Brew

Coffeehouse Rock is its own music genre now.  Only in the 21st century. Perched on a rock retaining wall, legs dangling over the edge, I'm sipping my coffee in the early morning sun, watching birds swoop gracefully across a backdrop of densely packed evergreens climbing layered foothills. The words start to come to me and for a minute I'm disappointed they'll fly away before I can capture them. Until I realize I can write with my camera. Only in the 21st century.

This weekend in Colorado has been a godsend; an excuse to unplug if I want one, yet connectivity available if I choose it.  His brother built a house in the mountains.  His sister-in-law has made it a home. It's rustic and glamorous all at the same time:   Queen Anne chairs upholstered in rich red brocades, bejeweled chandeliers, a gun sleeping in its leather holster on the massive carved walnut bedpost. 

In the evening we sit "in front", tucked in seats with bright orange patterned cushions, nestled in Mother Nature's Omnimax theater, 360 degree views of endless mountains. As darkness falls we stare up from the hammock, a star shooting across a speckled sky, the crescent moon setting in the west. Enveloped in such majesty I can't help but think how small we are.  Yet in this place we live large in all the ways that really matter.   

At daybreak we brew our coffee one over-sized mug at a time, crowned in a foam of whipped milk.  We crawl back into the king-sized bed, three or four of us tucked under warm quilts; we ask questions, contemplate answers, offer insight, witness epiphanies, howl with laughter, brim with tears. 

He comes outside to join me, our legs swinging side by side.  A deer comes into view.  I'm afraid this beauty may exit stage left before I can capture it.  Until I remember I can take a picture with my journal.  He tells me this buck is "in velvet", timid with soft, fuzzy antlers; a babe who can do nothing but wait patiently for the confidence and power he'll garner rubbing velvet off to reveal a hardened rack.

And so it is for all of us, in velvet at every age, fighting with ourselves to accept who we are, live out our values, expose the tenderness within.  We can get lost in the trappings of our racks, hiding behind their armor, masquerading in their ornamentation.  It takes a vacation like this to recalibrate.  And to think I debated about taking it. 

I smile as he spouts this trip's coffeehouse logic:  "There's never a good time to go on vacation; never a bad time to express love."  It really is all we need.  Even in the 21st century.

Pedagogy

They call it a “long read”.  I shouldn’t be surprised anymore that we need to warn people to brace themselves, the idea or position piquing interest might take a while to ingest. Where has our patience gone?  Doesn’t anything worthwhile take some time?

On this particular morning I welcome a long read, especially one that has me waxing nostalgic about the years I thrived on a college campus.  When I think back about my time away at school, I need to dig deep for anything other than rich, positive memories.  It’s like dopamine floods my brain, hearts and flowers float out of my mouth, and a goofy, ethereal smile of pleasure spreads across my face.Those were good times.

I’ve always felt that the act of going away to school is a rite of passage all young people should partake in.  The experience can be viewed as a homogenous enclave, this microcosm where everyone is roughly the same age, there for roughly the same reasons, but it’s also the place where many of us got our first taste of true diversity, where we were agape at the idea that being different and expressing yourself was not only welcomed, but expected. At least this was the case for me back in the 80’s. The college campus opened my eyes to the world.

Is it different for our kids today?  Has their steady diet of streaming social media and radical reality TV sated any appetite for alternative ideas or opinions?  The perspective The Atlantic brings me in this morning's long read is worrisome.  The culture at college campuses seems to be shifting from free expression to overprotection.   A pattern of slow suffocation is emerging in the free speech both students and faculty take for granted.  It threatens to raze the teaching of critical thinking the freedom to express an extreme opinion provides.

 

The traditional college experience is a fruitful collision of the nascent exposure to radicalism and the blossoming of critical thinking.  It’s access to diverse perspective at a time when young minds are ripe to analyze it. Are we sending jaded kids to school now who have seen so much, been sheltered so fiercely, they’ve become closed to new ideas before ever really being opened up?

College is about the free exchange of ideas, talking about what’s taboo, a safe place to test the waters, to be a little out there.  In this space professors and fellow students ask questions of us; we ask questions of ourselves.  We’re allowed to place an idea on the table and study it, absent of an emotional reaction, to talk about it without fear of retribution.  This is the path to learning how to think critically, to put our feelings to the side and make objective assessments that become the foundation for solid leadership; leadership of others and more importantly, of ourselves.

I want my kids to experience this kind of learning.

 

And so this morning I think maybe I need to market the college experience to my boys in a new language, one they understand, covet and embrace.  College isn’t about sitting at a desk, following the status quo, with all the boundaries many young people find so distasteful about high school.  It’s about questions, experimentation, range and lively debate; a resuscitation of the creative thinking they’ve begrudgingly forced into dormancy.

If we’re going to discover and free who it is we are meant to be, we need to be allowed to think beyond who others say we should be. This is the long read worth making time for.

For more on The Atlantic’s perspective, read here.

You’ll need at least 20 minutes.

Oblique

Her name is Agnes. She is the master of her trade, I’m told. And so I know immediately I must see her. She does not disappoint, sealing her reputation within the first ten minutes I spend with her. She asks me to talk about where the pain is. Sheepishly I tick through my laundry list.  I’m a little stunned and a lot impressed when, with nothing more than her hands and naked eye, she’s able to come to a very similar conclusion the chiropractor needs x-rays to diagnose. I know I’m in the right place.

We’ll meet weekly for a while, she explains.  My muscles need some coaxing back into their normal state.  This will take time.  Today she hones in on the fallen arch in my left foot and so it begins, a physiology lesson around the intricate, interconnected mechanics of this beautiful, battered vessel housing my soul.  I’m fascinated and relieved.  The estrogen hemorrhaging from my body is leaving all kinds of carnage in its wake; my stiffness is yet another fact of aging that has me reeling.  It’s good to know I’m not some freak of nature; this is normal wear and tear indigenous to the species.

 

I’m supine; she explains she’s going to press on my psoas, a muscle that helps the hip joint move. It’s very sensitive, she says, this is one of our “emotional” muscles, buried deep in a place that’s hard to access.  Lots of us don’t’ even know we have a psoas. My Pilates instructors speak of it along with technical terms like “transverse abdominals”.  It’s been a bit like urban legend until today. I’ve never been able to isolate this emotional muscle. I’m certain it’s never been touched. I’m flinching before she starts.

And this is how it is with what’s buried deep. We balk at even the thought of going there.  Stowed in this space is the source of our insecurities, longing, shortcomings, shame and failures.  For these feelings to see the light of day is more than a little unsettling. You name it; all the bad stuff burrows as far within us as it can so we don’t have to face it. There’s no chance we’ll need to talk about it; it’s so well cloistered, it’s forgotten; we don’t even realize anymore we have it.

Yet as much as we try, this jetsam never floats far enough away.  It manifests itself in other parts of our lives, so distant from the source we don’t even consider a connection between the two.  Who would ever think pain on the right side of the neck is caused by the fallen arch in the left foot?

If we’re lucky in life, we meet someone like Agnes who helps us find and release our psoas.  She listens with an inquisitive ear, observes with an objective eye; she leaves judgment outside the room.  She asks well-placed questions, and talks through possible causes, but checks admonishment at the door because she spends her time dealing with what is with the body in front of her, not what could have been if only we’d known better.  She possesses endless patience, aware that the adjustments our bodies make to compensate for a lifetime of bad habits become our default position, and this takes time to change.

 

She has her clients, she says, who are more than content to lie quietly while she gently massages the surface.  They’re here for a pleasant experience, for the express relief of the symptoms, not a diagnosis or cure for the cause.  She thrives, though, with clients like me, who want to understand what lurks beneath, and learn how everything is connected, those who are maybe a little afraid of the pain, but won’t rest until the core is reached. We brave the serious discomfort that comes with going deep into the psoas, because self-awareness and understanding the root cause bring sustained healing.

Inside these emotional muscles beats the heart of who we are. Facing what lives here means we’re one step closer to becoming who we are meant to be. It’s circuitous and scary, humbling and exhilarating. It means we accept our imperfections, beg for belated forgiveness, and question whether we have regrets.  Most of us can’t do this hard work alone.  Who is your Agnes? 

Yeoman

When friends ask me how he is doing, I’m always so thankful I can reply with resounding words like “great!”  I like to think it’s his time now to spend as he pleases; he did a valiant job in the role of a family man.  I don’t remember fathers in my generation as workaholics or traveling excessively.  It always felt like my dad was around for everything:  Home for dinner, home on the weekends, home for the science fair, for trick-or-treating, home to lead Cub Scouts, to lead confirmation classes, home for it all.  It never, ever looked like my mom had to do it alone.

 

Back then life wasn’t about luxuries.  Mom stayed home in traditional form; we were a one paycheck family when two paycheck families were something to be talked about. I don’t know if she loved it, maybe she wanted more for herself?  But if she did, her hopes and dreams weren’t uttered within earshot of her children. We heard phrases like “making ends meet,” but I never viewed this as a deliberate choice to forego a second income in favor of time dedicated to tending to the family; it just was.

 

I see my generation in the present, all caught up in big houses, exotic vacations, the latest electronics and assorted trappings, and it feels like it’s still about making ends meet, yet in such a different way. If we’re not careful we become slaves to our stuff, running on the treadmill of competition, never having enough to quite cover the elevated standard of living we feel pressured to maintain.

 

I admit, my value system in part may be derived from the time in history I was raised; I’m pretty certain the colloquial definition of “disposable income” didn’t exist in the 70s. Today, in first world countries, many of us are fortunate to have the means to acquire a college degree and other support needed to access freedom of choice.  We’re educated, with the capacity to make good money, yet this also comes tethered to the expectation that we’ll go out and do just that. Society baits us with extravagance, almost shaming us into amassing all the booty we can, just because we can.

But what if you want something different?  Isn’t there a degree of peace that comes with living small, knowing you can easily cover your expenses, free with the knowledge you don’t need to pour everything you’ve got into making a living and instead can spend time enjoying your living?

If you asked me to describe precisely how my values were instilled in me, I don’t know if I could find words to explain. They are indigenous to the unique culture my parents fostered for our family. Just last evening I asked a friend who trains people for a living if she believes we can train on culture.  Sure, she said, it can be done to create awareness, but culture needs to be modeled if it’s going to stick.

 

I don’t need much, and for this I am grateful to my parents. As Lynda Barry once said, “The key to eternal happiness is low overhead and no debt.” Maybe I was destined to be raised this way in order to feed my artistic soul.  I’ve seen it written more than once that living small gives creatives the ultimate freedom to pursue their less-than-lucrative dreams.

It feels like my dad knows this too, as he was somehow able to be there for us all those years ago when he was the breadwinner, and is now enjoying a comfortable and active retirement.  When I think about the life I’ve built for my own kids, I hope in all of our affluence I’ve somehow managed to infuse in them the aptitude to find abundance in very little.  I’m incubating not one, but two creative forces with the power to change the world.  I want them to be free to do just that. 

Ovation

The music announces itself with a decidedly ethnic feel.  But it’s not until the final curtain that I give a second thought to the extent the performance is steeped in the minority:  In gender, in race and in culture.  I’m absorbed in the message; the actors are quite talented.

 

Exiting, we strike up a conversation with the woman who collected our tickets at the door.  She’s taken with the story herself, and echoes our sentiments that it’s too bad more were not in the audience to experience this work.

 

He and I spend many weekends over the past year exploring tiny theaters across the city.  The venues are intimate; the sets often quite bare; the performances brave, raw and sometimes shocking. I’m a little surprised by how many of these enclaves are cloaked in ordinary storefronts, surviving on little more than the passion of artists practicing their craft.

He questions whether the sparse attendance has anything to do with the segment of the population this playwright examines in her tale. Maybe this piece of work doesn’t draw the theater-going masses?  It makes me think about measures:  Range and capacity and sheer volume. While the message of this story is universal, do too many lack the capacity to relate to the actors?   And I wonder:  In a world that measures success by sheer volume, can we hold ourselves true to authentic, soulful work when its range of appeal is limited?

Most businesses exist to grow, and the pressure to do so is enormous.  The temptation to take on every prospect falling in the path can be irresistible; whether they share our values or comprehend our message somehow seems less important.  In the quest for more, our brands are watered down, our products altered or cheapened; we become less of ourselves.

This playwright could choose to allow changes to the color of her characters’ skin or a mainstream genre of music to transition her scenes.  But her story wouldn’t be the same.  Re-told within the bounds of the patriarchy or a more homogenous culture, so much of her message, so much of her onlyness, is lost.

 

What if we, like she does, choose to focus on the work that most closely represents our values and our true selves?  It’s not going to look like anyone else’s work, that’s what makes it our best. The trail is being paved. In today’s connection economy, the diversity in our world becomes harder and harder to ignore, and with it the need to conceal our onlyness lessens.

I love that these tiny venues for creative expression exist. I imagine the thrill of a dream realized when a production hits the stage. While the rich performances delivered will be seen by fewer, I like to think more artists will feel empowered to bring their most intimate work into being because there are places where they can. How can the bar not be raised?

Derby

I never wanted to be domesticated, that much is clear to me now, but I don’t ever remember feeling trapped, just uncertain. Running free never crossed my mind as an option. Did I ever even allow myself to dream?

Maybe I was just looking for time and space?  Time to sort out, not who I wanted to be in this world, but who I thought I could be; and the space to ascertain this, free of the bridle I was sure those around me were fitting for my head. Without this insular time, I couldn’t get past debilitating limits, let alone imagine endless possibilities.  I never allowed myself to see the cheerleaders in my life as anything but soothsaying derailers.

So I did what I thought I was supposed to do, if someone else mapped out my course, even better. On the outside I looked like I was doing all the right things.  On the inside, unhappiness melded into the way of life.

I possess chameleon-like capabilities; I can blend in to any situation, quickly assessing who I need to be in every environment and adapt to my surroundings.  I can be whoever I think others need me to be. I'm not afraid to speak my mind, but if I deem the risk of standing out to be dangerous, I know how to change my colors. I wonder now if this is a good thing, because inside I’m the wild horse not to be tamed.

  

It’s not a question anymore of not knowing.  I finally secured my space and time to imagine the possibilities, and to decide not only who I can be, but who I want to be, who I am. Yet, I can still be blind to my cheerleaders.

It leaves me in a diametric quandary:  The acute fierceness of someone who knows exactly what she wants, pitted against the reticent fear going after it will disappoint me, somehow leading to rejection or failure. I’m uncomfortable bursting out of the gate, but, wow, do I want to run this race.

My 50-year old self, the creative thinker who wants nothing more than the time and space to practice her craft, the opportunity to shape outcomes and empower people along the way, understands she can’t move fast enough when it comes to leaving her own insecurities in the dust.

 

It is never about me, but it is always about me.

The thing is the fear causing us to linger at the starting gate is made up in our heads.  When we can banish it, we’re able to be clear about our intentions, our expectations, to say out loud, with abandon, without apology exactly what it is we want.  And when we express our desires, our cheerleaders not only come into focus, they shine a blinding light on the path ahead.

It’s post time.  Are you ready to run? 

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.