely in my possession; I am sure I skated around the block, imagining my first chance to loop the rink with my girlfriends and with an eye on that cute boy from across town. That night, some thirty plus years ago, as I fell asleep, proud owner of the new skates, I held the laces of those new skates tightly, my hand hanging over the edge of my bed, unable to let go. I wanted to be sure that when I woke up, those skates would still be there. I didn’t trust that what I had wanted so badly, and had finally received, would not in fact somehow slip away.

The skates were something I could easily – and legitimately grasp, hold on to, and make sure they did not roll away from me.

But what about when it’s more complicated than roller skates? When it is something that stirs you?  What if it is something, that despite the fact that the earth is not likely to tip on a slant and cause things to roll away, is something you want to hold close?

We know that if we can let something go, and if it remains with us, or returns, that we should be able to trust that it is meant to be part of us, that there is something truly organic at play.  When we successfully stuff a square into a circle, it may seem for the moment to feel good that we conquered, that we won, that we got what we wanted. But in the long run, it seems safe to say, that time will only reveal to us that it never really fit in the first place.

What’s hard is not knowing, and yet allowing ourselves to truly step back and let the universe do it’s work.  Let the surface slant and see what rolls.  What I am still struggling with, I will be honest, is finding that balance. The balance between gently holding that which we care about, and still allowing time and space to work its magic.  Knowing when it’s time to put my hands up in acquiescence; understanding that I have done all that I should, or could. Even if  just temporarily. Understanding the balance between coincidence and intent, the fine line between patient and passive,  the delicate dance of safe and vulnerable.

I have been pondering this notion for days, trying to work out a solution to a dilemma and a way of being during an ambiguous time.  I am wrestling with big change that requires grieving something familiar that cannot continue.  We came close to losing my 92 year old father last week and my brother and I both felt compelled to let him go, and to let him know he was free to pass from one world to the next if he is tired.  An important relationship requires that I let go for awhile to allow it’s potential to emerge on it’s own. In the time of my pondering, and beating my chest over all this, I’ve gotten a text from a friend who unknowingly suggested I give a listen to a song by Frou Frou called Let Go.   Mimi’s post, graciously extending her angel wings over me, talked about letting go and the persistence of hope, and a very wise person I know [ok, my sister!]  re-framed my question asking me if I can let it be, instead of feeling that I have to let it go.  This letting go, this saying yes to loss, at any level; is excruciating in some moments. But sometimes, to let go is not so simple, but simply, the only way.  And when we surrender ourselves to what is to be, we somehow allow for just that. What is to be.

So, where is the line? The line between grasping too tightly and letting go?  Between letting go and letting it be?  What about when letting go feels like giving up?  Because somehow, I still feel like that 14yr old who wants to hold tight to the laces of my skates as I fall asleep.

Hometown Girl

The old saying, ‘you can’t go home again’ has some truth to it, as we know.  However we choose to define home, the place where we ‘grew up’   –  whether physically or metaphorically –  we all know that we can’t go back and expect things to be the same, just as they were. Our mind plays tricks on us ; we often remember things as larger than they really were, selectively omit certain details and attach specific feelings to smells and sights.  But, perhaps, we can go home if we understand that we will find a new version, with new layers that add to our memory and the richness of all that we have received from that zip code specifically imprinted upon us.

I grew up in a small town and even as a kid, knew that I would need to stretch my wings in a locale not edged with orchards and one little main street. I’m convinced that came from my parents, who had lived and experienced so much of the world before settling in what became our home town.  Dad had left home at the age of 13, putting  himself through school, jobs; ultimately serving as an Army Colonel in the South Pacific during WWII. The cabinets in our family home contain boxes upon boxes of his military photos, many of which capture him in uniform, touring Sydney, AU and out in the bush of aboriginal New Guinea seated with the natives – and their lack of attire. Post-war, he became a self-made man as the only optometrist in our small town.

Having grown up in Seattle and then San Francisco, Mom was a city girl. And though barely 5 feet tall, she could finagle the worst traffic in San Francisco with the grace of a ballerina and the mouth of a locker-room jock.  She could bully her way into just about any parking spot she had her eye on and then stroll into I. Magnin with no one the wiser; she had exquisite taste in shopping and a culinary gift that clearly has not carried on with me.  And a heart softer and kinder than I can explain in words.

McDonald Manhattan: 2 parts bourbon, 1 part sweet vermouth, splash of bitters. On the rocks.

In our home, dinners were often a formal affair, with the table set beautifully with all elements of the proper stemware, silverware and dinnerware. Our mother took great pride in presenting a meal that not only earned her the chops as wonderful chef, but her presentation was always perfect. In her mind, it had to look as tantalizing as it would taste. She would undoubtedly agonize over the details, often wearing herself out and then serving herself last; a true hostess.  Ours was a home where napkins were placed on our laps, cocktails were often served during the 5 – o – clock hour, with hors d’ oeuvres in actual serving dishes, in the formal living room. Ours was a home with a set of every day dishes, a set of ‘nice dishes’, and a set of china.  Ours was a home where people were always welcome, but by golly the house better be clean, all the way down to the baseboards.

We said goodbye to mom nearly 16 years ago, and my father, now 92, still lives in our family home along with my brother, who is beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of the most patient men I have ever known. He cares for our dad, with the assistance of a part-time care provider, Gloria. Last week was John’s birthday and my son and I hit the road and made the three-hour trek south for the celebration.  The childhood teasing he subjected me to does not merit my mercy, but I will conveniently omit his age [you are welcome John]. But, let it be known that he is my OLDER brother!

Arriving at my childhood home, and walking into the kitchen, I could not help but notice that the table – the very same dining room table – was set impeccably.  The decor, though decidedly a departure from what my mother would choose, was so well thought out, down to the last detail, and so perfectly created with my brother in mind. Gloria – the mastermind behind this party – had brought items from her home to create a setting fit for the celebration. For family celebrations, my mother would prepare a leg of lamb that as a 12 yr old I knew was special; and Cornish game hens that still make my mouth water when I remember them; and countless other dishes made to perfection. To the same height, Gloria prepared a feast true to her family; two recipes of fantastically homemade enchiladas, beans, rice, salad and more. “Juan” made the salsa and guacamole.  On tap were beer, wine, tequila and drinks for the kids.

My nephew, now 21 and soon to graduate from college, played soccer with my 9 yr old in the backyard, the way that I used to entertain my nephew when he was the only little kid in the room.  Friends from our childhood joined us for the evening and stories ranged from reminiscing of the old days, to forging new ground with sharing about the loss of our parents, and a spouse far too early in life, family dramas and old secrets, our parents’ marriages and world travels.  We exchanged these stories with a fluency only spoken by those who have come up through the same ranks, inexplicably knowing we belong to each other, because our parents had forged the the bonds for us an entire generation ago.  Photos were posted to Facebook and viewed on our phones while sitting 3 feet away from each other, in a living room where as kids we played and hung out, and would never fathom the advent of social networking or smart phones. Shots of tequila were consumed, and with my mother’s every day dishes put aside, we continued to drink and play Mexican Bingo. I quickly became unpopular as I called out “el lotteria’ over and over again. The cards were somehow stacked in my favor; which meant, that everyone else had to drink. While others could walk home, or were home, I had an early drive back the next morning. I needed those wins!

I sat and marveled at this new version of home, my home. My brother’s home. My mother’s dishes serving a beautiful meal that was never part of her repertoire, raucous laughter and banter from an unlikely group that spanned the ages from 9 to 92 and everything in between.  Our childhood friends, and folks I had never met, but hope I see again, all sharing the same dining room table where I had sat as a child. English, Spanish, and probably some Spanglish mixed in.  At one point, I looked over and  my dad was mixing a martini; 10 minutes later in the same spot, my brother was attempting to learn to dance the Salsa, in spite of a knee refusing to let him forget his age,  in the same kitchen where so many of our memories are safely held. And before I know it, my father has produced his trusty harmonica and proves that though his mind is a bit fuzzy most days, his lungs work just fine.

Report from the home front as I write is that the party may have been too much for our Dad; yesterday he had a martini at 3:30 and a bowl of cereal at 5:30. Who needs rules when you are 92!?

It seems plausible to say that it’s true, you can’t really go home again. Everything changes. We change. Physically and otherwise. The streets change, the landscape changes.  It will never be the same as it was, and it really shouldn’t be.

But, after this last visit, I find myself realizing that maybe we can go home, if we can accept that things have changed, that we are different, and when we understand that what we remember will always be with us, a part of who we are.  Perhaps the key is letting ourselves allow our memories to welcome new ones – new stories, new people, new recipes – in layers, like the perfect birthday cake?

Happy Birthday John…you are Juan in a Million!

So that, combined, with each layer resting upon the next,  as if held together by the most perfect frosting  - all the delicious life we savor during the years; the joys, losses, comforts, people, perspectives – is the “home”  that we can return to whenever we need to.

Ever Have Days?

Ever have days where  it all seems impossible, even the littlest things? I think we all need a reminder, time to time, of how strong we are, even when – and perhaps the most  - when we feel it the least.  Whether it’s letting someone know how we  feel, sharing a truth that needs to see the light of day, taking a necessary risk,  doing something that scares the *&$% out of us, or owning up to something we are not proud of, we all need a little push on some days, to take each step towards that which we seek out, want or need.

You are powerful when you believe in yourself – when you know that you are capable of anything you put your mind to.

You are beautiful when your strength and determination shines as you follow your own path – when you aren’t disheveled by the obstacles along the way.

You are unstoppable when you let your mistakes educate you, as your confidence builds from experiences – when you know you can fall down, pick yourself up, and move forward.

from http://www.marcandangel.com/book/

And if that is not encouragement enough, for we can find ourselves on the top step one day, and back at the bottom in the same hour, day, or week…then perhaps this little cheerleader can help remind you to not give up!

46 for 46

In approximately 46 days, I will turn, well, 46.  There it’s out.  That means you all have 46 days to get my mailing address and send a gift! Oh, wait, did I say that out loud?

Oops, that’s not what I meant!

What I meant to tell you is that I read something last week that made an impression on me.  From a blog I follow, called Kind Over Matter and whose tagline reads: ‘touching the world with kindness, inspiration, gentleness and love”  authored by a variety of writers, came an email with the subject line  ”how giving gave my birthday meaning”.  Knowing that I am just mere days away from turning a new number, it caught my attention.  I am not one to shy away from birthdays for fear of more wrinkles, aches and creaks; I believe that age is a state of mind. But I do approach a birthday with an appreciation for and an interest in looking at what my life means, to me and to others. Cake [lava cake to be specific] and presents are always welcome, but not required. Wine, on the other hand; is most definitely required. I’ve heard that anti-oxidants are good for anti-aging…

When Random Acts of Kindness was a novel idea, I was an early adopter, intrigued by the whimsical and yet positive impact of reaching out to others in unexpected and unnecessary but delightful ways. I may have actually paid someone’s toll booth fee on at least one occasion. It also reminded me of a memorable experience from college, when all my friends and I were broke and had had our fill of Top Ramen and mac-n-cheese.  A lasting impression was made on me when one of our friends invited a large group of us out to a nice restaurant – and paid  - for a fantastic meal for everyone. He shared that in his culture, it’s the custom to give to others in your life on your birthday, to return the gifts of friendship and love.  So, the more I considered this notion of a giving birthday, the more captivated I became. The blog post illustrated how one woman completed 35 acts of giving to celebrate her 35th birthday, and because this is me we are talking about, I have to take this literally – naturally  - as much as I appreciate the random nature of things – and have 46. Right? Right.

I have been quietly pondering this possibility, considering the different sides of ‘signing myself up for this’ and on some days, I am fascinated, and on others, intimidated. I have a lot in front of me at the moment;  this is my busy season at work, a big presentation to prepare for later this spring, and so on. And then I remind myself: we are all busy, everyone has too much to do.  And each time I gave myself permission to let it go [after-all, who would know?], I found myself coming back to this idea. In my mind, the challenge has been presented, and frankly, I think it’s probably necessary, something I may even need.

So, here we go, we are doing this.  Yes, you heard me correctly. We.

I was tempted to go about this quietly, not say anything, in part because that makes sense to me and in part because it’s often just how I do things.  It’s counter-intuitive to me to make it my mission to share and then tell everyone about it. But then I realized: I would not have learned about this possibility if someone else hadn’t talked about it. I would not have been inspired if someone hadn’t taken the opportunity to be an inspiration.  So, I convinced myself that sharing this is OK and again, because it’s me, put my own twist on it, and ask you for help.

Remember the WE that I mentioned earlier?

This is where you come in and where YOU and I become WE.  I want to let myself be nudged, and turn the turning a new number into one of giving, and I’d like your help.  My goal is to somehow give in 46 ways to mark 46 years and I need your ideas for how to give, what to give, and to whom.

Let your brains fly   – WWYD – What would You Do?  Think of ideas – from simple, sentimental, and silly, to as fun, crazy and  ridiculous as you want.  Some can cost money, and some shouldn’t.

I will make a list of our ideas…a combination of yours and mine..and over time, as I complete them, share how it goes with you. We are in this together after all.

And for those who might be wondering, my word for 2013 is…

give.

And yes, I am intimidated. And fascinated.

“We make a living by what we get.

We make a life by what we give.”

Winston Churchill

It Takes Just a Nudge to Budge

A few years ago, I resolved to no longer make new year’s resolutions. I had come to see both their transience and their permanence: a lofty idea with weak velcro and little sticking power and yet a  lasting sense of failure.  I even tried tricking myself once – in the way some of us set our clocks back an “x” number of minutes thinking that it may get us to arrive on time, but really all we do is calculate those minutes into our arrival time, and we still end up being late,  or at least not early. I tried starting my resolutions in October that year, somehow thinking that I would be more successful when no one was looking, or expecting anything, and then by January, I’d be well on my way to a new habit.  It’s o.k., you can laugh.

I have seen a few different approaches to the notion of inviting positive change into our lives  and you may remember that I am a firm believer in the 21 days rule; do something {or stop something, say…eating Cheez-Its?} for 21 days and you’ve got yourself a brand new habit.  So, a little over a year ago, I found myself needing to bring more positive balance into my life.  Things were not necessarily bad, just kind of blah, stale, stuck and I found myself in a spot where I had let some ill feelings and resentments accumulate and I wanted to shake things up a bit and reset my focus.

That was also about the time I started this blog, and I got busy reading other blogs to  - a) learn from;  b)  torture myself;  c) be inspired by or d) all of the above – and came across what would quickly become one of my favorites, Create as Folk, where Laura shared that she had adopted the practice of simply choosing one word – or phrase –  to guide her year. A mini mission statement of sorts.  She explains it as ‘choosing an intention, or choosing your own personal theme to guide your year.”  I interpreted this to mean, for me, that the word had to have meaning that I wanted to embrace, provide direction in a way in which I wanted to go,  and challenge me. Her approach had a calming effect on me; it gave me a sense of direction without the impending fear of failure; it wasn’t a commitment to anything specific, but instead suggested a gentle guiding force willingly chosen with no certain expectations for outcome.  It would serve as a framework of sorts, and I saw it as  a way to invite something good into my life that I wanted, even though I couldn’t see it’s form.  I viewed her video  and clicked out; I was fascinated and intimidated – I craved the direction and challenge but feared the failure. I mulled it over and over in my mind, letting myself percolate as I do.

It finally came to me one day. Quietly. Gently. Calmly. Just like I needed. The word is even somewhat gentle and quiet.

I chose the word nudge.

I sensed  a stirring, an urging towards something new.

I felt some trepidation about stepping out of my comfort zone, but I knew I wasn’t totally comfortable where I was.

I desired to move in a new direction and knew that I needed, well, a few nudges to get there.

I wanted to be pushed. But gently.

I chose the word nudge.

Or, did it choose me?   The year began with this notion of being nudged tucked securely in my pocket, and I found that I was seeing things differently. When choices presented themselves to me, I realized they had new layers, new options; was this an opportunity to be nudged, pushed a little bit further? Nudged to take a risk, no matter how small? Nudged to try doing things a little differently? Nudged to let some things go?

With each opportunity came that same fascination and intimidation…As I started to let myself be nudged in new directions, I began to realize a few things. It wasn’t as hard as I imagined, it got easier with each experience, and even when it didn’t work; knowing I had allowed myself to be nudged far outweighed the outcome.

I had started this blog, but was moving forward without certainty, and often considered hanging up my keyboard. The ambiguity and uncertainty was uncomfortable to say the least. So, finally, I took that discomfort as a nudge to look at why and wrote a post that put it out there, fears and warts and all.  That was a turning point; I learned that when we are real, others listen and I learned that some of the best blogging takes place in the comments.   That propelled me to keep going; and I found that as I did, this blog became a part of me, an extension of the person I am, and I found that the challenge to find something to say helped cultivate my thoughts and an increased awareness, understanding and appreciation of things happening in and around my own life.  And more importantly,  I found some phenomenal  friendships with the most amazing people from all around the the world.

These nudges gave me the freedom to recognize and accept more nudges, with fascination beginning to out-pace the intimidation. I started to see that I didn’t hesitate as long when making choices, I felt more peaceful than I had in a long time, and in turn, the conversations with others became richer; I felt more confident in my own day to day life; opened myself to new projects and people that would have intimidated me the year before, but now they fascinated me;  the old resentments that I had started out with had faded and been replaced by creativity, appreciation, peace and craving more positives. I found that I could open the vault and work my way towards important life changes.

I took  my blog on a virtual cross country road trip; reaching out and connecting with some of the coolest hosts ever who turned into friends, and with each post I began to wonder how I could have walked away; and glad I didn’t.  Each time it happened I shook my head in disbelief but I was secretly thrilled to be part of the generous and gracious tradition of sharing blog awards.  I always took too long to receive the gift; not out of lack of gratitude but always with a Sally Field-ish disbelief.  The year ended with a gift, icing on such a delicious cake at this point, when my friend Mimi from Waiting for the Karma Truck shared the Blog of 2012 Award with me.  Best.Christmas.Gift.Ever.  Frankly, one of the year’s best nudges too. Mimi, thank you [and forgive me for not following the rules!?]

I can look back now and realize that a year has come and gone, and with it, a year of nudging and blogging, and as they say, ask myself where did the time go? I appreciate the challenge and benefits of both over the last 12 months, often but not always intertwined. I wasn’t sure where to start, but did, and had no idea where I was headed [and still not entirely sure, but I do know that I like being here] and kept going.  I looked back and my second post was titled: Just Start Somewhere. Who knew that was actually for me? It was a simple tip for getting organized and went on to say:

Choose the easiest place to start…you don’t always have to start at the beginning. If that first step seems like it will be the hardest [and keeps you from starting at all!], then start with another part of the project instead. Often, once you get started…it’s hard to stop! Get going and have fun!”

Looking back, that makes all the sense in the world, whether you need to  -  a) purge a closet; b)  restore your storage, c) start a blog, d) invite positive change into our lives; or e) all of the above  - It’s true, just start somewhere. Let yourself be nudged.

I have chosen my focus word, my intention for 2013, but I am going to be quiet about it  for a little longer; it’s a more outwardly focused, active word, requiring a little bit more of me. Again, I am both intimidated and fascinated. This word and I, well, we still need a little time to get acquainted, see how we work together.  Worried about Nudge? Don’t be, she  is coming with me into 2013 also;  she has served me so well, and I am quite certain that I still need more nudging…

What do you think? Does choosing a focus word make sense to you? Have you ever chosen one and followed it all year; what word might you choose to help guide you through 2013?

With intention for 2013…

Let’s Open the Vault

I can keep a secret. In fact, you can tell me something, and it’s like stashing it in a vault and losing the combination to the lock.  I honor secrets and remain loyal to the tellers of secrets, sometimes almost to a ridiculous point.  On more than one occasion, I have heard ‘the secret’ that I am supposedly keeping , from someone else, only to realize that the teller has moved on and divulged the news to others. Only then do I realize it’s no longer sensitive information or military clearance level intelligence, and yet, the secret remains tucked safely away.  Yes,  it’s true, I can keep a secret.

When we were kids, my brother, older by 9 years, found it entertaining to ‘torment’  his younger sister in a variety of ways, endlessly sending me screaming, “moooom” even though it meant he’d get in trouble.  On nights he was supposed to be ‘babysitting’ me, he would have his buddies over and they would inevitably end up smoking in the garage or backyard. I, of course was terrified into secrecy and true to form, held that secret ever so tightly.  Even when he teased me to a point of despair, my loyalty remained firmly in tact, as if some code had been imprinted upon me.  As a teenager, he tried once to light a match on our bathroom mirror and despite the fact that I can’t remember if that even works (does anyone know?), what I do know is that for years of Saturday after Saturday doing chores with our mom, during which she would ask if I knew anything about the two scratches on the mirror, I would just shake my head and tell her I had no idea. I kept that secret for over twenty years; not divulging my knowledge of the truth nor confessing my lies over the years until on a visit home from college one summer.

What is the knocking at the door in the night?

It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.

Admit them, admit them. 

D.H. Lawrence.

Why keeping secrets comes naturally to me is something of which I am not entirely sure.   The upside of this, of course, is that your secrets are safe with me. The  price is that I am equally adept at keeping my own secrets, and the cost is assessed when I hold my own secrets so tightly because I am unable, or unsure about what to share, when to share, and how much and with whom.

It’s been said, we have all heard it, and perhaps used it with our kids; the truth will set you free.

Recently, when I shared some secrets I had been holding, tucked away tightly in the vault, for years, I was met with a couple of surprises. First and foremost, it was news to me that my secrets weren’t so secret after all. I chose to confide in a small handful of people and unanimously, they each responded with their own version of  “I am not surprised”. In the first conversation, when I heard this response,  I raised my eyebrows; in the the second conversation, the eyebrows arched a little higher. During the third and fourth? Eyebrows remained suspended and my jaw dropped, with OMGs falling out.  My secrets were apparently not so secret. Except from me, it seemed.

But what  surprised me the most? Upon telling my own secrets, out tumbled – one by one –  the secrets of those in whom I confided. I was moved by how my once hidden truths, now exposed, seemed to serve as an  invitation to each of my companions to open up and let their own secrets come out. And yes, they remain safe with me.

I found that as the secrets merged  from the shadows,  into the light, they no longer held the same power.  I had allowed the secrets to envelop me in embarrassment and fear, not to mention, an inability to take action. But when I realized that the burden of holding it all in outweighed my impulse to avoid the truth, I knew I had finally arrived at a place where I was no longer afraid of these secrets – truths really – and could finally open the door, and admit them. To myself and eventually to others. It was a series of tipping points that nudged me every step along the way, and once the truths were out, it was as if I were Dorothy when she doused the Wicked Witch of the West with water…the gripping power they had held over me  just seemed to melt.

I had it wrong all these years. After spilling my beans…

…I felt a hundred pounds lighter each time I opened up and shared the truth.
That makes sense.

…I felt a hundred times closer to the friends and family I already trusted.
That makes sense.

…I felt a hundred times more trusted, by the other person.
That makes sense.

…I felt a hundred times more empowered, more free.
It makes sense now. The truth can set you free.

I learned about my friends and family in new ways as they learned about me and we each allowed the other to spill our messy secrets upon the table we shared.

In each instance, I felt a new depth in our connection, emboldened by truth and transparency. Things we had never dared bring to the table, into the light, suddenly connecting us in ways unanticipated.  Somehow, truths shared normalized the experience of the other and I realized how much we under estimate our impact on others. How much I look to others is perhaps how much they look to me?
Honesty begets honesty. Truth begets truth.

From one of my favorite books, Broken Open, by Elizabeth Lesser:

D.H. Lawrence begs us to pay closer attention …

Perhaps you have been turning angels away from your door.

Perhaps the dangerous desires, the Sleeping Giants in the basement of your life –

are really angels come to deliver you from your shrunken dreams and your anxious self doubts.

The safe keeping of the secrets of another is a responsibility we owe to those who place their trust in us.

Keeping our own secrets from those whom we love, admire and trust, especially ourselves, is perhaps equivalent to harboring Sleeping Giants, allowing them to take up space somewhere under own surface, keeping us from our dreams, being free.

Perhaps it is only when we recognize the Sleeping Giants for who they really are, and admit them,  are we able to let them roam free, and in turn, set us free?

Do we dare to open the vault?

Jumping

When change is on the horizon, no matter how big or small, it can have a trickle down effect to the present moment. Things start to look different, feel different, and in fact, are different.  When change is necessary, or just inevitable, the process is at once exhilarating and enervating.

It’s so easy to want to keep things the same, simply because we recognize the landscape and are familiar with the language of the road signs. We know what to do, our next movements are predictable without the need for thought or consideration.

When we start down a path of change, it is normal to recognize, in a a cognitive way, that there will be twists and turns, and bumps  in the road that we can’t anticipate; we just know that we must accept that that is to come.

But, on some days, I have to admit, these undulations I encounter along the way leave me feeling like I want to jump out of my skin.   Too many competing thoughts racing through my mind; things I know I must deal with, sort out, accept, process, knowing that this will require that I patiently spend time  in an unfamiliar place, with an unknown language.

When we initiate, or at the very least, welcome change, we are essentially opening the door to the new. But in so doing, in this transition, we also find that we must let go of something. That something can be tangible, or intangible, and no matter, letting go is usually not easy.

Image From Collosal.com – click for more images and info!

Image From Collosal.com. As part of the 2012 Archstoyanie festival in Nikola-Lenivets, Russia design firm Salto created this gargantuan trampoline installation called Fast Track.
Measuring nearly 170 ft. (51 meters) the bouncy road is nearly the length of a city block.

So, with this feeling of wanting to jump out of my own skin today, when I came across these these images, of a 170 ft trampoline in a Russian Forest, I realized that perhaps, when you feel like jumping, maybe that is exactly what you should do…in whatever way works.

Do you ever feel like jumping out of your own skin when things get a little uncomfortable?  Without a city block’s length of trampoline, how do you find your jump?

Ch-Ch-Changes…

It is said that the only things in life that are constant, a given, for sure are death, taxes and change.  Change is all around us; at the moment we get to bask in the glory of prismatic color all around as one season merges into another [forgive my West Coast life - our fall colors arrive much later than the rest of the world].  Our skin changes with the season, our eyesight changes with age; wine and cheese change for the better with time.  Our pant sizes change by the month for some of us;  styles change yearly; and if done right, life is a series of one change after another.

When my son was an infant, and learning to scooch, the kind of scooching that was more akin to a military move: elbows grabbing traction and full belly to the floor. The only difference being a floppy head that frequently came precariously close to smacking the floor. I worried that the hardwood floors in my house would prove problematic for both he and I; his forehead, my backside.  I ordered an area rug to soften the blow and create some padding, for both of us. There was a snafu with the order and it took nearly a month for the rug to arrive in the warehouse, and then I had to arrange  to pick it up with an infant. When I finally got to the store, I looked at the rug and realized that I didn’t like it; in fact, I hated it.  But as luck would have it, there were no returns on custom orders so I had no choice and I brought it home, rolled it out, and appreciated it simply for it’s function, despite what it lacked in form.

No sooner had I plopped the kiddo down on the carpet, with that contented sigh of solving a dilemma, did I realize that the week prior he had fully mastered scooching and was now in full-crawling mode. He had no intention of staying within the bounds of the rug’s edge, he had serious exploring to do. The area rug was obsolete before I even rolled it out; my son had changed. He had grown, outgrown the rug and was ready to move on. Just as he should.  I, however, was stuck with the ugliest rug for a few years until enough wear and tear was underfoot to justify a change in my home decor.

“When people are ready to, they change. They never do it before then, and sometimes they die before they get around to it. You can’t make them change if they don’t want to, just like when they do want to, you can’t stop them.”

-Andy Warhol

Change, if done well, and for the right reasons, does not scare me.  The tasks necessary to usher in whatever is new, or just different, are always laced with some element of adventure along with the knowledge that the change is part of  the larger picture and the knowing that this turn will pave the way for, and lead to more change at some unexpected point in time. I like seeing what’s next around the corner, figuring things out as I go.

Change, if done poorly and for the wrong reasons just annoys me; knowing that the unnecessary work required to accommodate the transition will be tiresome, drama will ensue, and will likely only serve to fix a temporary issue, that is possibly (probably) not even the real issue to begin with.

Change is on my immediate horizon; change that I have called forth, beckoned. Change that I need. I feel a bit like my infant son, pushing past the bounds of the rug’s edge. It is change for the right reasons, and will unquestionably bring work, surely some drama and it will be up to me to do it well, and with grace if possible, to ensure a positive outcome that simply lays a new foundation for what is to come.  Not to mention, the changes that I am certain will appear, at the presently uncertain, but certainly inevitable unforeseen corners of my life.

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.”

- Buckminster Fuller

I realize that not everyone likes change, embraces it’s adventure or seeks it out. It’s not always pretty, definitely not always easy, and rocks the boat.   What is your relationship to change? Do love it? Or avoid it at all costs, even when the option of remaining the same seems equally impossible?

“It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.”

- Charles Darwin

Eat a Frog

On a recent a rainy Monday morning, I was woken by the worst stink ever. It was if someone had hit me with the smell.  Immediately, I was sure that our sewer system, or that of our neighbor’s, had busted, broken, backed up. The stench only worsened with each minute and I couldn’t get out of bed fast enough, with a   “the- judges-would-surely-give-me-a-10!” bolt out of bed.  I have mentioned that I am not a morning, person, yes?

I ran out of the room into other parts of the house, to escape and of course, ask if anyone else could smell that awful smell. No, they couldn’t.

In utter disbelief, I checked both bathrooms, and then looked out the window to see if the neighbors had called a plumber. I was convinced I would find a utility truck of some kind out front. Surely, something was terribly wrong and without stopping to think, I was envisioning missing an entire day of work to deal with this mess, dollar signs dancing in my mind, imagining the cost of a plumber and any repairs, not to mention just the, well, the awful mess of it. In earlier years, when sharing a house with a roommate, something like this happened, and let’s just say, I had a visual on what was possible. Dashing around the house, my mind ran away with the problem faster than a speeding train; I was rearranging my day at work, trying to figure what meetings I could reschedule, who to call first, etc.

Not able to locate the source of this problem, I turned my energies toward getting my coffee {priorities}, getting my son’s lunch fixed {necessity} and then getting ready for work {duty}; still certain I had a major bummer of  a day on my immediate horizon. As I went into my bathroom, the stench hit me all over again. It was then, and only then, that I noticed.

With the first rain of the season, our backyard had become a sopping mess, and the two fur kids were apparently a bit confused and well, just not ready for the sudden change in our season. My sweet sweet little kitty [the same one who likes to sleep ever so near to me] had apparently decided to make the room that houses my commode her humble abode and the place to do her ‘business’ this fine Monday morning.

Locating the source of the stinky stench, all I could do was laugh. I realized that I had turned a small pile into a mountain of trouble without even getting to five minutes.  Clean up easy, stench was gone and the day back on track, mine again and no one the wiser and my wallet not emptied.

As I drove to work, after a stop for another cup of coffee of course,  I realized that the day ahead seemed so easy after that near debacle.   Just about anything after that would certainly feel easier.

And it got me thinking about expectations; if we assume things will be difficult, won’t they?

Later that morning, I was in one of my meetings, with a student who had requested the meeting to tell me that she’s moving on to an internship and will no longer be on my leadership team come next semester. She confided that she was nervous about telling me, and that she was trying to find a way to let me down easy.  And when I happily supported her decision, she realized she had been expecting a negative reaction from me, sure that I would be upset, angry even, and perhaps, worse, disappointed in her. When she realized that my reaction was not what she thought, and in fact quite the opposite, she said it reminded her of this quote:

“Eat a live frog first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.”

- Mark Twain.

So, then I had to tell her about my stinky morning escapades and we laughed at the shared experience of assuming the worst.

I remembered that in the last few weeks, on more than one occasion, someone came into my office and said, “I have a bomb to drop” or “I am sorry to tell you this”  followed up with, “do you have a minute?” My head swirling with all possible bombs – budget, jobs, health issues, all the really big stuff. In each case though, the issue they brought to me was so minor – so easily dealt with –  compared to what my mind had conjured in just mere seconds.

Expectations can have great control over us, sometimes even without our full knowledge that they are at work in our internal processing. We can jump to conclusions in mere seconds, and begin forming our reactions to the situation of which we really know very little, or perhaps, really, nothing at all.

Sometimes this works in the direction where the outcome is a sigh of relief and the feeling that we can handle whatever may come our way.

Sometimes it works in a different direction, where the outcome is a sharp feeling of disappointment, and the idea that things never go our way.

And, sometimes, it just might work best if we focus on the moment and suspend our expectations altogether, allowing what is come to just arrive as it does.

Some say to have high expectations, and good things will follow; how do you balance your own expectations when things go in a way different than what you expected?