Loss of Words

I am a writer, and writing fulfills a deep need inside me and helps me make sense of the things I observe in the world around me. But more especially and more personally, and therefore more importantly from my perspective, putting words to paper (or figurative paper, in the case of this blog) helps me begin to make sense of the swirling spiral of thoughts inside my own head. I don't just enjoy writing. I need to write in order to feel whole and grounded. 

Unfortunately, I don't really seem to be the kind of writer who can just write on demand, which is probably why I don't make the big bucks--or, really, any bucks--with my writing craft. That's okay with me because money has always been a poor motivator for me, and I mainly write for my own sanity and not any other reason. However, as happens periodically, I seem to be at a loss for words lately. There are still words swirling in my head, but I don't seem to be able to catch them, much less organize them into coherent sentences--either in public spaces, like this blog, or even in my private journal. And this both exacerbates the regular anxiety that I experience--because I don't have an outlet for the thoughts and words and feelings and ideas circling around in my mind--and produces a new anxiety of its own--because I feel as if I should be able to form words into thoughts and wrangle thoughts into sentences and string sentences together into something somewhat meaningful. Also, knowing you need to do something that is good for your mental health but feeling like you are not able to do it can feel overwhelming and create anxiety in and of itself. However, since combatting anxiety is important to me, I decided to just write the words I have instead of the words I wish I had. This post doesn't serve any purpose other than capturing a few words and taming them into sentences. If you've come here to be entertained or educated or inspired or encouraged, I'm sorry, but today isn't the day for that. I'm at a loss for words, and today is about plucking a few words from my addled brain and laying them out in order the best I can. 

It's like me recently deciding to start running again after taking months (a year?) off. It isn't pretty or fast or fluid. I have to take a lot of walking breaks to catch my breath. But I am trying. I am doing the best I can with what I have. I'm starting from where I am--not where I used to be, not where I wish I was. I want my body to remember that it knows how to do this--to push through the hard and the awkward and the discomfort to put one foot in front of the other until it gets easier. Running is another way I combat anxiety, so it's important that I do it even when it doesn't look the way I would ideally like it to look. Writing is the same, and I want my heart and mind and hands to remember what it feels like to capture words--to push through the hard and the awkward and the discomfort to put one word in front of the other until it gets easier. 

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?

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.