Feeling, Better

Last week someone came at me. Not like a bear or crazed dog, a person.  And not even physically--though I really should take a self defense class--but verbally.

I looked for angry photos and this emerged and it
was way too funny NOT to use. Plus, in the heat of
the moment, I'm probably about this sane.

If it had been my work life it still would've sucked, but I get paid to deal with the occasional butthead. But this was in my personal life, so no paycheck to comfort me.  With some distance between me and that moment, I can see it wasn't actually about me at all. It was about fear of change
mostly, and a little about wanting to be in charge, both of which I totally understand.

I've been reading Brene Brown in book club. We're on our second, Rising Strong.  Brene is a shame researcher, who discovered early on that people who are able to deal with that emotion are people who embrace vulnerability. She was as excited about that news as I am. (If you haven't watched her TED talk you totally should. It's fascinating, and also if you want to feel pretentious you can name-drop TED in conversation. Here is the link.)

One of the first steps is identifying what you're feeling, acknowledging that, and trying to get down to the root of it. Am I mad, or am I really sad but mad feels safer? Am I embarrassed, and if so, is it because I failed or because I feel like I've been successfully projecting perfection and that image just face-planted on the sidewalk?

The concept is simple, but the action is not. In that moment I got as far as "I'm feeling angry and defensive. My face is hot, my body tensed, and I want to lash out." Then I stopped processing and just got pissy.

It was a few days before I was like, "Ugh, I should probably try to live wholeheartedly. Bleh." And a few more days before I was like, "Fine, fine. I'll explore the emotion" (said with more snark than eagerness.) And a few more days still before I'm finally doing it. These are the questions we're to ask:

What is the story I'm making up in my head about what that person thinks, how they feel, what they're going to do, and why?
What are my emotions?
What is my body feeling?
What am I thinking?
What beliefs about myself and/or others are driving the story/emotions/feelings/thoughts above?
What am I doing with all of it?

See? Not a fun process, but it gets at what the root of those situations is so those lies, or insecurities, or fears can be faced, maybe with a few safe people, instead of stockpiling hurt that never goes away.

It's super not easy, especially when immersed in a torrent of emotion, but yeah, I'd say its worth it. Because to protect myself from hurt would require I insulate from the good emotions too. You can't deaden one without losing the other.

Though sometimes a glass of wine and a good book are way more fun.

So Many Lessons, So Little Time

Nothing makes you realize you're not a natural decorator like deciding to remodel.  I tend toward ALL THE BRIGHT HAPPY COLORS!!!! But that tends to look like the Skittles factory exploded, and nobody wants to live in a decimated Skittles factory.

The adventure started yesterday when I went to look at flooring and promptly learned you do not match your floors to your cabinets. You go at least a shade or two darker. Yeah, news to the non-decorator.

Then I got home with a sample that was as light as possible while meeting this criteria and discovered that actually, the darker color does look nice against the cabinets. In fact, my how-light-can-I-go choice was maybe...too light?

Then I decided my ignorance was getting in my way--I mean, I still have to pick counters!--and went to the expert for some advice. Google. Where I learned that you want your cabinets to be a contrast to your floor and counters, and then have an accent color.

Okay, accent colors still seem a little advanced, but contrast I get. So then I started looking at all the colors of counters that exist. So. Many.  And realized I'm going to need advice on this too.

I'm willing to listen to the experts, or even the sales guys, and am confident I'll get a good result.

But I want it now.

And that's not how remodeling works. That's not really how anything involving contractors works.

So I'm in another lesson about patience, and realizing I haven't changed since I was a tyke waiting to open an Easter basket when every second took a millennia, and it felt like my very heart would pop if I didn't get to it soon.

All this to say, if before this process is complete, I start to seem a little crazed and/or have heart trouble, please give me an Easter basket.

Stuff That Happens In My Head, or, Coffee As An Antipsychotic

I got a little overzealous the other morning with the Keurig, and now it's out of order.

I know. Heartbreaking.

So I had to go back to the old school brewer, which doesn't see much action these days. As I waited for my caffeine to brew, the water-spout-thingy inside squeaked a few times.

Which naturally made me think of a mouse. And what would happen if a mouse got stuck inside my coffee pot.

I know. Horrible.

So then I had this almost irrepressible urge to double check that there wasn't, in fact, a mouse in my coffee pot. BUT, even before my first cuppa, I recognized this as nonsensical.

Still...

I finally convinced myself I didn't need to check because: the cats would have gotten the mouse before it made it to the coffee pot. And as sad as it would make me to see Mickey or Minnie drooping  from the jaws of either of my babies, or worse yet, left like the ickiest gift ever at my bedroom door, it would probably be a less painful death than the coffee pot.

This is why I need caffeine.

One dose of salted caramel flavored medium roast later, I'd finally put this maddening line of thought behind me, when...the refrigerator door squeaked.

Digging In

Plotting starts with determining the lie the character believes, and why. We all have those moments in our past that shape us, usually without our realizing it. You can tell because when you brush against their memories, they ache all over again. And if you try to say the words out loud to someone else, all that hurt/pain/shame wells up as fresh as a steaming pile of vomit.

I've recognized some of these in my life. Being told as a little girl I was too sensitive. being told on the playground I was so ugly.  And I've taken these out, handled them, and seen them for what they were. Flimsy tissue paper untruths. They don't hold up.

But what about the ones I've told myself? Told myself I'm ugly so I won't get arrogant. Told myself not only my true value, but my perceived worth by others, is dependent and inversely proportional on those five pounds I gained.  Told myself that if I were ever going to succeed it would have happened by now, and that in ten/twenty/thirty years I'm going to be that joke who never gave up on a dream that was out of reach. We talk about never giving up like its a good thing, but we only mean it if you someday reach your goal.

As deeply wounding and breaking as the lies others have told me can be, the lies in my own voice are so much worse. The willful ones, like believe you're ugly or you'll be vain, are based on deeper lies. Like you're fundamentally a bad person. You need shame to keep you from being an even worse person. If you acknowledge good in yourself, you'll lose perspective.

What bullshit.

Your worth is based on a handful of pounds. Anyone else CARES that you gain or lose a handful of pounds.  I don't care when other people do, but they're all more shallow than I am. I bring less to the table than anyone else, so these tiny flaws are all it will take to send others in search of better comrades.

So dumb, when I just look at it.  I'm not that much deeper than others, and I'm not that much less worthwhile than others.

It seems deep down I have trouble with properly valuing things.  Let's hope I never hold a garage sale.

But, looking at these, digging up the bullshit, tilling it, and then planting seeds of truth will lead to better things. Flowers that smell lovely. I'm not sure that analogy holds up, but you get what I'm trying to say. There's no way to ignore the lies into obsolescence.  They're there. They must be faced.

But they can be faced, and that's the hopeful part.  They can be pulled out and looked at. It's scary, and not something I'd look forward to like a trip to Cancun, but it can be done. And most of these when they face the cleansing waters of truth, are tissue paper lies. They dissolve a lot more easily than I expected after carrying them for so long.

Thank you, God, that the truth will set me free. Us free. Shower me with truth and give me the courage to examine the things I've let be truth for so long. Thank you for flowers and for this whole world, a giant analogy of your love and of hope. Let me be present today and see it.

Max and the Adventure of Losing Everything

I've been thinking about a story. A Bible story, actually, and a very short, relatively boring one at that. It's just a few lines about a wealthy, important man who came to the Teacher Jesus and said he wanted to join his posse. Jesus said, "Sure. But first go sell all your stuff and give the proceeds to the needy."
The man was taken aback, and left sad and confused because, hello, he really liked all his stuff. He'd worked hard for it. Took good care of it. And its not like he didn't give anything at all to the poor, but all of it?
That's where the glimpse into this life ends, but I don't think its the end of the story.  I think Max (that's what we're calling him now) went home to his beautiful house and looked around at his cool Maserati, his fine art collection, and his ginormous-screen TV and shook his head. No, he didn't have to give it up, he was generous already. In fact, he was kind of miffed. The gall of that guy to tell him to sell everything. Sure, easy to say when you're a nomad with almost nothing.
No, he popped a beer, invited his friends over, and cheered the home soccer team against the Galilean Olive Crushers.
But the next day, when he woke, he had that heavy sense that lands somewhere between loss and dread, that he'd missed out on something vital. An opportunity more incredible and precious than traveling the world, or eating at the finest restaurants, or being named among the hot 30 under 30 in Time magazine.
And as the days passed the ache grew instead of fading. Every time Matt Lauer mentioned anther slew of miracles by Jesus tears burned the backs of Max's eyes. And though he did all the same things he used to, grilling out with the guys, bidding on new sculptures, and vegging out over gourmet food in front of his massive TV, none of it felt as exciting as it once had. None of it was enough. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it any more, all those leisures were just as fun. But he'd found something more precious, more thrilling, in the gentle, warm gaze of a man not much older than him who seemed to care about him even before he knew Max's importance, and then turned and cared about a beggar just as much.
It didn't happen all at once, no. At first he just gave away some things. The old paintings stored in the attic, last season's robes, leftovers from the restaurant to a homeless man on the way out.
And even those things felt....revitalizing. Max tasted a freedom-tinted joy that was entirely new. He felt like a boy again. Light, happy, and connected to a world he hadn't intentionally drawn away from.
After that it was the motorcycle, then his second car, and then one day, when Matt Lauer started talking about Jesus' latest dust up with the religious people, it struck all at once.
Max called Christie's Auction house, and floored the poor receptionist when he said he wanted to sell....everything.  Even after she finally quit hanging up on him for crank-calling and put him through, it took a while to get the appraiser to agree to come out and look at an entire mansion of stuff, and even moreso when he told her he wouldn't be there to collect the check. No, he didn't want to wait that long, so he instead gave her a list of orphanages, widows' aid programs, and the homeless guy who sat outside his favorite restaurant, and told her to divide the proceeds accordingly.
And without a single glance back or a twinge of doubt, Max walked away, thumbed a ride, and joined the mass of people following Jesus. And if he were going to have any second thoughts which, less face it, was highly likely, they vanished when he saw the joy and welcome and pride in the face of this Teacher whose very words burned in his chest and ignited life.

Bloom When

It is mid-May, which in Colorado this year means flowers, sunshine...and snow. Yesterday, we had about four inches coating the landscape.

I looked into my backyard when it hit to at least enjoy the flora for a moment before it froze. Only one brave blossom had opened. It was a beautiful dark purple, with large leaves laced out wide. The others sat curled into buds, unwilling to risk opening.

The open flower fell to the ground when the snow came. But every single one of the other plants turned yellow without ever showing their faces.

It made me think about life. So often we want to wait until its safe to risk pursuing what we really want. When I get married....when the kids are older....when I've saved more...when I'm retired...when the economy turns around...when I can talk someone into going with me...when I lose weight...when I get better at it...

And in the meantime, we wait. Just, wait.

The problem is, we only get to live each day once, and not one person really knows what the next day will bring. When I think bravely, I'd rather bloom blue and early and leave a trace of color in the world than fade to yellow without ever having seen the sun. Because the snow will come for all of us, whether we open ourselves to this life or not.

I'm thankful for this one small reminder to live, and for
all the opportunities I've had to experience wonderful moments in this life. Blossom moments. For playing with kids in Cambodia, for eating amazing pizza in Vatican City, for sleeping late on a rainy Saturday, for snuggling kittens in my lap. I'm thankful for the wonder of watching whales leap from the ocean, waterfalls sail off cliffs, Christmas trees hovering over piles of bright presents. For the chance to be totally and utterly honest with friends over coffee, to laugh like a crazy person over old memories, to pursue dreams I can't make happen on my own, and to pursue those I can. For moments of success, yes. But also for moments of failure, because it means at least I tried. For roller coasters, for songs that make my heart expand beyond my chest, for painting classes, and for a delicious bite of chocolate. For all the moments that remind me to be open, to embrace the warmth of the sun, and to bloom not just where I'm planted, but when.

(Sniff, Sniff)...Do You Smell That?

I'm not all about ragging on oneself, particularly publicly. But the truth is, I don't have a perfect body.

No, this is not my nose. While it probably works better
I can't say I'd trade.

I've come to accept this.

One particularly im
perfect part is...my nose. It just doesn't work that well. This can be a good thing, like when I'm working with children and those around me start making the grotesque "I'm smelling a loaded diaper" face, because the person who smells it first has to take care of it. So, I change very few diapers.

But it also means I can miss out on some wonderful scents, or at least it takes them a long time to get to me. So when coffee is brewing, cookies are baking, or a Christmas tree is freshly cut, everyone around gets this blissful "I'm smelling my childhood" face, and I have to pretend until my lazy nose finally decides to perk up and sniff already.

If anything, this makes me appreciate those wonderful scents more. And one of my favorites: fresh bedsheets. I enjoy sleeping, although its another thing I'm not particularly good at, but still. There's something so great about lying down in cool sheets and poking your feet into the corners of the bed, then balling up a pillow and closing your eyes.

And then, you inhale, and you get that unique aroma of soap and Spring Breeze, or whatever scent your detergent is. It makes me anticipate dreaming of meadows, (I never actually have, but it's a nice thought as you drift off) and it makes something that is pleasant anyways feel special.

I've read a few historical of late and always amid the romance and fancy dress balls I'm thinking about how they didn't have Degree or Mitchum, didn't bathe all that often, and didn't have spearmint gum. I'd probably do better than most in that environment giving my lack of olfactory acuity, but I'm glad I will never find out. I don't even want to imagine the days before they had soaps with artificial meadow smells. I would miss that.

So, today I'm thankful for good smells, all of them, and particularly the aroma of fresh sheets. I'm thankful for the chemists in some lab who mixed ingredients until they came up with Meadow, and for my own washer and dryer, so I can enjoy that scent as often as I'm willing to do laundry. And yeah, I'm thankful for my mediocre nose because even I do get those whiffs of wonderful now and then.