The Puzzle of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Value

I have recently encountered several people, in a variety of situations, who are feeling the sting of rejection and have felt that it means something personal about their worth. This has included people losing jobs and struggling to find new ones, people in the throes of a difficult break-up, people who don't have the relationship they would like to have with their kids or parents or whomever. I have had many of these experiences myself and feel a visceral understanding of the deep pain rejection brings. Often times, when I realize I am encountering the same scenarios over and over in my personal life and in the lives of people around me, it prompts me to dig a little deeper and find the learning opportunity or the bigger message in it all. And, sometimes, that prompts me to write. So here I am. 

Here's what I've learned: Someone else's inability to see or understand our value does not make us any less valuable. Sometimes a person can be in possession of a treasure and not recognize its value. And sometimes a treasure may stay buried in the ground and unknown to the world. However, it is not less valuable just because the person currently in possession of it isn't aware of its value or someone has not yet discovered it. The value is inherent to the treasure. It's what makes it a treasure in the first place.

Of course, we all want someone else to validate us and tell us our worth, but this is not something we need. Sometimes it seems easier to wait for someone else to assign us value and then blame others when we feel worthless, but here's the thing: we are valuable regardless of what someone else thinks of us (or doesn't think of us) or whether another person even acknowledges our existence. We have inherent value, and it is our special task to find the value in ourselves. But sometimes we resist seeing and acknowledging our own value because that requires work. It requires questioning and maybe disagreeing with stories we've been telling ourselves for a long time and deciding to tell a new story. It requires blocking out the cacophony of voices all around us with messages that suit their needs but not necessarily ours. It requires taking back our power and being responsible for ourselves. It requires polishing those places that don't quite shine the way we'd like for them to. It means asking, "What am I making this mean?" And when we answer that question, asking, "But is that really true?" And then going one step further by asking, "How would I respond to a friend who is feeling this way?" and "How can I change the way I show up for myself when I feel this way?" And then, taking the action needed to change the narrative.

Depending on your particular brain wiring and life experiences, it may be especially difficult to see your own value. Or you may feel like seeing your own value "doesn't count" or makes you arrogant. But listen, friend: YOU ARE VALUABLE, AND YOU DON'T NEED SOMEONE ELSE TO CONFIRM THAT FACT. You have the power within you to acknowledge and live your value whether anyone else acknowledges it or not. 

We don't really live in a world that encourages us to see and truly appreciate our worth. When we do it anyway, we are often told we are vain, conceited, arrogant, boastful, and lacking humility. (You can cross a line here, but just acknowledging your worth does not even get you close to that line.) We are also constantly told, in a variety of ways, by a variety of people, that we don't have value or that we aren't enough unless we [fill in the blank]. In fact, marketers depend on their ability to make you feel "less than" so they can sell you whatever is going to make you "enough." It's a lie. Plain and simple. You have value. You are a treasure. And that fact isn't changed by someone else's inability to see it or acknowledge it. Allow yourself to fully absorb this message. And then live every day of your life in that truth. When you accept your value for what it is and don't look for validation outside of yourself, you will be amazed at how much you lessen the pain of rejection in your life and are able to fully embrace the valuable life you've been given. 

Small Steps to Well-Being

Hi, friends. I need to admit that, for the last little while, I have felt stuck and even sometimes like I'm moving backward on my journey toward healing and true well-being. I have been struggling from time to time to show up and do battle with the untamed parts of my mind and have not always been able to convince myself that the things I want to be true about myself can ever be realized. For a while, I felt like I was making big strides in the direction I wanted to go, but then it seemed the scenery stopped changing noticeably and I had to ask myself if I was still even moving forward. Progress became a thing so small, I felt I was having trouble measuring it and was tempted to stop even trying to do so. Big strides in personal growth feel like progress and accomplishment, but the minutia of thought work feels more like a standstill sometimes.

It's like when you're building a house. All the concrete-pouring and framing and cabinets and doors are fun to watch because you can clearly see the house coming together before your eyes. House building becomes tedious, though, when you get to things like electricity and plumbing and insulation. You can't see the daily progress and you wonder what on earth is taking so long. It gets more tedious still, in my opinion, when you have to think about things like hinges and door stops and outlet covers. Things that, while technically visible, are just pretty boring and seem annoying to have to put brain cycles on. But, the truth is, none of us would much enjoy living in a house without electricity and plumbing, even if it had gorgeous walls and doors. And all those other little things certainly serve important purposes and truly make the house livable. 

Apparently this week the Universe has made a mission out of reminding me that I am still making progress even when it's hard to see or feel. That, in fact, the small stuff is THE stuff. Those small steps are everything. As Zeno, the founder of the Stoic school of philosophy, put it, "Well-being is realized by small steps, but is truly no small thing." My well-being, and yours, is no small thing. Let's keep taking however many small steps it takes to arrive at well-being, even when they feel tedious or we can't really see progress. Eventually, we will surprise and delight ourselves by the lives we've been able to create simply by putting one foot in front of the other.  

Here were some other beautiful reminders from the week:

  

A Tribute to Moms: I see you

Unbelievably--because I don't feel like I should be old enough and because there were so many moments when I didn't think I would survive--I have now lived through all the stages of raising kids (at least once)--from infancy to adulthood. This most definitely does not make me an expert. If anything, it has only made me deeply aware of all I don't know and all I still have to learn. But one thing I do know is motherhood is probably the most important, least appreciated job on the planet. And so, today, on Mother's Day, I want to recognize all the moms loving their kids and doing the best they can day in and day out. You are all amazing and I'm so thankful for each of you! 

I see your sleepless nights, rocking and feeding fussy babies or waiting anxiously for teenagers to come home. I see you setting your alarm 30 minutes earlier than necessary just so you can have a moment to yourself, and then using that time to clean up last night's dishes or pick up the toys scattered on the floor or throw in another load of laundry. I see you reading the same picture book over and over and over, and then beaming when your little one learns how to read the words back to you. I see you desperately thrusting a tiny person at your partner the minute they walk in the door. I see you packing lunches and backpacks and reminding everyone to put on their shoes, and then making another trip up to the school when the lunch or the homework or the sporting equipment is forgotten at home. I see you kissing boo-boos and solving problems with whimsical bandages. I see you absorbing all the pain of a first broken heart and talking through problems that no amount of whimsy can fix. I see you working all day at your paying job and rushing out the door the minute you can to make it to the game and be your kid's biggest cheerleader. I see you celebrating all the victories and comforting all the defeats. I see you grabbing dinner in the drive-thru because you don't have the time to cook and still get everyone to their activities on time. I see you spending hours in the kitchen making nutritious meals for your family that they refuse to eat or only eat reluctantly. I see you watching your odometer turn over another thousand miles and wondering how that can be when you never even left town. I see you researching all the things late at night because you're worried and you just want to help your kiddo. I see you slogging through the mundanity of the days and asking yourself when was the last time you even showered. I see you hoping this stage will end soon and that it will never end. I see you staying up well past midnight to put the finishing touches on a beautiful birthday cake that will be destroyed and devoured in a matter of minutes but will make your kiddo smile, and that smile is everything. I see you sacrificing your comfort for the comfort of your kids. I see you facing challenges while trying to co-parent with someone with whom you do not share your daily life. I see you signing all the forms and paying all the fees. I see you finding the lost thing that simply can't be found. I see you producing a perfect costume for the school project--that you just found out about this afternoon but is due tomorrow--out of odds and ends you just happen to have laying around the house. I see you lighting up when your tween forgets they aren't little and reaches for your hand. I see you stomping on the floorboard of the passenger side of your car during a driving lesson with your new driver, as if there might be a brake there to help you slow things down. I see your eyes filling with tears created from a mixture of pride and grief as your adult child walks out the door to start their own life apart from you. I see you comparing notes with your mom tribe. I see you crying on the floor in your closet, wishing you had that tribe to turn to for help and encouragement. I see your heart filled with more love than you ever imagined it could hold and your mind filled with concern that you are screwing it all up. I see you doing all the things--day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year--sometimes without any help, almost always without any thanks or recognition or praise.

Please, hear this now and let it settle on your heart: Your work as a mom matters so much and you are doing a good job. It is brave, beautiful work--hard, for sure, but worth it. And I want you to know I see you showing up day after day and giving it your best. You are amazing! Thank you for all you do.  

{I also want to say I see all of you who are grieving the loss of a child or the loss of the dream of having children. And I see those of you who have chosen not to be moms and those helping raise other people's children. Those are also brave, beautiful paths to walk.}

I See You Being Brave

No one can deny the bravery of a firefighter who runs into a burning building to rescue the people inside. Or a person who boldly stands up for something they believe in when it goes against popular opinion. Or a daredevil who engages in some dangerous activity just to prove they can do it. These are certainly amazing feats and worthy of our praise. Unfortunately, we often fail to recognize the small acts of everyday bravery that make up the bulk of our lives. And we certainly forget that there is no comparing brave. There aren't levels of bravery. Every act of bravery is just as important, just as real, just as brave as every other, even if it might seem small or nonsensical to people not engaged in the act. Sometimes bravery looks like putting on your running shoes and running an infinitesimally small distance before returning to a walk. Sometimes it looks like starting a new job or moving to a new location or entering a new relationship. Sometimes it looks like apologizing or stretching a budget or making a phone call. Sometimes it looks like having a tough conversation, asking for the help you need, seeing a different perspective, putting on a happy face, or offering forgiveness. Sometimes it looks like showing up and doing the things that need to be done, without thanks or acknowledgement of any kind. Sometimes it just looks like getting out of bed, taking a shower, putting on "real" clothes. Every person is influenced by and operating according to their own level of comfort, trauma, insecurity, and mental health. We are all brave because we are all finding the strength to face our own fears, dangers, and difficulties. Sadly, we have a tendency to think that if something comes easily to us, it is ridiculous for another to struggle with it. We judge, ridicule, and ignore the brave acts of others because they seem silly or unimportant to us. I wonder what would happen if, instead, we looked at every single person we interacted with, in whatever circumstance they're in, and thought, "Wow! How brave they are to be where they are and doing what they're doing!" What if we looked at ourselves and said, "You are very brave, and I'm proud of you!" 

Listen, friends: Life is hard. We are all overcoming. We are all brave. And, I'm proud of us!

Saltwater Cures

 

© Mandi Watts

I have loved this quote for as long as I've been aware of it. The truth of it is simple yet so profound, and it absolutely holds up in practice in my life. When I feel stressed or overwhelmed or lost, I can often remedy my situation by adding saltwater in one of these forms. Just in the last week, I have employed all of them at various times, and I can feel healing running through my body and mind.

It's interesting, though, because in that cure there is also pain. A workout that produces sweat is not an easy or lightweight one. It requires much of your body, which may feel difficult in the moment and may leave you sore for days afterward. The grief, hurt, and stress that produce tears do not feel like healing in the moment. In fact, I just read a quote in Sarah Pearse's book, The Sanatorium, that sort of sums up how grief works: "Grief is like a series of bombs exploding, one after another. Every hour, a new detonation. Shock after shock after shock." Sometimes we have to cry loads of tears over the same grief before we start to feel some relief. And the sea, while beautiful to look at, will find every tiny cut or scrape on your body--ones you didn't even know you had--and it will burn like fire. But you will continue walking down the beach with your toes in the water because the reward is greater than the pain. In every instance, the pain is real and can be wildly intense. But on the other side of the pain, there is healing. So I will continue seek out these lovely saltwater cures and allow them to do their work in me. 

Beautifully Broken

I took a walk on the beach yesterday. And, as always, as soon as my feet hit the sand, I turned into a treasure hunter, my eyes scanning the sand and coastline searching for interesting creatures or shells or even bizarre bits of trash. I know myself well enough to know I want to collect every shell or bit of coral I come across because they are all so lovely, so I long ago put limits on myself to keep the collection manageable: only fully intact or truly unique treasures that I can carry in my hands or pockets, which will then be further scrutinized and filtered before I pack up my bag to head home. The beach I am visiting at the moment doesn't have many shells, but yesterday there were tons of sand dollars littering the beach...or, more accurately, sand half-dollars. Every one I came across was broken. Ignoring my own beach combing rules, I couldn't help picking them up. As I continued to walk and think and pick up as many severed sand dollars as my hands would hold, I wondered why. Why was I drawn to these broken things that so many other beachgoers had passed up? And then like a bigger-than-expected wave, it hit me: they reminded me of me. They were broken, yes, but still surprisingly beautiful. And because they were broken, I could see the intricacies of the structure inside, which was also beautiful in its own right. The stories of how they came to be on this beach tumbled out in the palm of my hand--tossed by unpredictable yet consistent waves, pecked apart by birds, trampled on or completely ignored by other beachcombers because they were not perfect or whole. The sand dollars' stories reminded me of my own. I would normally have been one to walk on by, but my own beautiful brokenness allowed me to see the beauty in these objects whose very name implies value. As I thought about it more, I realized that even if I were to find a fully intact sand dollar, it would not be perfect. The edges would be jagged, the surface rough. The only perfect sand dollars are the ones that are manufactured and show up in a souvenir shop. It made me think about all the perfectly curated social media pages that aren't real or authentic but are meant to make a life look put together and flawless. Though I have often been tempted to pick up every sand dollar I've come across on the beach, I have never been tempted to buy a manufactured one. Fabricated sand dollars--and lives--are never interesting to me because I am repelled by fake things. I'll take real and authentic over fake every single time. 

There's no doubt I am broken. But I'm no less beautiful, and my story doesn't matter less. If anything, it matters more. It's real and authentic, and it allows me to see the beauty in the other broken ones around me. I never saw one intact sand dollar on the beach yesterday, but I saw scores of beautifully broken ones. Chances are good that if you're a human (or a sand dollar) you are living a broken life. Getting to where you are now has been hard, and lots of people have not or will not see your beauty. But trust me when I tell you that doesn't make you any less stunning. I see the beauty in your brokenness, and I intend to fill my life with people who can see the beauty in mine.