Anodyne

Another one of my beloved stiletto –stemmed wine goblets bit the dust the other night, breaking from the sheer strength of my hands, it seems, slicing through the tip of my ring finger as I attempt  to rub the remnants of my heavy-duty Stila lip gloss from around the rim.  The sink is suddenly murky as the crimson liquid flows freely, staining the dish water beneath the frothy suds.  I’m a big baby with personal injury; I can’t make myself take a peek.  I choose Nate to attend to my wound; he responds immediately as I look the other way, cringing and howling at the same time.  Ouch!  It’s painful. 

I allow my fourteen year old to make the assessment as to whether or not I need stitches.  He says no, and I trust him.  He took first aid in middle school, after all. He’s almost an MD.  I am glad he is here, pressing a paper towel on my finger in attempts to stop the bleeding, being my eyes when I can’t bear what I might see, calmly assessing the situation as I am in too much pain to say what is right. 

Help is not a bad thing, although it’s something I’ve always felt I shouldn’t need. I’ve decided this mindset is strangely selfish, a choice that affects those around me, who by my reluctance to admit I need them are essentially denied of the very nourishment of the spirit that being needed provides.

Recently I received the most beautifully messaged SOS from a friend, her mother nearing the end of her life. While informing this group of friends on the distribution list of the situation, the e-mail also conveys her desire to tell us how much she values our friendship, and to ask for our help.  Specifically she requests for her mother prayers to give her the strength and courage to move beyond this world.  I’m not doing her message justice in recounting it here, but I was so moved tears sprang up in my eyes.  At a time when most of us feel helpless despite a fierce desire to be helpful, my friend gives a tremendous gift by telling us the most meaningful way we can oblige. 

So here are my new-found truths about help:

“Help!” is a way to engage those who are eager to contribute. Asking for and accepting help is the most basic form of inclusion.  Everyone wants to feel like they are part of something, like they are an integral piece of the task at hand.  Showing people what they can do to help the cause allows them to participate in a way that matters.

“Help!” is a means to build personal strength, a way to improve results by soliciting just the muscle that’s required for the job.  Those who are skilled at asking for help recognize this, and deliberately choose those who possess the knowledge, expertise or perspective for the problem.  With my latest assignment at the office, I am targeting Gen Y’s for their familiarity with social media and technology to help me think more broadly about the challenges we need to solve for.  They have a passion and intelligence around these concepts that I simply cannot match.

“Help!” is a cry for the human connections we all crave.  There really isn’t a higher compliment than being asked to help.  It can mean that the requestor trusts you enough to let down her guard, put the microscope on an area where she’s not so strong, to let you in. Every time we practice vulnerability we understand each other a little better.

“Help!” soothes.  When you find the person with the prescribed tincture or salve for your wound, no matter how simple or complex it is, it can feel like nirvana.  Allowing yourself to receive it floods you with tremendous relief.  It’s First Aid 101 in the life of a mother.

For those of us who are mothers, we spend our lives helping others.  It’s understandable that it could take a little time to adjust to turning the tables and allowing others to help. But you can start any time, like Mother’s Day, for instance. Take a small step and fully immerse yourself in being queen for a day, instead of feeling guilty about the attention. You could even ask for a little help.  Possibly washing glassware?  I hear it can be dangerous.

Found in skirt! magazine this weekend:

 

The United Skirts

Of America

The United Skirts of

America was founded

on the blood, sweat

and estrogen of our

foremothers, who

won us the freedom to

choose. . .to break The

Rules, to wear combat

boots or high heels, to

run for office or run a

marathon, to form our

own rock groups instead

of being groupies, to

shatter Glass Ceilings

and Glass Slippers, to

shoot hoops instead

of settling for hoop

skirts.  The ones who

came before us made

it possible for our

daughters to dream

bigger, to have the

chance to grow up to

be President and turn

the Oval Office into

the Ovary Office.  In

the United Skirts of

America, every day is

Independence Day!