My friend Bunny Oliver shared a quote on facebook today. It said, "If you feel lost, disappointed, hesitant, or weak, return to yourself,
to who you are, here and now and when you get there, you will discover
yourself, like a lotus flower in full bloom, even in a muddy pond,
beautiful and strong.”
Masaru Emoto - Secret Life of Water
Bunny is an artist. She paints gorgeous pictures of places she has been, flowers that have caught her artist's eye, changing seasons, and much more. She paints with vivid colors. She also paints with love, and her spirit comes through her work.
Her share on facebook this morning spoke to me. I know in my heart that we are given inspiration when we need it, when we are ready to see and hear it. I also know it is easy to block that direction and listen only to the white noise of stagnation. Ennui has its own sound. And it isn't one you would dance to.
Lately I've felt a definite lack of motivation to pursue the writing projects. For the past six years I worked very hard to create them, collaborate on them, and encourage them to leave the nest and fly. So, my recent months of energy loss has been puzzling and troubling. I wanted to blame someone else, blame the time of my life or something out there conspiring against me. I questioned whether or not I wanted to just let them go, to stop working on them and let them die a natural death. After all, they are not really something that will change the world, right? They are just books, stories and plays. Not literature of import. Why keep working so hard on things that don't really matter?
My perspective began to shift last night when our daughter Katie challenged some of my give-up mentality. I could hear the plates of my resolve-born-of-negativity grate against each other. That almost always signals an earthquake. But this time it is more of a breaking loose, a release like the small click when a door blows open that was not quite shut.
There is a big difference between white knuckling it, gutting it out, forcing yourself to say things you know are true but don't believe at the moment, and letting the truth sink in. Self doubt builds up calluses. We want to be the ones to say it doesn't matter, so that no one's "no" or lack of respect for our work can beat us to the punch.
Return to yourself. Who am I? Who is my best self? I must admit that I am happier, more fulfilled and more positive when I am writing, when I am excited about possibilities for sharing my work with the world. Honestly, if it matters to me and gives me joy, then it matters. If happiness is a choice, if it is born of gratitude and not bestowed on some lucky ones, why would I not choose it?
Disappointments can pile on thick in the writer's world. The prolific novelist James Patterson said he was turned down by 31 publishers for his first book. By the time it was published, he had six others waiting in the wings. He could so easily have given up, blaming others for his lack of success.
Another writer I admire, Anne Lamott, wrote about the character devastation that great success can cause. She told of writers she knew who became so full of themselves after making the best seller list that she no longer called them friends. For a little while, I toyed with the idea that I should stop working because that could happen to me. Seriously, that is worth a giggle. Not because it is impossible or merely highly unlikely. But that I should give up because I might succeed! Ha! Ha ha! Fear of failure/fear of success is exactly the same thing. Being ruled by fear.
Return to yourself. I was not born afraid. I was born to find joy, to believe in good, and to be of service. Hiding behind the excuses that seem sound and true is still hiding. I wasn't born to hide. I was born to bloom, muddy water be damned.
Creating something requires me to suspend my disbelief in myself. To overcome the notion that I have nothing to say. Thanks to Katie and Bunny, I feel the tiny breeze from the crack in the door. I am allowing myself to stand in the breeze and let it blow my hair, let it blow the cobwebs from my imagination. All I need is a little fresh air. Just a bit. That's all I need to return to myself.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Little Feathers: Finding Joy
Little Feathers: Finding Joy: Last night I sat through a dance recital. I didn't have a child onstage, though I did have a fabulous choreographer/teacher/director bac...
Finding Joy
Last night I sat through a dance recital. I didn't have a child onstage, though I did have a fabulous choreographer/teacher/director backstage. I sat next to a man about my age who wiggled and squirmed and sighed his way through the program. Not sure who his dancer was, but he clearly wasn't enjoying himself. But I was.
Every spring for 15 years we watched Katie grow up onstage with Dancer's Workshop, so these recitals are part of wildflower time for me. The babies who scamper onstage and are thrilled just to find the tape marker that tells them where to stand. They watch the teacher in the wings for cues, or just make up something on their own. Adorable in their tulle and sequins with their hair glued into a ballerina bun, they hardly have to move to entertain. But entertain they do. Some boss their neighbors, some lose their shoes, some wave to Mom and Dad. Some are stage struck and don't remember a thing, a deer-in-the-headlights look on their tiny faces. Some actually have a musical sensitivity at age three. And some exude a joy that makes me smile and makes sitting through a two hour recital of other people's kids really fun. I hope their families recognized it too, and have the time and means to let those natural dancers fill up with the good things that come from studying an art you were born to learn.
All these years of watching dancers and I am still surprised by the unexpected dancer. The one who doesn't look like they would have stuck it out all these years. The one I end up watching more than the perfect bodies and flawless faces. The ones who dance outside themselves and give away their hearts. Like a singer who reaches through the radio and tells a story that can make you weep or laugh out loud, a dancer can forge a bond with the audience because they are authentically invested in the dance. The same ones who won't be picked for the pom squad. Like that voice that doesn't fit with the other pop stars, but you can't quit listening to because you hear your own emotions in their singing. The dancers who leave you in a different place when you walk out of the theater.
I am grateful for the teachers who open their minds and hearts to instruct in a way that leaves room in art for the individual to find themselves. Dance can be a very narrow, judgmental world, full of angst and anorexia. I doesn't have to be. People like Dawn Weiss, the owner of Dancer's Workshop, give a breadth to dance that lets young people find their way to the best end result of art. They are taught to dance. And to hold each other in esteem. And in that secure place, they can find their joy.
Between the little imp who stole my heart in the pink tutu number and the strong, heart pumping hip hop number by the almost-pros, were scores of dancers who had worked for months perfecting their recital pieces. All those tuition payments, miles driven to the studio, lives arranged around the rehearsal schedules, all that effort by dancers and their families was about more than the time spent under the lights. It was about learning to dance, yes. But also about learning to respect teachers and fellow dancers. For some, it was about pure joy. The lucky ones who were born in a time and place that allows them to pursue their passion. And to share it with the audience. And lucky ones like me, who soak it up and go home lightened.
Every spring for 15 years we watched Katie grow up onstage with Dancer's Workshop, so these recitals are part of wildflower time for me. The babies who scamper onstage and are thrilled just to find the tape marker that tells them where to stand. They watch the teacher in the wings for cues, or just make up something on their own. Adorable in their tulle and sequins with their hair glued into a ballerina bun, they hardly have to move to entertain. But entertain they do. Some boss their neighbors, some lose their shoes, some wave to Mom and Dad. Some are stage struck and don't remember a thing, a deer-in-the-headlights look on their tiny faces. Some actually have a musical sensitivity at age three. And some exude a joy that makes me smile and makes sitting through a two hour recital of other people's kids really fun. I hope their families recognized it too, and have the time and means to let those natural dancers fill up with the good things that come from studying an art you were born to learn.
All these years of watching dancers and I am still surprised by the unexpected dancer. The one who doesn't look like they would have stuck it out all these years. The one I end up watching more than the perfect bodies and flawless faces. The ones who dance outside themselves and give away their hearts. Like a singer who reaches through the radio and tells a story that can make you weep or laugh out loud, a dancer can forge a bond with the audience because they are authentically invested in the dance. The same ones who won't be picked for the pom squad. Like that voice that doesn't fit with the other pop stars, but you can't quit listening to because you hear your own emotions in their singing. The dancers who leave you in a different place when you walk out of the theater.
I am grateful for the teachers who open their minds and hearts to instruct in a way that leaves room in art for the individual to find themselves. Dance can be a very narrow, judgmental world, full of angst and anorexia. I doesn't have to be. People like Dawn Weiss, the owner of Dancer's Workshop, give a breadth to dance that lets young people find their way to the best end result of art. They are taught to dance. And to hold each other in esteem. And in that secure place, they can find their joy.
Between the little imp who stole my heart in the pink tutu number and the strong, heart pumping hip hop number by the almost-pros, were scores of dancers who had worked for months perfecting their recital pieces. All those tuition payments, miles driven to the studio, lives arranged around the rehearsal schedules, all that effort by dancers and their families was about more than the time spent under the lights. It was about learning to dance, yes. But also about learning to respect teachers and fellow dancers. For some, it was about pure joy. The lucky ones who were born in a time and place that allows them to pursue their passion. And to share it with the audience. And lucky ones like me, who soak it up and go home lightened.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Little Feathers: Cracks in the Sidewalk
Little Feathers: Cracks in the Sidewalk: Nothing is perfect. But maybe that is not true. Maybe what I see as imperfections are exactly what make something the way it was intended to...
Cracks in the Sidewalk
Nothing is perfect. But maybe that is not true. Maybe what I see as imperfections are exactly what make something the way it was intended to be.
On Saturday I was lucky enough to walk 12 miles of the 26 mile first day walk of the Avon 39 with Nicki Beglau Black. Houston was a challenge. Raining buckets for the first three hours, it was the muggiest steambath ever for the last five hours. Hundreds of walkers who had raised 2.7 million dollars to fight cancer made their way along flooded and cracked sidewalks (cracked is a misnomer...they looked like a major earthquake hit), braved blisters and hurting parts and heat prostration to show how much they care that others not die of cancer. People walked with names written on their shirts to honor those who have been in the path of cancer. Nicki raised over $33,000 dollars herself, and her team of five came in 6th overall for fund raising.
It was hard for me to admit that I should not do the whole walk when Nicki first told me she was going to do it again. We did it in 2011 but I had multiple injuries before the walk began and could not do that one entirely, either. But I kept telling myself this time that harming my own health doesn't cure any cancer. Nicki had to make that tough decision also, after finishing the 26.2 mile marathon the first day, her knee was so bad that she could not walk the 13 miles on Sunday. It hurt her to admit it, and to let it go. Sometime it takes a lot of courage to surrender. I am proud of Nicki for the hard work and dedication she put into her fund raising and training. I am also proud of her for have the courage to let her team finish in her name.
So, where was the perfection in that weekend? In the success of those who could make the whole 39 mile walk? Yes. In the success of those who raised tens of thousands of dollars? Yes. In the steps of those who quit at the lunch break? Yes. In the hearts of those who had to get on the bus when their bodies gave out? Yes.
Cracked sidewalks. What was once smooth and level has been turned jagged and menacing to those who don't keep their eyes on the path. Upheaval caused by tree roots. Those exact same trees that offer a beautiful canopy of shade to streets and yards. One walker pointed out that if people had been content to make gravel sidewalks those roots would not have caused any trouble. But someone thought in inflexible sidewalks would be better.
Tree roots are messing with my concrete sidewalks, and I am beginning to understand that my definition of perfection is more realistic, more honest and more germane when I see the canopy above me as part and parcel with the gnarly roots. More gravel. Less concrete. More compassion, less judgement. More humility, less control-freak. More open mindedness, less self centeredness. More humor, less hubris.
Today a beautiful 44 year old woman I met on the walk will have her call-back 3-D mammogram. I am convinced that I sat on a blanket with her, cheering as walkers went by, because I could share my story with her. In 2011 I had a call back in the days just before I went to the walk. I was blessed to meet survivors with many different stories to tell. I am praying that Ashley will get good news today. Either no cancer or really early detection like me. When you read her name, I hope you will lift her up with thoughts and prayers for courage. Ashley, wherever you are, the sidewalks are cracked, but the canopy is wide and the shade is enough.
On Saturday I was lucky enough to walk 12 miles of the 26 mile first day walk of the Avon 39 with Nicki Beglau Black. Houston was a challenge. Raining buckets for the first three hours, it was the muggiest steambath ever for the last five hours. Hundreds of walkers who had raised 2.7 million dollars to fight cancer made their way along flooded and cracked sidewalks (cracked is a misnomer...they looked like a major earthquake hit), braved blisters and hurting parts and heat prostration to show how much they care that others not die of cancer. People walked with names written on their shirts to honor those who have been in the path of cancer. Nicki raised over $33,000 dollars herself, and her team of five came in 6th overall for fund raising.
It was hard for me to admit that I should not do the whole walk when Nicki first told me she was going to do it again. We did it in 2011 but I had multiple injuries before the walk began and could not do that one entirely, either. But I kept telling myself this time that harming my own health doesn't cure any cancer. Nicki had to make that tough decision also, after finishing the 26.2 mile marathon the first day, her knee was so bad that she could not walk the 13 miles on Sunday. It hurt her to admit it, and to let it go. Sometime it takes a lot of courage to surrender. I am proud of Nicki for the hard work and dedication she put into her fund raising and training. I am also proud of her for have the courage to let her team finish in her name.
So, where was the perfection in that weekend? In the success of those who could make the whole 39 mile walk? Yes. In the success of those who raised tens of thousands of dollars? Yes. In the steps of those who quit at the lunch break? Yes. In the hearts of those who had to get on the bus when their bodies gave out? Yes.
Cracked sidewalks. What was once smooth and level has been turned jagged and menacing to those who don't keep their eyes on the path. Upheaval caused by tree roots. Those exact same trees that offer a beautiful canopy of shade to streets and yards. One walker pointed out that if people had been content to make gravel sidewalks those roots would not have caused any trouble. But someone thought in inflexible sidewalks would be better.
Tree roots are messing with my concrete sidewalks, and I am beginning to understand that my definition of perfection is more realistic, more honest and more germane when I see the canopy above me as part and parcel with the gnarly roots. More gravel. Less concrete. More compassion, less judgement. More humility, less control-freak. More open mindedness, less self centeredness. More humor, less hubris.
Today a beautiful 44 year old woman I met on the walk will have her call-back 3-D mammogram. I am convinced that I sat on a blanket with her, cheering as walkers went by, because I could share my story with her. In 2011 I had a call back in the days just before I went to the walk. I was blessed to meet survivors with many different stories to tell. I am praying that Ashley will get good news today. Either no cancer or really early detection like me. When you read her name, I hope you will lift her up with thoughts and prayers for courage. Ashley, wherever you are, the sidewalks are cracked, but the canopy is wide and the shade is enough.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Little Feathers: Pride, Gratitude, and Christopher Reeve
Little Feathers: Pride, Gratitude, and Christopher Reeve: Yesterday my husband, Bob, read a quote by Christopher Reeves. It had to do with not being proud of your appearance, because the looks you w...
Pride, Gratitude, and Christopher Reeve
Yesterday my husband, Bob, read a quote by Christopher Reeves. It had to do with not being proud of your appearance, because the looks you were born with, good or not, are not an accomplishment. It got me thinking about lots of other opportunities for pride that are more likely to be opportunities for gratitude.
It's obvious, but I didn't choose my 5'10" height. Or my bone structure. Or, for that matter, being born to white parents in a free country. I didn't choose any of those things. In fact, I've joked all my life that I would have picked different "parts" from my ancestors. Dad, I love you, but your feet! Sheesh! But I am truly grateful to have been born with strong bones and musculature, good eyesight and hearing (I know, Bob might argue with the hearing part), a beating heart and happy lungs. Health. I am very grateful for it. And, I guess the saying "take pride in your appearance" really means take care of the body you have been given. Be a good steward of it. That makes more sense. More healthy sense. Not pride, but gratitude. I am grateful for my parents, who raised me to believe that life is a beautiful adventure. I am proud of my parents' accomplishments, too. They worked hard and gave my brother and I an idyllic childhood.
Proud to be an American? Well, I am proud of America when we as a nation act like civilized people who care about something other than our own pocketbook and power (synonymous, I think). I can't really be proud of something that isn't an accomplishment. I can be grateful to be an American.
America is a great place to live. Is it morally superior to other countries? Sometimes. Not always. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been born here. But that was not my doing. Only my good fortune. I even have trouble saying I was blessed to be born here, as if people born in other places are not blessed. As if God favors me, favors America. That is a kind of weird theology, or maybe theosophy, I can't buy. The America I would be most proud of would be one that valued people as children of God no matter who their parents were. The country that takes pride in justice. The place where freedom means no one is oppressed. That would be an accomplishment. One that has not been made by any country throughout history. We could be the first. That would make me very proud of America, indeed.
I love my children with the heart-exploding love that makes me remember their childhoods with teary eyes. I love them as adults. I am truly proud of their accomplishments. Their choices to be good people are my greatest source of pride. But I did not choose who they would be. Just as they didn't choose to be born to me and Bob. I am grateful, grateful, grateful to be their mother. I can't really say I'm proud to be their mother, though I am proud of them.
Some of the mistakes I've made in life have turned out to be my greatest teacher. I truly am not proud of those choices. I try to be grateful for the lessons learned. I even have trouble with that sometimes. When I get to thinking I can control anything beyond my own behavior, things go awry. Sometimes pride itself is a stumbling block to living the good life, the one I believe God longs for me to live. That is why I am blogging away about the notion. Typing away to sound out the intricate differences between pride and gratitude in my own mind. Thanks for the lesson, Christopher Reeve. I admire you greatly. I'm very proud of you for the way you conducted your life.
It's obvious, but I didn't choose my 5'10" height. Or my bone structure. Or, for that matter, being born to white parents in a free country. I didn't choose any of those things. In fact, I've joked all my life that I would have picked different "parts" from my ancestors. Dad, I love you, but your feet! Sheesh! But I am truly grateful to have been born with strong bones and musculature, good eyesight and hearing (I know, Bob might argue with the hearing part), a beating heart and happy lungs. Health. I am very grateful for it. And, I guess the saying "take pride in your appearance" really means take care of the body you have been given. Be a good steward of it. That makes more sense. More healthy sense. Not pride, but gratitude. I am grateful for my parents, who raised me to believe that life is a beautiful adventure. I am proud of my parents' accomplishments, too. They worked hard and gave my brother and I an idyllic childhood.
Proud to be an American? Well, I am proud of America when we as a nation act like civilized people who care about something other than our own pocketbook and power (synonymous, I think). I can't really be proud of something that isn't an accomplishment. I can be grateful to be an American.
America is a great place to live. Is it morally superior to other countries? Sometimes. Not always. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been born here. But that was not my doing. Only my good fortune. I even have trouble saying I was blessed to be born here, as if people born in other places are not blessed. As if God favors me, favors America. That is a kind of weird theology, or maybe theosophy, I can't buy. The America I would be most proud of would be one that valued people as children of God no matter who their parents were. The country that takes pride in justice. The place where freedom means no one is oppressed. That would be an accomplishment. One that has not been made by any country throughout history. We could be the first. That would make me very proud of America, indeed.
I love my children with the heart-exploding love that makes me remember their childhoods with teary eyes. I love them as adults. I am truly proud of their accomplishments. Their choices to be good people are my greatest source of pride. But I did not choose who they would be. Just as they didn't choose to be born to me and Bob. I am grateful, grateful, grateful to be their mother. I can't really say I'm proud to be their mother, though I am proud of them.
Some of the mistakes I've made in life have turned out to be my greatest teacher. I truly am not proud of those choices. I try to be grateful for the lessons learned. I even have trouble with that sometimes. When I get to thinking I can control anything beyond my own behavior, things go awry. Sometimes pride itself is a stumbling block to living the good life, the one I believe God longs for me to live. That is why I am blogging away about the notion. Typing away to sound out the intricate differences between pride and gratitude in my own mind. Thanks for the lesson, Christopher Reeve. I admire you greatly. I'm very proud of you for the way you conducted your life.
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