Suffrage

Being the political junkie he is he experiences the moment live, his television tuned in to any and all coverage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia last month.  Me, I google it.  But I can’t say it’s any less powerful on the small screen:  The faces of the 43 men who have served as President of the United States, culminating in Hillary Clinton breaking the glass as our first female nominee. She is a symbol for how far we women have come.

Yet in some ways our progress feels glacial:  The nineteenth amendment to the Constitution was ratified on this day in 1920.  It’s been nearly 100 years since women in America won the right to vote, and we’re just now getting a shot at the highest office in the land. Really?  But when I think about the resistance we’ve had to fight, the power and passion around denying women this right, and the behavior change still unfurling today to fully embrace all it encompasses, I’m not surprised.

 

I can’t say I appreciated the magnitude of the movement until watching “Suffragette”, a movie about the battle for the same in Britain.  Women weren’t just looking to cast a vote, they were second-class citizens seeking the power to change laws materially diminishing the quality of their lives. And those few but mighty voices leading the charge paid a heavy price for the justice they would not be denied.  Getting to where we stand today is in large part thanks to these courageous women willing to speak up for human rights, to repeatedly raise their voices until they are heard, to stay strong in spite of threats to their existence.

Our Constitution grants us freedom of speech in the very first amendment.  Each one of us has the right to say what is on our minds without fear of retribution, no matter how eloquently or tactlessly our words spill out of our mouths.  I hope that every one of us exercising this right demonstrates common courtesy and respect, but it’s not a requirement.  And somewhere along the way those with opposing views decided it is okay to squelch, even persecute those invoking this basic right.

Voicing a contradictory point of view can be a lonely place to be. A modern-day case study, “Shut Up and Sing” is the 2006 documentary film about the Dixie Chicks in the aftermath of a political opinion expressed from the stage of a concert hall that threatens to ruin the most successful female band of its time. A few small words strung together irrevocably alter lives in a flash:  For the Dixie Chicks it is, “I’m ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas.”  For those of us less famous, it is words like “I’m going to work for the competition.” or “I’m leaving you.”

  

Sometimes we know exactly what we’re doing, considering carefully our statements, contemplating expression until we’re ready to accept the consequences we foresee. Other times we forget we’re on a stage, or we’re the understudy shoved into the limelight at the last minute.  We underestimate the fear or anger our voices will unleash. Or we don’t expect our whisper to be overheard. May it’s not until we hear ourselves speak the words out loud that we realize our conviction.  When we’re called out we have two choices:  We can scurry back into the protective shell of the mainstream, scripting a half-hearted apology about how we didn’t really mean it and we’re deeply sorry.  Or we can choose to stand our ground, to own the elephant we’ve just put on the table, and to manage the fall-out our gumption creates. The repercussions aren’t always anticipated, fair or deserved, but they are there all the same, and our lives don’t move forward until we deal with them.

We take a giant risk when we utter an opposing opinion, watching doors close on resources and relationships we’re not certain we can live without. And sometimes we close the doors ourselves creating a self-imposed solitude borne from shame. It’s pretty normal to go underground for a while, to wonder:  Was it smart to speak up?  Maybe I should have just kept quiet?  But those of us with true conviction won’t back down.  We can’t. We’ll never again be the person we were before we showed ourselves. And so we begin the long process of reinvention to become a truer version of ourselves.

For many of us, the lengths to which our opponents will go to punish us for our views only make our voices louder.  The suffragettes became more determined than ever, and so did the Dixie Chicks. I’m incredulous, really, when he speaks of a friend who won’t vote for Hillary because she is a woman.  Tell me she lacks experience, tell me she’s focused on the wrong issues; tell me anything about her views, her record, her network, her approach.  But don’t tell me she hasn’t earned your vote because she’s a woman.

While it can take a while to embrace it, there is an undeniable peace and a power that can never be wrestled away from us when we stand up for what we believe in.  In being so fiercely and painfully heard, we find ourselves. Our world does in fact change when we raise our voices, yet what we don’t expect when we raise our voices is we change, too.  

Salt

I spend 90 minutes a week, sometimes 180 if I’m really being good to myself, gazing intently at my reflection in a full length mirror, sweating profusely through 26 yoga poses.  My hair pulled from my face in a sloppy ponytail sticking up on top of my head, I don’t bother with make-up.  The first time I taste it on my lips after practice I’m startled; washing away the residue on my face I wonder how it’s possible my skin could feel so soft.

 

Most newbies practice in the back row.  I started there, too.  The instructor promises we will get used to looking at ourselves in the mirror, and she is right. I choose to be front and center all the time now, finding it easier to concentrate on what I’m doing when I’m closer to myself. I’ve become comfortable with who I am in the hot room.  It is its own kind of beauty.

Yet interestingly enough, outside it’s a different story. I’m desperate to run again, to rekindle my love affair with this most efficient and effulgent elixir that tamed and toned me when my world came crashing down. Yet my knee buckles and my hips stiffen in protest each time I try.  I know I’m pushing my luck, and need to surrender quietly before I’m forced to kneel.  But doing so means making a home for the uninvited pounds I’ve tried to tell myself won’t be staying for long.  I’ve become that woman with a closet full of clothes she can’t part with because someday they’ll fit again. As the muscle tone erodes from my limbs I wish for winter with her long pants and cozy sweaters.  I look better with lots of clothes on.  Except in the hot room.

I don’t understand my dynamic these days.  How can I be happy with my appearance as I sweat through yoga but nowhere else?  All I can attribute it to is my state of mind.  At yoga I believe I am enough.  I believe I am strong, tenacious, determined. I know I don’t have to be perfect, striving is where it’s at.  I know I will not wilt; I will not panic; I will not quit no matter how hot it gets. I can hold my poses, I can stretch just a bit further. And throughout it all I can maintain a peaceful confidence.

She calls it mirror work. And work it is. It’s the practice of studying your reflection in the glass and liking what you see. 

Her name is Nayyirah Waheed. She writes about the beauty in ourselves we absolutely must see:

you.

are

your

own

standard of

beauty.

          --mirror work

Bide

The scent of chocolate wafts from the kitchen to the porch in the early hours of this Saturday morning.  I’m pretty thrilled as it appears I have successfully baked five 6” round cake layers to be assembled into a decadent tower, blazing in candles, worthy of the young man it’s being lovingly created to honor.

Today my youngest is 18, officially (at least on paper anyway), our household is now one composed entirely of adults.  I suppose we could count the dog as a child if we really wanted to, but for all intents and purposes we’re all grown-ups.  If only we threw the covers off the bed the morning we turn 18, rubbing the stars from our eyes to emit all the wisdom and maturity bestowed upon us as we slept this pivotal night.  But no, while this is a milestone to celebrate, it takes a lifetime to develop the self-awareness and courage required to become a mature adult.

I recall commemorating this same day at another time and place; maybe my baby was one or two at the time, a neighbor proclaiming a child’s birthday is for the mother, too. She sent me down a path I travel every year, taking time to remember the day each of my boys was born.  But it’s more than a single day, it’s recalling how I have helped them get to where they are today.  And so in the quiet before anyone in the household, or neighborhood for that matter, is awake I think about my work as a mother:  What it’s taken, and still takes, to escort young ones into adulthood.

There have been countless good times and proud moments on this journey. Overall, to be granted the gift of giving life to these two individuals and along with this gift assigned the role of trusted advisor is the most rewarding element of my existence. When I think about what’s been most challenging, it comes down to the battles of the wills.  Potty training spent years at the top of the charts, uncontested, as the hardest parenting assignment with both kids. However, the grind of the teenage years literally wears me out.  While caring for them as babies and toddlers is physically draining, as they grow older I often feel rung out emotionally.

The dilemma is in how to let our children express and discover themselves, take the risks they need to grow, and still keep their doors open for all the opportunity their young lives offer them. It can be frustrating, as their minds are predisposed to see only their own point of view.  Propaganda is delivered to their doorsteps by mobile devices attached like an umbilical cord they wouldn’t dream of cutting. They don’t realize yet that everything we see in print is not necessarily true.  They come to their own conclusions, assert their own opinions, act upon their limited experience and when we disagree, it’s an uphill battle to come to understanding, let alone change their position.

 

Persistence, empathy and the resources to continue showing up are what marketing guru Seth Godin tweets as the tools needed to change minds and ultimately change culture. He’s absolutely right.  When I evaluate myself in these areas, I’d say I get extra credit for persistence. Few are in possession of more of this quality than I am.  On the other hand, I have lots of room for improvement when it comes to empathy.  I can forget, in the lesson I’m attempting to burnish upon their brains, to take a moment and be with them in their frustration, anger, and hurt. I kick myself here because every time, without fail, I take the time to acknowledge their feelings, the walls come down and they are able to hear the message I’m so intent on delivering.

The third component, showing up, is hard.  Often I wonder, have I shown up enough for them?  Have I been too selfish?  Have I hidden under the covers of my paying job when the situation gets tough at home?  Have I wallowed in my own self-pity when times are bad for me?  Have I been too self-absorbed in pursuing my own dreams to be there to help unlock theirs?

Godin realizes we get tired, and he refers to showing up as a rotation of resources: “peeling off one person after another” in order to stay in the game.  But what do we do in our personal relationships?  It’s not possible to send in someone from the bench when we’re weary or need a break.

 

We’re in this for the long haul. My kids, thankfully, aren’t going anywhere. Sure, they’ll move out of my house, cease to be present on a daily basis, but they were branded mine the moment they came out of the womb. This, I’ve discovered is a blessing, and sometimes a curse when I’m at the height of frustration. But we have to find a peaceful solution.   There is no other choice.  We have to keep showing up.  I’m finding that it’s okay to pause the discussion when I can’t find my empathy, when we seem so far apart I can’t imagine how we’ll come together.  Luckily, I’m ready to show up again after a solid night’s sleep, some time to go running and work out a new approach, or a few moments to cool off and consider all that I’m grateful for.

 

The 5-layer cake, I discover, takes patience.  I decide to make it on this birthday morning when I’m well-rested and have the time, rather than rush it the night before. It turns out fantastically when I prepare properly, greasing and flouring each pan; when I allow the layers to bake a full 25 minutes even though the small, shallow pans would indicate otherwise; when I cool the cakes completely before beginning to frost.

 

Creation and transformation are processes, not tasks.  When we honor the process, we honor the person.  We need to strive to show up thoughtfully and respectfully, and ask for forgiveness in those moments when we don’t. We might be adults on paper, but in reality we’re all still growing up.

Happy Birthday, baby!  #n8teen

Serial

I grew up with Erica Kane.  I watched her marry, divorce, marry, divorce, marry and divorce yet again.  Seven times over, if I recall correctly.  I remember planting myself on the family room couch at high noon on sunny, summer days, the television tuned into “All My Children”, holding my breath in hopes I could catch the entire episode before my mother shooed me out of the house:  There were better things for a teenaged girl to do with her time than watch Erica maneuver through her scripted life.  At college I loved the semesters with no classes at lunch time, not so I could eat, but so I could eat with Erica.

These were soap operas, we called them “the soaps”, never-ending stories airing religiously every weekday, centered on influential families living in fictional towns.  Terminal illness, infidelity, lies and half-truths, crime and punishment were common themes.  Just when someone secured happiness, life threw a curveball. Us viewers, we felt like we knew Erica and her constituents personally.  The writers made us privy to their secrets, we understood their motives, we rooted for these characters in spite of their obvious flaws; we talked about them as if they were part of our own lives.

I followed Erica pretty faithfully from my middle school days through college.  It was only when I joined the working world that I finally severed our relationship for good.  Of course when we were still together spans of time passed, particularly during the school year, when I couldn’t keep up with her trials and tribulations.  These were the days before Tivo and DVR. With no opportunity to catch up, I would quickly lose track of her escapades.

I recall this circumstance now as I think about the world turning in my own home.  The nest is showing signs of wear; its occupants stuck in “the awkward”, each of us bulls in this china shop, bungling transitions into new phases of life. Our conversations, for lack of a better word, revolve around syncing up work schedules, understanding who might be home for dinner and lining up dependent coverage for the dog.  Our sense of community has given way to a transactional existence. No one owns the caretaking of our home because it’s ceased to be one.

Let me start by saying nothing about this turn of events is acceptable to me.  I’m also somewhat surprised, especially after watching my marriage erode in a similar fashion and subsequently examining the cause and effect with intense scrutiny, that here I am caught off-guard yet again, finding myself victim of another invisible ebbing of my family life. I’m supposed to be enlightened.

I feel sometimes like my boys and I hardly know each other, we’ve become roommates sharing a giant, smelly storage locker housing our stuff. I don’t know what questions to ask because I’m so far removed from their daily existence.  I watch my two boys who work together for the same employer light up in animation when they share the details of their shifts with each other.  They both know all of the characters intimately; they partake in and witness the action, blow by blow. I desperately want to be part of their world, but I feel like I’ve missed too many episodes and it’s too burdensome for someone to catch me up. And if I’m really being honest, I haven’t allowed them enough access to the characters in my world, either.

And this, I decide, is part of the reason relationships fall apart:  We step out of the story line. As I learned with Erica, the world continues to turn, whether we are watching or not.  We tune back in to discover she’s had two husbands and a child since we last spent any quality time with her.  Her story is too involved to recount, isn’t it?  How will we ever get back up to speed? 

The solution is fairly obvious, I believe.  We need to start watching again.  It was amazing how quickly I could jump back into Erica’s world when I chose to become a regular viewer.  I needed to make the commitment to show up at noon every day.  And this practice, I’ve decided, is needed to resurrect our family life. I’m starting small, dinner on Monday nights.  No exceptions.  The entire cast, including me, is required on set, committed to keeping this time sacred.  Guest stars are not only welcome, but encouraged. I want all of us to know intimately those who matter to each of us.  It’s not important what or where we eat, what brings us together is sharing the days of our lives.

Transitions are difficult. And even when we are stuck, seemingly immobile, life moves quickly.  We find ourselves at times in a tug-of-war, our past lives pulling on one side, our future lives on the other.  How does everyone get to where they need to be without ending up in the mud?  The answer is not in pulling farther apart, but in coming together regularly and talking about where we are in the moment. These conversations fuel us, giving us the strength, not to pull more tightly on the rope, but to loosen our grip, to let go, creating a new and different future.

I believe in the power of showing up. Stay tuned.

Delve

He shows me his list.  There are at least ten things on it, maybe a few more.  He’s thought long and hard about what he wants to do in the coming year.  I tell him I wholeheartedly support every action he wants to take.  Some of the tasks will enable others; I see quickly which should be tackled first. I surmise some will take care of themselves if he chooses to start with the priorities.  And as I consider his list a bit more deeply, I recognize this is not just what he wants to do, but who he wants to become.

   

What’s on the list gives all sorts of information about what he values:  His well-being, security, relationships and nature.  He is full of wanderlust, and maybe a touch of just plain lust. I know this feeling of pent up desire; he’s pressing hard on his glass ceiling, not sure he can handle the upheaval he’ll create when he breaks it; not sure he’s willing to put forth the energy needed to live at these new heights, above the safe and familiar bounds of the past he’s looking to leave behind.

It’s certainly normal to question yourself on the threshold of this kind of change.  We all have limits threatening to hold us back.  Some are real and some are imaginary. We’re paralyzed until we address them.

He takes the first step; he is defining who he wants to be. Maybe he’s known this for a while; I don’t know how long his desires have been incubating in his head.  What I do know is he demonstrates a tremendous amount of courage in bringing them to me, and he’s ready to do the work.  Rumi, when he speaks of finding love, says this: “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.”  It is the same when we seek to become who we want to be.  We need to look within ourselves and understand how we are standing in our own way.  It is amazing what the world seems to set at our feet when we look within and change ourselves instead of trying to change others.

But what happens when we encounter chronic limitations within ourselves requiring continuous effort to materially alter?  Where does the energy come from for this kind of transformation?  How do we be who we want to be within the confines of who we are?

We all have chronic limitations, a default position in some area of our being requiring constant manual override.  Most of us expend an excessive amount of energy attempting to conceal these weaknesses, and when we feel like they are spotted we make excuses for them or we blame someone or something else. What if, instead, we admitted our weaknesses, accepted and assessed them?  Are they real, or have we made them up in our heads?  Is there a “cure”, so to speak, can they be eliminated?  If they can’t be eliminated, how do we manage them?  To manage our weaknesses is to own them. Owning them removes the power they have over us, and replaces it with the fuel we need to manage them. When we’re comfortable saying “This is not my strength, but here’s how I manage it,” we become comfortable with ourselves.  And when we are comfortable with who we are, we can stretch into who we want to be.

So I’m asked who I want to be.  I created a list similar to his over four years ago.  I transformed myself into someone who, to paraphrase Dallas Clayton, pursues what makes her happy with the intent to make others happy. I share my art and writing with the world in hopes I inspire others to put their own creativity out there. I lead with confidence, and pour a tremendous amount of time and energy into coaching others so they can do the same. I create safe places for people to connect by striving to ask thoughtful questions in place of supplying answers.  I use my manual override regularly to manage, among other things, my inherent lack of patience, my desire to control situations and to be outgoing when my shyness wants desperately to prevail.  And these days I’m seeking to understand what prevents me from maintaining my home and why I possess so little faith.

I am a work in progress, driven by my values. I started my journey with a list and a conviction attributed to Socrates:  “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

Solstice

The mercury drops mercifully, shedding the load of humidity she’s carried strapped on her back since the break of day when dawn stretched her sleepy arms up into the clouds.  The sun is on the backend now, making her slow decent in the evening sky.  At this moment, she’s aligned her column of light with the tops of my blossoming day lilies, casting her glow across the bright orange petals stretching their necks to be seen above ferocious weeds attempting to choke the color from neglected beds.  My yard, like my hair, and other aspects of my life is wild. I can’t be bothered to tame any of them.

 

Dogs bark, kids at play sing out to each other in muffled lyrics I’m not meant to make out, but their little voices I recall so clearly.  It was only yesterday when my boys giggled with glee pulling sunfish out of the pond out back. Evening, just before the sun sets is the best time to fish, as the water grows eerily still and swimmers make their presence known leaving reverberating circles upon its surface.

A cool breeze is blowing now.  As I sit here the first lightening bugs begin their game of tag, emitting intermittent, iridescent clues.  It’s the gloaming on the longest day of the year.  And it’s been forever since I took the time to sit outside, tuck the world in bed, and hold her hand until she falls asleep. It’s almost time to turn the nightlight on:  Tonight it’s the Strawberry Moon.  

Sweet dreams and welcome to summer.

Tribe

“We need to be there early,” I insist, “my family gathers.”  The dynamics make little sense to someone new, but he soon experiences the phenomenon himself when we arrive late by family standards, which in reality is a full twenty minutes before mass on this Wednesday morning, to a lobby teeming with the chattering members of my clan.

 

I am a child of the sixties and seventies, an era when adults laid down their roots in relative proximity to their own childhood homes, kids outnumbered the bedrooms in the house, moms mostly stayed at home, heading upstairs to apply a bit of lipstick and rouge in anticipation of dad walking through the door at the appointed time like clockwork every evening. Our social lives revolved around my father’s family. Cousins were part of birthday parties, holidays and summer vacations.  We celebrated baptisms, first communions, confirmations, graduations, and weddings.  Attendance at family reunions could easily sail into triple digits. Still today my family comprises a full one-third of my Christmas card list.

We’re here today to honor one of our own. I look around this capacious church and I feel an intense pride and admiration. The tight net my father and his siblings knotted with their spouses and expressly cast across their growing families not only brands my childhood, but bonds and binds me to the most stable and loyal shelter I’ll ever encounter. It’s where my values are rooted, where my sensibilities, creativity and integrity are modeled and fostered.

 

Early in life I choose one from the brood to tether myself tightly. As girls we share our hopes and dreams, write to each other in secret code.  As young women we make a pact we’ll be there to take care of each other no matter what; we imagine living together in our old age.  As I listen to the stories of a faithful man recounting his 67-year friendship with the one we’ve loved and lost, I consider the depth and breadth of my relationship with her. She turns my pages with me; she possesses the intel, the grace, the love for me to speak eloquently of my essence when it’s my turn to move on. It is a gift to be so completely known.

After mass we find ourselves congregating in the lobby again, and even though we’re all scheduled to meet at the cemetery, followed by lunch at a nearby restaurant, we linger.  It’s a hallmark of my family.  The joke is you better start saying your goodbyes the moment you walk in if you expect to walk out at a reasonable time. This is our culture; it’s who we are.

I’ve had the debate at the office about whether culture can be taught.  There’s no curriculum for culture, and there is no mainlining its absorption.  It’s kinesthetic learning. It is hands-on, requiring full immersion, repeatedly over time. In making a priority of coming together for the joys of life my dad taught the family culture to us. And as such created a haven for us to be known and to draw upon in the pain.

When the circle of life prevails, those who are present the moment we enter this world are gone by the time we find ourselves in need of an escort out.  Thank goodness my family is comprised of gatherers and lingerers. We get to leave this world surrounded by familiar faces who have memorized the recipe for our unique brand of love and support, serving that magic elixir we were welcomed in with a generation or two ago, by mothers and fathers eager with anticipation and possibility.