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.

Growing Pains

When my daughter was young, she used to get the most horrific growing pains. The deep, throbbing, and sometimes shooting pains would take hold of her legs and cause tears to fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She would rub them and I would rub them until our hands were almost raw. And we both literally lost sleep over them. We tried warm baths and heating pads and muscle creams, but nothing really seemed to alleviate the pain except time. They would eventually go away in the same mysterious way in which they had arrived. 

When you do an internet search for "growing pains," you learn that, despite the moniker, they are not necessarily associated with growth. Some sites even suggest that there is no evidence that growth hurts, but here I must disagree. Even if the so-called growing pains are not caused directly by the stretching and elongating of bones and muscles, the fact that the pain is felt means that those muscles and bones are not yet strong enough to support whatever activities the child has engaged in, and until they are, there will be pain associated with their usage. The same is true for people (young or old) who exercise. You don't run your first mile without feeling some pain in your body. And when running a mile doesn't hurt anymore, you will feel new pain when you decide to start running three or four miles. Growth is always accompanied by pain. 

What's true for the body is also true for the mind. When we choose to or are forced to grow mentally and emotionally strong, we will feel pain as we face our demons and take responsibility for our choices and experiences. I am deeply committed to personal growth, which means I am often deliberately putting myself in the uncomfortable position of self-examination--although I will admit, I'm relatively new to this and actually spent years avoiding really examining myself at all, in an effort to minimize pain in my life. (Spoiler alert: I still had pain--and lots of it! But because I wasn't regularly examining myself and taking responsibility for my own contributions to my suffering, I found myself confused about where it was coming from, blaming Fate and other people, and adopting a victim mentality. The pain was still there, but I effectively made myself powerless to overcome it. I don't beat myself up over these years though, because you only know what you know when you know it.) These days, I am looking myself in the eye and asking myself hard questions and taking responsibility for the parts of me that aren't very lovely or that aren't as lovely as I would like them to be. And facing those things is unpleasant and painful in many ways. Taking a deep look requires that you either accept what you see as the best you can be or decide to make a change. Change is always hard. And growth hurts. But as with exercise, it's worth it when you feel the pride of overcoming obstacles, living a healthier life, and becoming your best self. 

Not only is it painful for me to grow; it is also sometimes painful (or at least inconvenient) to others for me to grow. 

My oldest son has a wonderful sense of humor, and laughing and making others laugh is one of his great passions. He loves to joke around, and he enjoys trying to get a rise out of others--not in a mean-spirited way, but just to keep things light and funny and maybe slightly shocking. For him, it's all about getting a reaction. I definitely have a track record of taking myself too seriously, so there have been times when I have not been able to laugh at his jokes or have taken offense at them. I have occasionally reacted with shock and horror, which sort of delights him, rather than mirth, which he would also accept. One day this week, he was trying to get a rise out of me, and I didn't react the way he thought I would. In fact, I didn't really react too much at all, which prompted him to declare, "I see you're growing again, which makes this not as much fun." I don't believe he was actually disappointed in me, and I believe he does support my growth, but this silly situation got me thinking seriously about how my growth doesn't just affect me. 

My personal growth will change my reactions and the way I show up in situations, and this can be uncomfortable and inconvenient for other people, especially people I have a close enough relationship with that there are expectations for how we behave towards each other in particular situations. Some people may be able to see and support my growth and adjust to new ways of interacting with me. But other people will be offended by my growth and will actually try to discourage it in subtle and non-subtle ways, so that they don't have to grow and change themselves. I am learning that people who don't genuinely support my growth are not my people. I am trying to surround myself with people who encourage and facilitate my growth, and I'm trying to be that kind of person for others. Growth is painful enough as it is. No need to multiply the growing pains by letting someone else's discomfort dictate how and when I grow.

If it comes, let it come; If it goes, let it go

Have you ever noticed how much energy you put into chasing things/people that aren't meant for you or holding on to ideas that no longer serve you? Or maybe it's just me... 

Loyalty is a double-edged sword in my life. I am a deeply loyal person, which means I go all in on relationships and philosophies once they've proven themselves valuable to me. If you happen to be a friend of mine, lucky you! This means I will be here for you no matter what, and I will love you the best way I know how pretty much forever. But sometimes, I keep trying to hold on to people and ideas even when they are no longer sparking joy in my life but are instead only a source of frustration and hurt. Or when they have already let me go. I seem to have a knack for trying to make the person/idea serve the purpose it once served or be the way I imagine it to be rather than the way it actually is. Sometimes, I can be loyal beyond what is reasonable. And I can really marinate in the hurt that comes from an ending.

A couple of years ago, all my ideas about the concept of "forever" got shook, and I have been slowly learning to greet life with an open hand instead of a closed fist. I have realized that nothing is forever and that it's okay--healthy, even--to let things and people and ideas come and go from my life without trying to control how long they stay. Not every person or idea is meant for me, and the ones that are may only be meant for me temporarily. 

Think of it this way: have you ever had a butterfly land on your hand? It feels magical and surreal, like you've been chosen for something special. But the minute you close your hand around it and try to hang on to that magic for dear life, it starts to wither and die. Something beautiful and wonderful and amazing becomes something lifeless when it is held too tightly. You can and should appreciate the magic of that moment for as long as it lasts, but you should keep your hand open so the magic doesn't die, even if it means that particular magic is no longer meant for you. 

I am currently in the process of changing my mindset about loyalty and embracing this philosophy: If it comes, let it come; if it goes, let it go. These two things can be true at the same time: I can be loyal AND I can let go when it's time to let go. Letting go doesn't make me a bad person or a weak person, and it doesn't diminish my desire and ability to be loyal. I can appreciate the magic of the current moment without trying to suffocate it. I don't need to chase things that are meant for me. The magic that's meant for me will come when it's suppose to and stay as long as it needs to. I do not need to expend energy to chase it or to hold it tightly. That doesn't mean I will not be saddened by the letting go or that I will not mourn the loss of something that was once beautiful to me, but giving myself permission to let things come and go freely feels like the kind of freedom that leads to happiness. And I definitely need more of that in my life.