Rain but no rainbow

There is a pretty good chance this post may make some people uncomfortable because it's real and raw and doesn't really have a happy ending or a moral, and stories like that aren't everyone's cup of tea. There is also a chance that some people will be comforted by an untidy story that they might be able to relate to. And some people, coming upon this blog by chance, may see that it's called "Chasing Rainbows" and think it is all about positive experiences. It isn't, though I certainly do try to find the rainbows in the midst of life's storms most of the time. To see a rainbow, the sun will be behind you and the rain will be in front of you. You will not see the rainbow while looking toward the sunny part of the sky. In fact, the best rainbows will be seen when you face the darkest part of the sky. And that's what this blog is about: facing the darkness and finding the light and encouraging others to do the same. But not this particular post. 

I'm not going to candy coat it: Life has been hitting extra hard the last few months. It's not one thing, but it is one thing after another, and the pile feels pretty crushing at the moment. I have been swinging daily between anxiety, which says, "Everything matters a lot," and depression, which says, "Nothing matters at all," and PTSD, which says, "The things that used to matter most, still matter most." I'm not writing this from the other side of it like I often do, when I've discovered the lesson and am ready to implement the growth. I'm just in it. Right now, I don't see the rainbow or the sun or anything other than dark thunderclouds. The storm is too all-consuming, and new storms keep rolling in. There is not yet any light in the sky with which to make a rainbow. Today is better than yesterday--which is why I have even found the motivation to open my computer to try to string words together with the hope of unraveling some of the tangles of my mind--but the skies are still very gray. I am staring at the darkest place in the sky, wishing I could see the rainbow, and all it is doing is staring right back at me and continuing to spit in my face.

I feel a bit like Lt. Dan in "Forrest Gump" when he shakes his fist at the sky and challenges the storm to a showdown. I'm more of a tears person than a fist person, though. I tend to experience my emotions (all of them) with tears, and the tears have been pretty free flowing in the last few months, despite whatever happy images you may have seen of me on social media. (And, of course, life is not ever all bad, so those images are real, but they don't feel like the complete story of me.) I have experienced tears of sadness, hurt, anxiety, frustration, anger, fear, stress, regret, shame, guilt, resentment, helplessness, hopelessness, self-pity, compassion, concern, and uncertainty. And there have also been tears of pseudo-resignation as my higher self works to just accept things as they are. But, honestly, these have not been tears of genuine resignation, because in my heart I don't really want to quit fighting and raging at the things Life is handing out at the moment. So much of it feels unfair. So much of it feels like it is out of my control. So much of it feels unfixable. And I'm not yet ready to look for the silver lining or even to pretend like one exists. 

So here I am raging at the storm, hoping I might come out of it at some point in a peaceful state like Lt. Dan did, but not fully ready to accept the lessons (and losses) it has for me, because what I really want is for things to be the way they were before the storms hit. I want a season with calm water, with sunny skies, with time to just float and not feel like I am having to constantly bail water or exhaust myself with trying to keep the boat from capsizing. But that is definitely not the season I'm in, and it seems like a lie to pretend otherwise. 

So, yeah, no happy ending. But you can't say I didn't warn you. As much as I wish it was otherwise, not every storm comes with a rainbow. And sometimes another storm hits before you can recover from the last one. That's reality. And that's where I am. 

(I do believe the sun will come out again eventually and that rainbows are still possible. But that magic is clearly for a different time, which I could have waited for and written about, but the need to be authentically me in this moment got the best of me.)

Running together

Early this morning, my two oldest boys and I went for a run together. But, ironically, we didn't run together at all. We all had different needs, agendas, and skills. One boy was following a specific training program that required him to maintain a certain lowish heart rate for the duration of the run, which dictated he would move at a slower pace. One boy essentially just wanted to get it over with and so was trying to run the route as quickly as possible. And I took my own path and moved at my own pace, which was something between the other two. We all ran about two miles, in roughly the same location, but one finished in under 13 minutes, one took about 20-25 minutes, and one completed the run in 34 minutes. Before we parted ways and as we were reunited, we gave words of encouragement and support, and we were all proud of ourselves and each other. And we all agreed that the whole point of going together was accountability. None of us had really wanted to get up and go running at 6:00 on a Saturday morning. I think we all admitted to formulating texts to the group in our minds to bow out before going ahead and getting out of bed because we didn't want to appear weak or like we were backing out on our agreement. Knowing others were doing the hard work to get up and to go running was good motivation to just do it.

I actually love that we were all doing the same thing--and we were doing it togetherish--but we were all doing it our own way. And each way was worth celebrating. The whole experience got me thinking about how every person is traveling through life togetherish, sort of moving in the same direction, which is forward. But we will not all have the same outcomes. Some will run through it faster. Some will move deliberately slower. Some will have more natural skill. And some will have to work a bit harder to develop the skills they need just to get through it. None of us are doing it incorrectly, though if we measure everyone else by our own skills or agendas or needs we might have the impression that some people are getting ahead or some people are falling behind. Everyone is just running their own race, and all we need to do is be supportive and encouraging. We need to celebrate all the victories, because the one thing we all have in common is that getting through it is hard for each person in their own way. We can allow the way we show up to encourage and motivate others, even when we are facing our own struggles. We can run separately but still be in it together.

Big emotions during family game night

I am embarrassed to say that last night during family game night I became unreasonably annoyed at how the games were going for me, and I decided I needed to take myself out of the last game (and out of the room) in order to preserve my peace and in order not to be tempted to say or do things that would be hurtful to my family. I think this was the right move, even though I felt pretty horrible because that is not the person I want to be...and not the person I usually am. I don't want to be a quitter. I don't want to give that kind of example to my kids of how to handle uncomfortable/unpleasant situations. I don't want to sacrifice my peace FOR A GAME. It felt like a truly ugly version of me that I wish didn't exist. I am pursuing peace like its my full time job, but, alas, I am a human, and no matter how much work I've done on myself, there are still triggers that can make the process feel like one step forward, two steps back. 

After beating myself up for a while, I decided to dig deeper and see what was actually going on. It didn't seem fathomable that I would be that upset over games of chance that I have played without incident thousands of times. And that's when I began to realize that there are some things going in my life that truly do have a significant emotional impact that I have been feeling like I need to push aside, that I need to become (or give the impression of becoming) indifferent about since there doesn't seem to be a clear resolution for them. I feel like my expression of those emotions needs to be stifled for a variety of reasons. Earlier in the evening, my sweet husband had asked me if I was doing okay with regard to something that he knew was having a big emotional impact on me, and I even said to him, "I'm just trying to ignore that."

But here's the deal about things that have a big emotional impact: they don't go away just because we don't want to face them. The emotions will find their outlet. Maybe while you sit in traffic. Maybe in the slow checkout line at the grocery store. Or maybe on family game night. And then the outsized reaction will seem ridiculous (but maybe safer to express). But those reactions are begging us to take a closer look and see what's really going on. For me, the breaking point was playing games where I was doing everything right and trying to move forward only to have the game itself and the other players block my progress. And that happens in life as well. I have often felt like I'm doing all the "right" things and still not being able to make the progress I want to make, still not being able to "win." And the way the games made me feel tapped in to how life makes me feel sometimes. It can feel so unfair and demotivating. It can feel like there are too many things I can't control, even though I am truly doing the best I can. It can feel like there is no way to win. 

My big emotions weren't really tied to the games at all. They were related to other things going on in my life and they came out in the games because I haven't been giving them proper expression elsewhere. Instead of trying to see them and understand them and heal them, I've just been trying to ignore them, trying to wish them away, and trying to convince myself that I'm okay when I really am not. Anger is a guide. It shows us what really matters to us. Our work is to figure out what the anger is telling us and to find the proper way to approach the other big emotions it is escorting. I'm thankful my family had grace for me last night. And I'm thankful family game night has given me a new level of motivation to sit with and try to resolve the underlying issues. 

If you are also experiencing seemingly unreasonable instances of anger and frustration in the "small" areas of your life,  I encourage you to ask yourself what is really behind it and then do the work to address the underlying issue, even if it is something you would rather ignore. The emotions won't be silenced. They will just find different outlets for expression.

Content in the messiness

I was having a text conversation with a friend this week about eating spicy foods. He was telling me about how much he was enjoying his spicy dinner, even though it was kind of setting him on fire and was making him sweat profusely. And then he said something so profound, I knew I was going to have to write about it. He said, "I'm a mess but very content!"

I am a long-time (but recovering!) perfectionist. I spent years trying to avoid physical and mental messy, dirty, ugly, hard, unseemly situations (but not really succeeding). I have worried about appearances and expended unfathomable energy trying to fight against messiness--all while being a complete hot mess on the inside. It was a messiness I couldn't outrun or hide from. It was a messiness I ultimately had to just face head-on and make peace with. And when I learned to be content in my messiness, I found that I started enjoying the messy life I've been given so much more. 

Life is messy. That is a fact. And no one escapes it. Each individual's mess may look a little different, but rest assured, we all have messy lives. The secret, I think is in my friend's message. We must find a way to embrace the mess that is inevitable and find contentment and even enjoyment there. Not that we shouldn't look for ways to eventually wash away the sweat and clean up some of the messes. But we also don't need to avoid or ignore the mess or wait for everything to be perfect before we start enjoying the experience. The mess may simply be a side effect of a life well-lived or a stepping stone to a source of true joy and happiness. I don't want to miss out on enjoying this amazing, spicy life because I'm afraid of being a mess. 

No life without death

Imagine:

The wind blows--maybe gently or maybe violently--enough to shake a seed free from it's parent plant, which may be a small, insignificant weed or a majestic, towering tree. Depending on the weight of that seed, it either sails along on the breeze until the wind loses its breath and sets it down in some far-flung location, or it plummets swiftly to the hard earth with a thud. It may sit on the ground neglected for years. Or it may be snapped up by the sharp, unforgiving beak of a passing bird and deposited far away and left bruised. Eventually, though, it sinks into the dirt, moving further and further into the darkness. It is isolated and apparently cut off completely from the world it once knew. It settles into the isolation and seems to disappear completely. But above the surface of that never ending night, the sun keeps coming up every day. Water from unknown sources finds its way to the seed and offers whatever nourishment it can give. And after the appropriate amount of time, something strange begins to happen inside the seed. Something from within reaches for the light that isn't even visible. Some instinct demands that it take in the water as it flows all around. The seed does not remain the same. In fact, it is ultimately destroyed. Its shell is shattered, and it can no longer even be called a seed. But in its place a new, beautiful, life-giving entity emerges. And when it has left the darkness behind for good, it continues to move toward the light, becoming a more beautiful, more perfect version of what it was all along. 

It's interesting that the process of growth and life can feel so much like death and destruction. It's fascinating that something so beautiful can come from such difficult circumstances. Truly, it is the only way. The seed was always meant to become something amazing. But it never could have done so without the process that seemed like death. 

As it is with plants, so it is with people. Let us not resist the process that makes us who we are meant to be, even if it feels like death at times. And when we find ourselves buried in the darkness, let us not be overwhelmed by fear. Rather, let us keep reaching for those things and people who nourish us. Parts of us will surely be destroyed in the process, but that is okay. That's how growth works. The beautiful, life-giving parts of us will remain, and that is our gift to the world. 

The Puzzle of Life

Jigsaw puzzles have always given me anxiety. Seriously, just thinking about doing a puzzle can increase my heart rate and cause my breathing to become shallow. I'm okay with the border pieces because they kind of make sense. But seeing all the other pieces in a jumbled, unorganized pile on the table, with nothing but trial and error to act as a starting place for fitting them together, makes me very uncomfortable. The beautiful, alluring picture on the box has been shattered, and the individual pieces do not much resemble it. Intellectually, I know all those pieces make up the whole picture and that they can be put together to create it. But emotionally, it has always felt overwhelming to try to recreate the picture, knowing that, at best, it will only ever be an imperfect replica when it is completed--not smooth and glossy like the one on the box, but coarse and a little fuzzy. And then, what if a piece turns up missing and you can never even have the satisfaction of completion?! Even in the best case, you will spend hours and hours on this thing that you will just turn around and destroy within moments and sweep back into the box. It seems silly when I write it down, but I have literally spent my whole life avoiding puzzles because these are the feelings they stir up for me.

This week, my ten-year-old came across some 1000-piece puzzles in our game cabinet (that were not purchased by me but somehow found their way into our house) and asked if I wanted to do one with him. In fact, I did not want to. But, I wanted to spend time with him, and I wanted to encourage activities that didn't involve a screen, so I said, "Sure." Predictably, because it is the way I have subconsciously conditioned my mind to think about puzzles, I started to feel the stirrings of anxiety as soon as the pieces tumbled out of the box. However, because I have been on a journey of self-discovery and personal growth, I was able to stop my anxious thoughts and ask some questions:  Why should I have such strong feelings about a puzzle--something that is supposed to be a pleasant past time? Where are these feelings coming from, and how can I turn them around? Can I push through them and actually enjoy the experience?

It was then that I realized a challenging analogy. This isn't just the way I have thought about puzzles: it has all too often been the way I have been in the habit of thinking about life. The picture of what life is supposed to be is beautiful, but the reality of life is a jumble of chaos with no clearly laid out path forward. And I have been guilty of approaching life with anxiety that has kept me, in more cases than I'd like to admit, from even beginning to really live. Creating order out of the chaos has felt overwhelming and uncomfortable, and I have too often avoided it altogether. 

Before the border pieces were even all in place, my ten-year-old lost interest in the puzzle and went off to do other things (mostly things that involved screens). I was tempted to slide the pieces right back into the box and consider myself lucky for having gotten out of having to do the puzzle. But the revealed analogy wouldn't stop playing in my head, and I felt I had no choice but to take on the challenge to prove to myself that anxiety wasn't going to stop me from doing hard things and that I had the power to turn something that has felt unpleasant to me in the past into something enjoyable. 

I was delighted to find out that this particular puzzle is broken down into quadrants--A, B, C, and D--and that each piece is labeled with the letter of the quadrant it fits in. This felt manageable to me. With relief I thought, "I don't have to work on the whole puzzle; I can just work on quadrant C." And the analogy grew in perspective. Sometimes life is just a pile of chaos, it's true, but oftener than not, there are clues about where the pieces go, even though the individual pieces still don't resemble the whole picture. It still takes a lot of trial and error to get things in the right place, but there may be more direction than we perceive on first glance. For example, there are a whole lot of things in my life that fit in the "Teacher" quadrant. Because teaching is one of my strengths, it keeps cropping up in different places in my life, fitting together with the other pieces in that quadrant to fulfill that part of my life's purpose. And when I take the time to fit those pieces together--even when it takes a long time and it feels uncomfortable and I inadvertently put several pieces in the wrong spot and have to try again--it feels really good to see the picture of what my life is about starting to develop.

I have not yet finished the puzzle my son and I started. But I have completed quadrant C, and I feel very proud of myself for that accomplishment. I feel prouder still that I was able to recognize thought patterns that have kept me stuck for much of my life and for being able to turn them around. With regard to the puzzle (and life), I am finding calm instead of frustration in creating order out of chaos. And I feel determined to complete it, even if I have to do it on my own. The more pieces I fit into place, the easier it becomes, making my initial anxiety seem ridiculous. Anxiety is rarely rational, but it is real. Thankfully, it can be overcome. 

One day the puzzle will be completed and then it will be broken down and put back in the box. But that's okay. I will not regret the time and effort spent on it. The puzzle was never meant to be permanent. The purpose of doing the puzzle was to find peace, enjoyment, and fulfillment along the way to creating a beautiful--though imperfect--picture.