Searching vs. Seeking

Today, my sister in law mentioned my “energy has been different.” Although, I wasn’t aware of a shift, it was apparent enough to her that she felt prompted to check on me. And that, of course, led me to question my behavior, demeanor, attitude and energy.

I try to be very aware of how I treat people, act, behave, and express myself in all interactions. I try to be kind, genuine, and seek to understand others rather than just responding or sharing information about myself. I try not only to make people feel that I’m interested, but also to genuinely BE* interested.

Generally, I’m about as transparent as a freshly cleaned window, and if someone perceives that I’m upset, off, distracted, it is usually because I am. Only once have I ever been “accused” of being stand-offish when I really had no idea that I was being stand-offish. And that caught me so off-guard that I’ve monitored the space I take up even more vigilantly since.

So when she said this–mind you, my sister-in-law is a straight shooter who would not ask this if she didn’t genuinely sense something was amiss–it knocked me a little off-kilter.

Here’s what I figured out.

My energy is different. I don’t give it away anymore to people, places, things, or thoughts that don’t inspire me. That doesn’t mean I don’t care … I just don’t hop on board the feelings express every time. Also, the more time I spend meditating, writing, doing yoga and just being, the less I engage with so many of the silly things that used to work me up.

Meditation teachers advise that when a thought crosses your mind during meditation, simply acknowledge it and then let it go. This simple revelation has rocked my world. For 43 years, I never had the space between an action and reaction that many people have. That space that allows you to process things before (over)reacting. Many of you have that space. Brad does. He has a big space. Sometimes, he doesn’t react at all.

Meditation has given me that space. I’m still learning and practicing using the space, but I am so grateful every time I am able to observe, acknowledge and not lose my shit.

I read an article that clarified my energy shift beautifully. I have transitioned from a searcher to a seeker.

“A searcher needs … to be supported to help find their goals. They need to find the thing that will provide motivation and propel them forward. This will require a more in-depth examination of values and wants, learning what makes the person tick and what gives his life meaning. 

A seeker has already set the path for herself. She may need help motivating to follow the course, to reach the goals, to keep envisioning and acting upon her own agency and pathways, but there is something already in her mind that she wants to achieve. ” 

So thank you, my darling little sister, for helping me to see this.

Do you have that space? How did you get it or was it always there? Or, if you’re like me, did you even know there was a space?

*I know that split infinitive irks me too, but “to be” feels so Shakespeare-y. 

Unraveling

When someone suffers a tragedy, if it’s something we experienced, we sometimes re-suffer it with them. This is especially true if you are an emotional empath as I am. When my dear friend lost her dad, I relived the experience with her. My dad died five years ago, but around the anniversary—February 28^th—I tend to think about him more, ponder his life, remember the good times and the bad, the patches of my life’s quilt I stitched with him.

I do a lot of stitching because my life periodically unravels. Once when I was 16, and my brother died of a drug overdose. Again at 24, when another brother took his own life. Most recently, three weeks after my 38^thbirthday, when my dad peacefully sauntered into eternal life, with no illness to blame. He simply said he was, “old and tired.” At 94, that was acceptable.

And for four months after, I told myself that it was acceptable. He was old. He was tired. He died very peacefully. No suffering. No sickness. He was ready. My mom was dealing with it. My brothers seemed to be doing fine. My sister seemed okay. It was just how I’d prayed he would go: quietly and peacefully. Everything was fine.

Except I didn’t really feel fine. I spent a half hour sobbing in the shower every morning. I was unable to smile. I felt unraveled.

For the first month, being sad was acceptable. People still called to check on me. My husband didn’t ask why I was crying every night, he simply pulled me close to him.

The second month was a little harder. No one called anymore. I didn’t get any cards in the mail. And my kids wondered why I was crying when we said prayers at night.

The third month I relegated my sobbing to 15 minutes in the shower, and then I tried to smile and take an interest in life again.

The fourth month, I gave up on everything I tried to do in the third month and sought a quick fix. A pharmaceutical intervention.

I never go to the doctor so to go to the doctor solely for some feel-better medication was a stretch. I have mild bi-polar tendencies, which I realized that the assessment would reveal if I answered honestly. But, my manic episodes focus mostly on cleaning and home improvement rather than reckless sex or spending, so I kind of welcome them. The depressive episodes usually last only a day and are bearable.

This particular malaise seemed to really drag on though.

After assuring the doctor that I was not suicidal, but normally a happily functioning person really wanting to function as a normally and happily again, the doctor prescribed a mood-stabilizing anti-depressant to help get me “over the hump.” That was her description of my malaise—the hump.

After a few weeks on the medicine, I felt…even. I was no longer sad, mad or depressed. I also wasn’t happy, excited, or passionate. I gained 20 pounds and didn’t care. In fact, I didn’t really care about anything. Not in a hopeless way …  just in a blissfully apathetic way.

It was in the midst of this blissful apathy that I ran across an article in Prevention that talked about depression being a God-given emotion to help us deal with times of sadness. Since we don’t feel like doing anything during a depression, we can often work through our pain, feelings of loss, or whatever is causing our sadness. Obviously this isn’t true for people whose depression is cued by chemical imbalances rather than sad events, but it was true for me.

I decided, after reading this article that I did not need a quick fix. What I did need was to stop telling myself that everything was okay and just be sad and miss my dad for awhile.

So, I did. And it got pretty dark. My husband, who had gotten used to and rather liked the easygoing-if-numb version of medicated me, didn’t think it was a good idea for me to stop. He thought it was an even worse idea when I started to cry all the time. But in a few months, after I walked through the depths of my sadness and out the other side, he agreed that it had been the right choice.

Years ago in graduate school, I took a group therapy class. Once, when I was reluctant to talk about something, the facilitator questioned my fear: “What do you think will happen if you talk about it?”

“I’ll cry.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never stop crying?”

“And…you will get dehydrated from all the crying and shrivel up like a raisin or what?”

It’s irrational to think you’ll never stop crying, but before that day, I’d never taken a moment to be present in my own fear. I’d never asked, “What am I really afraid of?” I’d spent so much time telling myself all the reasons I had to be happy—and there are so many—that I hadn’t allowed myself to be sad. It’s okay to be sad. Losing someone you love is heartbreaking.

Sometimes, it takes medication. Sometimes, it takes meditation. Sometimes all it takes is a margarita or mojito or Moscow Mule—I’m here all week, friends. But whatever your solution, a good step in the right direction is listening to what your feelings want to tell you. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry. The only way we can ever fully heal is to feel.  

Put Your Bat in the Holster

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” You’ve probably heard this numerous times over the years. I have anyway. I googled it this morning to see who actually said it. Wasn’t Buddha. Wasn’t Ghandi. Wasn’t even Obi Wan Kenobi, which was my guess. In fact, I lost interest before I could finish the article that divulged true authorship, but the sentiment is right on.

I’ve been noticing more and more that when I focus my energy and take steps in a certain direction, interesting people show up on my path. I listen to podcasts, order a book and then run into someone who is reading the same book. Or, I listen to a TedX talk and then one of my favorite podcasters mentions the speaker even though I’d never heard of her before and I’m a Ted junkie. So while I’ve always believed that coincidences were almost always divine appointments, sometimes synchronicity can be downright spooky.

Life has always brought me the people I needed. Even though sometimes I didn’t realize at the time, when I look back at memories, experiences, circumstances, I realize that God–or whatever you want to call the omniscient, omni-benevolent universal energy source–always sent people to help me through. Sometimes those people vanished shortly after; some are still here. You know…reasons, seasons, lifetime.

But recently, it has been a different sort of energy. People seem to bring a specific idea or a very obvious lesson. I meet people who are exploring similar ideas or reading the same books or writing a book…whatever it is, it seems each day someone crosses my path with some nugget of wisdom or truth or love.

So this begs the question, “Has this been happening all along and I was too oblivious to notice?” Perhaps. I might have walked past hundreds of everyday gurus missing them and their lessons. I’m not going to ruminate on that because I want to focus my energy on being awake and aware to the new lessons–even painful ones–that each interaction brings.

I’ve always believed that my kids are my greatest teachers, and when I am present enough to step back from imposing my will on them and instead follow my current feeling to its origin, it’s nearly always transformative. I’ve been trying to apply that beyond my precious offspring and onto others and to allow myself to be open and vulnerable enough to accept without seeking acceptance.

And I think all of this is possible because I’m no longer giving away my time and energy to people and situations that don’t bring me joy. I have more room in my mind, my heart and my life for positive energy, good people and life lessons. Not the same ones you have to keep learning over and over because they don’t sink in, but the good kind. The kind that make you get up and take an actual physical step toward your goals.

So, I would encourage you, if you’re reading this, stop swatting the proverbial bee’s nest because you’ll just keep getting stung. Take a step back from situations or people that don’t bring you joy and take a big giant leap toward something or someone that makes your heart sing. I’m going to as well. We can do it together. I’ll encourage you.

Too Much of a Good Thing is Still Too Much

Since I’m very vulnerable and transparent here, I am going to confess something: I can be a know-it-all. Not the kind who argues about facts and ideas and theories and politics. Not even the kind who thinks she is always right–at least not in traditional ways. No, I would describe myself as a person who aspires to grow and change and be my best self while helping inspire others to do the same. Whether they want to or not.

Sometimes, that is helpful. Lots of my friends find my “help” inspiring and encouraging–which, for the record is always my goal. But there are also other people who don’t want to read the books I suggest or the blogs I write or the podcasts I listen to. Some people aren’t interested in my brand of self-improvement. And that is perfectly fine. Just because we don’t work the same way doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.

However, there are others who just really aren’t my people. Also, fine.

Brad told me one time that I can be “too much Mary” for some. I get that. I’ve never tried to be a self-improvement bully, but when something I read or watch or hear impacts me significantly, I want to share it so that others can have similar experiences. Alas, I know now that not everyone can or will or wants all these A-ha moments. So, I’ve been trying to keep my book, blog, and podcast recommendations to a minimum. Except here. This place is fair game for all my blathering.

For a long time, I subscribed to the philosophy of, “Leave the 99 and go after the 1.” That might work in ministry, but in real life, at least in my real life, it’s non-productive, nonsensical and painful. It’s taken me a long, lonnnnggggg, LOOOOOONNNGG time to figure it out, but I’m getting it. I am making a habit of loving, encouraging, and inspiring the people who love me back (the 99) and letting the others go. Not being everyone’s cup of tea doesn’t make me a bad person. People disliking me and trying to convince others that I’m a bad person doesn’t make me a bad person either. It’s tough stuff for a recovering approval junkie to take though.

So, if you’re reading this, I’m making a big assumption that you are one of my people or you care what I have to say or maybe the google brought you here via a keyword search for kookaloo, and I’m going to be really frank with you. I want everyone to be happy. Enormously, outrageously, love-cup-overflowing-ly happy. And sometimes, I feel like I see shortcuts to get there and I want to show them to people. “Look right here, if you just do this…” Sometimes, I feel like the blog or sermon that changed my life might change yours too. And sometimes I’m even right. People tell me all the time that my words or someone else’s words that I shared really DID impact them. I mean The Four Agreements? Seriously?

Still, other people wish I would shut up and stop being so happy and sharing pictures of my annoyingly beautiful kids and sickeningly hot husband who still loves me after 25 years and our obnoxious tattoos eye-roll. They’re not my people. I don’t care what they think. I don’t care if they like me, and I give up trying to win them over. Today’s Ash Wednesday, right? Good. I’m giving it up for Lent.

So, this is self-indulgent, I know. Sometimes I have to get this drivel out of my head to allow me to think clearly. However, I also know that at least one of you reading this relates. Among you are spiritual bullies, and kind-natured know-it-alls and do-gooders who see people not living up to their potential that could benefit from ______. Me too, friends. I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to listen more and advise less. I’m reading more body language (Stuff You Should Know 1-7, ONLY if you’re interested) and recommending fewer books. I’m seeking more to understand and less to be understood.

But…I’m a work in progress. So here’s a link to my kid’s blog. Cause she’s fabulosity personified. Peace out.

Is That a Cat In There?

In the past few months, I’ve become obsessed with podcasts, and one of my current favorites is Gretchen Rubin’s Happier. I love her books, and the podcast is chock full of her simple, commonsense, non-woo-woo-even-though-I-really-like-woo-woo-too suggestions to live happier. Make your bed, for instance, embrace good smells, do simple tasks right now instead of putting them off. Lots of quick easy ways to add a little more happiness to your day.

Yesterday, her suggestion might have changed my life. She said, “Give yourself permission to stop reading books you don’t enjoy.” I was currently slogging through a book that I really didn’t like. But I have a hard time quitting a book. A really hard time. When I finally gave  up on Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, I had a psychic crisis. How can I hate this book and still consider myself a writer? What is wrong with me that this amazing author doesn’t inspire me? Well … nothing. You don’t click with everyone, and Joan Didion and I didn’t click.

So I stopped pushing myself to embrace something I wasn’t really into and allowed myself to enjoy something that made my heart sing. And that felt amazing.

And that is what this year is about for me. I didn’t make any resolutions because, it’s so much darn pressure and then I get overwhelmed and crawl into my shell with chips and chocolate and darkness surrounds me and … it’s ugly. However, I did set some goals, and one of them was to give more energy to people and activities that bring me joy.

Fortunately, the universe responded by bringing some fabulous, inspiring, loving, wonderful NEW people into my life. Since I was already surrounded by fabulous, inspiring, loving and wonderful people, this seemed like a crazy bonus.

But I have to remind myself to shift my energy all the time … especially lately in terms of my kids growing up. For so long we’re celebrating firsts that before you know it you are clinging to one last after another. Those lasts can be gut-wrenching if you dwell on them.

My kids are never gonna be babies again. Chloe will never twist my hair around her finger and Peyton won’t ask me to take my earrings out so he can rub my ear to fall asleep. Lily still snuggles, but there are no more naps on my shoulder.

Focusing too much energy on those things makes me put the cat in a sling and bounce him around while hot tears splash on his head. Disclaimer: I do carry the cat around in an infinity scarf, but he’s old, and well, I’m not going to try to justify that. I own my eccentricity.

You get it though. It’s sad to think about all that has gone by in a heartbeat. I had to answer a questionnaire about Peyton’s college choices, and even as a tall, lanky teenager stood in front of me, I saw a chubby, curly-haired, dimpled baby snuggled in my lap.

So, I can cry all over the cat or I can shift my focus from what was to what is. And, if I really need to cheer up, what will be. Yes, he was a precious baby, and today he’s a cool, funny kid, and tomorrow who knows.

Lately Brad is gone a lot for work. Sometimes it feels overwhelming. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep on Sunday night because I don’t want our weekend to be over. But instead of dwelling on that, I try to focus on the time he is here and make our weekends mini-vacations when we only do fun things and spend quality time together.

So, I’m looking for more suggestions. I wonder: How do you shift your perspective? What simple things do you do to add a little happy to your day? Do you force yourself to finish books you are hating? And are any of you doing the Daniel Fast this year? I gave myself permission not to, and it’s pretty fabulous I must say.

Oh, and what are your favorite podcasts? I LOVE: This American Life, Magic Lessons, Serial, Dear Sugar, Strangers, Happier, Detective…

I’m Right Here

One and a half weeks ago, on a Friday afternoon that was of little consequence to many other people, my firstborn graduated from college.

We were so excited. Like the people you see celebrating the very first person in their family to graduate from college. So stupid excited. She made it. Consequently, we made it. We got pregnant, young, unmarried, naïve, and we beat a boatload of odds. To the naysayers who bet against us, we raised a girl who grew up to be a fucking bad ass. She did it. We did it.

Yeah, we’ve still got two more in process, but let me just bask in this moment…for a moment.

As the processional of graduates entered the gym, I slipped down onto the floor to take a picture of my baby girl. She walked in, and I watched her face light up as she saw her dad, her boyfriend, her siblings, and then I watched her face go blank as her mouth formed the words, “Where’s my mom?” I was literally 2 feet away from her, but she didn’t see me because she was looking up. I said, “I’m right here, Beebs!” She beamed. I took her picture, and she said, “Go! Go!” I wasn’t supposed to be on the floor.

It was another of those moments. Those physical representations of an emotional lesson I need to learn. It was my friend with her arms full of everyone else’s shit. It was my daughter not seeing what was right in front of her because she was looking up.

I spend a lot of my life looking up, overthinking, improving, seeking, reaching and a lot of times missing the beauty of what is right in front of me. I’ve spent too much time not realizing that everything I have ever wanted and more is right here.

For as long as we’ve been a family, I’ve tried to make lots of fun traditions that will turn into happy memories for my kids. While I have some treasured memories from my childhood, too many are unpleasant. One of our traditions, picking out a Christmas tree, has gotten to be rather hectic since Chloe moved out. This year, in fact, it resulted in dragging the children out of bed and into the rain, and some tears–mine–and it crossed my mind that the memory they would probably recall in adulthood was, “Remember how Mom used to freak out and drag us to get the damn Christmas tree every year?”

And I realized that the traditions were as much for me as they were for the kids. I needed to make happy memories to replace the unhappy ones. But I don’t need to force it, I just need to live. Our life is happy. Our kids are happy. It’s not perfect. It might appear to be perfect on Facebook, but for every picture where we are all smiling, there are 5 where Lily is scowling or my eyes are closed or Peyton is making a funny face. And many of the ones where we are all smiling is a result of my screaming, “CAN WE JUST TAKE ONE NICE PICTURE?”

Still…when I was a little girl dreaming of how my life would be when I grew up? I could never have conjured up a life that even compared to the glorious craziness that is our Bellville. So on today’s leg of the journey, I am reminding myself to look not up but at the blessed, silly, wonky-eyed imperfection that is right in front of me.

Can You Hold This for Me?

It’s a big week for us. Chloe’s graduating. She’s going to a grown up interview for a grown up job. I’ve spent a lot of time crying. Not sad crying. Not emptying nest crying. Just feeling all the feelings crying. Pride and hope and where the hell did the time go…all at the same time. I’m crying right now just writing about crying.

The past few months, I’ve had shoulder pain. Can’t raise my arm, can’t do much yoga, can’t spot Lily on back handsprings kind of shoulder pain. I went to the chiropractor, and he got my back and neck in better shape than they’ve been in for the last 10 years. I highly recommend chiropractors, by the way. No pills, no shots, no scalpels, just good old fashioned adjustments.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help my shoulder. At all.

So, I’ve spent weeks researching, stretching, icing, heating, taking more ibuprofen than I’m comfortable with, but nothing seemed to help that much.

Stretching helps some.

Meditation helps more.

But then…

Yesterday, Lily and I went to the Christmas Spectacular at Lakepark Farm with some friends. It’s wonderful and magical, and the kids and adults alike had a great time. As we neared the end of the evening, when the kids were all tired and sugared up and slap happy, I noticed my one girlfriend sitting on a bench holding her purse, children’s coats, toys they made in Santa’s workshop, two cups of hot chocolate and a bag of giant turtles–the chocolate variety–as she stared blankly ahead.

Seeing my friend bogged down with so much stuff sent a bolt of clarity directly to my heart.

I’m carrying too much stuff. Some is mine, but too much of it belongs to other people. I’ve been unwittingly carrying around bad days, hurt feelings, secrets, confessions, judgments, expectations, insecurities and so much more.

No wonder my shoulder hurts, I’m like a freaking pack mule.

Reaching my own full hands toward her, I joked, “Can you hold this for me?”

She laughed. We laughed.

But…It’s too much.

It makes my joints ache.

When the kids were little and wanted to bring a special item along somewhere we would always tell them, “You can bring it, but you have to carry it.” We’re not carrying it for you.

So, day by day, item by item, I am giving stuff back. I can’t carry this for you. Here you go. This belongs to you. This is yours. I can’t carry this for you.

You can bring it, but you have to carry it.

Whew.

Pee Stick Celebrations and College Graduations

Lots of stories of becoming a mother start with a pee-stick celebration. Mine started with a handful of drug store tests, a case of beer, multiple packs of Marlboro Lights and this mantra: “You have got to be kidding me.”

It was July 1993. I was 20. My 18 year-old boyfriend was at a keg party. There were no cell phones, so I couldn’t text him, but I couldn’t wait. So, I chased him.

He ran away.

But then I caught him and quickly decided to run in a different direction. To dreams of writing and living in Greenwich Village, tackling the big city with my baby. He didn’t chase me. He never chased me. He knew my dreams would give way to reality and patiently waited for my return.

So…a baby. I love, love, love babies. One of the happiest days of my life was when my sister announced her pregnancy. I was 9, and I couldn’t wait to have a little baby to hold and play with. My nephew was like a real live doll. But my own baby? Mmmmmm.

After the initial shock wore off, I fell hard and fast for the tiny mass of cells growing and multiplying in my abdomen. I would lie on my back for hours watching itty bitty limbs move inside me. “Watch!” I would tell her dad, as we gently poked back at miniature knees and elbows, feet and hands.

I was certain our baby was a boy. When it was finally time for an ultrasound, my boyfriend didn’t want to know the sex. He wanted to be surprised. What’s the big surprise, my girlfriend once mused; it’s gonna be a boy or girl. It’s not like the doctor is going to proclaim, “Congratulations! It’s puppies!” So I told the ultrasound tech I wanted to know what the sex was before he came in the room. It was the 90’s. It’s a girl.

A girl? Seriously? I had 5 brothers and 4 nephews, and I tearfully begged her to tell me she was sure. Show me! The technician laughed at my elation, “Did you really want a girl?” she asked. I was caught off guard as I didn’t realize how much I wanted a girl until that moment.

As the weeks passed, I fell more in love with the idea of motherhood. I was never sick or uncomfortable—the perks of being pregnant when you’re young and fit. I gained a mere 19 pounds and looked like the picture I carry around in my head of my ideal body about 5 minutes after I gave birth. 

Giving birth. All the waiting. All the anticipation. Childbirth classes. A planned c-section and boom, there she was. “Here’s your baby!” they said putting her tiny face next to mine before quickly whisking her away. This was before the days of kangaroo care and bonding with the baby right after birth.

Wait. Where are you taking her? “We have to bathe her and check her vitals. We’ll bring her back.” What seemed like days passed as they stapled my body back together, and I sobbed “I want my baby.” 

No one had warned me about the postpartum emptiness…the sense of loss I felt at my baby being on the outside instead of inside. When she was in my body, she was all mine. Once she was out I had to share her with the world. Before we had been inseparable…two souls but one body. Elizabeth Stone said, “Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” That’s it.

It’s been 21 years since my baby girl entered the world. She came with no instructions, but she taught me so much. She had no agenda, but she gave me a purpose. Before I had her, I wanted to change the world. I wanted to make a big impact. I wanted to do something great. 

Over the last 21 years, those dreams shifted. My perspective changed. I no longer seek accolades, accomplishments and applause because being a mom is more amazing than anything I could have imagined doing. It is the greatest thing I’ve ever done. And she has accomplished more than I’d ever dreamed possible.

In one week, this child will graduate from college. Her peers nominated her to speak at commencement. I honestly don’t know if I will make it. Thinking about it makes my heart feel as if it might explode with love and pride. She has grown up to be such an amazing person. Kind, loving, compassionate, driven, bright, inspiring…a better person than I’d ever hoped or dreamed or imagined she would be. One of the most wonderful people I know. She is my best friend. My most trusted confidante and adviser. She makes me want to be a better person. She reminds me to cherish each fleeting moment with the other loves of my life because the days may be long but the years are short as the saying goes.

In one week, my beebee will graduate from college. I’m wrapping my head around that.

I wrote part of this some time ago for another site, but in working through my feelings about Chloe graduating, I felt like revisiting it. Thanks for indulging me. Also, some people still wonder and are too polite to ask: Brad was and still is my boyfriend. Yes, our kids are 21, 15, and 9. No, we’ve never been much good at planning.

Dichotomy Isn’t a Dirty Word

We all have images in our heads of other people … who they are based on how they act, what they say, and now, what they post on various social media outlets.

A lot of people know things about me without really knowing me. Sometimes they use those things they know to comment on who they think I am. For instance, some people say I’m fake because I used togo to church, but I also drink beer, say fuck, and support marriage equality and reproductive freedom. Some person said I favor my daughters over my son because I never post pictures of him on social media. The simple truth of that is: My girls like pictures; my boy does not. But, I am busy trying to make my little space in the universe happy, so people can talk. What they say about me isn’t my business.

Conversely, I think I know stuff about others based on the same things. I really do try to get to know people though. I like to listen to their stories, find out what makes them tick. I think people are fascinating, actually. Cats too. In fact, I like cats more than most people.

But I find it is hard to know people because many of us don’t even really know ourselves that well. I feel like we begin to know who we are when we question the limiting beliefs that keep us stuck in a cycle of self-recrimination. Each time we peel back  a layer of who our family of origin, teachers, or society told us we were or should be, we get closer to knowing our true self. Pushing past what we were told we ought to do, couldn’t be or would never amount to and seeing what untapped potential rests in our core waiting to be acknowledged and unleashed is a wonderful and challenging journey.

Whoever we are and whatever our reason for being, life is a precious and fulfilling gift. We get to love and be loved, inspire and be inspired, encourage and be encouraged. Each moment brings opportunities to choose love, compassion, kindness, patience, forgiveness. Lots of times, I don’t make the best choice. But with each breath, each moment, each day, we get another chance to make a better choice.

I read a quote the other day that said: Don’t start today with the broken pieces of yesterday. Of course, I couldn’t find the author, but what a great sentiment. I have carried so much baggage around for so long. And while I could have just chosen to put it down long ago, that isn’t what I do. I have to unpack everything and examine it all before choosing to find a place for it in my life or throw it in the trash. 

And a lot of it goes right in the trash. Like that one box…the one you keep moving from apartment, to condo, to house, to house. You keep bringing it with you, but you never unpack it. You don’t really even know what’s in it because the sharpie writing wore off years ago. Then one day you open it, and it’s a bunch of unwanted items you’d planned to donate years ago, but you got sidetracked. At this point, I want to kick myself wondering Why have I been carrying this box around all these years? It’s useless. I don’t want any of it. I could have gotten rid of it years ago.

It’s the same with so much crap from our past. Sometimes, we just have to open up the box and look at the crazy stuff in there to realize how preposterous it is to keep carrying it around. But then we can throw it in the trash and move on.

My box was pretty full. It’s taken lots of years, and I’m still unpacking things. It’s getting lighter.

Once Upon a Time…

You know when you hear or read something that rattles neurons around in your brain and they reconfigure in a new and improved way? Like Oprah’s “AHA moments.” In my curiosity and sometimes pathological pursuit of self-improvement, I stumbled into one of these revelations.

Sometimes, I hear or read the same idea repeatedly without really internalizing it. Almost every lesson in my life could be broken down piece by piece to find one of The Four Agreements as its cornerstone; still, I struggle sometimes. “Wow, did I just take that personally?” “Am I making assumptions about someone’s motives?” Crap.

Onward to my point. I’m a big Brené Brown fan, and in her latest book Rising Strong, she writes about getting back up after we’ve been suffered a hardship. By breaking this struggle down into three distinct phases: rumble, reckoning and revolution, Brown offers commonsense tools that allow us to deal with our emotions rather than letting them deal with us. Here’s an excerpt where she eloquently explains this inner “rumble” you get to have.

The point that really got me was that when something happens, we take said event and filter it through our memories, experiences, insecurities–of course the shrewish voice of our inner critic gets to weigh in–and from all of that we formulate our view of the event and thereby our reaction. Often, that reaction has absolutely no basis in fact.

Here’s an example. I see a long-lost “friend” who I absolutely adore at a public event. I run up to give her a hug, and she steps back from me with a vibe that says she’s definitely not reciprocating my exuberant greeting. Now, I’m standing there feeling foolish. Embarrassed. Shamed. I stammer under my breath, “Hey, it was nice to see you; take care,” and walk quickly away, my cheeks burning and tears stinging my eyes.

Here is the story I hear in my head:

She never liked you.
She only pretended to like you because you hung around the same group of people.
No one really likes you.
People think you’re an asshole.
Even some of your own relatives talk nasty about you.
You’re worthless and unlovable and a fool.

Good. Grief. That is a wide swath of destruction from a 15-second interaction with a person who doesn’t cross my life or mind on a daily basis.

In the past, and by past I mean the 42 1/2 years before I read this book, that 15-second-interaction would have destroyed me for weeks, months, who knows how long, but I would have overthought the shit out of it.

However, with this new skillset–thank you, Dr. Brown–I thought about it, but in a more productive way. I tore apart those statements and addressed them not only as lies, but also really mean hateful lies that I would never speak to anyone. Course my inner critic–she’s such. a. bitch–seizes any opportunity to cut me to the quick.

The ensuing conversation in my brain went kind of like this:

So what had happened was: I saw a person I liked a lot, and she blew me off.

She never liked you. Maybe not, but I was always kind to her, and in the past she was kind to me also.
She only pretended to like you because you hung around the same group of people. So be it. I don’t hang around those people anymore, but I don’t dislike them. If that is the only reason she was nice to me, then she isn’t really the person I thought I adored.
No one really likes you. Bullshit. My husband and children adore me. I have incredible, loyal, and amazing friends.
People think you’re an asshole. I can be, for sure, but what other people think of me is none of my business. I really try hard to be kind and compassionate.
Even some of your own relatives talk nasty about you. Touché. And they are motivated by their own issues that I didn’t cause and I can’t fix.
You’re worthless and unlovable. So. Not. True. I mean that’s just ridiculous. That’s like calling a skinny girl fat. You’re just grasping for mean things to say now.

And so it goes. But for whatever reason, this time the lesson stuck. The story that I’m telling myself right now…about that interaction STUCK with me. I got it. Brené Brown, I love you.

Today, I saw this:

 

 

Holy Mother of Moses. That shook me to my core. I talk about my inner shrew a lot, and I realize  that her weapons of choice are the negative, critical words I heard growing up.

 

Gulp. Here’s the thing: I’m far from perfect, and I have said shitty things to my kids that I don’t want them to grow up and use as ammunition to attack themselves. But instead of beating myself up about it, I’m just going to keep trying to do better. I say far more kind and loving things than I do mean things. And I always apologize when I mess up.

 

Do you do this? Tell yourself stories that may not have any foundation in reality but really make you feel like crap? Is it just me and Brené Brown? Surely it can’t be because home girl’s selling books like she found the secret to youth and skinniness.

 

If this feels familiar for you, you should read this book. In the meantime, try to stop and listen to the story you’re telling yourself. And remember. It’s just a story. In your head. You can edit, rewrite, or just freaking delete it.

 

By the way, the person who didn’t want to hug me? It wasn’t about me at all. I can’t tell her story, but her reasons for not wanting to interact with me had nothing to do with me. Don’t take things personally. Don’t make assumptions. Keep being a work in progress.

 

xoxo