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.

Craft

If you know me at all, you know I truly love my job (most days). One of the things I love is the mission and values this company espouses and how well they line up with my personal mission and values of putting people first and making meaningful connections. I also love that Starbucks invests heavily in the training and continuing growth of its employees. To that end, this month the company has been providing special training sessions for all levels of employees across all of its stores, the theme of which has been "craft." I have been both a trainer and a trainee in various sessions and have found the topics insightful not only for work, but also for life. 

Many dictionaries define "craft" as "skill," but Starbucks expands the definition to mesh skill, care, and beauty. To me, this is a more accurate definition. The idea is that true craft is not just a technical skill, like being able to make a decent latte. True craft must involve the heart. And when that happens, beauty is created. According to all training materials I've ever seen, the company believes "craft" has much less to do with the act of coffee making than the ability to connect with people. The heartbeat of what I do every day--both professionally and personally--is human connection. This is my craft. And I want to make sure I hone my craft by practicing bringing skill, care, and beauty to every interaction I have with others. Sometimes this is difficult, but craft is not really ever something you are born with; it is something you have to develop. It's something you become good at through practice. So, if I want to see my craft perfected, I must be willing to put in the effort. I will not always get it right, but I will not give up trying. 

The parts of the training I've been involved in this month have had a particular focus on leadership and coaching. In the class I attended this week, we were asked to think of and share examples from our personal lives of coaching as "craft." I immediately thought of something to share. The football coaches at my oldest son's school hosted a football camp for moms of players last weekend. The head coach was the first to speak to us when we arrived. This man has Parkinson's, which causes his speech to be delayed, but his message came out clear. He stepped up to the front of the room, slowly and deliberately proclaimed the fact of his disease, and then said this: "This does not in any way affect my ability to coach your kids, and it certainly does not affect my ability to love your kids." This is a person who understands his limitations and owns them but who does not let those limitations keep him from his craft. With skill, care, and beauty his craft is accomplished daily. He obviously loves the game of football, but his craft is not simply teaching kids how to play or win the game, though he has the skills to do that and that is the job he was hired to do. Because he truly cares, his craft is made beautiful in the lives he touches year after year and through a ripple effect on other lives. His craft is not really about football, just as my craft is not really about coffee. Like this coach who invests his whole heart into the kids in his football program, the aim of my life is this: to own my limitations, but to not be limited by them, bringing skill, care, and beauty to every interaction I have with every person, thus perfecting my craft, both on and off the clock. 

What's your craft?

Getting comfortable with the woman in the mirror

Do you ever stand completely naked in front of a mirror and examine your body with curiosity and wonder? Do you immediately avert your eyes in order to avoid your self-criticism? Do you feel uncomfortable that I just wrote "naked" and "mirror" in the same sentence? 

Unfortunately, we have all been taught to believe that our bodies are inadequate, that they don't measure up to some arbitrary, unrealistic societal standard. We are quick to see our multitude of flaws but very slow to appreciate all the ways that our bodies show up for us every single day and all the unique and glorious beauty they possess. We are occasionally motivated by what the mirror reveals to make positive changes in our lifestyles, but more often, we are simply shamed into putting our clothes on as quickly as possible and hoping no one else will notice our flaws. 

Here's another question: Do you ever look deeply into your own mind and try to examine your thoughts and feelings with curiosity and wonder? Do you look at your naked soul and ask who you really are or what you really need? Or do you immediately avert your eyes, trying not to see who is really there, trying not to know that person, trying to hide your true self from yourself and the world around you because you are so afraid you will be rejected? 

We have a tendency to zealously fill up all the moments of our days with busyness and distractions so we don't have the time or space to examine ourselves. We hold up the distorted, funhouse mirror of social media and measure ourselves against photoshopped (literally and figuratively) versions of people we don't even really respect telling us we are only okay if we think or feel or look certain ways. We are quick to dismiss or ignore our thoughts and feelings, especially the ones that don't line up nicely with arbitrary societal standards. We judge ourselves harshly and refuse to really get to know ourselves because it is kind of an uncomfortable process. And we hide ourselves away, never really knowing ourselves and not allowing anyone else to know us either. 

I have found both of these examinations very difficult in the past. I have shamed my own body and worse, I have shamed my own mind. But recently, I'm getting comfortable staring in the mirror. I'm allowing myself to sit there with myself--physically and emotionally--for as long as I need to to get comfortable with what I see, with what I feel, with who I am. I'm using the feedback not to be critical of myself but to try to know myself, to try to make improvements where I deem necessary, and to see the beauty that has been there all along.

I haven't mastered self-love or self-knowledge by any stretch of the imagination, but I do know it starts and ends in the mirror. It is only my opinion of myself that matters, and my job is to know myself intimately and love myself unconditionally. Someone else can tell me I'm physically beautiful all day long, but it will never be true until I believe it about myself. Likewise, someone else can judge my thoughts and feelings as irrational or untrue, but if I've taken the time to get familiar with myself, I will believe the truth that comes from within and not the lies that come from without. Of course, there are things I won't like, but I don't need to hide from those things. I can always choose to make whatever changes seem appropriate. But I can also choose to appreciate the parts of my mind and body that make me uniquely beautiful just as they are. However, I can only do that if I first get comfortable closely examining my stripped down self. 

Beautifully Broken

I took a walk on the beach yesterday. And, as always, as soon as my feet hit the sand, I turned into a treasure hunter, my eyes scanning the sand and coastline searching for interesting creatures or shells or even bizarre bits of trash. I know myself well enough to know I want to collect every shell or bit of coral I come across because they are all so lovely, so I long ago put limits on myself to keep the collection manageable: only fully intact or truly unique treasures that I can carry in my hands or pockets, which will then be further scrutinized and filtered before I pack up my bag to head home. The beach I am visiting at the moment doesn't have many shells, but yesterday there were tons of sand dollars littering the beach...or, more accurately, sand half-dollars. Every one I came across was broken. Ignoring my own beach combing rules, I couldn't help picking them up. As I continued to walk and think and pick up as many severed sand dollars as my hands would hold, I wondered why. Why was I drawn to these broken things that so many other beachgoers had passed up? And then like a bigger-than-expected wave, it hit me: they reminded me of me. They were broken, yes, but still surprisingly beautiful. And because they were broken, I could see the intricacies of the structure inside, which was also beautiful in its own right. The stories of how they came to be on this beach tumbled out in the palm of my hand--tossed by unpredictable yet consistent waves, pecked apart by birds, trampled on or completely ignored by other beachcombers because they were not perfect or whole. The sand dollars' stories reminded me of my own. I would normally have been one to walk on by, but my own beautiful brokenness allowed me to see the beauty in these objects whose very name implies value. As I thought about it more, I realized that even if I were to find a fully intact sand dollar, it would not be perfect. The edges would be jagged, the surface rough. The only perfect sand dollars are the ones that are manufactured and show up in a souvenir shop. It made me think about all the perfectly curated social media pages that aren't real or authentic but are meant to make a life look put together and flawless. Though I have often been tempted to pick up every sand dollar I've come across on the beach, I have never been tempted to buy a manufactured one. Fabricated sand dollars--and lives--are never interesting to me because I am repelled by fake things. I'll take real and authentic over fake every single time. 

There's no doubt I am broken. But I'm no less beautiful, and my story doesn't matter less. If anything, it matters more. It's real and authentic, and it allows me to see the beauty in the other broken ones around me. I never saw one intact sand dollar on the beach yesterday, but I saw scores of beautifully broken ones. Chances are good that if you're a human (or a sand dollar) you are living a broken life. Getting to where you are now has been hard, and lots of people have not or will not see your beauty. But trust me when I tell you that doesn't make you any less stunning. I see the beauty in your brokenness, and I intend to fill my life with people who can see the beauty in mine.

                  

Healing Hurts...But It's Worth It

A good friend of mine posted a beautiful bit of wisdom on Instagram about the pain of healing, and it struck a deep, resonating chord with me, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. He talked about how painful physical therapy is for a person trying to recover from an injury, but how the experts in that field know just how much pressure to put and just how hard to push to ensure that the damaged and weakened body part becomes functional and strong again. His post was talking about how stoic philosophy can work in similar ways, touching us in ways that may feel uncomfortable at first, but that eventually lead to our healing. The truth of it met me where I was. 

But as I pondered the physical therapy analogy, my mind snapped to a few years ago when I obliterated my ACL and tore my meniscus to shreds, and I realized it might also be experiences, and not just philosophies, that hit those pressure points to make us stronger. I was pleased to recognize that my knee injury still had lessons to teach me even after all this time. The moment of the injury was shocking and painful, but honestly, that pain was nothing compared to the surgery and months of physical therapy I had to endure to get back to the point of normal functionality. I can't tell you how many times I sat on the therapy table with tears streaming down my face because what the therapist was asking me to do was truly excruciating. Some days I wanted to quit. Some days I wanted to feel sorry for myself. My mind wanted to say, "I CAN'T do this. And, even if I could, I'm not at all sure I WANT to. The pain is just too much." But then the therapist would ask me to do just one more rep, and I would wipe away the tears and do it because ultimately I wanted to be stronger, and I knew the only way to the other side of the pain was through it. 

Hiking at Machu Picchu was the particular goal I had in mind as I endured those torture sessions, and I didn't want my lack of effort months before a trip that was already booked to hinder me from experiencing everything amazing that destination promised. So, I cried and I cussed and I called my therapist a sadist, but I did what was asked of me. I didn't have to put in the work, of course. I could have quit at any time. But I knew there was something beautiful waiting for me on the other side of it. I sometimes didn't know if I would reach that goal, especially early on in my therapy. But I kept working and celebrating the little victories along the way. Nine months later, I was fully rewarded for my efforts when I traversed the difficult landscape of Machu Picchu and saw with my own eyes the awe-inspiring dream destination I had fallen in love with on the pages of National Geographic when I was a child. It was even more awe-inspiring to realize I had been carried there on a knee that had once been barely functional. The healing process was absolute hell, but the view from the mountain was worth every minute. 

I am currently in another season of healing. But this time it isn't a physical injury I'm recovering from. It doesn't matter. The process is the same. I have often sat on the edge of my bed with tears running down my face saying to myself, "I CAN'T do this. And even if I could, I'm not sure I WANT to. The pain is just too much." I'm sometimes tempted to just give up and wallow in self-pity. But then, from somewhere deep inside me, a little voice says, "Go ahead and see if you can get through just one more day. See if you can get just a little bit stronger." So, I wipe away the tears and lean into that pain so that I can come out on the other side and enjoy the mountaintop experience. This mountain, like Machu Picchu, isn't a place you just accidently arrive. It requires steady effort, determination, philosophies, and experiences that push and prod the tender places. I could certainly quit any time, but I would miss out on the growth and strengthening that leads to the awe-inspiring destination. No doubt: healing hurts. But coming out on the other side is definitely worth the effort put in.

Inspiration

Rainbows have always been the embodiment of hope, beauty, and magic for me. They are common enough that I don't feel silly looking for them when the conditions are just right but rare enough that, when I do see one, it never fails to stop me in my tracks and fill me with awe and wonder and gratitude. 

A few years ago, while traveling in New Zealand, which was the last stop on an epic, year-long around-the-world trip, I carried many bittersweet feelings with me. And literally every time I moved from one location to another within the country, a rainbow spread across the sky--an exclamation point on that particular part of the journey and a foreshadowing of the beautiful things still unseen. I was aware enough of what was happening to make a note in my journal of an idea worth exploring for my own personal growth: the concept of chasing rainbows. I even had a fleeting thought to create a blog with that name. 

But life got in the way, and the blog was never begun, even though a small piece of paper with the words "Chasing Rainbows" has been sitting on the cabinet beside my laptop all this time. Also during that time, personal growth has been an intense but rather quiet obsession of mine. I have been trying to figure out the things of life worth pursuing and, for me at least, the answer seems to be hope, beauty, and magical moments--the stuff of rainbows. 

I didn't fully appreciate until recently, though, that I hadn't been through enough storms to write a blog about chasing rainbows. Because that's the thing about rainbows: you see them when the sun starts to shine, but they only really ever come after the storm. And the darker the clouds, the brighter the rainbow. Life has given me the opportunity to endure some pretty intense storms in the last year, and I think I can finally truly appreciate the other side of what makes rainbows so special. The sun is starting to shine for me, and it's finally time to move those words "Chasing Rainbows" off of the paper and onto the Internet.

This blog is for me--a reminder of some of the things that have brought me through my own storms and an encouragement in the daily pursuit of those things that provide hope, beauty, and everyday magical moments. But even though I'm posting only for myself, I have come to realize that everyone is walking through their own storm, and maybe someone else needs this space, too. There are plenty of outlets in the world that keep us trapped under the dark clouds but few pointing us to the rainbows. This is a place to seek and find rainbows, and I'd be happy for you to join me on my journey.