Today is the darkest day

Today is the Winter Solstice, also known by some as "the shortest day of the year" because it is the day with the least amount of sunlight. But ask anyone in a mentally dark place, and they will tell you the "darkest day" feels anything but short. Often, it isn't limited to a 24-hour period of time. And sometimes it can even feel as if it will be neverending. 

The holidays are notorious for ushering in some of the darkest days for many people, despite (and possibly because of) the cultural directives for jolliness. But, of course, the "darkest day" can happen any time. If you're living that "darkest day" right now, I really want you to know that I see you and that I care about you. Your struggle is real, and I know it feels all-consuming. The cultural expectations for being merry at this time of year are ridiculous and unfair, and it's okay if you aren't feeling merry or jolly or full of joy.

Here's the other message I want to share with you: Yes, this is the darkest day, BUT that means all the days after this will have a little more light than this one. You probably won't experience it as a flood of light. It may not even really seem noticeable at first. But it won't get darker than this. Each day will bring just a little more light. Please seek that light, no matter how small and insignificant it may seem. And please reach out to me if you need to borrow some light to get you through this darkest day.

Mind the Gap

If you've ever ridden the tube (subway) in London, you have certainly seen and heard the cautionary message, "Mind the gap," which is meant to make passengers aware of the gap between the platform and the train. It's not a large space and can easily be stepped over, but the reminders exist because people riding the tube tend to be distracted and, if they aren't paying attention, the gap is just large enough to cause injury or loss of valuables. 

Another kind of gap exists in the realm of emotional reaction. Viktor Frankl--a famous neurologist, psychiatrist, philosopher, author, and Holocaust survivor--declared, "Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response." I have written recently about indifference and mentioned there the struggle I've had in the past to control my emotional responses. It is easy to let big emotions take over our brains, and to go through life reacting to every little piece of stimulus without checking ourselves. But that's a dangerous place to live. Like the distracted tube passenger, it can really get us in trouble. If we're not diligent to check in with and control our responses, we can cause serious damage to ourselves and others, and we can lose things and people that are truly important to us. But if we're careful to "mind the gap," we can safely and happily move ourselves from where we are to where we really want to be. There is so much power in that space between stimulus and response, and I want to make sure I'm being mindful of the choice I have to control the things/person I can control instead of ceding my power over to things and people I can't control. I cannot control all the things that happen, but in that sacred space, I can control my response to the things happening around me. I have the ability to make that gap as large as I need to make it to ensure I show up in the world the way I truly want to and move forward in ways that are good for me and for others. So, just in case you're going through life like a distracted tube passenger, consider this your reminder to "Mind the gap."  Trust me, it's advice that can create a happier journey for you.

End of November Update

It's late in the day, on the last day of November, and I wanted to check back in on my "New"vember Resolutions. I did not write a blog post every day in November like I set out to do--BUT--I did write ten, if you count this one (which we are, because I'm the one who gets to keep the count!) I am not disappointed in myself. In fact, I'm very proud of myself for that accomplishment. There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, when I would only have been able to feel failure and shame and a sense of having let myself and others down in a situation like this. But that isn't where I am any more, thank God. Sure, I only got a third of the way to my goal, but I made progress, and that's really and truly what matters. It doesn't necessarily matter how big our steps are or how many we take; it just matters that we keep putting one foot in front of the other and taking those steps. Also, I wrote about things that were meaningful to me, and I think meaningful to others, based on feedback I have received. That definitely matters! I would rather write ten meaningful posts, than thirty posts that weren't impactful. Thank you for going on this journey with me and for cheering me on. That also matters! I'm really pleased with this place of hope, beauty, and magic I've created and will continue to exercise my writing muscles with the hopes of making it an even more amazing place over time. 

Two Bare Feet in the Water Kind of Brave

 

I know it's kind of weird to start a blog post with a picture of my feet. I personally find almost all feet to be off-putting, so I won't blame you if you cringe at the sight. But this may be the most meaningful picture I've taken in a while, so let me share the story of what these two bare feet in the water represent. 

I almost never have two days off work in a row, but this past Friday and Saturday, I did. When I found out that was going to be the case a couple of weeks ago, I honestly kind of panicked a little because I knew my kids weren't going to be home during that time, and it seemed like an unfathomable vacuum of quiet space to fill. Facing that quiet in a home normally teeming with noise and activity seemed like a burden I was not properly equipped to bear. So, I planned an overnight trip for myself to a rural area, with the hopes of facing the quiet in a place where quiet seemed normal instead of ridiculously out of place. It seemed like a good plan, and it was. But what I didn't think about at the time was that it was going to be the beginning of many uncomfortable, but brave, steps for me.

Let me pause there for just a moment. I have written about bravery before on this blog, and I want to reiterate that acts of bravery are defined by the person engaged in the acts. Your brave may look different than my brave because we are all wired to experience anxiety differently. What may be easy for you may be quite difficult for me and vice versa. Please keep that in mind as you continue to read my story of bravery. Some of you will be tempted to think, "What's so brave about that?!" And some of you will think, "Wow! That IS brave. I could never do that." But this is MY story of bravery, and it's okay if it isn't the same as YOUR story of bravery. 

Ok, so I planned this trip, and as the day approached to leave, I just started feeling anxious and thinking about all the things: staying in a hotel by myself for the the first time ever, hiking alone in an area I'm unfamiliar with, wondering if I would even have cell service, filling the quiet moments AWAY from home, overcoming potential weather challenges, spending money I wasn't sure if it was wise to spend, etc. etc. in a spiral. Anxiety is like that. It can take something that is supposed to be fun, insert all kinds of irrational fears about unknowns, and turn it into something scary. On the morning I was to head out, I found a number of reasons to delay my departure. But I finally took a deep breath, threw my stuff in the car, hit play on my audiobook, and got on the road. It was my first true act of bravery for this trip. But it wouldn't be the last.

The place I planned to hike was absolutely gorgeous, and I was excited to hit the trail by the time I got there. Interestingly, being alone in nature makes me feel less alone than even being with a crowd of people. And I know myself well enough to know this, which was why I planned a hiking adventure in the first place. Nature allows me to really breathe and to connect with myself and with forces that are bigger than me, so I never really experience loneliness when I'm out in it. This particular area was replete with trails, and I had no real plan going into it about which ones I would take or avoid. When I came to the first fork in the path, I chose the one to the left--not from any mystical knowing or intuitive leading--but simply because the family with several small children walking near me chose the path to the right. Not long after making my choice, I was faced with a situation that required me to make another choice, one that would truly test my bravery.

I came to a small stream with a series of medium and large stones scattered across it, which appeared to be the path itself. However, I quickly realized that halfway across the stream, the stones were being swallowed by ankle deep water. Leaves crowded the steep, muddy bank on the other side, making it difficult to see whether the stones ran out or if something might be hiding by the edge of the water. What I could see was that climbing up the bank on the other side would take some maneuvering and would likely be a little messy. I also knew the temperature outside the water was hovering around 60 degrees, and I assumed the water would feel much colder than that. I knew if I crossed with my shoes on, my shoes and socks would end up wet and cold, and sloshing through the rest of my hiking trip would not be much fun. I knew if I crossed without my shoes, I would have step into the cold water with my bare feet. Neither of those seemed like particularly amazing options. I also knew there was a third option: turning back and avoiding the choice, but that was not one I was especially excited about.

I'll pause again here for some important background information. I do not go around barefoot ever--not in my own home, and certainly not outdoors. I put shoes on when I get out of the shower in the morning and I keep them on until I slide into my bed at night. Laugh if you will, but being shoed (or at least socked) is just a part of being Mandi. Also, I really, really, really hate being cold. Under normal conditions, my temperature runs on the cool side, and I am essentially always chilled, so I intentionally avoid putting myself in situations I know are going to make me colder. Finally, while I could sit beside a body of water looking and listening all day long, I do not enjoy having my body or parts of my body submerged in water (with the exception of a really hot shower or a really nice hot tub). And I am especially uninterested in cold water and water I can't see through. 

So, there I was on the edge of a stream needing to make a decision. A knot twisted in my gut, and I sat down on a large stone to assess the situation. I took a long, slow breath, and then I said out loud to the empty forest and myself, "You've got to move forward. It's time to be brave." This was about crossing the stream, yes, but it also held a larger life meaning for me. I started unlacing my shoes and bracing myself for an onslaught of uncomfortable. And it was uncomfortable. The stones on my side of the stream were large and flat, but as the stones started disappearing under the water mid-stream, they became smaller and more wobbly and a little sharper. And the water was downright frigid. And when I reached the other side, leaves completely blocked the step just before the bank. Was there going to be another stone there or a deep drop-off? Would there be a creature hiding underneath? And then there was the matter of the ascent up the steep, muddy bank. There were no great handholds and the unforgiving bank was riddled with roots and twigs and other objects not friendly to bare feet. 

But once I had announced it was time to be brave and had put two feet in the water, I was committed. I ended up with some cold, wet, dirty feet that carried a couple of small cuts and scrapes. But I did it! And then, I did it again, when I realized the trail I had chosen was an out and back with no other routes to the main hiking area. And I'll be honest, I had to work myself up with a deep breath the second time as well. But I was so proud of myself for being brave, for stepping out of my comfort zone (or, more accurately, all my comfort zones), for doing the thing I wasn't sure I could do, and for following a path that lead me to a new and beautiful place. 

My nature is not one of bravery. I have struggled most of my life with anxiety, and I have spent more time than I'm proud to admit seeking out easy, comfortable, and safe paths or allowing those who are braver than I am to lead the way while I step only where they step and follow only the path they lay out. But life has a way of creating opportunities for each of us to choose to be brave. And sometimes we just have to say to ourselves, "You've got to move forward. It's time to be brave." Let me be clear: I don't always want to be brave. I sometimes even resent having to make the choice to be brave. And there are times when I definitely don't choose bravery...and I don't always feel bad about that. But that doesn't change the fact that there are always opportunities to choose bravery.

My hiking story doesn't end with me saying, "And that turned out to be the most beautiful path in the whole park, and I would have missed it if I hadn't taken the risk and been brave!" There were many paths that were more lovely and that were much easier to traverse. But that path was probably the most important for me, because it gave me the opportunity to be brave. And bravery was what I needed to level up in my personal growth at that moment. Engaging in acts of bravery helps us trust ourselves. And trusting ourselves is everything. And, from now on, every time I see this picture of my two bare feet in the water, I will remember a time I chose to be brave and I will trust myself just a little bit more.

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. 

Be the friend who brings the light

I had a really rough day yesterday. I was down and feeling lonely, and I could feel myself starting to spiral into the depths of depression and anxiety. I do try pretty hard to combat these types of feelings, but I'm human, and the feelings were definitely winning the battle yesterday. Just as I was about ready to crawl into bed and possibly never come out, I got a notification on my phone. It was a text from a friend who said she just wanted to see how I was doing. It truly felt like a ray of sunshine on a dark day. A little later, my phone dinged again. It was another friend (not a mutual friend with the first) texting to say she had been thinking about me and just wanted to check on me. Another ray of sunshine. 

For a person in a dark place, any ray of sunshine matters because even the smallest light dispels the darkness. I have also been the sender of such texts and have been told by the friends who received them that they came at just the right time and that they made a difference. I often have the experience of having a person--whether a close friend or random acquaintance--pop into my head for seemingly no particular reason. I may not know why, but I try to heed the voice when I recognize it. It literally just takes a few seconds to send them a text or a DM and let them know they are on my mind, that they are seen and cared for. And I know from experience that those few seconds can make a big impact on the other end. It's easy to let the moment pass. It's easy to be much too busy or distracted to take the time. But people are interconnected, and if someone is on your mind, I believe it can be incredibly meaningful to them to let them know. You may not even know they need the light you have to offer (they may not even know they need it themselves until they receive it), but offer it anyway. Your light will make a difference. I promise. 

I like you just the way you are

A friend of mine posted this picture on Facebook this morning, and I have not been able to stop thinking about it. First of all, I just love Mr. Rogers! I think he has a lot to teach us about kindness and inclusivity and really seeing and loving people. The first time my youngest son ever saw an episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, he sat there mesmerized and then said, "It's like he can see you through the TV!" I think we can all relate to wanting to be seen.

I love the quote in the above picture because I think what we all want more than anything is for at least one person to like us just the way we are--no strings, conditions, judgements, qualifiers, or need to prove our worth. This isn't the same as liking/loving someone "no matter what," because that statement implies a judgement and a disappointment. It implies that the receiver of the message messed up somehow but the giver is choosing to like them anyway, which is a form of forgiving love we all definitely need in our lives sometimes. More often than not, the receiver didn't actually mess up; they just didn't meet the giver's expectations. Love is frequently conditional on the extent to which we perceive other people meet our expectations. But what we so often lack across all of our relationships, regardless of how intimate they are, is someone who will like/love us just as we are, without trying to change us or wishing we were different in some way. There are implied judgements in almost every interaction. They usually happen automatically, without us ever thinking about them. Sometimes love is lacking completely in these situations, and sometimes the subsequent "no matter what" love follows. But I have interacted with enough people and have known myself long enough now to know for sure that what most of us would give anything for is at least one person in our lives that likes us just as we are. 

I feel like the American culture is very divisive and quick to look for things that we don't like about other people--their politics, their skin color, their sexual orientation, their religious beliefs (or lack thereof), their approach to parenting, their clothing, their ideas about how to best protect themselves during a never-before-seen global pandemic, their natural levels of anxiety (or confidence), their material wealth. The list goes on and on. In our families, we are quick to tie our affection to how people perform (or don't perform). For example, we make it clear through our body language, if not through our spoken words, that the love we have for our kids is connected with how well they perform academically, if they win at sports, whether they keep their rooms clean or help out with chores, or whether they date the people we deem appropriate. When kids don't meet parental expectations in those areas (and many others), most parents feel frustrated but offer the "no matter what" love, which, while well-intended, still often feels to our kids like judgement rather than love and leaves them feeling as if they are not good enough or that they don't measure up. Even in our own minds, we struggle to say, "I like you just the way you are." 

I believe the way we show up in the world, in our homes, and in our own minds matters. I believe the words we use are powerful. I can't control how other people show up in the world, but I can control how I do. And I want to be the kind of person who shows up and says, "I like you just the way you are." This is not something I have perfected, by any means, but it is something I'm striving for and working on every day. I would also like to challenge you to drop your expectations and be open to saying to and showing others that you like them just the way they are. See the good and be the good.