The slow path to peace

I live a very fast-paced life. Life with my kids--and all their activities--keeps me hopping. My work is generally a whirlwind that never stops while I'm on the clock. And most of the time, when I have a day off, I have close to a million adulty things I need to get done. But every once in a while, I will have a day off with nothing in particular that I need to check off my to-do list. (The adulty stuff never really goes away, but sometimes it's not so pressing.) On those days, I sometimes have a little bit of a panicky feeling. Or feelings of guilt. Or, on my darker days, feelings of not being enough. I am comfortable with the fast pace, in part because my personality is one of a mover, but also because it's what I'm used to and because it's what I've been taught makes a life important. I actually sometimes feel a little triggered to not have anything to do--as if I will somehow not be valuable or lovable on those days. After putting in lots of work on myself, I'm usually self-aware enough these days to realize when those thoughts are creeping in and threatening to take over, so I can have a little conversation with myself and not sink into a pit of despair. But it takes some effort to overcome the voices that have been playing in your head, dictating your worth, for so many years. 

Like most Americans, I have been conditioned to believe that my worth is tied to and actually dependent on my performance and productivity. We live in a do more, have more, be more culture that looks on rest as weakness and a slow pace as laziness. But as I'm starting to prioritize peace more in my life, I'm beginning to realize that performance and productivity are not the paths that lead to peace. Quite the opposite really. They are poor measures of a life well-lived and an even poorer measure of a person's value. In fact, there is plenty of research that indicates that high-stress, performance-based, go-go-go lives lead to a whole host of physical and mental illnesses that are not seen at nearly the same rates in cultures that prioritize rest and simple living. Rest is not weakness but power. And slowing down is not laziness but an invitation to intentionality. I am serious about taking care of my responsibilities, but I'm learning that just being is enough. Busyness is not a merit badge. There isn't a prize at the end of this short life for being the most productive human (and how would you measure it even if there was?!). There also isn't a prize for being the most peaceful human. But I know for sure which kind of human I'd rather be. I understand now that I have inherent value that isn't tied to my accomplishments...or lack thereof. So, I'm learning to take those slow days as the gifts they are. 

On those rare, beautiful, slow days, I'm allowing myself to go for long walks, which sometimes lead me to lovely unplanned conversations with neighbor friends I haven't seen in far too long, and read books that encourage and challenge and entertain me, and watch magical sunsets that assure me all is right with the world, and take naps that restore and rejuvenate me when the fast pace has been too much. I have slow coffee dates and lunch dates. I engage in unrushed conversations and meaningful moments with myself and others. I sit with my thoughts and try to untangle them. I write words and take pictures that are not tied to a paycheck. I play online Scrabble and Wordle, just because it's fun for me to arrange letters into words. And sometimes I get to the end of a slow day, and I have "nothing" to show for it except a peaceful spirit, and that's okay with me. I still have to remind myself that I have nothing to feel guilty about and that not accomplishing anything of note doesn't have anything to do with my value as a person, but I'm learning to truly relish the slow path to peace. 

It's Today!

When my youngest child was around three years old, he used to wander into my room in the pre-dawn hours and loudly and cheerfully make the same proclamation every morning in the most adorable little sing-songy voice: "It's today!" Even when the announcement was made at 4:00 in the morning, I would often find my sleep deprived self smiling at his enthusiasm for the new day (but still trying to encourage him to give sleep another chance).

As a person who struggles with anxiety, I find it lamentably easy to get caught up in the disappointments of yesterday and the fears of tomorrow. My mind will churn on these things unbidden for hours on end--creating more problems and fewer solutions as the thoughts continue to swirl. It is hard for me to stay focused on the present, and I frequently feel as if I have to fight for every moment of peace, which is actually exhausting. People who don't experience this kind of anxiety will often advise that I simply stop thinking about things that cause anxiety or suggest I just redirect my thoughts or that I make an effort to try to be positive--advice that makes perfect sense to their non-anxious brains. If you do experience true anxiety, you know it isn't that easy and that trying to stop those thoughts on demand can actually cause more anxiety. 

It is important to me to continue to pursue peace even when it's exhausting and even when it doesn't come naturally. I have a variety of tools at my disposal to help me not get sucked into the anxiety vortex and sometimes they work very well. Recently, I've been trying to combat anxiety by attempting to ground myself in the present, an effort that brought to mind the sweet toddler voice of my youngest child announcing the presence of a new day, saying, "It's today!" The memory makes me smile every time. For him, it was just pure enthusiasm and awe. For me, it is that, but it is also a catch phrase I'm using with myself to refocus my attention on the here and now. It's a reminder that this moment is the only one that matters and that I can set down the disappointments of the past and the fears of the future and simply be dazzled in whatever way possible by the magic of this present moment. And, I believe there absolutely is magic in this present moment, if I am willing to look for it. 

I am trying to teach myself that this day is everything and to experience only gratitude in the countless opportunities it holds for love and beauty and joy and growth. This day is magical and I don't want to miss it!

As a concrete reminder, I have taped an index card to my bathroom mirror with a mantra that reads: "It's today! Today is the very best day. It holds countless possibilities for joy and beauty and adventure and love and magic. It carries none of the disappointments of yesterday or fears of tomorrow. Today is my favorite, and I'm so very thankful to have the chance to live in it fully." 

Minds believe what we tell them, so I'm trying to be intentional with the words I use when speaking to and about myself. I want to be awed by this day. I want to be present in this moment. I will probably always struggle with anxiety, but I will not let it engulf me without a fight. My peace of mind is worth fighting for, so I will remind myself as many times as necessary to "be happy for this moment. This moment is your life." (Omar Khayyam)

It's today!

When Trees Speak

I was not built for cold weather, and I do not do well when temps fall below 65℉ approach freezing. So this week, as I have scraped ice off my windshield and watched big, fat, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky, I have tried to remind myself to be grateful for the unseasonably warm weather we had earlier this month and the lovely afternoon walks I took. As I looked back at my pictures from those walks--because, yes, I take pictures even when I'm just walking in my own neighborhood, past sights I've seen countless times--I noticed how many pictures of trees I had. But not just any trees. I mainly had pictures of twisted, gnarly, crazy trees, in a state of dormancy. It's not that I don't appreciate straight, lovely trees that reach right up to the sky according to the secret Tree Code that tells them that is just what they are supposed to do. It's just that the wonky trees were the most fascinating and photo-worthy, the most interesting to observe. I went in for closer looks and better camera shots and couldn't help but notice that, without exception, the most interesting trees were the ones which had most likely sustained some damage. Maybe they had been hit by lightning or had been shaped or broken by strong winds or had developed diseases or had received injuries at the hands of humans. The mangled trees all have difficult stories, and they are all over-comers. As trauma came upon them, they had to adjust. They had to give up the code that says what a tree is "supposed" to be and just go on growing the best they could under the circumstances. They found ways to heal themselves and to continue standing. And now, the trauma they once experienced is what makes them so beautiful. 

I understand what it's like to be one of these trees. I have always lived with internal and external rules that prescribe what I am "supposed" to be and what my life is "supposed" to look like. And, as a recovering people pleaser and perfectionist, I have tried very hard to live up to the sometimes impossible expectations coming from within and from without. I have grieved all the traumas that have twisted and scarred and broken me and made it impossible for me to live out the code I had in my head of what I thought I was "supposed" to be. BUT, I'm figuring out ways to heal myself, and I'm still standing. I'm continuing to grow the best I can under the circumstances, and it could be argued that I'm more interesting and beautiful now than I've ever been. 

When you get close to trees, they will whisper secrets to you if you are patient and quiet enough to listen. And what I learned from the trees is that there is no one way that trees--or humans--are "supposed" to be. The real code actually states to just keep growing no matter how many traumas you face. Just. Keep. Growing. If it's straight and tall, fine. But if it's twisted and gnarled and broken, that's okay too. 

A review of my year of happiness and joy

Hi there. Remember me? I used to have thoughts and write about them here, but it's been a minute since I've done either of those things. Here we are, a week into a new year--which is absolutely astounding to me--and I have finally decided to prioritize sitting down with my thoughts to see if I can unravel them enough to make any sense. I feel like I need to unpack the year we just left behind and begin exploring the year ahead. 

I began 2022 in a state of depression, after claiming "happiness" and "joy" as my words of the year. That didn't seem to bode well, and I spent some time feeling like a failure for not being able to step into what I believed the Universe had for me, which led to a deeper state of depression. I found the words hard to define and harder to capture. I believed these things would be found in a source outside myself but I could not seem to find where they were kept. And then another word came to me: alone. It didn't seem like a very happy word and was not one I wanted to focus on, but I decided to let the Universe have its way, so I embraced it. I began to understand that happiness and joy could not be manufactured outside of myself and that I was the only source for these things. I spent copious amounts of time alone with my thoughts and got really comfortable with being my own best friend. A couple of months into 2022 the fog began to lift and I started to feel really good about who I was as a person, which helped me show up better in every area of my life, which led to more joy in every area of my life. I realized I didn't need someone else to validate me and that the treasure trove of happiness and joy had existed inside of me all along and that there was no need to look for it elsewhere. And even if every day didn't feel particularly happy, a new sense of contentment came over me and joy began to grow in my heart. It became easier to see the beauty and magic in each day, and that felt a lot like happiness. 

I wish that was the end of the story because it does make a very tidy and uplifting story: depressed girl finds herself and lives happily ever after. But that isn't the end of the story. It makes for pleasant reading, but "happily ever after" isn't really a thing. And I am trying very hard to be true to my whole story--not just the parts that are ready-made for an Instagram post. I don't want to hide from the difficult chapters of my story or pretend they don't exist. 

Depression settled in for me again in the fall, when my baby moved overseas to live with his dad. This was a decision he made for himself, and I absolutely feel that giving him this autonomy was and is the right thing to do. I am pleased that he seems happy and is having so many amazing experiences. I would never want to take those things away from him. But I'll be real honest: not getting to regularly see his mischievous smile or hear his infectious laugh or give him a hug before bed or listen to his engaging stories--both real and imagined--or relish his banter with his brothers or share the big and little life experiences with him has felt like a slow suffocation to me. And because our situation is so unique, there is no one with whom I can share this grief. In general, people are kind, which I appreciate so much, but I have not met anyone who has had an experience even remotely close to mine or who can offer any consolation. And the me that became my best friend early in the year sometimes seems to have lost the strength to support me under this new and heartbreaking weight that I was in no way prepared for, even though I knew it was coming for months before it became a reality. 

Overall, I do think 2022 truly was a year of happiness and joy. I stood in awe of countless breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. I made new friends and deepened friendships I already had. I met a unicorn and opened my heart to new possibilities. I spent quality time with the people who matter most to me and spent less time with people and situations that felt toxic. I deeply appreciated the beauty of nature, the taste of delicious food and drink, the blessing of enriching conversations. I watched my kids do the things they love, and I put energy into doing things I love as well. I tried to live in the moment and to control the things I can control and let go of the rest. I danced. I sang. I laughed. I smiled. And I am so very thankful for all of it! 

But I have learned that a happy life does not always feel happy. Sometimes it's feels like screaming profanities at the top of your lungs when no one else is around. And sometimes it feels like ugly crying in your shower until you can hardly stand. And sometimes it feels like dissociating from everyone and everything and feeling numb just to get through the day. These moments are real and are as much a part of my year of happiness and joy as any of the things previously mentioned. Without these moments, I might not even have recognized the happiness that I experienced in the other moments. 

Some of you will read this and will worry about me or feel sorry for me. Please don't. I'm okay. Really. I am still able to function every day. I am able to take care of my responsibilities and to to do that well. I am still able to smile and laugh and dance and sing and find beauty and magic in the world around me. I am able to enjoy the company of others and even be a comfort to friends that are dealing with their own traumas. Joy still resides in my broken heart, and even on my dark days, I still believe in and look for sunshine. And I think that's what happiness truly is: not a lack of brokenness, but finding joy even in the midst of it.

My words for 2023 are "brave" and "peace," and I'm eager to see how they will play out for me. At first I thought it was strange that those were the two words that came to me because they seem a bit contradictory. Being brave often doesn't feel peaceful. It pushes you out of your comfort zone and makes you face your fears, and that is always uncomfortable. But the act of being brave leads to peace if you can see it through. I will be leaning in to acts of bravery this year, even if they seem small, and I will be pursuing peace like it is my full time job. I will probably also neglect to be brave or choose peace from time to time, but I will not beat myself up for that. And that will be its own act of bravery that leads to peace.

To anyone reading this, thank you for letting me be real and vulnerable. I wish you all the best this year has to offer. I hope you find happiness and joy even in your brokenness and that you find the courage to be brave in your pursuit of peace this year. I would love to know if you have your own word/words for the year so I can cheer you on as you try to manifest them in your life. 

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.

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?