Bibliogenesis

As I walk from the gift shop to the gate, I can’t decide if I should pat myself on the back or kick myself in the ass.  I’ve opted to return to the shelf an intriguing paperback I study intensely, killing time before I board my plane. Not one to pass up an opportunity to grow my library, I make my choice in a moment of proud frugality but can’t shake the feeling there is more in this book for me than the rich content its captivating title promises.  What can I glean from how this young author, Marina Keegan (who lived only twenty-two short years), is able to package her work in the vessel my yearning heart covets?  The covers which sandwich "The Opposite of Loneliness" not only exude praise for relatable, wise writing, but outline the string of small publishing victories this author fought for before winning the big prize.

I’m wallowing in my own stuckness again, a familiar cesspool where I routinely swim whenever a few hundred of my most talented colleagues converge on an exquisite desert resort for networking, learning and awards.  Who can be in a setting like this and not compare herself to at least one other person?  Who hasn’t spent at least a minute or two feeling small while rubbing against some big shoulders?  I’m a trainer, not a trainee, and yet I’m reminded of all there is I don’t know, and maybe more importantly, all I’ve forgotten.

 

It’s a surprising statistic, but a full 50% of adults in America are contemplating not just a job change, but a career change. Wow!  How can so many be so far off base?   Seems there are a lot of us questioning our passion for our jobs, wondering if maybe we belong somewhere else, but what we do today seems so different than what we dream of doing tomorrow we can’t even begin to chart a path in another direction.  We think in one enormous step, instead of considering a series of small ones.  And we end up making no move at all because such a giant leap is just too scary to contemplate.

My brief encounter in the airport with “The Opposite of Loneliness” reminds me the road to a book often includes stops along the way in magazines, journals, newspapers, social media and the internet. What happened to the “me” who posted to her blog 2-3 times a week, or the brave soul who submitted to and was rejected by the likes of “The Sun” and The New York Times “Modern Love” column?  How could I have forgotten my own studied logic?  More importantly, how have I allowed myself to abandon the regular practice of my craft and the joy this infuses into my life?

And as I begin to think small again, big ideas flow like a sluice.  Are we really so distant from our passions, I wonder, or are we just not being creative enough about how we might introduce them to our work? 

At the awards dinner last night I seek out and confide in a familiar face; I discover she wants to be a fresh advocate for me.  She volunteers to help me get unstuck, warning she’ll expect me to think out of the box. Is it possible to weave my writing into the profession I’ve honed and evolved over the course of nearly 30 years?  What if my career today could take me to my dreams for tomorrow? 

Surrounded by hundreds of energetic peers this week, I somehow find myself in a lonely place, questioning where someone with my talents, skills, hopes and dreams fits in. Ironically, the message I walk away thinking my organization wants to convey is that our business not only thrives on, but depends on the unique qualities each individual brings.  I can see now that space can be made right here for the real me; I just need to be brave.

The road to authenticity is an uncompartmentalized life. In the opposite of loneliness that is my conference I sometimes fail to remember we’re all scared of something. 

Fraught

Winter stifles spring, captive in her clutches

A bud of fear weeps unrequited an unencumbered dream

 

If only our desire were enough to wake her up

It’s she who must unfurl herself, we mourn a sweet requiem

Executrix

I know he’s moving, but the pace is glacial; time-lapse photography is required to render it detectable by the naked eye. To know and be comforted by this certainty is one of the perks of aging.   “While all old people have been young, no young people have been old.”  I read this obvious, yet obscure, truth nested in a beautifully-written piece of advice for young writers by Andrew Solomon.  It reminds me I have an indisputable advantage, very similar to the one Big Nutbrown Hare holds over Little Nutbrown Hare in the children’s book “Guess How Much I Love You”.  A child understands the enormity of her mother’s devotion only through becoming a mother herself; the wisdom of the old can only be reaped by the sheer act of shedding youth through the process of living.

 

Deciding what to do with life on the brink of adulthood is an archetypal rite of passage.  Has anyone not lingered at this spot, even if it’s just a tiny bit longer than they’d like?  Even the most confident, together kid has got to possess a modicum of unvoiced self-doubt at this juncture.  If she hasn’t, can she really be human?  Everyone stops here.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll stand in these ruts again.  I like to think finding ourselves at a crossroads is a sign of healthy living.  It means we’ve outgrown the old and it’s time for something new.  We’re growing, nudged to the point of bother by our true selves, anxious to release our onlyness to the world, yet deathly afraid to put it out there.

“Make your mistakes as big as it takes,” says Dallas Clayton, yet another author of children’s books loaded with simple wisdom for adults (and cool illustrations).  I read this and I think, yes, that’s right in theory, but oh so hard to carry out.  Who wants to put themselves out there for the epic fail?  Maybe this is why it can feel like our worst mistakes are the ones we didn’t see coming. Those situations where we look back, scratching our heads:  Every decision I made along the way seemed to make sense, how did I end up here? 

It’s scary to knowingly put ourselves in a position where chances of failure are high, but if you think about it, this is where we have the most control.  What if we said “I’m going to try this, and I know I might fail, but if I do I’ll own it?”  It means owning the embarrassment, the judgment, the ridicule others may throw at us, but most importantly it means owning those feelings we put on ourselves. That single voice in our head carries far more power over us than a chorus of voices outside ever could.

 

It seems so easy, being the person on the outside, to have staring me in the face everyday all that is wonderful and beautiful and brilliant about my young adults. It’s obvious the world needs to see this, and they need to see it now. I want my boys to roll up a sleeve for me so I can inoculate them with a dose of the pathogen of failure, let it course through their veins, fortifying them with the courage it takes to put themselves out into the world.  But my job is to stand beside them on this journey and love them no matter what.

 

My job is hard.  While I understand this station in life and all passing through it encompasses, I don’t fully understand all that makes up an individual’s personal journey.  I know they need to go it alone.  I know there is no published schedule or timeline setting expectations I can regulate my emotions upon.  My faith waivers; my fears surface; I lose my temper; I revert to old-school tactics proven to do more harm than good, my voice tolls the knell of impatience. Why?  Because I’m Big Nutbrown Hare; our lives are forever entwined; our bond permanently cemented. What happens to me if they don’t find their way?  How do my hopes and dreams for realizing my true self need to be altered if they are unable to find their true selves?

I wish I could administer on their behalf the wealth inside them; all the gifts they have to bestow on the world held hostage by fear. While I want this earnestly for them, if I’m being completely honest, I want it a little bit for me, too.  But maybe the right answer is to figure out how I continue moving forward expressing my onlyness while they muster the courage to do the same. 

Domicile

He rings the doorbell.  When she barks from the upstairs bedroom, he barks right back.  He’s the resident dog whisperer in my life, happily greeting the dog who’s somehow taken up residence in my home. How is it that the woman so vehemently opposed to pets can be convinced she should allow one?

When Nick builds his case, several months ago now, lobbying for safe harbor of this timid young pup, I’m a victim of the bedrock of logic and reasoning I’ve been raising my kids upon.  It’s only temporary, he says, and he’ll “do everything.”  I’ll hardly notice she’s here, and she’ll be settled in her cage when his other activities take him away from the house.  How am I ever going to know if I can trust him, he asks me, if I don’t give him a chance to come through?  Hmmm.  Even I can’t argue with that.

And Nick has been nothing but true to his word.  He warns me when I return from a trip, absent from home for several days, I’ll need to call the dog by her name and pet her to remind her who I am.  It turns out this is all I’m ever required to do.  She’s walked, fed, washed, groomed, and disciplined by my boys. But more than anything, she’s loved.  And this is what gets me in the end.  As I watch them shower her with such love and affection, I can’t imagine myself ever denying them the opportunity to learn this magical, life-sustaining lesson:  To understand how to access and administer the transformative powers of love.

 

I see this animal inch out of her shell, her true self beginning to shine, but my dog whisperer sees so much more.  He sees a dog that’s maybe been shuttled from place to place, wary of becoming too comfortable, suspect of every individual ringing the doorbell who doesn’t bark back.  Maybe she’s never had a place to call home, perpetually lost, he thinks.  But in my house, he believes, she’s been found.

   

I recall a dream from my past.  It’s about being hounded ceaselessly by mangy dogs; I see only their bones, they are without hair or skin.  This dream rattles me as I’m dreaming it; I don’t like dogs as a rule, and I can’t shake these. But as they spend time in my presence, they begin to grow fur, to become healthy and alive.  I’m puzzled, and a little spooked, when I awake.  I ask my best dreamcatcher friends about it, they look at each other knowingly.  Of course, they say, this dream is about transformation, and me, I’m a change agent.

And so I think about the capacity of love to transform, what it means to be found, the role I play in this.  Being found, to me, means you’re free to be your true self. We’re all waiting for this, the safe haven where we can let our light shine, to be found by the tribe that values us for who we are; those people who embrace us for, want nothing more and expect nothing less than to be inundated with our onlyness, those unique gifts only we can bestow and the exclusive perspective only we can express.

This dog, Zoe, she has been found.  She knows the inexplicable, irrefutable, unfathomable feeling of being wanted and loved for all she is and all she aspires to be. There is nothing more rewarding to me in life, I decide, than creating that space where another can turn her light on and be found.  My dog whisperer, he knows how to create that space, too. He wouldn’t bark back if he didn’t. 

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.