Picture This...

January is many things to me.

January is re-entry. A rapid and turbulent descent from the light, airiness of Christmas break as gravity pulls us back to reality. January is splash down into our all of our school-year routines. For us, January is lots of swim meets…NINE total after this coming Saturday, five of which I was largely responsible for. That’s every year. This year, January has also been lots of running…which has been fantastic. And lots of emotional self-exploration…which I’ll call meaningful, if not always comfortable. And this January has seen its share of personal anxiety which has not caused me to BURN ALL UP AND OUT as I re-enter the atmosphere probably because of the running and emotional self-care.

This January has been about observing what’s going on around me…looking at the people, ideas, obligations, and “stuff” with whom/which I am sharing interconnected orbits. I am trying to do this without judgement. Which, incidentally, I judge myself to suck at. 

Completely.

January has been zero 30 day challenges. Just holding on to what was good from the previous four has turned out to be challenge enough. I am slowly rising to meet it.

January has been giving myself permission to coast or float when possible and permission to just be enough – rather than a superhero -- when the former seems impossible. I’m sure this has caused consternation on the part of some, but they have not shared it with me. Or they have shared it with me but I have blissfully forgotten it as I float away.

I’m coming out of January with some newness about me. Not the temporary newness that results from rigid New Years’ resolutions or even the physical vitality that results from consistent, rigorous exercise. This newness feels more like a gentle wind of transformation. I have new eyes and there is a new light around me that causes things which I know rationally have not changed, to appear different...more authentic…less plastic. Conversely, it has made things that once seemed real and desirable – tangibles toward which I have been navigating a footpath – to acquire a greyness or transparency that have caused me to question not only their importance, but their very existence.

If that’s too abstract, think of it this way. You have a picture. Maybe it’s a beautiful 8x10 of your family or a 24x30 painting by your favorite artist. Or maybe it’s something that you don’t find particularly appealing…a painting of Elvis on a blue velvet canvas or latch-hook tapestry of a white Tiger with Siegfried and Roy draped casually beside it. No matter what it might be, you can alter how it appears to you by putting on glasses (or removing them), changing the light in which you view it, or by putting it inside a frame (or removing one that detracts from it). It may not be better or worse when you are through, but it will be different.

I read an article this morning that really reframed a particular concept for me and it was pretty profound. It was a Mental Floss article about Scott Kelly’s experience on the Space Station.

I spend a lot of time (too much) considering my own weight...the relationship between by body and the earth…the measurement of my own gravitational pull. Somehow, the force with which the planet pulls me toward it is of some concern to me. I can’t imagine why <insert still-yet-to-be-invented punctuation to convey sarcasm>. Maybe you struggle with this too?  I have often thought that the absolute best thing about being in outer space would be experiencing weightlessness. It’s a place where we all (sort of) weigh the same.

One thing I do appreciate about myself -- and spend almost zero minutes a day thinking about -- is the ease with which I fall asleep and stay asleep. Despite the relatively little consideration I give it, sleep is one of my greatest joys in life and I excel at it. If I could market sleeping as a skill and monetize it, I would be a gazillionaire. Well…according the Scott Kelly, sleeping isn’t so easy in space because on the International Space Station you are always kind of in the same position and there is nothing to rest into. No mattress to cradle my tired body. No pillow to simultaneously embrace my skull and support my neck. No floor to support a bed. Nothing to create the sense of connectedness to the ground. For me, none of the things that make sleep and the ability to sink down and let go of the day possible. So while I would feel light and airy during the day, I would lose one of my greatest joys in an environment of weightlessness.

Suddenly my connectedness to the Earth doesn’t seem like such a burden and the measurement of the force of that connectedness seems pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t change my opinion on the importance of striving for good health – eating real food, challenging my body physically, caring for my mind and spirit – but it does change the level of importance I place on arbitrary measurements of good health. 

Didn’t really change the picture, only changed

my eyes, which now see sleep through a lens of gratitude,

the light, which radiates a soft glow of permission, 

and 

the frame, which is constructed out of some weathered wisdom rather than gilded expectation. 

How Are You Feeling, Today? Brave, Thanks.

Lately, I’ve been reading one of the three new Brené Brown books I received for Christmas. I knew I was getting them, so I had a week or so to strategize about which of the three I would start with. Do I go with the earliest one and read chronologically? Do I start with the one that seems to offer what I am most in need of at this very moment? Or do I attempt to read them all at once? In the midst of this decision, I listened to a podcast in which Brown was the guest and the host actually asked her which order she would recommend to someone. She suggested the second option…starting where I am…which, when you think about it, is the obvious answer.  So I’m reading Daring Greatly – because 2016 is my year of living courageously.

Incidentally, it’s also my year of gratitude – I decided to set an intention for the year instead of making a New Year’s resolution because I am in the middle of a 41-year streak of SUCKING at New Year’s resolutions.  (The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.) Setting an intention also proved challenging because I couldn’t decide between the two that were most important to me – courage and gratitude. Then I remembered that there was no grade for this so I could choose two or five or 50 and it wasn’t going to matter to anyone other than me. So I have 2 intentions which is very courageous because now I’ve set myself up for the possibility of two failures instead of just one. But I also feel gratitude because in showing that bit of courage I am already aligning my decisions with my intentions.

#WINNING

This morning I was reading Chapter 5 – Minding the Gap. Before this morning, minding the gap was what I did on the Interstate when I didn’t want to give a tractor trailer (or anyone, really) the opportunity to merge in front of me. Kind of a narrow definition. When Brené (because I am a legend in my own mind, I’m on a first name basis with her) talks about “minding the gap” she is referring to paying attention to the space between where I am and where I want to be.

Pretty good timing to have that concept framed for me.

I started thinking that for me, there are really two gaps that underscore all of my intentions…resolutions…goals…dreams…whatever I call the particular target that I have placed somewhere out in from of me. The first gap is the chasm between what I am doing professionally and what I want to be doing professionally. It’s pretty deep. Now, somedays it doesn’t feel very wide – as though I could easily jump it if I wanted, but I never leap. I could slip on a banana peel and still fall into the abyss. And I’m positive that there is a nest of large hairy spiders down there. The second gap is between who I am and who I want to be. I don’t think I’m alone in this -- though discussing fear of failure isn’t a popular conversation topic at social gatherings so I can’t be sure. Nutshell…I am always trying to be the best version of myself and there is a gap between where I stand now and where I believe the best me might be standing. Metaphorically, speaking.

The real danger for me here is not mixing up these two very different ideas. They are connected without a doubt, but how I relate them to one another could mean the difference between a healthy sense of self and spiritual disorientation. Specifically, I want to ensure that what I am doing is a reflection of who I am now or who I want to be – that they mirror my values. I do NOT want to fall into that trap of defining myself by what I do nor by people’s opinions of what I do. I’m pretty sure that will always lead to disappointment.

Note to self: Never read the comment sections when searching for clues about who you are.

This is where being courageous enters the narrative for me. The more I write this blog the more I realize that my mild psychopathy is really just some sturdy armor I’ve put on to deal with criticism and failure. If I say I don’t care enough, eventually I won’t – though that has yet to actually happen. As I poke at the armor, I realize that allowing myself to be seen (particularly through my writing) is kind of terrifying, especially if I’m not carrying my shield of humor or my sword of sarcasm.

I have lots to say about lots of things. Food, Religion, Privilege, Racism, Sexism, and most of all politics…but I’ve shied away from them because I don’t want to open myself up to the ugliness that I see perpetuated every single day by people who dehumanize others for the benign act of disagreement. I have no reason to believe (or really even to hope) that everyone agrees with me, but I really don’t trust that I’m resilient enough to withstand the personal attacks that people will no doubt hurl in my direction after hearing my opinion and distorting it into an attack on their own.

You KNOW that people do that, right? Especially, with the written word. They read someone’s opinion on something and then they have an internal dialogue. One conversation may go like this: 

“Oh, so that’s what they think about that. I think differently, maybe I’ll discuss it with them.” 

But another conversation is based on a subtext of judgment added by the reader. They read an opinion but what they hear is this: 

“I think X. And if you think Y or Z, then you are not only thinking wrong, but everything about you is wrong.” 

This type of thinking doesn't work too well in human interaction. If the second dialogue is what someone hears in the expression of an opposing opinion, it’s not hard to see why they might take to the Internet with an angry and defensive rant. This is when not minding the gap causes unsatisfied expectations, misunderstanding, and human suffering. 

I don’t suffer too well. But I think I need to learn – suffering is part of the human condition too and I think it might be the best way to foster resilience.  So… courage. And gratitude. Gratitude for those in my tribe who, agree or disagree, will always be generous in their interpretation and kind in their interface. And gratitude for the opportunity to be courageous.

It feels scary, but it feels like LIVING. And that is something for which I am always grateful. 

Voices and Masks and Costumes. Oh. My.

Yesterday, I found myself praying in the shower and this was the prayer:

Creator God, please amplify your voice from among all the others around me and in my head so I can hear whatever obvious instruction You have for me today. And you’re going to have to really drown out that other shit because it is SO. VERY. LOUD.

Those were the exact words.

I have always wanted this voice of my conscience (for me, that’s the voice of God) to be that of Patrick Stewart’s…not his words or thoughts necessarily, but the sound of his voice. It is so mellifluous – yes, I wrote that word first…no thesaurus! I’ve never measured it, but I believe that hearing him speak actually lowers my blood pressure and gives be a sense of calm --like meditating or letting an infant sleep on my shoulder or rhythmically petting a dog’s head. So I recently took some time to listen Marc Maron’s podcast (WTF) in which he interviewed Mr.Stewart. Having a stressful day? Bring out the honeyed voice of Jean-Luc Picard and Charles Xavier. I’m sure that if I could receive my spiritual instruction in that voice, I would absolutely be able to respond bravely and appropriately.

As I listened to the interview, I was astonished to learn that he grew up speaking a regional native dialect…a form a speech that was unique to his birthplace in Northern England and nothing like the King’s English with which I associate him. He demonstrated for a few moments and although it was the same tone, the words were unrecognizable. I felt my face twist in confusion as I listened to him. This was NOT the voice of Patrick Stewart, it was something else entirely and my blood pressure began to rise. He went on to say that when he young and just starting to perform, he employed a voice and dialect coach to help him learn to speak so that people outside of his hometown could actually understand him.

He wasn’t born with that voice, someone had helped him find it.

I had a fleeting thought that I might actually be able to train the voice in my head -- which usually sounds more like Fran Drescher or Rosie Perez (not bad, but decidedly not relaxing) – into something that offers its own, calm reassuring tone in moments of anxiety or, even better, into brilliant prose when I feel trapped in the creativity vacuum. If I could do that…it would be ME talking to ME in the words that I thought with MY own mind and then those words could flow from my brain down the right side of my neck…over the shoulder…into my arm, wrist, hand, fingers and eventually onto a page. This would translate into easy authentic writing everyday forever and ever. My dream.

Could there be anything more satisfying than being the narrator and writer of my own story? And is there anything that would require more courage? 

As it turns out, Patrick Stewart is that courageous. As I listened on to the podcast, I became less preoccupied with the sound of his voice and more focused on what he was saying with it. This guy had a pretty messy life. His father, Alfred, knocked up his mother, Gladys, and then didn’t marry her or even hang around. Instead, he left to join the military while she gave birth to Stewart’s oldest brother alone. Sometime later, he returned, they married, and they had two more kids of which Stewart was the youngest. He thinks he was conceived the night before his father went off to serve in WW2 so, for the first 5 years of his life it was just Stewart, his older brother, and his mom. (Stewart's eldest brother was 17 years his senior and also fighting in the war.) When his father was discharged from service – a father Stewart knew only from pictures – their home life became tumultuous and violent. This I actually knew about him already.

For years, he spoke pretty openly about the violence in his home while he was growing up. His father was a drinker. When he came home after an evening of drinking, he was usually angry and his mother was always the target of that rage. No surprise that this had a profound impact on Stewart, so with his considerable voice, he has advocated on behalf of domestic abuse victims as a way of honoring his mother. He spoke out for years, and in sharing his story, his father was most definitely the villain.

But his story doesn’t end there.

Many years passed and he was invited to be a guest on a BBC television show called “Who Do You Think You Are?” which researches the family trees of their famous guests and then chooses one interesting ancestor whose story they share with that guest.

They chose Stewart’s father.

It was a multi-phase interview process in which Stewart was asked to metaphorically (and in some cases literally) walk through portions of his father’s life as a soldier. It turns out that Alfred had witnessed atrocities that most of us will never even imagine, let alone see with our own eyes. In the midst of an interview, Stewart was shown a news article about his father returning from war in which they actually used the word “shell-shocked”…which we know now as post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. Somehow, learning this about his father – seeing him through a new lens – changed his perception. In fact, after processing this information about his father (with a helping professional), he has also become an advocate for British veterans who are suffering from PTSD. Rather than cling to his anger, he figured out a way to assimilate this new information, use it to ease his own pain, and in the process, honor his own father’s memory by speaking on behalf of others.

Am I the only one who finds this remarkable?

As I was listening to him share, I realized that it’s not only the sound of his voice that is so appealing, it’s the way that he uses it. He strikes such a beautiful balance in his honest storytelling. He doesn’t overshare but he’s not so worried about seeming cool that he appears closed off. It’s easy to connect with someone who has such a strong sense of self and the confidence to let the world see it, but who also displays genuine humility and a sense of appreciation for what he’s accomplished and the people who have walked with him on his journey. Regardless of the sound of his voice, the content of his words are authentic.

I don’t know if the weight of his words are what strips away the mask or if it’s the tearing away of the mask that gives depth to his words, but the result is the same -- authentic crafting and rich narration of one’s own story. It isn’t often that a performer – or anyone for that matter – removes his or her mask in front of the world. I’ve observed that “celebrity” usually pushes people in one of two directions:

They either completely withdraw from the world (think Garbo…Brando) 

or 

They throw on a mascara-coated, lip-plumped mask atop a booty/boob-enhanced coat of armor OR they don a ridiculous hair piece and a superhero get-up fashioned from insults and shocking or deceptive rhetoric. They parade into the public eye in all their regalia and thrust their costumed personas into the scope of any camera they can find – desperate for attention but not at the expense – the risk – of revealing their true selves. 

This is oversharing and overexposure – not truth-telling. I won’t give cultural examples here (other than my thinly-veiled descriptions above) because we can all come up with our own models for this behavior. But while I believe there is value in examining the world around us (and the people in it) for the things that reflect our values, we would be better served by identifying our own masks and costumes before we start hacking at what others are wearing. I’ll just leave it at that.

What mask, costume, or alternate voice are you using to avoid telling your authentic story? And are you brave enough to strip it all away?

She asks herself.

If you are a fan of good interviews and good storytelling, you should listen to the podcast when you have some time. Click here for the link.

It's Always Hot on Re-entry...and It's Going to Get Hotter

So it’s been a while. A lot has happened…probably for you too. Didn’t make a lot of time to write. Scrawled down lots of notes about things I would write if I carved out the time but mostly I just snuggled (and sometimes sweated…because this is Memphis and it wouldn’t be Memphis if it wasn’t 75 degrees on Christmas) beside the tree with my kids and watched Christmas movies and read a lot of books and listened to a lot of podcasts.

I’m calling all of that activity “fueling”.

So I entered 2016 all fueled up with a tank full of potential blog topics related to running and community and holiday rest and other things. And then Saturday, I got up early – really early for a 6-mile run with friends – and innocently began my day. It was to be a busy but joyous day. Our dear family friend was getting married and many of my chosen family had traveled from all over the country to be here for the wedding. It was a day – a weekend, really – of hugs and smiles and laughter and peace. So much peace and I was actually living inside gratitude in the moments of playing Scrabble with teenagers and making silly faces in the photo booth at the wedding reception. In what was sure to be a once-this-decade occurrence, I stayed up through midnight on New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day in my own time zone.

I was present in joy and wow does that feel good!

But as with all shiny coins, there are two sides and as I was allowing myself to be completely open to joy, I made myself completely open to some pain. First…know this about me…I loathe all euphemisms for death. Called home…passed away…joined the Heavenly Choir…they all suck and fail to capture what is the profound sadness that those of us left behind feel when someone important dies. And that’s what happened on Saturday…in the midst of all the joy…I learned that someone who had a profound impact on me had died. Returned to ashes. And in all that openness I had allowed, I felt the greatest sting of the human condition...that it ends.

And this ending was particularly poignant for a number of reasons...one of which I will now address. 

Dale Bumpers was a good and decent man in a time and a place in which it wasn’t uncommon for individuals to be those things -- regardless of party affiliation -- and also be elected to the United States Senate. That seems to be a rarity now. Or, at the very least, those who are elected are done so only after shrouding their goodness and decency in a veil of anger, blame, fear, and hate. And that is one reason I mourn the death of the gentleman from Arkansas...he is literally a dying breed of politician.

I first saw Senator Bumpers speak at Arkansas State University in the Spring of 1986. He was, at the time, about to start campaigning for his 3^rd term (the election was 8 months away and he was about to start campaigning – just let that sink in for a second) and there was some buzz about the possibility of him running for President in 1988. I was a 7^th grader whose mom made her attend all the speakers at the University because she was a good mom, but I had no appreciation.

Until after I heard him speak.

I honestly don’t have any memory of what he said that evening, but I remember walking away thinking that becoming a public servant…that working for a civil society was part of my purpose here on earth. He made it sound worthwhile and even more than that, he made it seem attainable for a 12-year-old girl in Jonesboro, Arkansas. He planted the seed that grew into a love of politics and policy and culminated in a job working for him in Washington, DC from 1995-1998.

It was the best job during the best time of my life and despite being a 20-something-year-old with little actual influence, everything I’ve done since has lived in the shadow of that job. Everything I know about politics, research, policy writing, the federal budget process, the necessity of our intricately-designed centralized government, and the appropriate way to deal with people’s opposing views, I learned while working for him. The nuts and bolts stuff – how things worked – that was all fascinating and inordinately educational. The last piece – how to deal with people who disagree with you – that could have been life-changing...world-changing if I had stayed there. Maybe. Or if I had simply taken it with me and continued to practice it when I left Washington. 

During my employment, I had daily (and sometimes hourly) opportunities to practice civil discourse with constituents as a legislative correspondent. Most of this was in the form of letters which I wrote and he edited/approved, but I was occasionally expected to talk on the phone with people – usually really angry people who called me names like communist, welfare-lover, crazy-check pusher, and my personal favorite, baby-killer. Thankfully, all I was expected to do was listen – which I did – and tell them that I would relay their views to the Senator – which I also did – and try not to take any of it personally – which I did anyway. It was like being forced to read the comment section of…well…anything. Phone trolls preceded internet trolls by a decade and I am just thankful that most people didn’t have internet access in the mid-nineties. 

I would summarize the conversation in as brief a memo as possible (I always left out the colorful name-calling) and he would read it, jot down notes to include in any written correspondence, and send it back to me to archive. The key was that he always responded. He didn’t ignore people who disagreed with him. He didn’t call them idiots. He didn’t strip them of their humanity or of their fundamental right to disagree with him and express it. And he didn’t just do this through the filter of his staff…he did it every weekend, face-to-face with his constituents. He seemed – from my distant perspective – to have a pretty cut-and-dried way of making decisions on key issues.

Gather FACTS from as many sources as possible.

Listen to a VARIETY of opinions.

ANALYZE fact and opinion together.

Synthesize his OWN view.

Vote.

This, incidentally, is how a representative democracy works. We vote every 2, 4, or 6 years for people who we trust to vote their conscience. We do this knowing that our favorite candidate won’t always win and that even if he or she does, we won’t always agree. We do this because we accept that a referendum on each and every issue would be tedious and costly and that polls and surveys are unreliable. If a large enough portion of a representative’s constituency believes that his or her conscience no longer reflects the majority’s interests, then they have another opportunity every 2,4, or 6 years to make a change. BUT, once someone is elected and sworn in they are the Congresswoman or the Senator or the President and just because we may not have voted for him or her does NOT mean that you may cease recognizing the Constitutional authority of our government. Dissent? Yes. Disregard? NO. Some of my most frustrating conversations were with people who simply wanted us to tally up the phone calls and letters we got and have the Senator vote accordingly and if we didn't, that was just cause for a recall.

Um…no.

Over the last several years (and especially the last several months) I have often wondered how Senator Bumpers felt about how our political culture has evolved (devolved) since his retirement. I can only speculate because I have not maintained close ties with my colleagues from that period of time which I regret. I have also kept politics and political discussions at arms-length since leaving Washington and this I regret even more. But I’ve chosen to wear a coat of armor rather than step into that arena and risk relationships because truthfully I don’t see civil discourse in many places and I doubt my own ability to facilitate it.

It’s ugly out there people. And if you haven’t noticed that it’s ugly you aren’t paying attention. If you have noticed that it’s ugly and you enable the ugliness by re-posting hate speech, retweeting slander, and boosting the egos of would-be megalomaniacs…you are part of the problem. It was getting bad in 1998 – which is why Senator Bumpers called it quits – and it continues to deteriorate each year with each new, yet, perpetual election cycle.  Gone are the days of Orrin Hatch - Ted Kennedy collaborations, of John McCain – Russ Feingold alliances, of cooperation and collegiality. Also gone, incidentally, is the ability for our government to do its job and the constructive engagement of our electorate.

I don’t think that’s a coincidence. When one’s primary concern is keeping one’s job, and the people who determine one’s employment (that’s us) have demonstrated an insatiable thirst for mudslinging, character bludgeoning, and conflict, why would they get anything done? Just keep on keepin’ on…throw some blame over here, spew some canned rhetoric over there, fling a few hateful Tweets everywhere – We the People eat that shit up apparently.

So, WWDD…What would Dale do? I really don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be sitting on his tail hemming and hawing over which of his relationships could and couldn’t withstand him sharing his own personal truth and then acting on it.

So how brave am I? How daring will I be? We are about to find out.