Vision Check

 

This eye chart hangs in the main entry/exit point of my house. It was originally hung as a functional joke when we were homeschooling and were talking once about things homeschool kids may miss out on by not going to more traditional schools. After everyone's vision was tested, I decided to leave it hanging because the memory of our eye test day made me smile. 

Over time, it became a symbolic reminder to me to check my metaphorical vision--both when leaving and when entering my house. I want to always ask myself: How am I seeing the world? How am I seeing the people I share my home with? Am I looking for the good? Am I letting any bias blur my vision? What can I do to improve my vision, inward and outward? 

Much later, I bought myself a beautiful bouquet of roses and decided to dry them once they were past their prime. There just happened to be a screw in the wall right above the eye chart, so I hung them there without much thought. Fairly recently, an admirer sent me some gorgeous flowers, and when they were beyond their display value, I plucked a couple of roses out of the bunch in order to preserve the memory of such a sweet gesture. Since I had kind of already set a precedent of hanging flowers to dry around the eye chart, I tied the newer ones onto one of the tacks holding it up. The whole scene became sort of artistic, and I have found that I love to look at it every day as I enter and exit my home. 

Not long ago, someone was at my house and saw the eye chart, which prompted questions, as you might expect. As I explained its presence and newfound purpose as a reminder to check my symbolic vision, I caught myself paying closer attention to the roses, and the symbolism became even deeper. 

When I pause to "check my vision," I see the big bunch of flowers I bought for myself, and I'm reminded how important it is to love myself well. When I do that, my vision is clearer and I can show up in the world as my very best self. And showing up as my truest, most authentic, best self, is not only a gift to myself but a gift to the whole rest of the world. 

A glance at the chart also allows me to see the smaller cluster of flowers, which reminds me that I do not have to do life completely on my own (which sometimes tends to be my default MO). There are people who care for me and can add beauty to my life. This bundle is smaller and hangs a little lower because I will never find true fulfillment and happiness in another person or group of people, no matter how wonderful they are. While others can contribute to positive experiences for me, peace and joy and love really and truly come only from within. The relationship I have with myself will always set the tone for every other relationship I ever have. And keeping this in mind also contributes to better vision for me. 

One thing both sets of roses have in common is thorns, and I did get poked a few times while tying up the roses to dry. Whether I'm examining myself and trying to learn how to love myself well or interacting with my fellow humans, I will experience some discomfort. But growing through that discomfort is what allows my vision to be refined so I can see what's truly beautiful. 

Without the roses, the eye chart hanging on my wall seemed a bit dull, in addition to just being weird (though privately entertaining for me). But when the roses, with their many thorns and their beautiful symbolism, were added to the eye chart--on a plain Jane wall, in the least beautiful room in my house--my vision improved so much more and a lovely work of art was born.  

Grief and Love

Today would have been my Grandaddy's 96th birthday, and as my Facebook memories from five years ago remind me of his last birthday on Earth, I am feeling lots of happy and sad emotions rise to the surface. We also laid my Granny to rest last week, and while we are glad she is finally free of pain, there is a pain we feel in her passing knowing we will not have the benefit of her physical presence in our lives anymore. I have so many wonderful memories with these amazing people, and I suspect the gap left by their passing will never really be filled. 

Granny's very recent illness and death have prompted some difficult conversations with my kids, and many tears have been shed in my household in the last few weeks. My youngest guy was hit especially hard by the news, and as I tried to comfort him, I heard myself saying, "When we love someone deeply, we grieve their absence deeply. So, that sadness you feel is really just the love that you have for Granny." It was then I understood that grief and love are the same thing. We only grieve deeply what and who we have loved deeply. Grief is evidence of love. I don't think any of us would want to give up the beautiful, amazing, magical feelings that come from giving and receiving love, but we often tend to try to hide from grief. We seem to think of grief as "bad" because it comes with tears and snot and wrecked mascara and an ache inside of us that doesn't feel comfortable in any way. But in this season of grief, I am realizing that love is also present, and for that I am so incredibly thankful. 

When I was with the family last week sorting through the things death forces a person to leave behind, we came across a journal where my grandmother had jotted down thoughts and quotes. None of the entries were dated, but from the pages, in her own handwriting, she was able to encourage me in my grief about her death and let me know I wasn't the first to realize the connection between grief and love. I didn't read every page of her journals, but those things that were most needed were the things that presented themselves. I will not be ashamed of my grieving or try to stop myself from experiencing it, for it only means that my heart has had the opportunity to know great love. 

Here is what I discovered in my Granny's journal, with the acknowledgement that I do not know whether she was quoting from other sources or if they were her original thoughts:

This moment is your life

When we are little kids, we can't wait to be big kids. When we are tweens, we can't wait to be teens. When we are 16, we want to be 18. And when we are 18, we want to be 21. We tell ourselves when we're thinner, we'll wear cute outfits; when we're wealthier, we'll be happier; when we retire, we'll do all the things we haven't done yet. When life settles down, we'll write that book or take that vacation or play that game with our kids or advocate for that cause that means something to us. We'll do it all later, when the conditions are just right. And THEN we'll be happy. We tend to believe that the next thing (whatever it may be) is the best thing and that our happiness is just around the corner. But here's what I've come to realize as I have sought to make this my year of happiness and joy: the future doesn't exist (and neither does the past, if you want to get really honest). This moment is the only one we have. So we have to choose happiness now. Happiness isn't out there somewhere waiting to be discovered. It can only ever exist right here, right now. And it can only be found within yourself--not in some external person, situation, object, or place. If you can't find it here, you won't find it there. And if it doesn't bubble up from within you, it is only an illusion. Sadly, we spend most of our time largely ignoring the joys of the present because we're so focused on this invisible, imaginary place called the future (or stuck in the equally unreal past). This moment is the only one that exists, which means I have to live fully in this moment, appreciating it for what it is, in order to find real happiness.  

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. 

Content to sit alone

When I was in fourth or fifth grade, the group of girls I considered my besties, pulled me aside on the playground one day at recess because they wanted to talk to me about something. I excitedly met them under the designated Discussion Tree, thinking there must be some exclusive secret they wanted to share with me. Wasn't I surprised to find out what they wanted to tell me was that they didn't really like playing with me that much and thought it would be better if I bowed out of the friend group. It rocked my world! I instantly wondered, "Well, who will I play with now?! Will I spend every recess for the rest of my life all alone?! And who will I sit with at lunch?!" I absorbed their message and understood immediately that I didn't fit in and that I wasn't wanted, which was especially devastating for a born people pleaser. If you've ever been a middle school or high school student or seen any movies or TV shows about people in those demographics, you understand that sitting alone at lunch is the equivalent of social death, which might as well be the equivalent of an actual slow, painful death. It hurts like hell to not be one of the chosen ones. 

I wish I could say that was the only time in my life that I felt the sting of rejection so acutely, but I can't. Not all the rejections have been quite so direct (though a few have been as direct and even more devastating), but my whole life story is peppered with chapters of not fitting in, not being chosen, being labeled the least interesting person in the room, and finding no seat open for me at the proverbial lunch table. Until recently, I let those rejections have a prominent place among the voices in my head that are already inclined to tell me I'm not good enough, that I don't measure up, that I am not worthy or valuable. I have literally puked my guts up and cried myself to sleep imagining scenarios in which I die alone--not just physically, but worse, emotionally--with no tribe to call my own and no one to validate my existence. The reason being rejected feels like death is that, from an evolutionary standpoint, humans without a tribe did not typically fair well. If the group rejected you, your odds of survival were not good. Many scientific studies have shown that lonely people have shorter life expectancies as well as an overall lower quality of life--statistics that can feel scary if you struggle to find or keep your tribe. 

But there is another side to this coin, and it's something I've been meditating on for a while now. Being kicked out of the group hurts deeply, and being rejected does feel like a type of death. BUT when you can go ahead and embrace the loneliness rather than fighting it, you actually come to a place of peace and power. When you keep waking up day after day and realizing that you are surviving the thing you thought would kill you and using that lonely time to get to really know and love yourself, it changes the whole game. At some point, you realize that you have intrinsic value, which isn't dependent on your inclusion in any particular group. Then you come to realize that it actually feels worse to force your chair up to a table where you aren't wanted or respected than it does to just sit at the next table all by yourself, reading your book and enjoying your lunch in peace. And then you become a very powerful being indeed, because you can walk into any room or any situation, knowing your own worth and being content to enjoy your own company without the need to be validated by others. You take all the pressure off yourself to fit in because you already know you are a rare species that can survive--and even thrive--on her own. (It does help if you are an introvert, who is quickly depleted by the company of others anyway.) It is pure freedom.

That certainly doesn't change the fact that humans are social creatures and are designed to make deep and real connections with one another and that we will always desire that. But it does change the way you view the seating arrangements in the lunchroom. I am at a place in my journey now where I only want to sit at tables where a seat has been saved for me and is enthusiastically pushed out for me upon my arrival. I will only sit at tables now where the faces of the others seated around them light up when I approach. Barring that reception, I will gladly sit at a table by myself. I understand my value; I like who I am; and I am not afraid of sitting alone. So unless a person can add real value to my life experience and feel genuinely excited to have me at their table, I'm better off not sitting with them. There is so much freedom and power in this mindset! I will not ever be everyone's cup of tea. There will always be people who don't think I'm fun to hang out with and don't want to "play" with me anymore. And that's okay. I don't need to be loved by everyone. I don't even need to be liked by everyone. And I don't have to take their rejection personally. It probably has more to do with them and a particular need they have than with me anyway. I just need to move on to the next table, where I can happily sit alone for a very long time, doing my own thing and enjoying my own company. But eventually, as I continue to offer the chairs at my table to others, I believe I will see my table fill up with the people who are my people--the ones who truly enjoy my presence and add value to my experience. 

By the way, if you happen to find yourself wandering around the lunchroom of life wondering if there is a place for you to sit, please know there are free chairs at my table that I'm saving for you, and I'd love to have the pleasure of your company.

If you wish to improve

For pretty much my whole life, I have struggled with feelings of inadequacy. I learned early on that there is value in being smart and clever (in ways that society deems you ought to be) and no value in being stupid or unintelligent (or seeming to be so in virtually any situation). Since I understood the game from a young age, I made it my mission--in order to gain acceptance--to be "smart." I consistently made A's throughout grade school and high school and beat myself up mightily for the few Bs that made appearances on report cards. When I got to college and some Cs started to creep in, I fully accepted the fact that I was a failure and basically unworthy. And that mentality stuck with me for much of my adult life. I believed I wasn't really that smart and therefore didn't really have much value. Being seen as (or perceiving being seen as) "stupid" by anyone for pretty much anything became a huge trigger for me, which would almost guarantee me lashing out or shutting down. Eventually, I learned to just avoid situations and conversations that made me feel dumb (and there were many!), which left me stuck in a place of non-growth and action paralysis much of the time. Because to step into the unknown and try something new, to grow and become, to improve in life, you have to be a learner. And, by definition, a learner does not yet know it all. They have not become an expert...yet. And they will certainly not always seem "smart"--to themselves or to others. 

I have recently received a promotion at work, which is exciting, but which has put me squarely in the learner's camp. And, honestly, so much about it sucks. I went from being one of the most knowledgeable people in my workplace--even teaching others how to do the job--to feeling like I know nothing. And, truthfully, it is way more fun to be the expert than it is to be the bumbling newbie who makes tons of mistakes. Being a learner doesn't feed the ego in any way, and it can make you feel inadequate and even like a fraud. Uncomfortable feelings, to be sure. 

I have spent a tremendous amount of time and energy in the last several years unlearning unhealthy mindsets and retraining my brain to think differently. Thankfully, I know now that I am truly smart--and more than that, I am wise. (And, I've come to understand that my opinion of myself matters infinitely more than the opinions others have for me.) I know that I have intrinsic value that isn't in any way tied to being "smart." I seek constant improvement but do not shame myself for not yet being an expert. I have come to appreciate Epictetus' words: "If you wish to improve, be content to appear clueless or stupid in extraneous matters--don't wish to seem knowledgeable. And if some regard you as important, distrust yourself." The only way to improve is to enter a phase of cluelessness, and we must learn to be content with the uncomfortable feelings that come along with that. We must sit with them long enough to get over the hump so we can eventually become experts. And we need to realize there will always be--and always should be--areas of our lives where we are learners. 

Connection

My youngest son wants to be a blacksmith when he grows up. He told me a couple of weeks ago that he sure would like to go see a real blacksmith because he had some questions. Over the weekend, we decided to revisit the blacksmith shop that first inspired him, where they do public demonstrations and have some hands-on activities available. He was completely enraptured by the experience. And I learned some very important things from the blacksmith myself. 

First of all, he told us that blacksmiths work mostly by sight. They spend years learning to see when the metal is ready to be removed from the fire and when it is ready to be twisted or hammered or manipulated in some other way. The color of the metal tells them what they need to know, even when there are only small variations in hue. But looks, he said, can be deceiving to the untrained eye. He explained that eyes that don't know what to look for might observe that the metal has gone from glowing red to blackish gray and assume it is cool to the touch. Not true. Steel that looks cool may actually still be somewhere in the neighborhood of 1000 degrees. If a blacksmith wants to ensure the metal is cool, he will dunk it in a bucket of water, which will almost instantaneously take the heat out of it and solidify the work. When the blacksmith mentioned the high temperatures the metal was reaching (and staying at a while after it appeared "cool"), I questioned aloud why he was doing this work without gloves of any kind. He explained that steel is a pretty poor conductor of heat. So if he has a longish rod (maybe two feet or so), he can hold it in his hand and never really feel the heat of the end that had been submerged in the fire. But then he let us in on a little secret that felt truly profound. He said the main reason he didn't wear gloves while working was because he's a craftsman, and in order to make the metal do what he wants and become something useful or beautiful, he not only needs to visually observe it, he needs to be physically connected to it, to feel it. The more insulation he puts between his hand and the metal, the less accurate and precise his work and the more likely he would be to make mistakes. 

Connection has been on my mind a lot lately, and usually when something is rattling around in my head, the Universe shows up with all kinds of lessons on the topic in places I never really even expected to find them. Specifically, I've been pondering human connections. I've been wondering how to create them and how to strengthen them and how to keep them intact. I know connection is something I crave deeply, but it isn't always something I intuitively understand how to produce or maintain. And sometimes it's something I either actively avoid through a myriad of defense mechanisms or something I just don't invest the effort in, either intentionally or unintentionally. The blacksmith helped me understand connection a bit better, I think. 

First of all, I need to see--really see--the people I desire to make a connection with. And since connection isn't a one-way street, I need to feel seen--really seen--as well. I need to learn to recognize the subtle variations in what I see so I'll know whether a relationship is "too hot to handle" or whether it is has "cooled." I need to be able to read how malleable the relationship is and if it is in a place to become something beautiful or if it needs some tweaks. I can only get this kind of connection by investing time and energy and genuine attention. And I can only experience a true connection when the other person is willing to invest to an equal degree. Not only that: to have real connection, I must remove as many insulators as possible so I can truly be in touch with those around me. That means I will have to allow space for people to be vulnerable, and I will have to allow myself to be vulnerable as well. In-person, face-to-face connections will always be the most meaningful because they are by their nature the least insulated. They allow for the most contact as the art of the relationship unfolds. 

Interestingly, a few days before my visit to the blacksmith, I had looked up some Brené Brown quotes for inspiration. She is one of my favorite authors and one seriously wise woman, and on a day when I was feeling a little "blah," I thought she might have some words to help me rise above my limiting mindset. There were a few I added to my collection of quotes, but one really stood out: "To form meaningful connections with others, we must first connect with ourselves." And that little gem was swirling in my head as I exited the blacksmith shop pondering connection. 

I cannot create meaningful connections with other people until I learn to connect with myself. That means I have to stop insulating and distracting and disengaging from myself long enough and often enough to really get in touch with myself. I need to really see myself and understand myself so I can learn what the variations in my colorful emotions mean. There is always the potential to get burned, but the more I learn to trust the process, the easier it will become and the better craftsman I will be. There is a masterpiece inside me waiting to emerge, but I have to be deeply connected with myself so I know when to heat things up or cool things down or put in a twist or take a hammer to it. 

One of my great desires in life is to make meaningful connections with other human beings. In fact, I believe this is absolutely my main purpose in life. It is something I strive for in my home, in my job, in my social circles, and even in everyday activities like grocery shopping. Sometimes those connections come easily, but sometimes they are a struggle. I know now, after several years of learning and growth--and an important reminder in a blacksmith shop--that the first step to making those connections with others is to stop insulating myself from my own experience. I have to be really in touch with it, even when it seems like it might be a little dangerous or uncomfortable. Before I can connect outwardly, I must connect inwardly. That connection will help me create something beautiful of myself, which will help me fulfill my life purpose of making meaningful connections with others.