good & honest
December 20, 2015 § 5 Comments
I was raised to be good, compliant; to tend to expectations and keep private those ideas that hinted at selfishness. Sometimes good came at no greater cost than performing an unwanted task, other times a favor meant compromising the integrity of my own needs.
Tonight someone asked me a favor. A small request that assumed a convenience that did not exist. My first instinct was to please, but conceding convenience meant creating an expectation that was untrue.
I considered the times I said yes to a pastime I did not enjoy, a beer I did not want, a bad joke I thought was in poor taste, gossip that sounded bitter to my ears or an untruth I did not correct with polite silence. It is easy to be good; to nurse a drink I will not finish or laugh to avoid making another uncomfortable, to listen without contradicting or correcting.
Except, if I am not honest in my choices, others are lost to assume I want another drink or share criticism or humor I do not enjoy. Performing a fallacy of self creates little untruths of passiveness.
Tonight I was honest when it might have been easier to be good.
failing forward
November 24, 2015 § 4 Comments
The past week has been a whirlwind of emotions. An unhappy argument that lead to an honest unraveling. Tiny earthquakes of the spirit.
Sad and angry, I pulled away from the places I normally find comfort and looked inward more closely for strength. My vision obscured by a new foothold, I saw myself in choices that reflected places of need that demanded change.
For all my many blessings and joy, there was room for more. A word I previously chose to name the year.
How far had I fallen in my distraction that this word was lost in my daily attention? Suddenly alert and eager, this word was like manna to an achy spirit.
I drew myself closely to the table and began demanding more, of and for, myself.
I had become stagnant in my self-care. Deferring choices to a status quo and squandering the preciousness of each moment with hesitation. Fully awake in this reality I dared to engage chance.
It was this day that I hurriedly scribbled a resume and cover letter into reality, tempting fate to challenge my intentions. A change that I had come to fear became a lifeline to a forgotten self.
I immediately reached out for necessary references and let loved one’s stand beside me in my action, honoring the fragility of this new possibility with transparency of intention.
Then, just when the busyness of my normal weekday routines dared me to sweep momentum beneath distractions, I bought an interview outfit and challenged fate to call me.
I started looking at those around me less as dependents of my attention and more as capable caretakers. I began conversations with my children that outlined places where they might mature into acts of greater support.
I even embraced small gestures of whimsy, signing up for a frivolous message from an uncertain Universe so that I would have a happy message to begin my day. A playful plan for the mornings I would need encouragement.
It was in this same mindset that I acted on an idea a friend shared; a link to network with other writers. Here, again, I enlisted chance with determination; recognizing that if I could leap into change to be of service to others, then I could also demand a space of passion for myself.
For the past week, each day has begun with yes. I have moved toward every affirmation with a stubborn, blind love.
Then, today, rejection came. A polite form letter informing me that another candidate was awarded the opportunity I sought for myself. I could tell you that this moment undermined my confidence, that I doubted my ability and curled inward. It is what I might have felt only a week ago, but no is not so painful when the work is not intimately tied to self.
More importantly, failure is intricately linked to success; we cannot learn, grow, evolve without uncomfortable risk. I failed in this early endeavor, but I succeeded in moving past anxiety, fear, and doubt to make that first uncertain step towards change.
I don’t know what comes next, I only know I’m tired of standing still. I want to dance the little girl open-armed twirls of my heart song.
blank space
November 20, 2015 § 5 Comments
Life disrupts our assumptions at the most peculiar moments, splitting our expectations into places of wondering. Previously at peace with the patterns of my day, I find myself caught in a new momentum; looking beyond the predictable toward something uncertain.
For fifteen years my identity has been structured around my purpose at home. It has been a comfortable, well-cherished, experience; one I hadn’t envisioned for myself before the day it became my own. The girl who tumbled into motherhood was previously a curious student and free spirit, unbound by domesticity with a passion for a different calling.
Those early years I pushed against the leisure of a simpler experience. I chaffed against the loss of academia and the misplaced dream of a professional experience. I couldn’t fathom the challenges waiting in want of a student; the calling of a greater lesson in the unpredictable gifts motherhood invited.
Over the years I’ve watched friends leave careers for homemaking, celebrating their new adventure with the same enthusiasm I congratulate other friends’ promotions or independent pursuits; cherishing the brave souls who tempt fate with a leap of confidence toward a heart song. All the while I wondered at the misplaced certainty that used to guide my sense of self.
It was enough to be my children’s mother and a mediocre homemaker, a part-time daydreamer with an anonymous outlet for writing, until an unhappy interruption challenged the direction of my dreams.
Yesterday I tempted change with an exercise in chance, casting an invitation into the unknown; a resume hurriedly drafted with all the recklessness of childhood scribbles. Bold strokes with an unsharpened crayon crafting a colorful marker of change.
Today is a new day on a different path. An opportunity to awaken a second-chance at repurposing old dreams into something new. A blank space in want of a story.
self & image
October 20, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday I allowed a superficial distraction too much importance over my thoughts. One image invited an internal dialogue of unkind criticism for old insecurities; each physical fault a validation of a greater generalization of unworthiness.
In the poorly lit space of the driver’s license bureau, a notoriously predictable bad picture produced an emotional response I couldn’t shake. My husband didn’t understand my reaction any more than my internal voice of reason could command control of my thoughts.
In that moment I was the overweight child in corduroy pants; the teenage girl with poor skin; the young woman navigating an unfamiliar body after baby. I could feel the transparency of each imperfection mocking my performance of self.
Sometimes bad lighting, a poorly timed blink, or unflattering angle distort an image into something untrue, but perhaps our responses are a greater reflection of self. Whatever I sought in my assessment, my eyes looked first to unattractive assumptions.
It was tempting to skip this truth, to stuff inconvenient emotions and unkind thoughts into a drawer like an unflattering photograph; to pretend a greater confidence of character than I felt, but I don’t believe I am alone. I know too many beautiful souls who shy away from what they see in their own image while looking first to the beauty in others.
In this experience I saw a woman who curled submissively into an assumption of inadequacy that informs a one-dimensional expectation of self. A performance of mediocrity that illuminates imperfections without allowing for a metamorphose of a more elegant posture of self.
I didn’t see the woman I am in a photograph or the woman I want to be in my response, but I’m working on the answer.
material girl
October 4, 2015 § Leave a comment
Moving created a unique opportunity to sort the entirety of my wardrobe. Unlike seasonal purges, spontaneous evaluations that stemmed from frustration and need in a moment of desperate awareness for the ill-fitting, wash-faded remnants of years past; moving provided an excuse to sort items with a more intentional attentiveness for the functionality and emotions of purposeful dressing.
Not one for clutter or material sentiment, I was very methodical in my sorting. Each item was evaluated by specific requirements; the first was need. Is this an item I wear regularly? If yes, does this item make me feel comfortable/confident/beautiful?
It was important to me, as we moved to a new community, that I begin my days from a place of both functionality for the purpose of everyday tasks, but also a positive mindset. As a stay at home mother I knew that most of my social contact would come from school events, but the balance of my time would be consumed by settling our home and tending to our dog.
Recognizing the responsibilities of my day afforded me a chance to donate those items that had sat long forgotten; remnants of another life. Office and evening wear from volunteer committees and special occasions in smaller sizes were gifted new life. Similarly those items that were torn, stained, or stretched from over-use were generously allowed to rest in peace.
Demanding confidence and beauty were necessities of spirit beyond comfort. An introvert by nature, I wanted to center each new experience with a positive intention. I couldn’t control the circumstantial discomfort or intimidation of overwhelming unfamiliarity within my new community, but I could choose to approach the unknown with a sense of calm crafted from an armor of strength.
Returning to the initial question of use, assuming an item was something I would not wear regularly, I then asked myself if I might ever have use for the object in our new home? If the answer leaned even remotely near maybe, I reserved the parcel for another day. A well-cut blazer and timeless pencil skirt, seasonal dresses and even exercise attire were safely stowed for our adventure.
The last qualifying question was one of sentiment. For those hard to rationalize items that lingered between piles, I asked if there were a photograph that might better honor the emotions I struggled to preserve. The best example of this was my wedding dress. Our wedding day itself was a complicated memory, but the dress was less meaningful than the image of my husband and I in a private embrace preserved by a thoughtful photographer. This dress and others were donated that they might find new stories elsewhere.
What remained after my sorting, was a functionally minimalist collection of clothing that brought me greater comfort than confidence. This has created a new opportunity to expand my wardrobe and to shape a new sense of self as I fill in the missing necessities.
Not a shopper and ever-cost conscious, especially given the expenses of moving, I am struggling a bit to invest in new items. Dwelling over fit and color, need and expense. I began my exploration with an unexpectedly frivolous, uncharacteristically impulsive, addition; earrings.
For over a year I have window shopped a charming pair of earrings, playful and pretty they were easily dismissed as an extravagance. This week they became a new promise to engage in objects that delight; to approach shopping without the dread that normally accompanies my efforts. For less than $30, I rediscovered the wonder of playing at dressing up.
I’m no longer dreading the task of deciding, I want my very limited wardrobe to be joyful; beautiful colors and thoughtful elements to make the simple work of everyday more pleasurable. Like fresh flowers on a windowsill or an inexpensive pair of earrings, I want to breathe greater beauty into my day with purpose.
writing out loud
October 3, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday I stumbled upon a writer; someone I have read occasionally, but whom my husband follows more closely for her recipes. I’m not certain either of us could tell you her first name, but there was an immediate sense of familiarity. Her meals have enriched our dinner time with recipes that guided my husband through his earliest efforts at meal planning.
In the moment I first recognized this woman I debated any intrusion upon her day, resisting an acknowledgment beyond a polite hello. Shopping with her young son, I hesitated to interrupt her task over a past kindness.
Last April a close friend had requested this woman/writer/cook send my husband a celebratory note for his 40th birthday. She did. It was a happy surprise on a day of many thoughtful personal acknowledgments.
Yesterday it suddenly felt very human and impossibly necessary to say thank you, to offer a face for my gratitude. Except I didn’t know who to thank. I realized seconds before my inevitably clumsy interruption that I didn’t know where to begin in my misguided good intentions without a name.
I debated referencing her by site, but it felt impossible to identify this woman so singularly as she stood tethered to a far greater joy. Hand in hand with her child, I began instead with: Do you write?
My question was intended to help identify my familiarity that I might be permitted my small intrusion. Instead the question followed me home like a stray in want of attention.
Long after I had relayed my thanks for her personal note and expressed my appreciation for the recipes that have become a staple of our family’s meal time, the question Do you write? felt permanently lodged among my thoughts.
No one knows I write. I run little risk of someone interrupting my day with a distracted moment of familiarity. The thing that I most identify as my own is gently buried in anonymity; this provides my children greater privacy while simultaneously guarding my efforts from failure or criticism.
This is not to say that I covet recognition or that I envy another their success. I believe there is enough joy and success in this world for everyone. No, today I am wondering where and when we sound out our truth and dare to walk more confidently among the uncertainty of our dreams. How we answer the difficult personal truths we more easily ask of others.
lost words
September 18, 2015 § Leave a comment
There have been days a word eludes me, I feel the shape of its meaning and the taste of its letters on my tongue, but there is no sound. It has become, perhaps, my greatest fear; the loss of words that have so long been my companions.
I wonder in these moments of panicked clarity at what I might not say; if words like memories can disappear, might I lose myself in their silence?
Then, as if one fear invites another, I begin to sound out forgotten memories for the texture of my past. Years and words like sharp consonants and long vowels giving shape to self in defiance of silence.
giving & receiving
August 31, 2015 § Leave a comment
Throughout our move I have been humbled by the generosity of others; close friends and companionable acquaintances have consistently shown up in the disorder of our need and stood beside us, actively helping us process the demands of our choice.
On days when I could not see my own needs for the chaos of our work, others provided comfort and care with meaningful offerings of purposeful aid. Meals and muscle, pet care and child’s play; there was no false pride or martyrdom, no posturing of strength in stubborn refusals in my acceptance. I recognized the kindness in each offering and learned a new language of strength by honoring my limits.
I had previously assumed my independence was a greater measure of ability, priding myself on self-sufficiency. I similarly judged others for decisions that placed them in a position of vulnerability with passive aggressive criticisms that were directly correlative to their need and my expectations of accountability. Strength is not so easily measured by need or ability.
For all the years I said “no” to an experience because the unknown demanded vulnerability; for every criticism I privately harbored for someone else’s display of need; for every cautious excuse that allowed me to disengage from uncertain success – I misvalued my community and my worth.
Friends do not wait for permission to love one another with acts of care, we fill our arms with efforts and our hearts with an openness that leaves room enough in our expectations for imperfect choices. This is what I have learned over long days of worries and endless to-do lists. We are stronger together.
face forward
June 26, 2015 § 4 Comments
There is irony in the passage of years, I feel the humor intimately in my morning routines. I am a woman looking to my reflection for the girl of my youth, no longer so eager to cheat the years in a mad race toward maturity.
I thought time would deliver me into an image of more worldly expressions, that I would evolve into a glamorous stranger. Instead I wake each day to a funny recognition of self.
My eyes recall the errant efforts of youth, the eager ignorance of hard lines and clumsy shapes. Blemishes and stray hair, I have exhausted my skin with harsh chemicals and sharp ends of overused tweezers. I was unkind in my attention, unforgiving in my imperfections.
I never matured into an image of sophistication, rather I settled into the shape of my truth with a fondness for a simpler expression of self; a gentler appreciation for lines that tell a story of heartache and joy.
It is a beautiful undoing, years of well-intentioned manipulation washed away for a wiser recognition of a naked knowing. I am both the girl behind the mask of old dreams and the woman in the mirror; a complicated and contradictory skin of experiences that shelter memories.
I have come to spend less time creating an image and more care nourishing grace.
blind spot
June 12, 2015 § 4 Comments
I’ve been thinking about the ways I comfort myself with easy untruths, kind dismissals. The way I talk around my fears and hopes until I push them a little further from the edge of my day, letting myself feel safe and inviting a quieter harm in procrastinating the pursuit of undetermined potential.
They are a blind spot of my making.
It happens predictably and unexceptionally. I skip the pool to hide physical insecurities, old demons of poor self-image. I sidestep confrontation for passive aggressive disinterest. I pass on opportunities from the sidelines of uncertainty. In most cases, the avoidance does less to shelter me from discomfort than it does to feed the voices of doubt that inform remorse.
They are often so habitual, these behaviors and self-talk, that I don’t see their harm until I change the pace or direction of my attention.
It happened most recently when I was perusing social media and noting the accomplishments of so many old acquaintances. Here’s an ugly truth, I remember thinking I was destined for something bigger than them. Years later I was a voyeur to opportunities differed; places I assumed I would travel, careers unexplored, tough goals tackled and public imperfections atoned.
The biggest difference between myself and familiar strangers was a leap of faith into uncertain success at the risk of uncomfortable error. I’ve led a beautiful life, safely.
So today I’m thinking a little about where I tip toe away from the edge, the places I retreat with my dreams into invisibility. I’m shining a light and paying a little more attention to where I disappear; trying to conjure a greater presence of self.
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