Unfetter

Tonight I receive a gift I am not expecting. A huge burden lifted off my shoulders as another joyfully picks up my cross to carry for a while. I am caught off guard by how easily I allow her to take it.  I can’t remember a time when I thought this job belonged to anyone other than me.

As sweet relief floods over me it becomes clear that I’ve been given another gift this week with the capacity to render the very same release, yet I haven’t allowed myself to accept it.

We often think that holding on tight will ease the pain and make us feel safe, but sometimes peace comes with the courage to let go.

Heresy

 “Men treat us badly and we just need to get over it!” she barks through the phone, lambasting me as I’m explaining why I have no interest in socializing with her and her boyfriend who happens to be my ex-husband.  I leave this conversation shaking my head, yet unable to shake the bad feeling even though it happened several years ago.

 

Fast forward to present day.  I’m talking with one of my dear friends, a smart, attractive corporate executive who’s been on the lookout for Mr. Right for almost a decade since her divorce.  Her response to my hurt feelings over an encounter lacking what I was raised to believe is common courtesy is a flippant “men don’t think about that; it’s no big deal.”

 

It’s got me wondering where on earth we’ve left our pride. 

Caitlin Moran, a self-proclaimed “strident feminist” published a fantastic autobiographical satire in 2011 called “How To Be a Woman”. Parts of it have me howling out loud, much to the disdain of the neighbors within earshot of my patio.  Moran weaves the fabric of every woman’s life; the warp of each chapter a gut-busting stop on her journey through womanhood; the weft the sobering story of the second-class and often demeaning status of women throughout history, complete with her compelling case for change. 

What I find most captivating is her introduction, describing the concept of “Broken Windows”, this theory that if repair on even one window in an abandoned building is ignored, it’s seen as a sign by vandals that the entire place is fair game to be invaded or decimated.  According to Moran, as women we put ourselves at risk to be similarly violated every time we allow yet another seemingly small injustice slip by unnoticed.

Women are marginalized every day.  We don’t see it coming; many times we don’t even notice it when it’s happening.  Most men, I truly believe, are not even aware that they do this. Our gender roles, behaviors, interactions with and status relative to men were cast at the beginning of time.  If there wasn’t science to prove it’s not so, you’d swear it’s encoded in our DNA. It’s pernicious and invasive; to deny that it’s there and not act on it is the equivalent of marginalizing ourselves.  I won’t have it.

I’m the first to admit it’s not easy to combat this.  When I think about how many times in my life I’ve just gone quietly, it makes me want to scream.  And it still happens to me today. In fact, over the course of the last several weeks I have literally watched, like an out of body experience, as a boundary I set at great emotional peril ebbs away silently under my own resigned acquiescence.  Even though we know we’re entitled to be on equal ground with men, it can still be excruciating to hold our ground in situations where men have always been dominant.

Somehow the term feminist has been marginalized as well, reduced to a four-letter word.  It takes a strong woman willing to put up with a load of crap to even call herself one out loud.  But the last time I checked the dictionary the definition was this:  “advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.”  What’s so wrong about equality?

Not everyone is made to stand on a soapbox as an activist for womankind.  But we can all keep our eyes open for those seemingly innocuous acts of injustice, find the courage to speak up, and in the process feel really good about ourselves.

 

Because we don’t need to get over it; the little things do matter.

Identikit

I think I am losing him.  We’re seeing less and less of each other lately; our intermittent interactions fleeting, laced with a foregone disappointment, resigned exasperation, and a dank sullenness that is new to us.  And it’s not just him, it’s me, too.  It’s like I’ve given up.  Most days I can barely muster a smile. I’m tired, pushing a mountain that doesn’t seem to move, and I’ve said as much out loud.  He’s not said a word, but I know he feels it too.

This is my son.  The diagnosis:  A raging case of senioritis one week into the school year coupled with a crippling fear of the unknown. Apparently it’s highly contagious, in adults too.

We all want the absolute best for our children.  We think we can somehow prescribe and dictate how they go about finding the best. Yes, we know our real value is in marshaling the patience to steer and guide as they painstakingly work their way out of the cocoon, but they never seem to act  quickly or decisively enough for us. Even those of us who are firmly anchored in the belief that our kids should be their own people can’t resist the temptation to foreshadow apathy’s consequences. The message comes out in an angry outburst or a panicky wail. Of course our good intentions backfire egregiously.

 

This masquerade is the search for courage to stand on your own and take those first steps toward making your way in this world.  Why is it so hard to watch those we love in this state of suspension?

We believe we’ve got the tincture to make a natural, yet difficult process easier.  We want our children to love the taste of our medicine, to eagerly swallow our hard-earned hindsight, recognizing it as an incredible gift of foresight and apply it to their own lives.  In this way we believe we can shield them from the pain we’ve all felt moving through the awkward and challenging places in life. The thing we forget is that most medicine tastes bad, and if you need to take it there must be something wrong with you.

Are we asking our adolescents to forego a natural rite of passage they are wired to walk through and take our short cut instead?  I think so.  I think our reflex to intercede sometimes hampers and confuses them.  We inadvertently send a message that we are certain they will fall or are broken and in need of fixing. This can shake an already wobbly confidence. We do know they’ll stumble; some may fall badly. But the butterfly just isn’t the same when someone on the outside starts messing with the cocoon.  What if we were simply there to bandage the battle wounds or kiss away the pain?

Because the bottom line is they need this experience. This is only one of many new beginnings in life.  Isn’t finding the courage to follow our passions breaking out of a cocoon of sorts?  Life is always presenting situations where we need to stand on our own on a new and intimidating stage.  It can be a job or a position on an unfamiliar team, or a relationship with someone new. To be happy and successful in these arenas, we need to trust that others will appreciate our unique selves and proudly become known.

Margaret Fuller, a 19^th century women’s rights advocate, says “There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.”  We all work really hard, teenagers especially; galvanizing ourselves as a way to please and meet the expectations we believe others have of us.  The problem with this is that trapped inside ourselves we feel powerless, unable to act as we’d like, and no one gets a glimpse at the real beauty inside.

 

What our kids don’t know is that as their mothers, we’ve never seen anything except that beautiful butterfly, since first looking into their caterpillar eyes, all the way through watching them spin and encase themselves in their impenetrable cocoons.  When my friend Sara receives a phone call from her teenager, his baby photo appears on her screen; a reminder to take the call from the place where their relationship began; the home of an unfathomable love.

I wrote in my very first blog post that “the bond between mother and child is impermeable, indelible, infused.”  And this I believe is what makes standing outside the cocoon feel so helpless. We know the exquisite beauty that’s inside.  We’re keenly aware power to change the world lives there. We want nothing more than to break down the walls so everyone can know and experience this wonderful person.

We find the need time and time again over the course of a lifetime to coax the butterfly out of the cocoon. We all need the courage to let ourselves been seen. To do this we first need to believe the beauty is inside. So maybe this is how I find my way back to my boy.  

I miss him.

Mirth

“I need a drink!”  This is his hello when I dial in to our scheduled meeting at 2:30 in the afternoon.  I’m in equally dire straits stuffed behind the wheel of my parked car in the blazing summer heat outside the dentist’s office.  I’ve escaped from the waiting room, leaving my kids trapped inside in their own personal hell, tortured into submission by the whirling of the drill jack hammering cavities out of their teeth.  It’s not convenient, but it’s the only appointment we could find in the mad rush before school starts.

When our conversation starts with the need for an alcoholic beverage, it’s no surprise the whole meeting is hijacked by laughter.  As we lament how laden we are with commitments and responsibilities, he asks me if I can do a little work for him “off the side of my desk”.  Peals of laughter overtake me.  On the one hand I can’t believe he’d even make the request, but on the other, I’m flattered into a quandary, knowing it’s a sign of how much he enjoys working with me and the feeling is mutual.  If I’m going to be overloaded, I want it to be with him.  After considerable banter over the audacity of his request, we reluctantly hang up with no resolution, but somehow feeling immense relief.  I’m drying the tears from my eyes.  The memory of this conversation sticks with me.

The question of the week is “Do I take myself too seriously?”  Yeah. The answer is a resounding yes.

Life is hard.  There is no denying it.  Holding down a job, running a household, raising children, maintaining close personal relationships:  They all pose challenges to work through, raise competing priorities, involve multiple stakeholders and can require the occasional gut wrenching decision.  No wonder we forget to have a good time. 

But here’s the thing:  Life isn’t just hard, it’s short.  And, really, things do tend to work themselves out.  Today’s catastrophe can be hard to recall thirty days from now.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m advocating flat out apathy, but sometimes I think we put too much work into just being. What would happen if we took it down a notch?  Would things fall apart?  I doubt it.

 

So I’m thinking now about how I might stop for a minute the next time I’m in a situation that seems calamitous, grim or disastrous and just do a quick gut check.  Could a little humor be applied here?  It just might change everything.

On the beach in California, as the boys and I are starting a bonfire, Nate offers to go back to the car to retrieve something we forgot.  Nick, with his mischievous, soulful brown eyes begs Nate to leave his iPhone behind.  Nate knows what will happen next, and leaves it anyway; fully aware Nick will proceed to take a series of goofy-face photos that Nate will subsequently need to delete in (mock?) exasperation.  I normally don’t join in this fun, but this night I look at Nick knowingly and the moment Nate takes off we snap away.  We cannot stop laughing.

In my car driving to the office the other day, I recall again that conversation in the dentist’s parking lot.  It doesn’t just resonate with me.  My partner in crime makes a point to stop by my desk this week and say thanks for the laugh, yet another piece of humanity at work.

Can’t we just be effortlessly?

Nirvana

It’s dark out.  Smoke from a campfire and laughing voices of neighborhood children out past their bedtimes float into the porch on the coat tails of a cool and welcoming breeze.  It’s the last evening of summer vacation.  School starts on Tuesday.  If you’re a kid this final night of liberty is nothing short of ecstasy. You can’t help but enjoy it.

We adults spend so much time in life embroiled in our quest for perfection, worried about what might go wrong or how we fix what we deem to be wrong, that we fail to fully immerse ourselves in what’s right.

 

Moments that transcend our wildest imagination come to life when we’re not looking for them.  I don’t know if it’s possible to make your own magic, but what I do know is this:  When we share what matters to us, when we choose to be brave and connect we can find ourselves inhabiting that secret, unspoiled space where the stars align and all is right with the world.

Bliss can sneak up on us when we least expect it. Take note and infuse yourself with every anodyne moment. And then keep the memory tucked safely inside your heart. You’ll want to be back there again. Trust me, you will.

Luculent

Today as I drive to a meeting I believe will be particularly challenging, I wrestle with myself over the message I want to convey and whether it will really be heard.  Grace is what is needed in this conversation and I can’t seem to put my hands on mine.  Peace reveals herself at last when I settle on the humbling decision to ask the senior leader in my organization joining me at the meeting to lead the discussion. This man is incredibly compassionate; I know emphatically that when I hear his grace, I will be able to find my own.

I question the power of my words at times, and I’m beginning to give this behavior some serious attention because it feels like it’s hampering me. Sometimes I believe I’m somehow lacking credibility; that no one will ever take seriously what I’m saying, that I’ll be patronized or dismissed.  And the moment I’m down on myself like that, I’m at risk of wavering and ultimately wilting: What will stop me from being steamrolled into acquiescence; or abdicating trueness to myself?  

But this isn’t about my listener at all.  This is about me.

When we think about trust, we’re usually thinking about it in terms of whether or not we trust another.  But I’m wondering if the first hurdle isn’t in trusting ourselves?  When we need to have difficult conversations, whether it’s bringing a business challenge to a client, coaching an employee on poor performance, telling a teenager he’s being denied his freedom, or sharing a deeply personal need in a relationship, for the words to have a prayer of leaving our mouths, we need to believe we have the right to say them.  We need to believe that our opinion, viewpoint, perspective or explanation is at a minimum as reasonable, compelling, heartfelt and earnest as that of the individual on the other side of the conversation who we expect will challenge us. This belief is what girds us, it’s where the courage to speak up lives and breathes.

Grace is what gives those words the vehicle to be heard.

I see grace displayed countless times this week and its power never fails to amaze me. I hear it in the way a colleague wins alignment on the scope of a sensitive project, acknowledging the concerns of the other side while still holding firm on our position. I see it in today’s meeting when the senior leader does in fact take the lead, even though I don’t get the opportunity to ask him to. In doing so, he shows me that sometimes the only right conversation is around being a lifeline to someone in need. And I experience it achingly and in an acutely personal way when I look into cerulean eyes reflecting a bittersweet beauty drenched in sadness as my own words express an impasse that may not be overcome.

Grace brings power to our words and clarity to our convictions. Trust in ourselves is found the moment we’re able to speak our beliefs with grace.  This is how we know who we are.   

Kinesthetic

The most powerful learning experience is failure.  Hearing this statistic cited probably shouldn’t surprise me, but in the midst of a discussion about classroom training, it immediately leads me to believe that if we want to develop in our careers, in our relationships and as individuals, we need the courage to be truly hands on with life.

Here’s what that means:  Speaking what’s on your mind even though you’re afraid another may disagree, challenge or dismiss you. Channeling your body even when you doubt it can perform in the way you need it to. Saying what’s in your heart even when you fear abandonment, rejection or isolation.  Listening to your soul even when you don’t believe the message could possibly be right.

When we fail, it’s important to allow ourselves to grieve.  This is how we know we’ve really invested in the experience.  This is how we know we’ve soaked up absolutely everything great there is to get out of each moment.  This is how we know we’ve lived with intent. This is how we know we’ve loved.  This is how we know it mattered. This is how we learn.

Loupe

“Brannan”, I think to myself as I look at my face in the mirror this morning, devoid of all color but for a slight greenish cast.  I’m not sick, just up before dawn and operating under a make-shift night light, diffused through the shower curtain in the hotel bathroom.  Have I been spending too much time on Instagram these days if I’m using the name of one of its filters to describe how I look?  Maybe, but it also makes me think about how we can’t help but color every aspect of life through the lens of ourselves.

Vacation should be a time to kick back and let loose, without a care in the world, right?  That’s what I think, so I’m puzzled this week to find that I have a surprisingly short fuse. Anymore I don’t spend a whole lot of time angry.  Most annoyances roll off my back; I’m so happy these days it just doesn’t seem worth it to get mad about much.

When I dig into what is lighting me up, it’s all about me.  That day Nate didn’t feel like leaving the hotel room no matter how much cajoling Nick and I could dish out?  Once he admitted he didn’t want to go outside for fear he’d make his sunburn worse, my dander was up:  It might have sounded from the tone of my voice that I was mad at him, but I am the mother who should have insisted on sunscreen and was powerless to relieve his pain. That night we couldn’t find a decent restaurant for dinner?  That was me, ill-prepared, without a map or a plan. There was no slack given for being in unfamiliar territory. Even my frustration at the difficulty in changing lanes right before the exit to the bridge, I know I need to be in the right lane to turn, why didn’t I get there sooner?  The list goes on.  Could I be any less forgiving to myself?

The good news is I’m the only person I’m mad at; this is in my control, and I’m able to change it.  But it seems so much worse, magnified by me. As luck would have it, the book I’ve chosen to read this week is “I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t)”, by Brene Brown.  She writes about how we’re not alone:  When we all zoom in on our own imperfections and inadequacy we shroud ourselves in shame and lash out at those we love, but when we zoom out and see the bigger picture, there’s power to be harnessed and a path for kindness to ourselves. I need to get on it.

My favorite Instagram filter, really, is “Lo-Fi”.  It makes everything brighter.

Found in a shop window on Orange Avenue in Coronado:  “For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.”  -- Audrey Hepburn

Dichotomy

“This is more like it!” Nick exclaims as Highway 8 West ends at the Bay, spitting us off the expressway onto Sunset Cliffs Boulevard and into the sleepy little hippie town of Ocean Beach.  I’m feeling good about being home as well, but I’m a little surprised by his declaration.  So when I ask to hear more, I discover both boys have noticed that we are a little out of place at our majestic digs on Coronado Island.

Ever since I first laid eyes on the bright terra cotta rooftops of the turreted Hotel Del on the west side of the Coronado Bridge from San Diego, I’ve wanted to stay here. At the time I was a kid, all of twenty-three, and the sprawling, bejeweled property set back on a beach of sand that literally glitters with gold in the bright sunshine felt regal and a little above me. Poor and in love at the time, I felt like I was stealing a peek at luxury in life I wasn’t quite sure could ever be mine.

So here I am, forty-eight years old, a hotel guest outright, with my teenagers in tow, and I’m finding that much like the boys, the glamour and glitz don’t matter to me so much.  Let me level-set, we are in the most un-Del-like building on the property.  If we were on the Titanic, we would be the peasants bunking in the bowels of the vessel; upon discovering the ship is sinking, we cross ourselves before bed and go to sleep resigned and at peace with the unfortunate truth that we will not be waking in the morning.  There is no hope we’ll ever get a life boat.

 

This unexpected contradiction has me thinking about what I really want for this vacation, or any vacation for that matter.  I’m not here to pretend I’m anything I’m not. I’m here for the stunning Victorian architecture and interiors, still evident and opulent even in this property’s 125^th year.  I’m here for ready access to the beach, right outside my door with enough runway for more than a 5K in my bare feet along the shore line (it doesn’t hurt that the Navy Seals in training are running too).  I’m here for the few miles of shops and restaurants in walking distance that allow my boys some much-deserved freedom to wander and offer food and entertainment on our budget.

And I love that we can hop in the car and fly across the bridge to the highway guided by that glorious north star: “8 West Beaches”.  When I lived here for what now seems like the blink of an eye twenty-five years ago, seeing that sign on my drive home from work every day never failed to make me smile.

 

When I press my boys for reasons why they feel so at home in this town, they say it just feels real.  The beach hosts free spirits who make time every day to do what they love, as evidenced by the surfers changing into their wet suits in the parking lot.  Open air restaurant means sitting at a wood ledge covered in carvings, decorated with initials and symbols, by all who’ve been there before. Pieces of artwork are not placed on the walls of this town, they are the walls. In a state where nothing happens very quickly, you never need to question intent here; the friendliness is palpable.  It’s okay to be yourself in this place.

What I really love about this experience is that we all really are okay with being ourselves at The Del, in spite of the pressure to be someone else. When we set out on this trip a few days ago, I decided that we are simply living in Cali this week, living OUR lives in Cali.  It doesn't get any more real than this.