Auscultation

When I say I strive to listen raptly, I have no idea how hard this will be to put into practice, nor how enlightening.  It’s not just down in writing as one of my intentions for the year 2015; it’s one of the key messages communicated at a leadership conference I attend last month.  A colleague and I decide to apply our listening skills wholeheartedly, asking our clients what keeps them up at night.  A week or so later I’m startled by the realization of just how much we all live in our own little worlds, thinking in good faith we understand what our clients want, or our families and significant others need, never realizing how far off the mark our arrow lands, how tilted toward our own agendas and anxieties our actions lean.

The people I approach say things like “I’m worried my new boss will not understand what I do,” and “I’m afraid we won’t be able to keep up with the demand if this new concept goes viral.”  These concerns are so intrinsically human, yet not even anywhere on the list of work we regularly deliver for this client.  Later I share my dismay with another; I can’t believe how much energy we spend in the wrong places. Especially when it’s so simple to get some guidance; it seems all we need to do is ask, and really listen to the reply.

The statistics are crazy; when people talk to us we hear only 25 – 50% of what they say.   That’s a lot of time spent forming your response so you’re ready for your turn,  trying to conceal the cold sweat breaking out as you wonder how you’ll ever solve the problem being shared with you, or worse yet, daydreaming about what you’ll be doing this weekend.  Sadly, our attention spans are short, even when we’re engaged in conversations we want to be part of. But when we don’t listen, we not only miss the words, we miss the spirit of the message.

The filters we wear when interacting with the world are cleaved to us. It’s nearly impossible to hear the words of another and not apply them to our own vulnerabilities, insecurities or perceived imperfections. Even when the conversation couldn’t be farther from being about us, we can somehow find a place for ourselves within it. This behavior prevents us from really understanding all the other is trying to convey. Conscious effort is required to check the ego we all possess, and think instead of how very real fears and insecurities plague each of us.  They afflict the speaker, placing in his mouth the words he voices; upon his body the mannerisms he displays while uttering them.

When we absolve ourselves of any role in the situation being described we are suddenly free to take in every nuance.  We’re able to consider what human emotions could be behind what’s being said:  A whole new understanding is revealed. What was once doomed for evanescence now has a real shot at retention.

What’s most amazing is the power I’m finding in these situations.  Coming at a conversation from the position of objective third party means this:  It’s not all about me.  While I imagine they do, many of the insecurities bleating within me never make it to the surface.  Maybe it’s because everyone else is too busy worrying about themselves, or maybe it’s because I’ve blown them way out of proportion. And if I can truly make it all about the other person I free myself to create stronger connections, greater loyalty with my clients and deeper intimacy in my personal relationships.

Listening is about creating capacity.  To do it raptly means pushing ourselves to the side to make the space needed to be immersed in someone else. Where will you find the room?

Apocryphal

She’s speaking to all of us when she says even in the silence she can hear how hard we’re being on ourselves.  It’s one of the (many) challenging poses in this series of 26, and every yogi in the room sweats profusely in wretched determination, wordlessly self-chastising:  Why aren’t I better at this?

Those who know me well may expect this is the year I finally chuck the themes of past Valentine’s Day posts like Hew and Extemporaneity to write about romantic love.  I consider this for a brief moment and then decide to take a step back:  Before we can get to healthy, romantic love we need a regular regime of self-love; the kind a student of Bikram must train herself to employ if she’s ever going to be satisfied with her own practice.

And practice is what it is.  Self-love is a never-ending battle of the wills.  It’s calling out that voice in our heads, the one who always seems to be paying attention, never misses a beat, at the ready to find fault in nearly everything we do, say or feel.  She stands at the scales of comparison, always finding a reason we don’t quite measure up whenever and wherever we weigh-in. She can’t seem to see the good in anything.  And instead of challenging her criticism, we take her beatings as truth, hanging our heads in defeat, forfeiting the right to question, succumbing to the ceaseless reverberation of every negative word.

 

I can’t emphasize enough how much pushing back on your inner voice matters.  Every disparaging word robs us of our confidence, chipping away at our ability to put out there who we really are. And every little bit of ourselves we hold back closes us off that much more from the life-giving connections we need to thrive. The self-deprecating inner voice prevents us from sharing opinions and offering new ideas related to our work, and it makes us question the value we bring to our relationships and our worthiness to be with a romantic partner.

It’s time to get your house in order!  You can change this conversation.

 

In the hot room it’s proclaimed that yoga is not about being perfect, it’s about showing up.  Those 26 postures never get easier for a reason; they are meant to teach us how to manage our inner voices, how to recognize and neuter the soliloquy of this soulless critic.  We learn to gaze squarely and lovingly at our hard-working bodies in the mirror, so intently focused on the dialogue we don’t have a second to sneak a glance at what anyone else is doing. The constants of the practice show us we’re limited on some days, yet able to stretch on others. We learn the power our minds possess to rev the engine of our bodies. And somewhere in all of this we begin to quell those voices before they can bring us down; we see our mettle shine; we know exactly what we’re made of.

 

This very same miracle can happen outside the hot room, too.  It’s all about taking a minute to question those inner demons when they rear their ugly heads. For me it helps to take myself out of the situation; it now belongs to a friend and she’s asking me to be a sounding board.  It never fails to amaze me how quickly and blatantly this simple act of transference provides clarity. It becomes obvious when I’m wearing my blinders, when I’m blowing things out of proportion, when there’s not a modicum of evidence to support the conclusion I’ve jumped to, when I’ve lost all ability to grant myself the slightest bit of grace.

When we can objectively evaluate the negative self-talk, deciding what’s valid to be learned from and what’s vociferous to be left behind, we become stronger. We own our humanity, we become infinitely more relatable and we take ourselves a lot less seriously.  We feel willing to take more risks.  We feel worthy and ready for love.

So on this Valentine’s Day, I’m challenging you to show up for self-love.  Every day, whether you feel like it or not. Because when you regularly practice loving yourself, you bring to your most coveted relationship the greatest gift of all:  A romantic partner who is capable of receiving all the love the other is bursting to give. 

Voir Dire

He’s made the same inquiries no less than twenty different ways, but a common theme is emerging.  So I’m ready when it’s my turn. Yet once he realizes I cannot be riled by his somewhat caustic query into the job title I provide on my questionnaire, “Real Estate Executive”, I’m puzzled to discover I’ve escaped the grilling those before me endure, at least in Round One.

How to frame my reservations consumes me from almost the minute my peers in the box begin entertaining questions.  I’m one of the random twelve seated for jury selection in a civil case, surprised to find the jury in my head is still out when it comes to deciding in this situation how unbiased I believe I can be.

 

I’ve lost count by now; it’s probably upwards of six potential jurors excused before me.  But no one has the same issue I do. No one seems to be struggling with the moral dilemma bothering me; they’re making it clear lost time at work will be a problem or past experiences with law enforcement may have jaded them, just a little.  They all proclaim they’ll do their best to be fair and do what’s “right”, but even us amateurs can read between their lines.

       

The judge and attorneys are asking us to administer justice, as our society defines it, to leave our philosophizing and thinking at home, to follow instructions as dictated by the law.  And it’s in this moment I realize I am my teenaged son; the one I’d describe as defiant.  How many times have I said words to the effect of “it doesn’t matter whether you agree with the law, you need to follow it’?  And here I am being asked to put my own opinions to the side, to do the very same thing as a steward of our judicial system.

When the plaintiff’s attorney finally makes it to me, I’ve decided.  I need to take my own advice.  “Resolve your ethical issues early”, is what I always tell others, “They'll never go away.”  And so I say what’s on my mind.  I feel my face burning as the words settle like ash on those in the courtroom; I'm willing this Real Estate Executive to control the flames engulfing her face whenever she puts a risky opinion out into the world. I imagine how the defendant wishes he could prevent my imminent removal from the panel; I wonder how the plaintiff feels about himself and his situation upon hearing my words.  But mostly I’m curious about my fellow prospective jurors.  When they’re asked if they share my opinion, they all say no. Do they really mean it?  Or are they afraid to put themselves out there?

As I’m driving home I ask myself, am I capable of following the judge’s instructions and leaving my beliefs outside the room?  Yes, I’m capable. But given the choice, I’d prefer to abstain.  We don’t always get a choice, but I have a choice today.  I can speak my truth, and put this deliberation in the hands of another citizen who, with a clearer conscience, will have capacity to weigh the facts objectively, or I can keep quiet and cloud the proceedings with my own inner turbidity.

In the end, I do exactly what we are asked to do in this process: Speak truth.  My truth doesn’t have to be everyone else’s truth. The plaintiff’s attorney thanks me for my honesty, acknowledging this is exactly why they ask these questions. As I exit the courtroom, I swear I see a look of respectful regret cross his face.  Funny thing is I know under different circumstances I’d make a damn good juror.  He knows it, too. 

Kindling

"The problem with the world is we all think our goals are too lofty."  She throws this thought out there in the midst of a conversation about finding your passion.  We’re talking about a young person we both know; thrilled to discover this normally introspective, quiet, seemingly lost soul is suddenly and uncharacteristically shouting from the rooftops what he wants his future to look like.  His goal appears ambitious; prompting a caring adult in his life to ponder whether this desire to achieve what looks to be unachievable isn’t setting him up for disappointment.

And so I find it interesting when she paints such a broad brush across the globe, but I wonder myself how many dreams are dead on arrival, and I know what prompted someone somewhere to say “Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

Passion-finding is hard work.  It’s not so much about trying to figure out what it is you love, it’s figuring out where what you love fits in the structure of today’s society.  It’s pinpointing in this vast universe the audience looking to receive what you have to give. And in the case of gainful employment, it’s unearthing those willing to compensate you, at least enough to support the standard of living you desire. How many budding artists have been derailed with the words “no one will ever pay you for that”?  How many of us plug away at lackluster jobs by day for a bankroll, not realizing what really fuels us is the midnight oil our passions drive us to burn?

Those around us who want to help often steer us down the well-traveled road of certainty, and in the process unknowingly and inadvertently shame our dreams into silence; their automatic responses programmed to direct us to the safe and easy path where we won’t be hurt, rather than encourage the risk taking that comes with embarking on a trail not yet forged, an outcome unproven.  Who says we all should prioritize money, choosing fields guaranteed to bring in a good buck?  Who has the right to advise us to abandon our unique talents because the places to employ them aren’t readily apparent or exceedingly abundant?  Maybe the perfect job description is waiting to be written by the courageous individual who fits it?

Dreams in their nascence universally strike a match of hopeful doubt. As supporters, we are the bellows breathing life into these sparks.  It’s our job to notice the telltale signs of the fire within:  Eyes light up, lips form broad smiles, speech races.  It is effervescence unleashed, laced with diminutive shyness asking the silent question “Can I really do this?”  What if we listened raptly, nodded profusely, “Yes, you can!”

A passion revealed is a flame flickering furiously in a howling wind. We have the power to lovingly cup our hands around it with thoughtful questions, or to blow it out swiftly with dismissive judgment. Dreams are extinguished when they’re met with scorn, criticism or caution.  When we find the courage to talk about what’s closest to our hearts and souls, what’s risky, the last thing we need is to be acidulated with words on why it can’t happen.

I subscribe to the notion that we all instinctively know without a doubt where we want to be spending our time in life, we’re just afraid to speak a dream absent of all the steps we need to take to make it come true, uncertain our uncertainty will be met with affirmation.  But no one figures it out alone.  This is exactly why we need to stoke another’s passion when we see its glimmer on our path.

What if every single person out there was wholeheartedly encouraged to recklessly pursue her or his lofty dream?  Imagine the possibilities.  Imagine how life could be transformed by each individual bestowing his or her best and true self on the world. What part do you want to play helping another set the world on fire?

Abeyant

I don’t know why, but I’ve decided I like these sunny, bitterly cold mornings; “sunny” being the operative word.  Something about the brightness of the day, putting a sparkle on the snow makes me want to get up and moving despite the bone chilling cold.  Everything seems warmer with the solar glow.

For me, these frigid winter months are a marathon of creativity in the mad rush to submit my contribution to The Sketchbook Project and the annual scrapbook weekend preserving photographs in the pages of the never-ending chronicles of my children’s lives. I use this time trapped indoors to purge my closets and basement, in hopes of traveling a little lighter through the next year.

Kristin Armstrong writes a great piece about winter and honoring our desire to hibernate.  She speaks of the seasons, how this one is a time to mulch all we’ve experienced in the previous year, and live under its cover, making ourselves rich with the fuel we need to bloom spectacularly in the spring. This makes me wonder why so few of us allow ourselves such a complete rebirth.

It’s customary in our world to take some time off around the holidays to partake in revelry, ring in the New Year with some champagne and a checklist of resolutions, leaping into January, engines roaring, to start fresh.  We can’t get the holidays in the rearview mirror fast enough; Christmas tree at the curb about two seconds after the last note of Auld Lang Syne leaves our lips. What happened to the time to rest and rejuvenate?

Isn’t the New Year the perfect time, especially in these cold climates, to pull over at a cozy roadside inn, consult the map and make sure we’re heading in the right direction?  With Mother Nature begging us to stay inside, why wouldn’t we use the time to confirm we’re still excited about the destination we’re moving toward, and chart a course taking us by all the sites we’d like to see?

In a world where rewards come to those who possess a lead foot, easing up on the gas pedal is often frowned upon.  The goal of the pit stop is to be as quick as possible, not to spend time pondering whether we should jump out of the car.

Hibernation is misunderstood, and therefore we can question whether our pause, especially if we’ve lost interest in the road we’re on, is just laziness or craziness preventing us from moving forward. We doubt ourselves, and maybe since we’re literally under the covers, we ask ourselves if we’re hiding something, if the path of our dreams is so divergent from how the world knows us to be today, we don’t dare tread upon it.

 

But this is exactly what hibernation is for:  Time for solitude and self-reflection; time to be straightforward and honest about who we are and who we want to be, time to cultivate a safe place where we can look bravely within, decide if we’re ready to speak our dreams out loud and take a step in the direction of our true selves.

I believe our dreams are stowed inside of us, waiting for the moment we are ready to make them happen. What’s stopping you?

Brim

She’s looking over the contents of the closet spilling out of my studio/office space into the hallway.  She’s skeptical at best, despite my earnest gushing over the transformation poised to take place:  A post-Christmas Elf(a) descending on my house in the form of The Container Store’s installer ready to deploy their famous closet organizing system.  It doesn’t seem possible these stacks, boxes and bins of ephemera, the tools of unfettered creativity; the physical evidence of ruthless, vigilant record-keeping and memory-preserving could be contained within shelves, trays and drawers even the most efficient closet planner designs.

 

She’s right, of course.  My life spills over.  And I couldn’t be more grateful.  I’m writing this on the last day of the year, which is almost always a time for caesura.  I’m taking a few moments to celebrate what’s been beautiful, magical and rewarding about the past 364 days, but more importantly to get clear on what I aspire to going forward.

 

I want to live peacefully in the unsolvable.  I greet many mornings with a clenched jaw, a foggy head struggling to grasp the remnants of a dream that has me studying a perpetual puzzle.  The answer I work so hard to find dissolves into the question of why I’m even searching.  This, I’ve come to believe, is where I need to accede.  Some challenges are not mine to solve no matter how hard I try.  As my yoga instructor says, we come to class to learn how to be comfortable in the uncomfortable.  For 2015 I want to accept what I cannot change, and release myself to just be.

I want to listen better. Not more, but better. I want the quality to improve.  I want to become so attuned I hear the screams in another’s silence. This is a skill few ever master because its range is infinite; we’re constantly reminded we can always be better.  For me it’s about removing my own filter so I can really grasp what another is saying.  It needs to be more about forensics and less about foreshadowing. In 2015 I’ll strive to form my lips around questions when I want nothing more than to blurt out an answer.

I want to be a reckless forgiver.  When I’m presented with forgiveness as the definition of love, it’s a concept I turn over many times in my mind.   As I apply it to a myriad of situations I decide not only to back this theory, but to be an opinion leader.  Whether we’re talking about loving others or loving ourselves, without the ability to release the missteps, misgivings, and mistakes inherent in all of us it’s virtually impossible. Applied quite sparingly in the past (especially for myself), in 2015 I want to use forgiveness liberally.

These are boxes remaining forever unchecked, work that is never quite done.  But if I’m successful my life will continue to spill out all over the place, organized closet or not.  What a beautiful mess.

Papillon

“I’m not writing it down to remember it later; I’m writing it down to remember it now.”

My shredder gets a workout when I decide to peruse the volumes of journals I’ve amassed over the past seven years.  I begin writing during heartbreaking times, on the counsel of a dear friend who insists chronicling my trials and tribulations will allow the future, happy me she has no doubt will burst from the cocoon to look back in vindication at proof things do in fact change. That I julienne through buzzing blades more than 900 pages which poured from my pen horrifies another friend.  How, she asks, can I not save these words for posterity?

My justification is a fair one.  The most prominent theme in these raw, unabridged works, by far, is one of intense, chimerical longing.  While there are epiphanies here and there, plenty of sage passages, my writing is steeped in make believe, conjecture I embellish, foolishly believing I can will open spaces in my heart, not understanding my head isn’t yet ready to make room.

We all go through intense periods of living where we feel broken beyond belief. Our hearts, souls, body parts are stomped on, shattered, splintered in a million pieces.  We can’t fathom how we’ll ever heal. In our brokenness we close ourselves off from others, convinced we’re unworthy.  When love, even at its most humble, comes knocking at the door we can’t accept it.  Like the most famous inn known to mankind, we turn love away; we’re certain there’s no room.

 

The brokenness within us stands ready to condemn, threatens to consume us.  When we’re feeling bad about ourselves, embarrassed about a disingenuous act, flaw or a weakness, our first instinct is to hold back, to hide, to shut out those who love us because we feel shame, we’re undeserving.  But if we can allow ourselves to sit in the vulnerability of this seemingly unbearable brokenness, to accept our inherent imperfections with as much grace as those around us do, we magically create the room that’s needed to invite love in.

 

There is writing serving a very personal purpose in the moment and there is writing meant to record the voice of a generation. The work done in the cocoon isn’t meant for public consumption, but the butterfly can’t find her wings without it.

The heart is enduring, resilient, capacious.  It’s our minds barring entry, standing in the way of bringing into our lives what and who we most want, and inhibiting the courage we need to accept the fullness of who we are in order to become all we are meant to be.

What I’ve learned is all writing is transformational. When we make room we find the words the world can’t help but hear.

Love arrives in a stable

absent of tinsel and light

To deliver a message

on a glorious night

The brokenness within us

ever poised to consume

Yet this gift is bestowed

on all who make room