Nosh

The headline reads "The one nutrient that is missing in nearly every diet." I know it’s a trite grabber, yet I’m sucked in regardless. It’s going to be something like chia seeds or edamame, I tell myself.  I can’t help it, though, curiosity is killing me. I need to know, if only for reassurance. Surely I’ve got this whatever-it-is; it’s everyone else who is missing out.

When we think about what nourishes us, the place we go immediately is food.  Our bodies run on this fuel; they don’t allow us to function without for long. Our stomachs rumble, our heads ache, and our patience plummets. This author; however, is thinking a little differently.  She challenges that self-love is the essential nutrient none of us seem able to feed ourselves. Ahh, I say to myself, of course, I completely understand how we could all be starved.

When described in these terms, “an essential nutrient”, I ‘m forced to pause.  This is a constant battle for me.  It goes way beyond looking in the mirror and thinking I need to diet or exercise more. Not a day goes by when I don’t catch myself beating myself up for thoughts, words or actions I could easily forgive in another.  We’re unbelievably hard on ourselves, and it’s hurting our health.

I think many of us don’t even realize we’re self-love deprived.  It’s become ingrained in our being, a way of life, a conversation we are so used to having with ourselves we can’t see it needs to change. So how do you know self-love is missing from your diet?

He tells me “should” is a word we need to eradicate from our vocabularies.  It’s an unsettling feeling, draining us of energy, a catalyst for ceaseless rumination  about taking action, not necessarily because we want to or even need to, but because we believe it’s expected of us. The irony is this expectation is self-created and held by no other. If you hear yourself using “should” I bet you could use a serving of self-love.

Do you ever find yourself, after an encounter with another or a presentation to a group, picking apart your part in the experience?  It’s worse than any performance review a manager could ever give.  Do you completely ignore what you did really well to allow for more energy to concentrate on what you felt could have been better?  Probably calls for a hit of self-love.

For many of us, it seems impossible to ingest the recommended daily dose of this vital nutrient.  But what I’m learning is being aware of the signs of this deficiency is half the battle.  I may never consume enough without a conscious effort, but I’m sensitive to the hunger pains, and not afraid to nibble on a little self-love. 

Consigliere

We all know her; she positively glows in the limelight.  She can’t wait to get in front of the group, completely energized by the thought of being “on”. By day her schedule regularly includes travel to shake hands and kiss babies; few know she’s up nights worrying about hitting the numbers. She’s the last person I want to be, and up until as recently as last week, the person I thought I had to be if I want to reach my full potential.

 

I’m seeing things differently these days, thanks to some enlightening training and a relevant piece, courtesy of Fast Company, asking the question "What if second became the new first in leadership?"  You mean I can still be an ambitious and courageous leader as someone’s number two?

Contrary to popular belief, great leaders are not well-rounded.  They all possess their own unique mix of strengths.  Strengths, for the purposes of leadership, are defined as activities that energize us; we’re good at them AND we like them. The best number ones know they can’t be great at everything.  They enjoy spending their time in the spotlight, revel in being where the buck stops, and surround themselves with a team of skilled advisors; equally solid and respected leaders possessing complementary strengths.

Yet it can be hard sometimes, when you know you’re smart and capable enough to be number one, to accept that you’re really happier as a number two. We’re a society conditioning ourselves to question whether something is wrong if we aren’t striving to be first.  We’re all supposed to want to keep climbing, until we can’t climb anymore. We don’t’ drop out; we go until we’re taken out. But does every person who secures the top spot really enjoy it?  I’m beginning to wonder.

I used to look at the rung above the one I stood on at any given moment and think, I need to take another step because there is something up there that scares me, and I need to prove I’m capable of conquering it. It didn’t matter whether I thought I would like the next role, it was all about demonstrating I could do it.

Now I look at the next rung and ask myself if what’s required of the role energizes me or deflates me.  Will I spend the majority of my time doing what I love?  Can I remain my authentic self or will I need to become an actress to pull it off?

 

Not only do I not need to pursue it, I’ve got no business being number one. I’d just be getting in the way of those besotted baby kissers who can’t wait to get on it and are far better at it than I am.  Besides, who will think big picture, shape the future and make a difference for those around her?

Atlas is shrugging. Who knew it would feel so good to grant myself permission to be myself?

Ampersand

“I’m an “and” kind of guy.”  He articulates this to me more times than I can count; in response to a statement or lament I express involving the assumption I need to sacrifice, shroud or surrender pieces of myself in order to be accepted. It’s the notion of relinquishing a little bit of our true selves in order to assimilate into what we think others are expecting us to be he is adamantly attempting to evict from my vernacular.

 

God love him.  This is a reflex predating my earliest memory.  I don’t know if it affixes to the X chromosome, or is nurtured to fruition in the obsequiousness of a first-born daughter, to be permanently cemented with the inherent selflessness of motherhood?  Maybe this bias is not even gender-specific?  Whatever it is, it’s limiting and serves no practical purpose.

We’re all multi-dimensional, yet how many people in our lives do we actually allow to embrace this fullness?  We carefully dole out facets of ourselves, methodically matching to each different audience only what we deem they can bear.  I’m not sure how this happens, but in this practice we become really good at compartmentalizing our lives, so good in fact, the prospect of uniting all these selves for another to experience becomes a source of anxiety.  What will my corporate colleagues say about me upon reading my blog posts or viewing my art?  Will this wonderful man in my life think differently about me after we attend a business function together?  How will my kids, having grown up with a single mom, react to me with a partner? 

Who hasn’t witnessed or lived this at the office, believing the requirement is to sequester for long hours, pretending family commitments don’t exist in order to demonstrate loyalty and the ambition to get ahead?  It can seem impossible to live the “and” life.  Many of us fold immediately, presuming our only option is “or”, that we need to diminish or extinguish the importance of one area to prove we are truly committed to another. Or worse yet, we need to keep the different aspects of our lives completely separate, juggling in a vacuum.

I think about moving to “and” in two ways:  It’s about trusting the tribes who are part of our divergent interests and who may each know us a little differently will amalgamate when needed. And it’s also about believing each of those stakeholders, be it our kids, our partners or our bosses, will still love, support and value us when time in another area of our lives takes us away.

While the transformation into an “and” kind of girl is not quick or easy for me, I’m finding a remarkable phenomenon occurs when you allow it; not only do you create capacity for more of what matters, but in the process become more interesting and valuable to the people who matter.

To the “and” kind of guy in my life: Thank you for an epic Year One. XO

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.