Disappointed Planner Dude

September 25, 2017 by

I have one of the neatest planners on the planet. Seriously, I really love the idea of it. When I bought it late last year, it was one of the things I was most excited about bringing into 2017. My bestie was getting one too. Could that be any more of a sign?

The planner has all of the cool things. And I don’t mean generally cool. I mean I specifically think they are cool and the ideas resonate with me. First, it is called “The Passion Planner.” Sexy, I know. It is designed around encouraging the user to define their passion and creating a life plan that fits. There is a focus on priority, reflections, and intention. There is even a blank space for every week called the “Space of Infinite Possibility.” Seriously. Cool right?

As we reach the end of September, I am going to go ahead and call it. I did not live up to this planner’s expectations. I am certain it feels neglected and wasted. This poor planner was probably hanging out with all of his planner buddy friends back on the assembly line totally stoked about the neat 2017 he was going to have partnering with an enlightened and driven individual facilitating passionate stuff. Instead, he got me. Bummer little planner dude and I am sorry.

But, I am determined to not make this poor little planners dreams suffer on the alter of despair without attempting to salvage his dignity. See, as cliche as it might sound, it really isn’t him – it’s me. This great little planner has fallen victim to what so many other qualified ideas have succumbed to in my brain…overwhelming oughts.

I am completely fucking overwhelmed with “oughts.” I am not even going to waste the word space to explain that. I ought to, but I am thinking you get the concept. This planner has been neglected enough and I am really going to attempt to keep the focus there.

This planner really never stood a chance. I expected it to be all the things I needed a planner to be for me all by its little self. My expectations were set so high and unrealistically that there was no possibility of success. But I ought to have been able to make it work. I ought to have been able to use it as prescribed. I mean, so much thought and effort went into its design, I ought to be able to passionately utilize this planner.

But I didn’t. I felt overwhelmed by the expectation of it all. The commitment to analyzing all of my perceived failures, my shortcomings, my not quiet good enoughs. The interesting things is however, that this cute little planner asks for none of those things. What I ought to do is ease the fuck up a little bit.

What I also ought to do is work within my truth. And the truth is I can do one thing right this minute. And, in the next minute, another thing, another thing the next. And that is. All. I. Can. Do. And…that is everything.

And the thing that I do in this second is my thing. I get it – this awesome little planner dude was created by some really great people with a really great idea. And, it is a really great idea for me. But simply because I need more, doesn’t make me less. I am not capable of functioning inside this beautifully mapped out system. That does not make me anything other than me. This fucking planner did not show up on my doorstep attempting to make me feel less than, incapable, too much, extra, petty, indulgent, under performing, lazy, overly ambitions, or like a fucking serial killer. It. Is. Just. A. Planner. A planner with higher aspirations, no doubt, but still just a planner. All of that nonsense that I felt – I did that. And it feels a little ridiculous if I am being honest.

Here’s the truth about planning and scheduling and general life for me. I am easily overwhelmed. For a long time I thought that was a weakness on my part. An inability to handle all the big things of life. Proof that I would never really amount to a whole lot of anything. So why plan? There’s all these things I fill my day with that I really don’t like and there’s not a whole lot in there that I do, so why plan? Because I can’t stay focused, get sidetracked by anxiety, distracted by feel good time wasters, because I can’t responsibly put those kinds of things into my day, why attempt to schedule a day at all? If I am just going to fail to plan or fail to execute the plan, why write it down as a glaring reminder in black and white about my abject failure as a person?

Being easily overwhelmed is not a weakness. It is an indicator. (Side note | That is something I have been saying to myself concerning a multitude of things for quite a while. I need to address it more fully at a later time.) Being overwhelmed is an indicator, at least right this second, of asinine expectations. I expect myself to perform a certain way. While there is nothing wrong with having expectations of ones performance, inflicting unrealistic or unfulfilling expectations on oneself created from bullshit oughts is self abuse. I am not overwhelmed. I am put upon and disgusted. What’s worse, I’ve done it to myself.

So many apologies Disappointed Planner Dude. It took me a hella long time to figure out it was not you and it was not me – it was those fucking oughts, again. One day I am going to get smart enough to start looking at those first instead of taking the long way around to the same damn obvious answer. But today, I am going to start redeeming you and me. I am getting you a little bit of help. I am cutting me a little bit of slack. And I am making a plan 🙂

Filed Under: Chrysalis

“Lilac Girls” ~ Martha Hall Kelly

September 3, 2017 by

Lilac Girls ended up in my Audible playlist after a desperate plea went out to one of the online book groups I belong to. I, as usual, was having a particularly hard time choosing my next audiobook. I decided to put out the call and read the first suggestion that came in regardless of title.

I’m glad I stuck to my resolve because Lilac Girls would have been a work I may have passed over. While I enjoy works that delve into the relationship and perseverance of women, I have to feel pretty certain that it is going to be magnificent if I pick up one that couples that with a historical backdrop.

Lilac Girls uses the alternating voices of three women to tell a nearly true story of the very real Ravensbrück, the largest German Reich concentration camp exclusively for women. Caroline Ferriday, Broadway actress turned French consulate pro bono liaison, Kasia Kuzmerick, a Polish teenager that doesn’t get to stay young long, and Herta Oberheuser, a German doctor who makes Annie Wilkes appear mildly sane.

I will share with you that, while I understood the historical places and events were real, I did not realize the story being told was also based mostly from actual lives. Since I was sold on the idea of reading whatever book was recommended, I didn’t look into the summary. The end of the novel contained an author’s note that explained the history behind the women, sources used, fictional liberties taken, etc. It occurred to me that the book may have read different had I known that going in. I decided the book may have read differently for a whole host of reasons – that one is neither special nor a spoiler, ergo, I will include it.

The plot moves quickly through travesties and graces that eventually allow the journeys of these three women to intersect. Quick stitched in are honest feeling accounts of ordinary women attempting extraordinary and unthinkable things. As a result, this is a satisfying story with slightly unsatisfying character development and detail.  However, I would not count this as author or story flaw. This undertaking was massive in scope and I can only imagine what it took to tell the story in 17.5 hours of audio (under 500 hardback pages). Kelly could have expanded the work, but to what end? It appears that at some point in the process Kelly realized she had a choice to make – tell the story in a way that kept the readership consistently engaged, or create a debut novel of epic proportions that, although complete, required a dedicated reader to commit to the task.

I think she choose well and the result is an enlightening piece of history, spirit, and illustration of just how good and bad we can be to each other.

 

Filed Under: The Thinking Chair

Does it Ever End Different

September 1, 2017 by

I recently had the opportunity to catch up with a friend I had lost touch with. She knew nothing about my divorce or the reemergence of “Our Story 2.0.” Like most every person that hears the story, she was surprised, encouraging, and a little giddy of the beautiful romance of it all. Her husband walked in and she cliff noted the story.

“Can you believe it?” She said. “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing!”

He turned and looked at me with a sincere and honest face.

“You ever read the same book twice?”

This was nothing I had expected and I was momentarily confused. “Huh?”

He repeated the question. “I said, have you ever read the same book twice?”

I knew where this was going. “I have.”

“Have you ever known the ending of any of them to be different?”

Knew it. “No I haven’t. Let’s hope this one is.”

“Well,” he says without a hint of condescension, “if you’re happy, let’s hope so.”

And he meant it. And I appreciated it. There are quite a few people that have various opinions concerning the numerous changes I’ve made over the last year or so. Some of those opinions are ill formed, selfish, and soaked in dripping amounts of high and mighty. I have learned to ignore those.

But this one…this is a question I had never been asked. I had to admit it was a good one. And it was asked in, what I perceived to be, all sincerity.

It stuck with me long after I told them both goodbye and went on about my week.

I am going to try and answer it.

I have read J. D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” three times – in high school, during my brief tryst with college, and about 6 months ago. Not only did the words at the end not change, but neither did any other word in any other part of the book.

Except the story had changed because I had changed.

When I was in my teens, I loved this book. I was Holden Caufield – misunderstood, raging against the world’s ideas, alone, sad, looking for connection. I knew Stradlater, I wanted to be Jane. Salinger brought the teenage condition out of the shadows of my brain and showed me that I was not alone. Most teenagers, despite their belief to the contrary, have the same thoughts, fears, questions. I saw that there on the page. It was one of my first true experiences realizing that writing, telling the story, brings connection, validation, and understanding.

Later, in my 20’s, I picked up the book again. This time I was a young momma in the Navy. I had bills, responsibilities, taxes, and little Phoebes of my own. The book irritated me to no end. This little shit kid and his little shit attitude. I wish one of kids would act like that. Ungrateful and spoiled. Does he think the world revolves around him? Like the death of Allie hurt only for him? Like his folks hadn’t been through enough they have to deal with his entitled bullshit. I finished the book scolding myself for ever liking it at all. I scolded myself for ever reading a book twice. It would be a long time before I realized that reading a book again was not the problem – failing to realize perspective was.

A few months ago, I picked the book up again. I had since learned that great books should be read often. “A Catcher in the Rye” is a great book. Rarely have I enjoyed a piece of work more. Everything about the offering appealed to me. As a momma (of grown children this time), I ached for young Holden. This tortured teenager so much like my own and all other teenagers before him had to move through the process. There’s really little that can be done to ease this for him as his youth makes him unable to know all the things he doesn’t know. I hurt for the Caulfield family. That kind of loss, that kind of heartbreak, the aftermath of it all. How difficult it all must be. And as a writer – now there was the gift. To watch Salinger give voice in an authentic way so much so that you forget a gifted wordsmith has pen to paper. To be able to create pages that feel like a real teenage journal. To move a reader through this created persona in a way that forces one to engage at the character’s level. It was masterful and inspiring.

So no, the story didn’t “do” one thing different. When I turned the last page, Allie was still dead, Holden was still sad, the journey was still incomplete. But it was different because I was different. My world, my experiences, my choices were different.

And that is how I want to answer the brilliant and thoughtful question. Yes, in the ways that matter, the story did, in this instance, end differently. If it makes you feel better, I acknowledge the intent of your question and had given it careful consideration long before you asked it. I know better than anyone how the story ended 20 years ago. It is not lost on me that sometimes the end is just the end and it could very well be that way again. Before I walked too far down this road I conceded that this could be either the greatest love story of all time, or the most heinous train wreck ever witnessed. I decided then the book was worth picking back up. I decided the danger of losing all nostalgia and innocence was worth the possibility of gaining a treasure.

Filed Under: Chrysalis, Writing

One True Sentence

August 26, 2017 by

There have been a lot of “hard things” about writing and generally interacting with people since my marriage split up over a year a go. It isn’t the usual things you would think as the split was not emotionally difficult for me. I know that sounds like a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. Once it happened, once he moved out, I can honestly say I have never missed him a day.

See, that right there. That’s been one of the hard things about writing now. That sentence right there is where I have to start and I know it will sound awful and hurtful to people because it is awful and hurtful. But to me, and I have found I am never alone, it is also beautiful and magnificent.

I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say.

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

I’ve never been to Paris, but I have sat on the shores of big water and watched as the tides moved and versions of my heart who live outside my body play in its offering. I know what it is to feel inspired. I know what Hemingway is saying. And it is easy because there is always a true sentence. And it is hard, because there is always a true sentence.

“There is nothing to writing,” says not Hemingway. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” That sounds like Hemingway. His name is often attached to it. It isn’t his. But I am sure he felt it. I find it impossible to believe that one would comprehend the “one true sentence” theory without feeling it.

Concerning the idea of bloodshed, the question isn’t ever confined to the writer alone. That would make it easy. To offer up oneself in fullness in order to release the pounding of nouns and verbs stuck inside a writer’s head is a ready option. All writers know this. There are few things as painful as a sentence on the inside that wants, needs, to be on the outside.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Although I love the phenomenal Maya Angelou, that quote, contrary to popular opinion, isn’t hers. It is actually from Dust Tracks on the Road by the brilliant Zora Neale Hurston. But you can find it everywhere, shared and shared again – just like the bleed quote – by folks from all kinds of different backgrounds.

I can only conclude then that it is a common struggle – to find the true sentence and then address the agony of considering the bloodshed. If it were simply the writer’s blood, my blood, the sentiment would be less than a fleeting thought. Writing is as much a life force and a necessity as the heartbeat. But it isn’t bloodshed of the singular. It is the bloodshed of the many. I do not live in isolation; I do not write about myself alone as my experience did not come in solitude. It occurs in the world and intertwines with the experiences of those in it. Others with ideas, memories, perceptions different than, sometimes in direct opposition to, mine. Others whose, deserved or not, feelings I consider.

As such, writing for me has been convoluted, disjointed, dishonest, vague to the point of absurdity, confined, or stalled completely. Working through that has been a slow and fearful process. The fear of writing is not new to me. For many years I was afraid to write. But the source was different. It came from the others. That’s a beautiful, albeit cowardly, hiding space as I decided I had to take no personal responsibility for it; I want to write, I should write, I have to write, but because of forces outside my control, I simply can’t. That isn’t true anymore. It really wasn’t very true then. But now I can’t even pretend that it is anything other than my own fear and hesitation.

And there is so much fear and hesitation. Every sentence is checked and double checked. Ideas that may come across as anything other than conciliatory and nice suddenly require encyclopedic levels of explanation and clarification. Caveats to thoughts in an attempt to tourniquet a paper cut that I fear may be a hemorrhage in the eyes of another become so numerous as to be exhausting and overwhelming. The writing becomes nothing more than a nearly incomprehensible apology for my very existence and a purposeless martyring of ink.

Even today, this is not what I sat down to write. The idea that started my time at the keyboard was allowed exactly 54 words before it went sideways into palliation. I decide to jot a few notes in hopes that one day I finish that thought. It was clear to me that I was risking nothing with that option. If I lose the idea as the moment has now passed, it really is okay; without doing this work first, that idea never really had a chance of survival anyway. None of them do.

It has become clear to me that unless I can honor the space where my true to me sentence can just breathe, I cannot write. That is not an option. Through the ages writing has always been a scandalous venture. Nouns and verbs remain the harbingers of misunderstandings, condemnation, ridicule, and ostracism. Yet still the quill was inked, the pen moved, the key stroked. In the face of obvious and time tested proof that the writer has control only of the delivery and not the reception, we still write. Why?

You write because you need write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life.

Joanne Harris, Blackberry Wine

One day (hopefully sooner rather than later) I will go back and put nouns and verbs to the awful beauty of that true sentence and other true sentences like it. Today however, the ability to just leave it there and not delete it will take all the moxie I possess. Maybe today the point is to mend something broken. Maybe that is how we bring things back to life.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: , ,

See the Butterfly

May 21, 2017 by

My favorite journal is a blue hard bound with the proverb on the cover

~Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly~

I’ve always loved that. There is something in that idea that had always resonated. The earliest entry in that journal is September 2010. But there are some pages torn out so I may have had it a little longer than that.

But I have owned it for at least six years. And for six years that quote has crossed my vision and stirred up something in me that I never quite caught, an idea never proper

All of that up there was written back in September 2016. I can’t remember why I didn’t finish it. The highest probability is I got preoccupied with something else and it just didn’t get finished. My writing discipline is obviously less than impressive; the chances of me picking up something I started after I started it are not historically good.

I am trying to change that; my writing discipline that is. More words, more work, more reading, more intention. Part of that is sitting down to write even if I don’t know what kind of time I have and coming back to finish that which is left undone. So here I am picking up this forgotten, unfinished thing. Honestly, the feeling isn’t that unlike realizing you left a load of clothes in the wash and crossing your fingers when you go to see if the clothes are stinky or not; can you continue with the task where you left off or has it sat there too long and you have to start over?

As an aside, I really fucking hate it when I do that. And, between me and you, I do that shit. All. The. Time.

So anyway, I pull up this barely a thing entry and decide to work on it because that fits in my new writer’s discipline. And I read it. As suspected, I have no idea where the fuck I was going with any of that thought right there. In self confirmation (which isn’t always the positive mojo you think it is), the first thought that came to my head was, “See, this is why not being able to finish something when you originally start it is useless. This stealing seconds where you find them to write is just ridiculous.” And in personal buffoonery triumph, I almost left it at that.

Okay, in full disclosure and appreciation of anyone other than me or my mother reading this, there is not some amazing trick of turn in your future with this little post. Oh sure, I think I have found some pretty nifty insight going on here. But if you’re waiting for a, “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker, this is the wrong post. Just didn’t want you to think there was more to this than a 0300 coffee and chat session with myself going on here. Of course you are welcome to stay. You always are. I’m just saying…

Anyway, instead of hitting delete and reinforcing seemingly justified, but obviously inaccurate, habit development, I did something unorthodox – I trusted the work. I looked at it again and tried really hard to think about what I was going to say next. For the life of me I couldn’t remember.

But, a new idea did occur to me…whatever I was going to say then is not the same as what I would say now. It may have been close, but what I know now could not have been the same as then. Too much has happened since I first started playing with the idea. There’s been a ton of growth and understanding. A lot of forgiveness and releasing. A lot of tears and swearing. There’s just been a lot…

~Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly~

Inside a chrysalis, a caterpillar digests itself from the inside out. Literally. Let’s just mull that fact for a moment. This creature is so compelled to become what it is supposed to be that it will take the the same stuff it used to digest food and use it on itself. That is some gangster level shit right there. And, with the help of some witty scientist somewhere, it gets cooler. The byproduct of this process is a bio-matter called “imaginal cells.” I have no idea who decided that they should be named that, but I would totally pick up their bar tab to hang out for a night. These imaginal cells have the ability to become nearly any type of cell. And that’s what the butterfly does. It takes the broken down stuff that’s left from its previous existence and creates wings. Wings.

I kinda feel like I should have more to say at this point, like I need to bring the idea full circle. But that’s another discipline I am trying to respect – and the truth is, the butterfly executes the perfect mic drop. And who am I to see it as anything other than that?

Except I will leave you with the “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker because honestly, Paul Potts killed that shit and he deserves it.

Filed Under: Chrysalis

Neurotic About Reading what I Write

May 15, 2017 by

I hesitate to even admit to the amount of time I read, reread, and reread again things I have written. There is a little voice in my head that says, “If you admit this to them, they will know…they will know…they willllll knnnowwww.” Yeah, the voice in my head is just that much of a nag, and just that obnoxiously creepy. See what I have to deal with? Seriously.

However, if Hamilton can write the Reynolds Pamphlet, I can write this. Okay, so maybe one is way more serious than the other. I’ll let you decide which is which. I think it’s a no brainer. Really.

I reread my own words neurotically. I do not say that lightly, with exaggeration, or figuratively. I consume my own writing with anxious and obsessive repetitiveness. I am constantly going through, saying the words aloud, working through the structure, putting it down and coming back again, attempting to pretend like I am reading it for the first time with a different worldview. Sometimes I even attempt to read it with a different accent. Not a mandarin one though. That’s just too much. I have boundaries.

I often worry that this is an ego thing. I am sure there are some folks out there who will bet a paycheck that it is. One, it’s the easy answer. Two, it’s what they want to think about me anyway. But I am going to go ahead and let you know that it is not an ego thing. I have ego things – my hair, my gym time, the way my man looks, my hair (did I say that already – of course I did) – but the way I reread my shit, is not like any of those. So I can only conclude it is not an ego thing. I really wish we had bet that paycheck.

There is some embarrassment to admitting this. I have heard folks talk about what they don’t do with their work – actors who don’t watch their own movies, musicians that don’t listen to their own songs, children who won’t acknowledge their own mess. Okay, so that last one is not the same, but you get my point. I have heard folks say this and there is an air to that sentiment that suggests confidence, coolness, professionalism, comfort that I just don’t have. At all. And I really would like to use all those words to describe myself. Instead, I get compulsive. Yay.

But truth is truth and I am attempting to process it as it comes in its rawest form and see what types of interesting ideas I can pluck from the material.

The best I can figure is I just give a shit.

Writing is so amazingly personal for me. It’s a gift, really, as being able to put nouns and verbs together on a page in a way that seems to be pleasing to consume has helped me more than any other outlet in discovering my ideas, sorting my brain, and growing in myself. So I am appreciative.

But it is so amazingly personal. Words that I put on a page have always felt like an extension on myself – another toe, maybe an arm, most assuredly a piece of my heart. So I am critical of it. Concerned that I have presented it properly, was truthful, respectful, honest, not dodgy. I worry about how others perceive it, if I was responsible in the tone and delivery, thoughtful of others who may see themselves in it.

So I read it. And I read it again. And I read it again. And then again.

But the truth is no matter how many times I read it, I will still miss things. And I am not talking just about commas and misspellings (although I am sure there are both). I am talking about perspectives, nuances, thoughts between the spaces.

Because that’s where the real stuff with writing happens – between the spaces. And there’s nothing as a writer that I can do to control what happens there. I know this. The catch is that I have total control over what creates the space, therefore I feel responsible, to a large degree, for what happens inside the space. And, while I may be a bit harder on myself than I should, there is a real sense of responsibility and insecurity each and every time I push ideas into the public domain.

But I continue to do it because writer’s write. And the only avenue I have found to calm my nerves about the appropriateness of the thoughts I have put together is to read them over and over again. The repetition, as irritating as it is for me, does serve to either confirm that I have done the best I can do, or bores me to tears to the point where I just don’t care anymore and it’s fine the way it is. I’m not sure this follow through technique is the most productive proofreading style, but I work with what I have.

I felt compelled to share this little bit of explanation just in case someone gets twisted, disagrees, or generally hates something I have to say or that I felt the liberty to say it. I just want you to know that I read it, extensively, and so there is a bit of confidence that it was something I wanted to say, in the way I wanted to say it, that I felt I had the liberty to say. Also, I realize I get it wrong, so I am completely up for a discussion concerning what happened in the spaces when you visit what I create. But the neat thing about this journey is that I am learning that while I do get it wrong sometimes, I am not always wrong just because someone says that I am. My voice is valid. Yours is too. That doesn’t take agreement or submission.

Filed Under: Writing

Courage, Humor, Grace

January 27, 2017 by

To say that the last year has been a life changer would be an understatement. So much so that I reserve the right to say that at least 365 more times in a variety of different ways in a variety of different mediums.

Sitting here contemplating the events of the last 366 days, it is not lost on me the similarities they have with a social media post gone sideways. It started out normal enough. Then that one comment happens that ignites all of the lurking underbrush below. Escalation occurs quickly. There is a ton of activity from a plethora of different voices – some informed, most stirring the pot. The original poster is faced with the dilemma at hand. Delete the post? Remove some of the worst bullshit offenders? Scorch the thread with excited rhetoric of their own?  Sit silently and watch it unfold? Laugh, cry, rage, pray, question…when the conversation goes out of control, what is one to do?

This was the last six month of my year. Escalation, rumor, truth, fiction, acceptance, denial, and a whole lot of change. Some would argue that pumping the brakes would have been a better, more responsible thing to do. Some may also hold that so much big change in such a short period of time is a recipe for disaster. However, I have also noticed that those same “some” have a whole lot of strong opinions that they feel comfortable voicing as fact concerning very real circumstances of which they know nothing about. Moreover, they KNOW they know nothing. They have lived their life. They understand the types of relationships that they have engaged in – who they have a close relationship and who they do not. To put it bluntly, they know how many times they have been in my home, how many times they have not had conversations, the level of interaction they didn’t have.  Some of the closest people to me had no idea what was happening in my house. Intellectual honesty requires that you admit you are talking out of your ass when you attempt to make statements about my life.

However, if the last year taught us anything it is that a good many people have zero problem with talking out of their mostly uninformed ass. There is no shelter from it. On the grid, in the park, at the coffee shops, sitting in the pews – the legion of ass noise is everywhere. I have often attempted to contemplate the reason for the seemingly epidemic proportions of people who grow more and more comfortable making declarative, passionate statements riddled with obvious ridiculousness and no authority. I think people are bored. They are over stimulated and under utilized. There is a whole thought process behind that thought but that’s a conversation for another day. The important idea for our purposes is this – regardless of the reason, the outcome is the same and my control over the idiocy has always been and remains exactly zero.

At first, this idea jacked me up. No control. No control. There was all this inaccurate, hateful, bullshit being spewed by a collective that should, in fact, know better. A collective that would not tolerate for two seconds their behavior had it been a tactic I chose to employ; I could do nothing. I tried to convince myself that there was something I could do. I had the right to defend myself after all. I had an obligation as a strong woman to set the record straight. Right?

Sure I did. And had I done all of that there would have been a strong case to be made in my right to do so. But the truth of the matter is that there was nothing I could do or can do now to effectuate change on the opinion of others who have obviously decided that progress is not the goal. The goal in this case was complete assassination regardless of truth. The high was in the nasty, the drama, the vileness. That was the end game. Not healing, not support, not honest, not truth. The hunt was on for unadulterated indignation at any cost because the rage felt good. You can’t reason with people like that. There is no record to set straight and there is nothing to defend because although I was the scapegoat, it really had nothing to do with me at all.

After some great support from some folks with cooler heads than mine, I found the trick in the journey. I was having such a hard time walking along in my route because I was trying to stay on their roads. In entertaining their thoughts, ideas, and judgement, I had deviated from my path and was failing at trying to walk along on each of theirs. Have you ever attempted to take multiple routes in a single space of time? Yeah, it sucks as bad as it sounds.

But we are routinely guilty of falling into that trap. We succumb to the onslaught of judgement and self doubt and the nagging idea that an outsider’s opinion on our own personal journey is more important, more valid, more acceptable than our own. So we straddle paths and are left with little more than blisters on our feet.

I still find myself wandering into the winding trails of others, but it is happening less often and I catch it before a whole lot of backtrack is required. This shrugging off the judgement and condemnation of others has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It takes a bravery I didn’t realize I had. It takes the sense of humor I knew I had but pondered whether it was appropriate (spoiler alert – it is!) It takes a grace that expands from the empathy I feel for others, to realizing that it is completely appropriate to offer that kindness to myself. It takes time. It takes the willingness to own what is your own bullshit while still refusing to believe that means you deserve the extra that is heaped upon you by others. I have enough real shit that I actually have to account for to worry about imaginary wrongs that have been created for the perverse enjoyment of others. No control. Only courage, humor, and grace.

Oh, and love. Always love.

Filed Under: Chrysalis

On the Event of My Divorce

December 6, 2016 by

I live in a pretty small town. Grocery shopping takes a while because it has a large social component to it. I know where the Sheriff has coffee and have joined him on occasion. My children get irritated because wherever they are, somebody knows their parents. When my ex and I split, it got around quick.

Being married for a long time, being local to the community, having numerous children come up through the school system, I already knew the split would be cause for fodder. Fodder is the perfect word, by the way. It isn’t just food for the gossips. It’s inferior or readily available food. Food for a big demand. Crap food because folks tend to dine on the crap gossip pretty readily. And if it isn’t inferior enough, they will add their own to the story until it becomes shitty enough to be worth their time.

Splitting up is hard, even when you are ready, even when it is the only option, even when you couldn’t stay together if you wanted to. After nearly two decades together, there are simply ties that will never be broken. Memories that will never be forgotten. Joys that can never be dulled and pain that can never be healed. That’s just the basics. That’s when there is no one involved but the two of you. It is already so painfully hard.

But it is never just the two of you. If you are lucky, you will be surrounded by those who understand that it is hard. Understand that things don’t happen over night. Understand that a marriage that lasted as long as mine did obviously has hundreds of memories that the masses – even those closest to us – know nothing about. They understand that feelings are hurt, pride is assaulted, dreams are over, goals are deleted, hearts are broken, and ideals are undone. They understand that in this state there is ill will and different perspectives and versions of history that will not match depending on from whose vantage point it is being related. And they understand that the greatest kindest that can be extended to those they love is to simply not make it any harder.

I think very few of us get lucky in this regard. I’ve seen it happen once and it was a beautiful thing. I was so hopeful for a sliver of that luck. Maybe I got just a sliver. But not much more. The truth is that motives are everywhere. I don’t claim to know what they are, but the evidence of them is clear.

And please do not misunderstand me. I am not speaking about “sides.” While clearly there have been some who have opted to declare sides, I do not acknowledge them. Unless you want to talk about my children. I will always choose that side. But in the matter of the dissolution of a couple, choosing sides, especially when not necessary (and it is rarely necessary), only serves to inflame and make harder that which is already painful. So I do not speak of “sides” or what whose side has done to what side because I do not acknowledge sides. Call that irresponsible because maybe it is. Call it not acknowledging the way things are as that may also be true. Categorize that any way you like. It changes my opinion none. Feeding into the notion of sides does nothing more than exacerbate the situation. That situation, by the way, is also my life and the lives of my children. It is not an inanimate thing that plays on a storyboard for the enjoyment and distraction of the masses.

I was confronted about some of these storyboards recently. I was asked if the split occurred because my ex husband beat me all the time as that was the fodder that had been heard around town. The notion made me laugh. Not because it isn’t a serious accusation. But because that’s just how small towns work. And that was the answer I gave. “Yeah, I heard it was because I was running around fucking all these different guys. You know how small town bullshit works.”

And there is a lot of small town bullshit in those two grossly inaccurate (but admittedly yummy) accounts of what went on in a nearly 20 year long marriage.

That is one of the most interesting parts of the small town bullshit. The town, while small, is made up of some pretty smart people. Members of both sides of our family are pretty smart people. We are not the first couple to split. Neither are we the first couple to do so with fairly different perspectives about what our marriage looked like on the inside. One would think that most people would default to the idea that they probably are forming opinions concerning something they know very little, in most cases nothing, about. And even if accurate and intimate knowledge can be had, one would also think that we were all adult enough to realize what is and isn’t any of our business. That there are some life choices so personal and so nuanced that you don’t get to have a say concerning the choices another person makes.

But alas, that is not always the way it works, especially in a small town. Conversations get overheard, bits of information get twisted, confidences in moments of anger get shared, heartbreak creates hyperbole, and general childishness fuels the rest. And in the middle of the terrible tangled mess there is still the divorce which was already super hard and painful all by itself. And it sits there watching those who could have made it easier, who could have made it better for those they claim to care about, instead pour gas on the flames and instigate the storm. And sometimes the fire hits its mark and consumes, the imagined battle is won, and the general of the fight, who had no real stake in the war to begin with, feels pride at the perceived defeat. Pride and justification at the destruction.  The destruction, I need remind you, that was already there. That was already hard. That had already devoured the causalities it sought to claim.

So here, on the event of my divorce, I answer the call of those who want to make this harder. Who want to feel a kind of way that they really aren’t entitled to feel. To judge in a way that they truly aren’t educated to judge. To promote and enhance and expound upon ideas of which they are not privy in ways that accomplish nothing outside of boosting their own self importance through the attempted humiliation of another.

My answer is I wish you the best. And I say that with all sincerity and truth. How do I know (more importantly how can you know) that it is sincere and true? Because, in all frankness, I know the work I put in for the answer to not be “fuck you.”  It was a lot of work. A. Lot. I am not proud of that. I thought I was a better person. I thought that would be easier. But honestly, some of y’all fuckers really know how to grind a girl’s damn nerves.

I am proud of the work. And I am proud of the person I am becoming. I am proud of the choices I am making. I am excited about my life and all the people and things in it. Regardless of the small town bullshit.

Oh and I hear you. I hear you so loud it’s like you are in this kitchen with me. “Fuck her,” you say. “Fuck that crazy bitch with all her bullshit.” I hear you. And I don’t care. You see, the secret is the work I have done, the work I continue to do, the peace that I am finding in myself despite the fear of your backlash, has never been for you or about you. It is about my children, and me, and my future, and those that I love and have relationship with. It is about giving those people who continue to be part of me the absolute best version of myself because that is what they deserve. To be able to gift them that is what I deserve.

And if you still feel compelled to have my name come out of your mouth in any kind of shitty manner, know that I hear you and I don’t give a fuck. Yes, in the spirit of total intellectual honesty, that is in fact a veiled “fuck you.” But I am also working on being comfortable with my humanness and not being perfect. I call it balance. You’re welcome.

12-6-2016

Filed Under: Chrysalis

But I Do Care What People Think

October 27, 2016 by

awesome freedomI have spent a wonderful weekend doing some pretty great self work. It helps when you are loved in a way that allows you to love yourself…when you feel so confident in the love of another you allow yourself to begin to fully love yourself. And I already know there are a few eyerolls going on at that statement right now. It’s fine. I get it. I understand that you are supposed to love yourself for yourself. I get all the self help ideas that say we must get right with ourselves before someone else can get right with us. I already know there is the whole “do not place your worth in the hands of someone else” camp. If that works for you, great. Rock on.

That’s not the place I found myself in.

I found myself in a place where all I was able to consider was what I was in regards to others. I found myself in a position where I had allowed the needs and wants of others to determine what my needs and wants were. This was no one’s fault but mine. I made life choices that put me in a situation where I had already established that the person I thought I was, the life I thought I was going to have was not going to happen. Therefore, the best I could do with what I had was to make a life where those around me were as happy to have me as possible. This meant changing to suit them.

be yourselfI did well for a while. But there is something really funny about the truth. It often refuses to stay suppressed. It needs to be known. And that is exponentially more accurate when the truth being discussed is your personal truth. However, when that truth has been neglected and modified for as long as mine had, when it came time to work that out, I wasn’t sure what was truth or rubble from the remodeling demo. And working through that shit is scary. Fear is a mother fucker. It is much easier when it is supported by a love unconditional. Moreover, unconditional and strong enough to shore up my soft spots until I become strong myself.

And that is where I found myself.

For a brief period of time I employed the “I don’t give a fuck what other people think” mentality. That didn’t last long. It isn’t my truth. The truth is I care an awful lot about what people think. Working through that has been a fairly painful journey.

I worried that people would think I was less than. That they would look at all the life changes I made and make assumptions based on half truths and limited knowledge. They wouldn’t like me. They would think me horrible. And that hurt me because, while I am not perfect and I make less than perfect decisions, I am, at my core, a good person. I said fuck it, let them think what they want. And then people began to remove themselves from my life. People who should know me better. People who I thought I had created enough of an emotional bond with that I would at least get the benefit of a conversation before they just cut me out. People who would have been devastated had they been treated that way…but don’t think twice about treating me that way.

Caring what those people think is toxic. It’s that situation that causes people to bumper sticker the idea that you just can’t care what others think. And I get that.

the wrong peopleSo I don’t care what anyone thinks. Except behaving this way will hurt those that actually care about you. I care what my person thinks. She is always there for me. It’s important to me to consider her feelings. I care what my life givers think. They are my biggest supporters. Through everything my folks have always had my back, given me a safe haven been there for me. They may not agree with all of my choices, but their feelings about me are important.  I care what my children think about me. Granted they are still young and cannot fully understand or be clued in on everything, but insomuch that they are, I want them to see a good example, to see someone who loves them, and cares about their hearts. I care what he thinks about me. He is my soul tie and he sees the best version of me all the time. How could I not care about what he thinks?

Caring about what those people think is not toxic. It constantly makes me a better person. It creates a confidence to be myself truly. It gives me a reason bigger than myself to be the best version of myself.

Tiger and SheepI do care what people think about me when those thoughts are rooted in a sincere concern for me and my person.

I do not care what people think about me when those thoughts are rooted in that person’s self interest.

There’s more in that. It can’t just be about granting weight to who’s opinions about me hold weight. It is also a lesson in how I need to treat others. I am coming to honest terms with myself about my own selfishness. Or as honest as I can be about such a personal topic. Identifying selfishness in ones self is a tough journey – at least it is for me. If I expect others to hold opinions about me either coming from a place of my best interest or not at all, then I must be more aware of my motives in my own opinions about others.

At the end of the day it is still more evidence supporting my thought that love wins. Every time.

Filed Under: Chrysalis

TTNY 5 – What I Like About Me

September 18, 2016 by

As a part of the “This Time Next Year” journal writing, I am supposed to write about what I like best about myself. However since I have not followed one single suggestion of this journal yet, I am inclined to not force myself to now.

Here’s what I will say. I have no fucking idea what I like best about myself. I am hoping this time next year I will have a better idea. Right now I feel like I don’t know myself at all. That’s a scary place to be because if I don’t know me then how does anyone else. And if the folks I have relationships with don’t really know me, what are the relationships based on. And once I do get to know myself what if those people don’t really like me anymore. What if I don’t like me anymore. So do I really want to get to know me? Do I really have a choice?

The answer to the last question, obviously, is no. I do not have a choice. Getting to know me and who I am and what makes my gears go is essential to moving forward with my life. I have made some pretty life altering changes recently. What a shame it would be to make moves like that, to create the freedom and the space I need to understand myself and then waste that time sitting around in falseness.

What a shame indeed.

But I have come to one conclusion. I will like me. I can’t believe that a person, when living their truth, is wired to not like that truth. It may be uncomfortable for a minute, but when the dust settles, I think the answer to “is this really who I am” can be found in the way the soul feels full by the idea. To start small, I know I love food. Food makes my soul feel full. I am a person who loves to cook, feed, eat, smell, learn, food. I know this is a true part of who I am because participating in it sets my soul right.

Is food a small thing? Sure it is. But I can hold on to it as that benchmark of truth and what it feels like to discover who I am.

I have always been who I am in relation to another person. A daughter, a wife, a mother, an employee…I am not sure that I have ever taken the time to figure out who I am as a stand alone feature. Running is probably the closest I have ever come to figuring that out. Even while you are with people, running is solitary event. Folks can be with you, support you, motivate you, but they cannot take one step for you. I am the kind of runner I am based solely on what I do in and of myself. My training. My technique. My desire. My ability. My body. My brain. It is just me.

And I think I like just me. I think I like who I am and what I am becoming. There are so many things I wish I had done different. But sitting here at this computer, sifting through the fragments of me, I am starting to realize that maybe all this mess was purposeful. That maybe there is something to my idea of puzzle pieces and spirit animals. That caterpillars are on to something with their butterfly making ways.

Filed Under: The Thinking Chair