Bustle

It is three days after Christmas; the front door closed behind the last planned guest of the year yesterday evening. I’m lingering on a photo in my Instagram feed of a beautifully painted teacup perched on a table beside a glittering, decorated evergreen.  The photographer reminds us that Christmas actually starts, not ends, on Christmas Day, and writes about how much she loves this post-holiday peacefulness, this time to be still.

I recall, not twenty-four hours earlier, asking myself how fast I can get the ornaments boxed up and leave a trail of pine needles from the living room to the curb. Only pure exhaustion prevents turning this thought into action.  The build-up to December 25th is so protracted, I’m not surprised when on Christmas Eve morning my coffee is presented to me in the white Starbucks cup of ordinary time; the store has run out of this year’s controversial red cup before we even get to Christmas Day!  Yet, there is never enough time.

I’ve been spending every waking, non-working moment since Thanksgiving making lists, amassing the precise materials and quality ingredients for my artistic creations, assembling greeting cards, baking, freezing and packaging cookies, planning menus, buying groceries, preparing feasts, decking, cleaning and clearing the halls, hiding in cabinets, closets and cupboards all evidence that a family actually lives in my home, all for the sake of hosting festive holiday gatherings. Cyber-shopping is squeezed in somewhere; gifts are hastily wrapped at the last minute.  At one point I remember thinking taking the time to attend parties is eating into my time to prepare for parties. No wonder I am salivating over the idea of a few minutes to savor the fruits of my labor.

And so I’m thinking differently this morning.  A snow and freezing rain mix is pelting the windows, propelled by a stiff, howling wind.  No one is going outside. After a warm, green December, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I, too, can sip a warm cup of tea in front of my own twinkling Christmas tree.  Lap tops, after all, are designed to sit in our laps.

Everything up until today is for others.  What if I take the time between now and Twelfth Night to absorb the beauty of the season, to live in stillness?  It’s time to be kind to myself, to remind myself of all the good I’ve accomplished in the past year, to take inventory of everything and everyone I am grateful for, to forgive myself for all my frailties, to set goals for the coming year that respect my limits as a human being, to connect with those who make me better. Isn’t this what the season is about?

Joy

“Thank you for waiting so patiently,” she chirps sincerely to the woman in line in front of me, finally returning to her station behind the counter.  My guilt nestles in like a pit in my stomach.  This noble woman in front of me stands stoically, listens wordlessly to me when, not a minute earlier, I wonder out loud with much annoyance, “Does anyone work here?”

It’s so unusual for me to open my mouth in these situations. I can’t stand it when other people do it. I try hard to muster compassion, and when I can’t, I pride myself on keeping my mouth shut no matter what mean spirited thoughts threaten to squash the sugar plums dancing in my head. I can’t help myself in this moment, and regret it almost immediately.

While the transaction ahead of me takes place I prepare myself, ready to admit wholeheartedly when I am thanked for my patience that I hadn’t exhibited any at all.  I think about what in this situation is frustrating me.  There are two cashiers, yet it isn’t readily apparent there are two lines, as towers of grab and go bling hide completely my compatriots beside me. It seems silly to me that my dander is up.  I’m not in hurry.  I don’t need to be anywhere else.  The load I am carrying isn’t heavy.  This year’s green Christmas means I’m not sweating beneath a heavy parka. I actually ate before I shopped. And I’m finding the gifts I came out seeking.  Why do I choose an outburst of selfish frustration instead of understanding the obvious pressures of a holiday store clerk?

I name my Christmastime blogs with words that are associated with the holiday season. It is rare to hear glisten, coursers, tidings, wassail, or swaddle in the vernacular of ordinary time.  It surprises me when joy pops into my head as a Christmas word. We can’t seem to find enough of it.

Joy is a choice that can be difficult to see.  It can seem like we live in a world with nothing but problems; that we live our individual lives in constant turmoil.  We’re far more comfortable complaining about what is not right, admonishing ourselves for what we don’t do, then we ever are voicing gratitude for what’s great in our lives and patting ourselves on the back for the good we do. We’re programmed to focus on fixing what is not right and to downplay what is right. We wrap ourselves in an angry story written in isolation, a yarn wound so tightly from our own vantage point that we can’t open up to any other perspective.

To me, the path to seeing joy as a choice and ultimately being capable of choosing it lies not just in a willingness to seek understanding, but in a tenacious commitment to attain understanding, to broaden our purview. And then to forgive both ourselves and our loved ones for the blindness and brokenness inherent in all of us.

Had I thought a minute about what it might feel like to be the customer getting excellent service from a cashier so willing to leave her post and search the stockroom for a coveted gift, I’m sure I would have felt quite differently. My inability to keep my disparaging thoughts to myself while shopping is my humanity making itself visible, much to my chagrin.

I believe we are constantly in repair.  Waiting to choose joy until we’ve got it all together is not an option.  The question isn’t how do we solve all of our problems and live a flawless life, it is how do we accept our humanity and that of those around us, so that joy can be uncovered in the mess.

Aspect

He always asks for a room with a view. As we travel we’re learning that the definition of “view” can vary greatly from one proprietor to the next.  This time we’re in Midtown Manhattan.  “Good things will happen on the 16^th floor,” she predicts.  We smile like we know.

 

This room doesn’t disappoint. Facing Madison Avenue, across the street sits St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  We’re overlooking what is the final months of the 3-1/2 year $177M restoration of this national landmark, the most comprehensive ever undertaken in its 136 years. The scaffolding is pretty much confined to the spires above the radiating chapels.  This is our view.

When we take our first look, I fail to notice the statue of the Virgin Mary perched atop the Lady Chapel. It will be a day or two before she appears to me. She’s lost amid the construction, further obscured by the grey skies on this unseasonably chilly October day.

 

Some may gawk at the opulence, the amount of money invested in this house.  To ignore it means deterioration beyond repair.  A quick fix doesn’t do it justice.  Over time, all homes need not only repair, but to be returned to their original luster, whatever that is.

   

I’ve spent the last year and a half attending to the restoration of my own home.  That the physical structure needs this work is obvious, and has been for some time:  The white carpet proving unequivocally it was never a match for growing boys and their free spirit mother, broken ceiling fans with exposed bare bulbs, rods sagging under the weight of faded drapes, and outdated paint colors marred with layers of dirty fingerprints and the desperate cries of the misunderstood inked indelibly in places their authors thought they’d never be seen.  That I personally need this work to happen isn’t so obvious, at least to me any way.

It’s palpable to him though, it always has been.

For years I fear my home is in decline, falling into disrepair.   Helplessly, I watch it crumble; the projects become bigger and reasons for my procrastination harder to hide.  I’m troubled by my inability to take the first step forward, to invite someone into my mess.  The thought of this undertaking crushes me like Atlas, the weight of the world on my shoulders. I discover it takes more than money.  I’ve got the means, why can’t I find the way?

Maybe I know asking someone to work on my home means inviting that person into my life.  So much more than rotted window trim and cracks in the drywall is on display:  Our happiness, our heartache, our history, our homesickness; the splinters we’re trying to surface on our own, the wounds we decide can heal without stiches. This person I invite in sees more than I can bear to look at myself, but he also sees the beauty and goodness I’ve lost sight of.

It’s hard not to feel judged, to stand up and proclaim to be a capable, self-sufficient person yet admit to being incapable of getting this particular job done without help.  In our guilt and shame, we want to make it as quick and painless as possible, just fix it; any Band-Aid will do.  But what we really need is a loving restoration, someone with the patience to work slowly, to make the investment, to choose the materials that reflect the family within, to show us this home can sing again, to heal it from the inside out.

Mass goes on at St Patrick’s every day, 365 days a year during this renovation.  On this brisk, sunny Sunday morning we worship among the scaffolding. I think about how we all move through our lives, perpetually under construction. We’re born with our purpose and everything we need to execute it, yet we let circumstances and encounters pull us away from our true north.

 

A few days later and twenty degrees warmer, I snap another photo of the cathedral from the 16^th floor.  There’s Mary, shining brilliantly in the sun above the Lady Chapel.  I don’t know how I missed her.

To move forward, maybe we need another to show us a different view, someone to remind us our foundation has always been solid, to help us not only dig out the gem lying beneath the tattered layers of life, but to free us so we can shed those layers permanently. There is someone out there with the patience and love to help restore us to our true selves. All we need to do is be open to the gift.

Acquittal

He asks if I’ll reconsider.  Caught up in the frenzy that is cookie baking and holiday card making, I initially decline his invitation.  “But it’s at the Wentz Center”, he says, “I’ve never been there and the acoustics are supposed to be amazing.”  This is important to him.  I find the time.

   

So often we go to concerts wanting the artist to play the songs we know by heart.  If they string together too many “new” songs in a row we tune out.  We want to sing along, if not out loud, in our heads.  And so when I hear “Reckless Forgiver” for the first time ever I’m surprised by how the entire performance moves me.  It’s not just the song itself, it’s the brilliant acoustics (everything they are rumored to be), in this intimate theater and the joy bursting from the band members as they play. I find myself singing along.

The lyrics have stuck with me, turning in my head, becoming part of my mantra for 2015.  When I first proclaim I want to be a reckless forgiver I think I’m talking about granting grace to others.  It seems like a noble cause, and I know I am holding on to a grudge or two I should probably shed.

 

As months fly off the calendar, I find forgiving others really doesn’t require recklessness, in fact, it requires very little effort. I hardly notice I’m doing it.  Things like being late or forgetting to close the garage door are minor offenses in my book, forgiveness is almost automatic. And so I start to think about the situations I have trouble forgiving; a common theme surfaces in no time:  I can forgive imperfections in others, but I can’t seem to forgive them in myself.

Wait a minute . . . I replay the song again.  Could it be this songwriter is seeking to be his own reckless forgiver? 

Of course, it makes complete sense now. And, wow, forgiveness is a whole other animal when we look in the mirror.  The artist sings of wanting “peace like a river, a long life of sanity and love that won’t leave too soon”. When I think about what gets in the way of peace and joy and love, it’s our inability to forgive ourselves for being human and the ebbing of self-worth in this wake.

So much is against us when it comes to forgiving ourselves. The world tells us we need to be perfect.  We’re assaulted daily, hourly, minute-by-minute with carefully edited highlight reels hosted on social media. The only brokenness we see is in ourselves, which pales in comparison to these airbrushed lives.  We pick apart every word misspoken, selfish reaction, lapse in attention, every kindness we leave unsaid.  We kick ourselves for a lack of clairvoyance, the inability to be in two places at one time.  We chastise ourselves for sleeping in, taking a break, for not being able to get it all done.  With no one else do we need to forgive so frequently, so feverishly, so relentlessly.  No wonder it’s called reckless forgiving.

   

What would happen if we threw caution to the wind, stopped worrying about the possible consequences of letting ourselves off the hook and allowed for our own absolution?   Wouldn’t that make us, well, just like everyone else?

The real crime here is not our imperfections, but how we let them rob us of “peace like a river, a long life of sanity and love that won’t leave too soon”.  These are ours for the taking. 

It's not a song we know by heart, but one we can teach ourselves to play.  Hey, reckless forgiver, I leave it all for you.

Nostalgia

It happens on my birthday, two years ago. I find myself at the dinner table with three of my four siblings; by some odd circumstance spouses are absent.  We lapse into our childhood, howling with laughter, recounting and redacting story after story, giving each other a hard time about past transgressions committed amid the omniscience and ignorance of youth.  We call my dad, of course he belongs here; he’s one of us. We wish we could call my mom.

It’s hard to describe, how we are transported to a sublime haven; it takes only the magic of speaking in the native tongue of memories made within the confines of our exclusive tribe to evoke these latent feelings.  We are home in every nuanced sense of the word.

Home is defined as a place of safety and security. We know what to expect here, how each member will react, respond and rejoice in us. Everything about home is unique to our clan. Our home has a scent, a look, a language, a culture, a sense of humor.  Here we have nicknames no one else calls us. Macaroni and cheese with scrambled eggs and sliced hotdogs is a meal combination.  On winter Sunday afternoons popcorn cooked over the stove in a blackened saucepan is dinner devoured in front of “Family Classics”. The slam of the screen door is familiar; we know how the remote control works. We know the certain way to turn the bathroom door handle to open it on a hot, sticky day, and can tell the stories of the ornaments we hang on the tree each Christmas.

And so when she suggests my boys are homesick I’m paying rapt attention.  She speaks of children of divorce, aching for the home they can never return to.  While the three of us may be surrounded by the same four walls, our interactions are forever altered; we become a different version of ourselves, to ourselves and to each other.

How do we miss this, what seems so obvious once it’s pointed out?  Why do we assume it’s possible to fully recover, and we’ll all just get over it with time?  Maybe it’s because we do, or we appear to anyway.  We adjust to our new normal.  Over time we fill the gaps as best we can; we begin to think less about what it used be and more about what it is.  And just when we think we might be feeling okay again, someone new enters the picture.

I don’t care how old we are, five or fifty-five, we all pause when we stumble upon the realization that mom or dad’s someone special isn’t leaving. It’s kind of like turning on a soap opera back in the day to hear a voice announcing the role of a beloved character is now being played by someone else.  Staring down evidence we can’t deny; the homesickness lying dormant within us makes a raging re-entrance we can’t articulate. There’s nothing wrong with this new person, in fact he’s probably pretty great, full of life, joy and possibility. He can be all kinds of wonderful things to us if only we let him. But first we need to address within ourselves that the one thing he can never be is the person who came before him. And while he may assume a similar role, we’ll never be able to recreate the same, exact version of home.

Is there a cure for homesickness?  I don’t know. I question whether we want one. Resisting change is inherent in our make-up. Homesickness is chronic, part of the human condition.  But what’s really wonderful is our resilience, and capacity to create new versions of home as loved ones move in and out of our lives.  This doesn’t happen overnight; it can’t be forced or willed. But its secret is simple:  When we remain true to ourselves, loving and honoring the one we’re with, the home can’t help but open up the doors and let us in.  What we want more than anything is for the members of our home to be loved and cared for. Someone who can do this belongs here.  This, after all, is what home is. 

Anthesis

We exit Central Park West at the museum, deciding to grab a hot pretzel, this delicacy courtesy of one of New York’s many food trucks.  On the way we pass a street vendor touting prints of past New Yorker magazine covers.  The artwork captivates me.

 

We spend 5 days in New York City, and everywhere we go we’re greeted with kindness and generosity.  Mets fans give us their seats at the playoff game; bartenders, waiters, concierges take the extra minute to share a story; taxi drivers point out the sites, bus drivers wave us in even when we can’t come up with coins to pay the fare; subway riders point us in the right direction when we look lost. As we recognize this pattern is emerging, even the New Yorkers we share it with are surprised.  When did this city become so human?

I’m home now, purchasing a 12-week New Yorker subscription on-line, reveling in the instant gratification the digital world offers me. Of course, I sign up for the print package, too (no additional cost).  I need to hold the illustrations, branded with that iconic typeface, in my hands.

Diving into my first article (I can’t resist, it’s about writing after all), the author’s chronical of his education unfolds. He speaks graciously and voluminously about these storied, published writers (in New York, of course) who are his instructors; however, his tale is not about what he was taught, but how he was taught, how he was made to feel.

He speaks of being taken seriously in the ignorance of incunabula, of bearing witness to the humility borne from a willingness to see and share failure in the moment, of the power praising even a shred of goodness plays in fostering perseverance, of a value system that places family and loved ones over work, of feeling respected and validated while being told he’s just submitted some horrible work, and he speaks of the currency that is kindness.

These lessons can be applied anywhere, in any situation. We are all teachers.  We all have something to impart on this world.  Whether it be to our children, our co-workers, our clients, our teammates, our partners, our friends, our neighbors, even complete strangers, we all have something, both the masterful and the mundane, we are put on this earth to share. Say it in a way it will most certainly be heard.

Life is in some ways so very simple, if only we can let it be so.

Read the New Yorker story here.

Crux

“If you find yourself struggling,” as she so astutely observes we are, “ask yourself two questions:  1) Am I breathing?  2)  Am I listening?”  I find it ironic that I choose to crawl out from beneath the covers on this, the first crisp, fall-feeling morning of the season, in hopes of forgetting current challenges only to find words I used just yesterday echoed in the voice of my yoga instructor.

The work week ended with a resounding thud, in some serious frustration, having been approached with not one, but two problems that leave me stumped.  It’s not the first time in my life I’ve been faced with a confounding situation, but the first time in a long time I’ve felt so completely devoid of options with no time to stew, under a deadline to solve.

   

He calls it “the magic,” what happens when a leader opens up her mind, imagining what her piece of the business will look like in three, five, even ten years, and shares her thoughts out loud.  It’s my job to supply the journal that casts a spell on (160) ordinary businesspeople, with just enough but not too many prompts, enabling them to channel their inner creativity and imagine the possibilities of a future full of growth they can’t yet see.

As the small group of decision-makers on the phone furiously debates the tradeoffs of pausing today’s activity to plan the path to tomorrow, I absorb the discord, and take deep breaths to quell my panic, furiously taking notes in hopes that in this listening I’m able to see.

On another front, I ask for thirty minutes of time late in the day.  “She’s wearing me down,” I tell him in my meeting invitation, “I need some more ammunition.”  As we talk, I explain how baffled I am, how lost I feel at my inability to put my finger on what she wants.  I’m questioning whether my preconceived notions are getting in the way.  Am I listening?  Because I sure can’t see the way forward.

Do people truly ask the impossible of us, or is there something within ourselves preventing us from making anything possible?

A yoga instructor will tell you full expression of the postures is entirely possible; with an open mind, a dedicated practice, endless patience and a bias for self-love we can all get to our own personal edge. The answer is in the cues:  Breathe to calm down and listen to the words in the dialogue; they will never fail you.

Rumi says, “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”  Isn’t this our task with everything in life?   Doesn’t the voice within cloak the answers to our toughest questions? What would happen if we were truly open to listening and not afraid of the inspired and extraordinary answers that magically appear?

My conversation with him leads to an unconventional service model and the necessary empowerment to offer it.  And in this dialogue he finally sees a barrier he is uniquely positioned to remove for me, clearing one more obstacle in the path to my full potential.

Helping others imagine and articulate possibilities is the essence of my writing.  It’s about asking the right questions.  Unlocking “the magic” of strategic thinking in business leaders doesn’t feel a whole lot different.  If I can cast aside my fears around putting my creativity out there, the solution just might reveal itself.

And so I breathe, and listen to the dialogue in yoga. For the first time in a 1-1/2 year practice, I hear the part about pressing my shoulders down, and as I do, my legs magically rise.  I’ve hit my personal edge in this, the most challenging of the 26 postures for me, and surprisingly it’s not a struggle.

 

We can fight ourselves, or we can accept the fact that every day, every minute, we are recklessly exposed, and just go with it. That's the magic.

“Let the darling finish this who turns listening into seeing.”  --  Rumi, These Exhaling Sounds