I am out with lanterns looking for myself --Emily Dickinson

Sometime in the last week or so, my internet wanderings brought me into the path of this quote by Emily Dickinson: "I am out with lanterns looking for myself." Even though the quote comes from a letter she wrote to a friend lamenting the tiresome and discombobulating process of moving into a new house, it has been haunting my thoughts ever since I came across it. I find it captures a feeling that has rattled around inside me periodically throughout my life but that I have never really been able to explain so clearly. 

(Can we all just pause for a moment and appreciate the beauty of this poet's writing even about a relatively mundane situation? Wow!)

For most of the years I've been living, I have been trying to discover my passion and purpose in life, to figure out who I really am and what's truly important to me. It always feels like an urgent mission, one that can't wait until morning, which is why the lanterns are needed. But it is so dark all around, and the lantern flickers and casts its own confusing shadows and doesn't actually shed much light on anything, and what I am looking for seems to remain elusive. Who is the person I am truly meant to be? Where can I find her? Will I even know her if I come across her in some wild sweep of the light? I need to find her. I want to know her. The search seems desperate but futile, and I am growing tired of wandering through the darkness with nothing much to show for my efforts. 

It isn't that I haven't found some good things in the searching. But it's like I have found only pieces of a puzzle without knowing what the whole picture is supposed to look like. I don't know how they all fit together or even where to start to arrange them into something cohesive and lovely. 

For around two decades I have found my passion and purpose primarily in motherhood, which does indeed feel like a worthy pursuit, even though there has often been internal and external pressure to be more than "just a mom." When I was able to ignore the voices telling me the pursuit of motherhood wasn't enough, it became the single most important thing in my life and I really don't have any regrets for letting it consume me. Motherhood has calmed the frantic searching for myself over the years, to a large degree because it has truly felt like what I was meant for. It has been my greatest adventure and teacher and has given me deeper meaning than anything else in my life. I absolutely adore being "mom" to my four kids, and I know I will always carry that precious title. But my babies are growing up and need me less and less, and soon they will all be out of my house and making their own way in the world. It is good and right that it should be this way, but I think contemplating the next phase of my life outside of full-time motherhood is what caused Ms. Dickinson's words to hit me so hard. 

I need to figure out what my passion and purpose look like in the next chapter of my life, so "I am out with lanterns looking for myself," and, frankly, feeling more lost than ever. The ways I have defined myself in the past don't fit anymore, and I find myself in an uncomfortable stage of life where my old self is gone (or almost gone), but my new self isn't born yet. I don't like this place of lost identity. And I don't know how to step into what is next without knowing even the smallest clue of what that is. I know I will get through this as I have all the difficult things life has thrown at me so far, but I hope to find a better search tool than these tricky lanterns. 

I know I am by no means the first mom to experience this challenging transition from full-time mom to empty nester, so if you've been through it and actually found yourself--or maybe, rather, your *new* self--please share your secrets with me. If you've been through it (or are going through it) and haven't yet found yourself, please know you are not alone. I'm out here with lanterns searching for myself, too, and am happy to share with you whatever light I do have. 

Sitting with Vulnerability Unapologetically

I have noticed that I have been trying to run from vulnerability lately. In truth, I have been attempting to run from it all my life. It feels very uncomfortable and risky, and, frankly, I don't like the way it seems to manifest as a perceived loss of control. But in the last few years, I have done a lot of work with myself to figure out how to sit with my feelings and really feel them and how to find strength in my vulnerability and to accept and love myself as I am, so I've been surprised at how my old habits have been creeping back in and how unsettled I've been feeling in vulnerable moments recently. I feel myself wanting to run and hide from my own humanity, and I have finally started to ask myself why that should be the case. I don't have all the answers, but I am starting to piece together a few potential ideas. 

First of all, for many months there has been a situation in my life that has broken my heart in new and more painful ways than anything I've experienced previously, and those feelings have honestly just felt too difficult to sit with and too heavy to hold, so I have not allowed myself to do it to any real healing degree. And, I have felt like if I let any vulnerability in, even unrelated to that circumstance, the dam will break and I will be flooded and might actually drown. Instead, I have been keeping myself extremely busy and have basically been dissociating through my life, just trying to survive each day. This is a reasonable short-term coping strategy, but it is not a healthy way to live a life, and I feel it taking a toll on me. Anything that isn't fully faced and dealt with will just continue to be a problem, growing more toxic the longer it lingers. My increased agitation to my vulnerability is a cue that I need to go ahead and face it, which means I have to feel it, which seems like opening myself up to pain. Thus, the desire to run and hide. But, like a child who fears the monster under the bed, my fear of it will only continue to grow until I stop and shed some light on it. 

As I begin to sit with it, though, I'm realizing there is another thread running underneath. We humans are taught in a million ways to fear and try to flee our own humanity. We have learned to equate vulnerability with weakness and to therefore distrust anything that makes us feel vulnerable. In general, there seems to have been a trend of boys being taught not to allow themselves to feel feelings at all and certainly not to express them and for girls to be taught that they can feel them (at least some of them) but they must apologize for feeling and expressing them. We can even be discouraged from feeling good, happy feelings because they are just "too much" for the people around us. 

I spend a lot of time with teenagers, and I can tell you these patterns to deny or apologize for our humanity are fully developed by the time humans reach that stage of life. From very early ages and especially in the pre-teen and teen years, we learn even to be ashamed of and apologize for the physical attributes of our bodies that we have no control over, like our height or our melanin levels, constantly reminding ourselves and being reminded by others that we are not good enough the way we are. And I can confirm from experience and from interacting with many people that the patterns to deny and apologize for physical and emotional attributes generally carry right on over into adulthood. Perceived flaws of any kind are highly discouraged. 

It makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint, because way back in human history the vulnerable ones were the first to die. But the vulnerability I'm avoiding now isn't a matter of life and death, and I have to remind my brain of that fact frequently. I want to run and hide from it because it feels dangerous. And I want to apologize for things that warrant no apology because sometimes my humanity is inconvenient and uncomfortable to myself and to those around me. However, as I'm starting to dig in more to this desire to run from vulnerability, I am realizing that every time I hide and every time I apologize, I keep my brain thinking that vulnerability is bad and that my humanity is somehow wrong, and then I close myself off to a well-rounded and truly healthy human experience. I love all of Brené Brown's work, and I appreciate that she reminds us over and over that "vulnerability is not weakness" but rather an act of bravery and an instrument of change.

I'm not in any way advocating out-of-control behaviors (behaviors and feelings are different things anyway), but I am not going to keep apologizing for being human--neither for my body nor for my emotions. My body does so much for me every single day, and I need to treat it with respect and gratitude. I can take care of it in ways that support its health and well-being, but I do not need to act as if it is a burden to me (or to others), particularly the parts/attributes I was literally born with that can't be changed. Additionally, a whole range of emotions have been given to me to guide me and to help me regulate. They also need to be greeted with curiosity and gratitude. 

When we can sit with our humanity/vulnerability, as a companion rather than enemy, we can make the most of our human experience and grow into true maturity. This is difficult but important. And, as I'm learning, it's ongoing work that must be practiced regularly. I accept the challenge, and I will not apologize to myself or to others for feeling the way I feel or for existing inside a unique human body. I will instead invite vulnerability for a visit and sit with her long enough to see what she can teach me.

The slow path to peace

I live a very fast-paced life. Life with my kids--and all their activities--keeps me hopping. My work is generally a whirlwind that never stops while I'm on the clock. And most of the time, when I have a day off, I have close to a million adulty things I need to get done. But every once in a while, I will have a day off with nothing in particular that I need to check off my to-do list. (The adulty stuff never really goes away, but sometimes it's not so pressing.) On those days, I sometimes have a little bit of a panicky feeling. Or feelings of guilt. Or, on my darker days, feelings of not being enough. I am comfortable with the fast pace, in part because my personality is one of a mover, but also because it's what I'm used to and because it's what I've been taught makes a life important. I actually sometimes feel a little triggered to not have anything to do--as if I will somehow not be valuable or lovable on those days. After putting in lots of work on myself, I'm usually self-aware enough these days to realize when those thoughts are creeping in and threatening to take over, so I can have a little conversation with myself and not sink into a pit of despair. But it takes some effort to overcome the voices that have been playing in your head, dictating your worth, for so many years. 

Like most Americans, I have been conditioned to believe that my worth is tied to and actually dependent on my performance and productivity. We live in a do more, have more, be more culture that looks on rest as weakness and a slow pace as laziness. But as I'm starting to prioritize peace more in my life, I'm beginning to realize that performance and productivity are not the paths that lead to peace. Quite the opposite really. They are poor measures of a life well-lived and an even poorer measure of a person's value. In fact, there is plenty of research that indicates that high-stress, performance-based, go-go-go lives lead to a whole host of physical and mental illnesses that are not seen at nearly the same rates in cultures that prioritize rest and simple living. Rest is not weakness but power. And slowing down is not laziness but an invitation to intentionality. I am serious about taking care of my responsibilities, but I'm learning that just being is enough. Busyness is not a merit badge. There isn't a prize at the end of this short life for being the most productive human (and how would you measure it even if there was?!). There also isn't a prize for being the most peaceful human. But I know for sure which kind of human I'd rather be. I understand now that I have inherent value that isn't tied to my accomplishments...or lack thereof. So, I'm learning to take those slow days as the gifts they are. 

On those rare, beautiful, slow days, I'm allowing myself to go for long walks, which sometimes lead me to lovely unplanned conversations with neighbor friends I haven't seen in far too long, and read books that encourage and challenge and entertain me, and watch magical sunsets that assure me all is right with the world, and take naps that restore and rejuvenate me when the fast pace has been too much. I have slow coffee dates and lunch dates. I engage in unrushed conversations and meaningful moments with myself and others. I sit with my thoughts and try to untangle them. I write words and take pictures that are not tied to a paycheck. I play online Scrabble and Wordle, just because it's fun for me to arrange letters into words. And sometimes I get to the end of a slow day, and I have "nothing" to show for it except a peaceful spirit, and that's okay with me. I still have to remind myself that I have nothing to feel guilty about and that not accomplishing anything of note doesn't have anything to do with my value as a person, but I'm learning to truly relish the slow path to peace. 

It's Today!

When my youngest child was around three years old, he used to wander into my room in the pre-dawn hours and loudly and cheerfully make the same proclamation every morning in the most adorable little sing-songy voice: "It's today!" Even when the announcement was made at 4:00 in the morning, I would often find my sleep deprived self smiling at his enthusiasm for the new day (but still trying to encourage him to give sleep another chance).

As a person who struggles with anxiety, I find it lamentably easy to get caught up in the disappointments of yesterday and the fears of tomorrow. My mind will churn on these things unbidden for hours on end--creating more problems and fewer solutions as the thoughts continue to swirl. It is hard for me to stay focused on the present, and I frequently feel as if I have to fight for every moment of peace, which is actually exhausting. People who don't experience this kind of anxiety will often advise that I simply stop thinking about things that cause anxiety or suggest I just redirect my thoughts or that I make an effort to try to be positive--advice that makes perfect sense to their non-anxious brains. If you do experience true anxiety, you know it isn't that easy and that trying to stop those thoughts on demand can actually cause more anxiety. 

It is important to me to continue to pursue peace even when it's exhausting and even when it doesn't come naturally. I have a variety of tools at my disposal to help me not get sucked into the anxiety vortex and sometimes they work very well. Recently, I've been trying to combat anxiety by attempting to ground myself in the present, an effort that brought to mind the sweet toddler voice of my youngest child announcing the presence of a new day, saying, "It's today!" The memory makes me smile every time. For him, it was just pure enthusiasm and awe. For me, it is that, but it is also a catch phrase I'm using with myself to refocus my attention on the here and now. It's a reminder that this moment is the only one that matters and that I can set down the disappointments of the past and the fears of the future and simply be dazzled in whatever way possible by the magic of this present moment. And, I believe there absolutely is magic in this present moment, if I am willing to look for it. 

I am trying to teach myself that this day is everything and to experience only gratitude in the countless opportunities it holds for love and beauty and joy and growth. This day is magical and I don't want to miss it!

As a concrete reminder, I have taped an index card to my bathroom mirror with a mantra that reads: "It's today! Today is the very best day. It holds countless possibilities for joy and beauty and adventure and love and magic. It carries none of the disappointments of yesterday or fears of tomorrow. Today is my favorite, and I'm so very thankful to have the chance to live in it fully." 

Minds believe what we tell them, so I'm trying to be intentional with the words I use when speaking to and about myself. I want to be awed by this day. I want to be present in this moment. I will probably always struggle with anxiety, but I will not let it engulf me without a fight. My peace of mind is worth fighting for, so I will remind myself as many times as necessary to "be happy for this moment. This moment is your life." (Omar Khayyam)

It's today!

When Trees Speak

I was not built for cold weather, and I do not do well when temps fall below 65℉ approach freezing. So this week, as I have scraped ice off my windshield and watched big, fat, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky, I have tried to remind myself to be grateful for the unseasonably warm weather we had earlier this month and the lovely afternoon walks I took. As I looked back at my pictures from those walks--because, yes, I take pictures even when I'm just walking in my own neighborhood, past sights I've seen countless times--I noticed how many pictures of trees I had. But not just any trees. I mainly had pictures of twisted, gnarly, crazy trees, in a state of dormancy. It's not that I don't appreciate straight, lovely trees that reach right up to the sky according to the secret Tree Code that tells them that is just what they are supposed to do. It's just that the wonky trees were the most fascinating and photo-worthy, the most interesting to observe. I went in for closer looks and better camera shots and couldn't help but notice that, without exception, the most interesting trees were the ones which had most likely sustained some damage. Maybe they had been hit by lightning or had been shaped or broken by strong winds or had developed diseases or had received injuries at the hands of humans. The mangled trees all have difficult stories, and they are all over-comers. As trauma came upon them, they had to adjust. They had to give up the code that says what a tree is "supposed" to be and just go on growing the best they could under the circumstances. They found ways to heal themselves and to continue standing. And now, the trauma they once experienced is what makes them so beautiful. 

I understand what it's like to be one of these trees. I have always lived with internal and external rules that prescribe what I am "supposed" to be and what my life is "supposed" to look like. And, as a recovering people pleaser and perfectionist, I have tried very hard to live up to the sometimes impossible expectations coming from within and from without. I have grieved all the traumas that have twisted and scarred and broken me and made it impossible for me to live out the code I had in my head of what I thought I was "supposed" to be. BUT, I'm figuring out ways to heal myself, and I'm still standing. I'm continuing to grow the best I can under the circumstances, and it could be argued that I'm more interesting and beautiful now than I've ever been. 

When you get close to trees, they will whisper secrets to you if you are patient and quiet enough to listen. And what I learned from the trees is that there is no one way that trees--or humans--are "supposed" to be. The real code actually states to just keep growing no matter how many traumas you face. Just. Keep. Growing. If it's straight and tall, fine. But if it's twisted and gnarled and broken, that's okay too. 

A review of my year of happiness and joy

Hi there. Remember me? I used to have thoughts and write about them here, but it's been a minute since I've done either of those things. Here we are, a week into a new year--which is absolutely astounding to me--and I have finally decided to prioritize sitting down with my thoughts to see if I can unravel them enough to make any sense. I feel like I need to unpack the year we just left behind and begin exploring the year ahead. 

I began 2022 in a state of depression, after claiming "happiness" and "joy" as my words of the year. That didn't seem to bode well, and I spent some time feeling like a failure for not being able to step into what I believed the Universe had for me, which led to a deeper state of depression. I found the words hard to define and harder to capture. I believed these things would be found in a source outside myself but I could not seem to find where they were kept. And then another word came to me: alone. It didn't seem like a very happy word and was not one I wanted to focus on, but I decided to let the Universe have its way, so I embraced it. I began to understand that happiness and joy could not be manufactured outside of myself and that I was the only source for these things. I spent copious amounts of time alone with my thoughts and got really comfortable with being my own best friend. A couple of months into 2022 the fog began to lift and I started to feel really good about who I was as a person, which helped me show up better in every area of my life, which led to more joy in every area of my life. I realized I didn't need someone else to validate me and that the treasure trove of happiness and joy had existed inside of me all along and that there was no need to look for it elsewhere. And even if every day didn't feel particularly happy, a new sense of contentment came over me and joy began to grow in my heart. It became easier to see the beauty and magic in each day, and that felt a lot like happiness. 

I wish that was the end of the story because it does make a very tidy and uplifting story: depressed girl finds herself and lives happily ever after. But that isn't the end of the story. It makes for pleasant reading, but "happily ever after" isn't really a thing. And I am trying very hard to be true to my whole story--not just the parts that are ready-made for an Instagram post. I don't want to hide from the difficult chapters of my story or pretend they don't exist. 

Depression settled in for me again in the fall, when my baby moved overseas to live with his dad. This was a decision he made for himself, and I absolutely feel that giving him this autonomy was and is the right thing to do. I am pleased that he seems happy and is having so many amazing experiences. I would never want to take those things away from him. But I'll be real honest: not getting to regularly see his mischievous smile or hear his infectious laugh or give him a hug before bed or listen to his engaging stories--both real and imagined--or relish his banter with his brothers or share the big and little life experiences with him has felt like a slow suffocation to me. And because our situation is so unique, there is no one with whom I can share this grief. In general, people are kind, which I appreciate so much, but I have not met anyone who has had an experience even remotely close to mine or who can offer any consolation. And the me that became my best friend early in the year sometimes seems to have lost the strength to support me under this new and heartbreaking weight that I was in no way prepared for, even though I knew it was coming for months before it became a reality. 

Overall, I do think 2022 truly was a year of happiness and joy. I stood in awe of countless breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. I made new friends and deepened friendships I already had. I met a unicorn and opened my heart to new possibilities. I spent quality time with the people who matter most to me and spent less time with people and situations that felt toxic. I deeply appreciated the beauty of nature, the taste of delicious food and drink, the blessing of enriching conversations. I watched my kids do the things they love, and I put energy into doing things I love as well. I tried to live in the moment and to control the things I can control and let go of the rest. I danced. I sang. I laughed. I smiled. And I am so very thankful for all of it! 

But I have learned that a happy life does not always feel happy. Sometimes it's feels like screaming profanities at the top of your lungs when no one else is around. And sometimes it feels like ugly crying in your shower until you can hardly stand. And sometimes it feels like dissociating from everyone and everything and feeling numb just to get through the day. These moments are real and are as much a part of my year of happiness and joy as any of the things previously mentioned. Without these moments, I might not even have recognized the happiness that I experienced in the other moments. 

Some of you will read this and will worry about me or feel sorry for me. Please don't. I'm okay. Really. I am still able to function every day. I am able to take care of my responsibilities and to to do that well. I am still able to smile and laugh and dance and sing and find beauty and magic in the world around me. I am able to enjoy the company of others and even be a comfort to friends that are dealing with their own traumas. Joy still resides in my broken heart, and even on my dark days, I still believe in and look for sunshine. And I think that's what happiness truly is: not a lack of brokenness, but finding joy even in the midst of it.

My words for 2023 are "brave" and "peace," and I'm eager to see how they will play out for me. At first I thought it was strange that those were the two words that came to me because they seem a bit contradictory. Being brave often doesn't feel peaceful. It pushes you out of your comfort zone and makes you face your fears, and that is always uncomfortable. But the act of being brave leads to peace if you can see it through. I will be leaning in to acts of bravery this year, even if they seem small, and I will be pursuing peace like it is my full time job. I will probably also neglect to be brave or choose peace from time to time, but I will not beat myself up for that. And that will be its own act of bravery that leads to peace.

To anyone reading this, thank you for letting me be real and vulnerable. I wish you all the best this year has to offer. I hope you find happiness and joy even in your brokenness and that you find the courage to be brave in your pursuit of peace this year. I would love to know if you have your own word/words for the year so I can cheer you on as you try to manifest them in your life. 

Ruins

My old pal Wanderlust has been whispering softly to me lately. The desire to go somewhere--anywhere--is tugging at my heart. I'm not really in a position to take a trip at the moment, but the nostalgia for travel is sometimes very intense. It is one of the many things I miss about my old life--a life in which part of my identity was wrapped up in being a traveler, a life that now seems very far away and almost entirely out of reach. 

There is a certain wistfulness in that statement, but I don't really feel sad. I am content. I understand that I'm just in a different stage of life, and that is okay. This stage is a time to reflect on all the previous travels I have had and to enjoy all the beautiful memories made. I'm so thankful for everywhere I have been and the ways in which I have been shaped by my experiences all over the world and for the pictures that pop up to remind me of all the magical places my journey has taken me. Maybe right now, in lieu of actual travel, I take a longer glance at the photos that come up in my social media memories, and maybe instead of scrolling on by, I click to view the categorized albums Google curates for me, many of which are called "Similar Shots" and might contain photos of just beaches or just mountains or just ruins. Lovely reminders of lovely times when travel was a reality instead of a dream.

It's that last category that has given me pause this week and caused some serious reflection. I've been asking myself, "Why do I have so many pictures of ruins that span decades and countries and continents? Why do I, and so many others, flock to these broken down places? Why are they so mysterious and beautiful and irresistible? I have pictures of castle ruins and fort ruins and prison ruins and city ruins. Ruins of places of government and religion and entertainment and completely unidentified purposes. Ruins of societies that are long gone and live more in imagination than reality. Ruins that draw a larger crowd in their dilapidated states than they ever did when the structures were in their prime. 

Webster's dictionary defines a ruin as "the remains of something destroyed." And, yet, when you look at these ruins all over the world, some of them thousands of years old, what you mainly see is something that has withstood whatever trauma came its way. You see something almost destroyed, but not quite. Enough of it remains to be lovely and interesting and worthy of time and attention. It is the very brokenness that makes it beautiful. It has character. It has intrigue. It has a story. It has stood the tests of time, and there is an instant respect for anything that has done that. True, it is not what it once was, and it never will be that again. It is something else entirely. But still absolutely lovely in a completely different way, possibly even more appealing in its ruin than it was in its new, whole, and original state. It takes time for the value of the ruins to be realized, of course. I imagine there were curmudgeonly old Romans and Greeks and Mayans who kept looking over at the the structures that had ceased being useful and saying, "That thing is such an eyesore. I don't know why they don't just tear it down." Only later did most people agree this mess was really a treasure. 

If I'm being honest, it's sometimes easy for me to slip into a mindset prone to thinking of myself as a ruin as Webster defines it--just the remains of something that has been destroyed. A hollowed out shell that no longer serves a specific purpose or is no longer beautiful or no longer has value. But my camera roll tells quite a different story. The ruins of the world are not unloved. They are not unwanted or devalued or unappreciated. They are certainly not unlovely. They are beautiful in spite of their brokenness and even often because of it. Withstanding whatever life throws at you is truly a wonder. Being almost destroyed but not fully destroyed is a powerful story to tell. After all, there are two parts to the definition: there is what was destroyed and there is what remains. It matters which part of the definition you give more weight to. Identities may change, but there is beauty in all of it, and some of that beauty can't even be fully realized until you see what remains. Yes, my life is a ruin. Parts of it have been destroyed and will never be restored. Oh, but the parts that remain! They tell a story, and they are beautiful. It has taken (is taking) time for me to see that. But what I understand at this point is that I have a choice every day. I can focus on what has been destroyed or what remains. I don't always choose wisely, but it is becoming easier and easier to see the beauty in my ruins.