Positraction

Technically, I’m the mentor, but what I love about these relationships is the moment my group of mentees enquires about what’s happening in my world I don’t hesitate to the turn the tables and ask for their take on a troubling situation that’s hurled me and my car into a ditch. They represent everything a good mentor should:  They’re removed from the organization I’m involved in. My future success doesn’t depend on them in any way, shape, or form.  I can be my most authentic, letting my hair down in its most disheveled, tangled mess with no threat of running into any characters outside this trusted circle in this unpolished, unapologetic state.

 

Each one of the three contributes a sliver of solid perspective, a glimmering nugget which I turn over and over in thoughtful consideration while deciding how I ultimately want to show up. A veritable roadside assistance crew, they are instrumental in helping me put my vehicle back onto the pavement. 

They suggest I keep an open mind, presume the uninvited protagonist entering the pages of my story comes confident in my abilities and ready to advocate. What could happen if I assume her intentions are good?  If I give her the benefit of the doubt, entertain the possibility she might just be a jughead, ignorant or naïve about how she is landing on me.

   

They ask me to consider what a personal win looks like to my new foil. How do I make myself as valuable to her as anyone can in these circumstances?  Could focusing on what makes her tick help me feel more comfortable about my own standing?

Reflecting on their sage advice, it dawns on me I’ve been very myopic, intent on my own insecurities. My old, demonic nemesis, Perfectionism, rearing her ugly head yet again, demanding I shore up every aspect of my responsibilities, admonishing me for any inadequacies, marginalizing the places I shine by intimating they neither matter nor are valued, suggesting my biggest weakness is the only chapter of the story anyone is reading.  Ultimately bolstering the perpetual fear I’m one day away from being put out to pasture.

 

With this clarity I’m able to put into action my mentees’ most powerful message. They reinforce the concept of focusing on my strengths, of doing more of what I do best:  Asking questions to induce her to reflect on how she is showing up, to suss an alternative point of view, to open the lines of communication. “You are the master of these questions,” they tell me.  How do I use this skill to tamp down my own rising resentments and pave a positive experience on the road I’m now traveling as Tonto instead of The Lone Ranger?

The professionals sharing research on people development tell us the data suggests we get far more bang for our buck by ameliorating our strengths instead of trying to improve our weaknesses.  So, it shouldn’t surprise me that when I’m stuck, sending more power to the place where I have the most traction will ultimately catapult me out of the mud.

 

It’s the shining moment in the movie “My Cousin Vinny” when Marissa Tomei, as the glam Italian girlfriend, is on the witness stand using her experience growing up in a family full of mechanics to define the word for Joe Pesci’s bumbling amateur defense attorney, and with it, winning the case for the yutes.

 

And so I’m determined to make it my shining moment, too.  I focus on returning to my bedrock, the dependable and infinite well of my strengths, pressing the accelerator to the floor without letting up.  It may feel like overkill in this moment, but what I know for sure is this extra power is everything my tender, bruised ego needs to burnish in my next chapter, back on solid ground. 

Shift

I am a navel gazer, a merciless self-hazer, a sensitive blazer, a sharp razor afraid to shave what doesn’t serve me from my tender, aging skin.  

I do this every January. I dedicate some days and nights of this drowsy and bitter cold month to get clear on how I’ll spend the new year upgrading the operating system of my soul, moving a little bit closer to the version I think I’m meant to be; then packaging my fixes in a pocket-size artist’s book I can carry with me for download from any location. 

I have always been upward-heading, skin-shedding, water-treading, coating myself in any breading this corporate world expects of its most promising and successful charges. 

But it’s different this year. I’m considering the plateau I’ve been camping on for several years.  I have always just assumed this would be a weekend stay, a few nights acclimating at base camp, and then onward with my ascent.  But the air is getting thinner at this elevation and circumstances are speaking to me in a language I’ve never heard before, a soft whispered question “what if you just stayed put?”

And so I become a ruthless assessor, an inquisitive professor, an emboldened confessor of everything I ever thought I wanted to do better. 

After dancing around the idea for months, one sleepless night shows me the goals I’ve been working toward aren’t important to me anymore.  Maybe they belong to someone else?  My quest to broaden my interests and invest time in them has sent me on a slow but insistent drift from the now faded umbrella I planted in the sand many years ago.  I’m in a different place now.  

And so I imagine what it might be like to be a tub soaker, a breezy toker, the blessed stoker of the creative fire a higher power ignited decades ago and has waited ever so patiently to see burn brightly. 

I’m going to be better at what matters to me, and care less about what doesn’t. I’m going to consider what and who I give my precious time to.  I’m going to steep in all that brings me joy so I have joy to return to others. I’m going to gather around me all I find beautiful in this world. I’m going to free myself to be me. I’m going to practice gratitude for a life full of abundance and choice. 

I am a stargazer, a herd hazer, a trail blazer, a stinging razor cutting through the great wide open in search of the dark sky where my stars brilliantly shine.  

Restive

The revolution, it stirs ever so quietly within me.  Despite the uneasiness at my core I often don’t realize I’m rebelling as its happening. It’s not until I recount my visceral reaction that it dawns on me.  Phrases like “we’re not doing that” or “over my dead body” spew from my lips. As I consider how I’ll present my objections I’m gripped with fear that the value system my beliefs are pinned upon has been kidnapped without a demand for ransom, our culture and everything I stand for bound and gagged in the trunk of a getaway car speeding off unnoticed by those who should so fiercely protect this stolen treasure.

Is it an overreaction?  Sure, it is.  I ask for some unbiased opinions and it’s suggested I think positively; we don’t have any evidence yet to confirm my mounting suspicions.  I’m also advised to do what I do best:  Engage my adversaries in a shrewd line of questioning to prompt some reflection and to seek understanding.

 

At the end of the day, whatever the outcome, I know this is simply a sign I’ve grown. The fact that I have an opinion about how the situation was handled and feel passionately about being heard tells me so. On the brink of mutiny, that’s when I know I’ve yet again come into bounty.

The poet Mary Oliver passed away this week.  As social media presents to me the many paying homage, I recall her poetry, so lithe and sage; prolific work connecting humans and nature, beckoning us to answer the ceaseless knell to be ourselves.

I feel this uprising more than ever in my artistic life.  Every escape to my studio is another log thrown onto the fire fueling my creative soul. I don’t know if I’m destined to make a living with my art, but I do know for sure I’m meant to make a statement. It’s a calling impossible to ignore.  And I answer in earnest.

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”  -- Mary Oliver

Exertion

We’re lying on our yoga mats, inert, after 55 minutes of a low impact, high intensity workout.  This is the part where she tells us to do our favorite stretch, and switches to the soothing music like “Heaven in My Mind,” the song that always makes me cry a little bit. She turns on her voice of inspiration, reminds us that goals are achieved not by dreaming or thinking about them, but by doing.  She asks what action we’re going to take today to bring us one step closer to the goal we have for ourselves.

I’m instantly resuscitated, excited because I have an action I’m taking; a big, bold step I’ve never taken before.  I’m submitting a piece of artwork for consideration for the Resident + Instructor Exhibition at the gallery this month.

 

As I prepare to turn in my piece, thousands of doubts flood my mind.  How will my work compare to everyone else’s?  What if it looks rudimentary?  When I explain what this work is, will anyone understand?  Should I have put the name of the piece in the body of the piece?   Does the framing look professional?  Did I sign my name right?  Will people consider my work to be legitimate art worth showing?  Would anyone ever dream of buying it at the price I’m asking?  Or at any price at all?

I tell myself as I affix a big, fat price tag to my work, that this is a grand experiment.  It’s about having the courage to place value on my creation that is grounded in how much money I’d like to make in return for my investment of time, talent and materials instead of how much I think others will feel it’s worth.  It’s about wanting people to find the medium, the colors, the concept, or the application visually interesting, not whether anyone likes it or hates it.  At the end of the day it’s about putting myself out there.

If we’re moving forward in this life, we’re putting ourselves out there over and over again, countless times in a lifetime.  It never gets any easier for me, especially when it is something as close to my heart as my art is. I rented this studio not just as a place to store my supplies and make art, but to see what could happen when I immersed myself in a vibrant and diverse creative community.  I knew it would be messy for a while and I’d need some time to feel out of my element before I truly feel like I belong.  I’m still not there yet, but this is a step in the right direction, nudging that heaven in my mind out to the world. 

Understudy

She’s had me up and out the door before sunrise for the past four mornings, barely able, despite my insistent imploring, to suppress her growls of excitement as I get dressed in the sleeping house. The blast of cold air out the door threatens to take my breath away and the first few steps up the incline get my heart beating. I’m moving briskly in hopes of warming from the inside out.  When I realize she’s lagging and I don’t hear the tinkle of her tag on collar, I turn around, catching the view down the sweeping hill of the street, our bright orange port-a-potty a beacon in the early morning light. It’s a Christmas card moment, not really.

   

Our home this year is not what anyone would call a Hallmark image. We’re surrounded by the mud we pulled out of Mother Earth to carve a new foundation.  We’re locked solidly behind the confines of an unwieldy construction fence, lovingly referred to as our gated community. I did consider a wreath for the port-a-potty, planted right next to the dumpster on what’s left of the front lawn. Our highlight reel is slim because the messiness of real life is leaking out everywhere.

Transformation is painful; there is very little shiny and sparkly we can hide behind. Up until two days ago the house was devoid of anything resembling Christmas.  We couldn’t even dig up an ugly sweater from the depths of our overstuffed closets.  This is the second consecutive December my carefully curated collection of ornaments and adornments remain incarcerated in a storage pod. Now I’m wondering if I will ever need them again?

I’m grieving the old ways while at the same time taking steps to move forward.  The line between tradition and nostalgia can be a fine one. Somehow exchanging gifts in my son’s home, watching my grown children unwrap slippers and socks moved from easy laughter to awkward theatrics in the span of a year, my cheek stinging from the slap of reality:  These aren’t the gifts the mom gives anymore. And, I’m really not the mom anymore; I’m the grandma.  I don’t know how to do grandma.

It hurts to bring the fixings for ice cream sandwiches with the boys’ favorite homemade chocolate cookies and leave the gathering without enjoying them, but it’s not my kitchen and I am a polite guest now, not the host. Even if I were the host, the family home the boys knew and loved is now inhabited by the strangers I sold it to and any place I choose to live going forward will never be the hearth for them.

We are, very publicly and literally, creating a new home for ourselves with this construction project; and the ah-ha moment for me over this holiday is that my boys are doing the same, just more subtly.  How the holidays get celebrated isn’t up to me anymore.  And I will make more than one blunder, disappointing myself in the process, before I come to terms with the new normal.

I realize this is all goodness. I am very blessed to have grown children who are bold enough to live life on their own terms, moving out of state, having a baby. These are proud moments, and at the same time crushingly humbling.  The choices they are making for their own lives inevitably put me in new roles I didn’t ask for and am potentially unprepared to take on. But I guess I need to jump in, too.  The only alternative is unmet expectations and perpetual disappointment, and I won’t have that. 

  

We walk in the door to my son’s home Christmas Eve, and she is so excited to see us she can hardly contain herself, the morning walks of the previous few days fresh in her mind.  She jumps up on the loveseat, wedging herself between us, reveling in the displaced love I compulsively shower upon her to excess, while at the same time she shoots the evil eye to her parents and the newborn babe on the couch across from us. She’s struggling with the change, too.

This is part of my new role, to be ready to step in at any moment I’m needed, to make sure the tried and true, those who have come before feel as loved and attended to as the shiny and new. And I'm more than qualified. Motherhood is the training ground for every grandma, in more ways than I could ever have imagined.

Olana

Oh, girl, you are so wanted. She is coming to us in the autumn of our lives, later than we had hoped for, but maybe earlier than we could ever be ready for.  She’s been the twinkle in our eyes for a few years, an unspoken dream we’ve been afraid to pursue. I’ve carefully and quietly turned over her features in my mind, falling hopelessly in love with her imperfect beauty. As I allow this genie to slip out of the bottle inside my head and onto paper, I’ve surprised myself with how cleaved I am to the vision I’ve created, so quick to roar my objections in heated debate when he shares his equally earnest passion. His vision of her size, her shape, her prominent and delicate features doesn’t always match mine.

She is our house, and she’s proving to be as difficult to birth as a child, with the gestation period of an elephant and a due date we can’t quite pinpoint. Fraught with tangled, contradictory emotions and physical challenges, she is a huge leap of faith for us, a cliff we’re jumping off with hands clasped tightly together, a journey on an untraveled path full of unexpected events we can’t plan for, unforeseen conditions we don’t know how to allow for. This new alliance is transforming our lives:  On our worst days we can be awkward and hurtful to each other, on our best days we celebrate our violent agreement and express gratitude for such unfathomable abundance. Most days we are fumbling.

I’m learning that designing and building a home addition does not mean you get everything you want.  There are limitations everywhere; structural, financial, relational. There are code restrictions to meet, lot lines to stay within, and the realization when you stand on top of a tall ladder overlooking your property that the view you’re afforded won’t net an ROI that makes a second floor deck a good idea.

 

We’ve both compromised and sacrificed, behaving badly in the process. I’m not proud, but I’m pausing to consider how I show up differently in these situations. Neither petulant child nor selfless martyr look good on me.

What do you do when the truss factory scheduled to ship your materials on Monday burns to the ground three days before they are due to arrive on site?   You could lash out in panicked fear because it’s December and snow came early this year and you’re already behind the unwritten schedule you’ve set in your head.  Or you could choose to feel extreme empathy for the business that lost so much; you could pray everyone got out safely; you could wait patiently as a new supplier is sourced.

 

I’m not sure where we are in the process, as it all has taken longer and been far more complicated than I anticipated, but if I were a betting woman I’d say we’re starting our middle trimester, that place where morning sickness should be letting up, ushering in the return to more even temperament. We’re beginning to show. 

And we’ve picked out a name. It means “house of treasures,” after a beautiful song by Marc Cohn. We heard it for the first time together, played live in the intimacy of the Wentz Center by the songwriter who treated us to the story behind his lyrics.

She’s the masterpiece of an artist who turned to building when he could no longer hold a brush. He was lost until he found her; she was his north star, his one safe place. And she sheltered his most important treasures, not material possessions, but his family that lived inside. Olana.

Pantoum

I find it harder and harder these days to be surprised.  Maybe I can blame it on my age, or, more likely, a lifetime of vigilance over-exercised.  If I’m constantly trying to anticipate what will happen next, it’s nearly impossible to be truly surprised. In any event, pencil and notebook in hand, in front of works of art at a writer’s workshop conducted at the Art Institute of Chicago, I found myself very pleasantly surprised.

An experience I’ve wanted to try, this one was short and sweet.  Little more than a taste; a toe in the water with the choice to plunge right in or hastily retreat to the shore.  To be honest, it was a little of both for me.  I struggled in the first session, faced with imagining what was going on in the heads of subjects in paintings, famous and not.  But, thankfully, the instructors moved us around quickly, never left to stew too long in stagnant juices. 

The second session was a different story.  The beauty of one particular writing exercise being I had no idea where I was going with it, nor any expectation for an end product.  The instructors asked us to highlight words or phrases that spoke to us from the first week’s writing, and to combine them with the same from the second week, in the form of a poem with a very prescriptive formula for repetition from stanza to stanza.  The process left me free to combine thoughts from totally unrelated subject matter into a new message.  With a little editing and intentional application of punctuation, I present my poem; a testament to the moment we live in. 

A country erupts;

slaughter dresses the table.

Its humanity in chains,

voices dying to speak.

Slaughter dresses the table.

Bound together in shameful silence,

voices dying to speak

stories the world aches to hear.

Bound together in shameful silence,

tongues hang out in defeat.

Stories the world aches to hear,

never to be believed.

Tongues hang out in defeat.

Mirrors reflect indifference

never to be believed.

Vacant stares graze the horizon.

Mirrors reflect indifference;

a country erupts.

Vacant stares graze the horizon:

It's humanity in chains.  

-- Sharon Feller, October 6, 2018