This resonated so deeply with me this morning…
“Man stands in his own shadow and wonders why it’s dark.” – Zen proverb
Category: mindfulness
Magic To Do
Bill @ drbillwooten.com had posted a quote from Brene Brown that has stared at me for days now..
“Owning our story can be hard, but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky, but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy – the experiences that make us the most vulnerable…”
And, as is typical with the route of the karma truck, a confluence of moments stop me along the road and force me to pull over and take stock of my surroundings.
– Elizabeth asks me about the act of becoming the me I am today. Who was I before I left biglaw? How am I defining myself today? Oh Elizabeth – do you want the short answer or the long one? 😉
– An email from a friend with so much sadness, I thought the screen was streaked with her tears. A chapter closing with an ending she didn’t pen. Now a character in a story that she would have written much differently.
– Friday night with Andy, Jo and Ben seeing “Pippin” on Broadway. A long ago story with threads that carry through from the days when I made up songs to sing while my dad played the Prince to my sister’s balletic swan.
I don’t remember when I began singing, but it has been my protection, my home, my sanctuary, my arguably limited coping mechanism when humor fails me. Standing under Roosevelt Avenue letting one note escape from my lips as the subway rattled overhead. Missing the green light because I was focused on holding that note until the last car was on its way to the 82nd Street stop.
When I sang at ‘Catch A Rising Star‘ my sophomore year in college, I did it I think, more out of naiveté than anything else (well that, and an incredible crush on the guy who arranged it). Jo and Bruce were there. Had we not bumped into each other on the street earlier in the day, the moment would have passed. I sang “Magic To Do” – stepping up to the mike after a gorgeously built woman in a gold sequined bathing suit and heels almost as high as her hair, ponied her way through an off-key version of “V-a-c-a-t-i-o-n”. The audience loved her, for they thought she was a comedy act. To say I took the mike with tremendous hesitation and nausea is an understatement. But I saw Jo – and her delight. On the wings of her smile I let it go. And they asked me to do an encore (I did “Summertime”).
I got an email yesterday from her telling me that she heard me singing during the show on Friday…I thought I was being pretty quiet. But I had to sing – this was my coming of age story. Believing that I had to do great things and having no clue what that meant. I believed I was destined to do the extraordinary, and in my nineteen year old mind, extraordinary meant ‘big’, ‘notable’. And I’m sure sequins had to play a part.
My extraordinariness is hardly extraordinary, but I have come to understand that it is what it is. My sons are miracles – and though I take no credit for anything other than being their mom, I would submit that their arrival trumps any other accomplishment of the exceptional. They were my reason and my privet for so very long. And they moved forward into the world with the knowledge that they are more than capable of soaring.
I built a great career and felt needed by a lot of people – which was pretty heady and gratifying and I didn’t sacrifice more of my soul than I could handle in the process. And when it required more compromising than I could abide, more injury to my body and soul than either could handle, I left. And where I’m heading…well, later to the supermarket.
What I am though is here. I am in this moment for those who need me to be. I am here to remind my heartbroken buddy that we shatter and somehow mend again. I am here for the moments when one doesn’t know if another day is really going to change a damn thing, and suggesting that if it doesn’t, a series of days may. I am here with a cup of hope. And if you sit close enough to me, probably a song.
Dozing Through Life
“The universe is not short on wake-up calls. We’re just quick to hit the snooze button.” – Brene Brown
There are some days when I think I have done absolutely nothing of value and can’t understand how the hours got away from me. At that point my self-talk is particularly harsh – ‘Idiot, you wasted a day’, ‘is this how you define living?’, ‘you have no excuse for such inertia’, ‘what are you waiting for?’ (I did censor these thoughts – I usually throw around a few expletives in my head too).
And even though I self-flagellate with impressive vigor, it’s beginning to dawn on me that I’m missing the point. I’m not snoozing through life – I’m wide awake, acutely aware and learning how to be in this skin without apology. I believe that my senses are calibrated more sensitively than ever before. I can find a chirping wren in the top of a tree, discover the mystery in a song I’ve listened to a thousand times and never really heard. I am increasingly attracted to people who have a curiosity about anything other than their own navels. It dawned on me the other day that there are some people who think of me fondly and/or with friendship and have never asked me anything that would suggest they really had any interest in who I am. And that’s ok – as long as I’m asking myself the questions that matter, I don’t need to be queried. I like inquiring better.
I am aware that life delights in such elemental ways that I can’t wait to wake up in the morning. The rich silence in the pre-dawn hours punctuated by the occasional grumbling of a bullfrog, the decadent smell of fresh coffee and the morning air fresh from the nights’ rain. I’m awake. I’m getting the message – there is no dress rehearsal, so make sure you pick up your cues. Life isn’t waiting for you to begin, it just wants you to notice.
In This Moment
“In these bodies we live and in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life” — Mumford & Sons
Such a simple concept, yes? Hard to argue, pointless to debate – and yet. There is no doubt that I have exhausted this body with thoughts and actions and feelings that had little to do with love. There are years when I succumbed to the pressure of living to work, displaying outrageous disconnection between value and true purpose. I don’t think I’m unique. I think we remember what is in front of us in the moment.
It’s been a challenge to get the karma truck in gear over these last few weeks, and I’m not sure why. Feeling that perhaps my thoughts are becoming trite and overdone like a delicate Jenga edifice of clichés. And this morning something clicked, the starter turned over. Back on the road.
I had a particularly challenging consulting project that is now over. The participants were awesome, the conversation engaging. The untenable weight was a result of the politics behind the engagement and I agitated beyond anything remotely sensible. The details don’t matter – the phenomenal emotional toll that was exacted each time I received vitriolic emails and disparaging comments from the company that had arranged this program – was far more than I should ever have permitted. The client was thrilled with me and I was happy with the terrific group with whom I spent many hours. And that’s where I should have been able to insert a full stop. It’s like trying to separate egg yolks and whites – it takes practice. I still conflate the relevant and irrelevant; arguably giving way too much attention to the latter.
With the luxury of time, I watch people around me as they approach the tender reality of savoring what really matters. There is the obvious – our families and friends, a firefly playing hide-and-seek before becoming invisible in the daylight, a newborn fawn nursing vigorously and then falling over his/her legs in an initial attempt at play. Finding the delight in every story told to me, by people I may never see again, and others who I will know forever. Holding on to curiosity and expanding the vista to include more and more and more. I’m not ready to narrow the perspective – this body has room to breathe and absorb and take in and wonder. This body has room to rest and rejoice, listen and learn, commit and walk away and commit again.
Such simple, unassailable truths – yet coming to this post, I was close to breathing into a paper bag. The anxiety of insecurity, the constant questioning of whether or not I’m getting this right. It’s done. It’s written, and I’m on the road again. With time however, to renew.
For All The Dads
Some men know that they want to be dads – the-kind-who-are-always-there – dads. Today is your day. Some men know that they will never be as flummoxed as when an adolescent girl attenuates her irritation over nothing by intoning “D-a-a-a-a-d” with dramatic flair reminiscent of Sarah Bernhardt and Camille.
For every dad who first danced with his daughter by having her stand on his shoes (and there was a time when shoes were polished, but let’s not go there). The dad who threw pitch after pitch, went to every game, and in an act of incredible love and extreme foolishness continued to try to impart guidance and direction to ears and minds that were destined to follow their own path (as it should be).
For Andy, my favorite father-in-law and brothers-in-law, for David and Bill and Russ and Ben and all those friends of ours out there whose love for their children (and fur kids) is so palpable I can almost match the beat of my own heart to yours. It is a delight to honor you today.
And for the dad of all dads (at least in my eyes) – my own. Whether I was hanging upside down on the bunk bed pretending to be dead (I was eight, it was a gag – it didn’t work), looking for grapes in a bowl of Cheerios, walking to school with you almost every day for twelve years (and then commuting with you into the city), or watching the unadulterated mutual adoration between you and your grandsons – you were an amazing, involved, funny, smart, occasionally snarky, willing, curious, surprise-filled, loving dad. And I still think of you as ‘daddy’ – and you’ve been gone for nine years. But it’s your day too – and I miss you and celebrate you today.
When There’s Little To Be Sure Of
Once again, timing proves to be everything. Lately it seems like a lot of people have started following the karma truck. I will confess I’m not convinced that all of these new passengers are real – something tells me the WordPress filters are going through some kind of crisis. And yet, today I received the loveliest message from someone new, and it was clear that she was neither a salesperson, corporate entity or accidental tourist. My delight in her arrival somehow tripped the ignition which lately has been reluctant to start.
In the ether, it is tough sometimes to separate fantasy from reality. Are we, in real life, what we project in our posts? I seem to follow those who I believe are as transparent as their defenses and sense of propriety permit. I have become friends with some who I have yet to meet, and I have every confidence that should circumstance and fortune collide, I would find them to be even more than my thoughts could have imagined.
Like Lori. We finally met this week. I recognized her instantly and she was more beautiful than any picture suggested. She has a giggle like a song, and a heart that beats with a rhythmic love that just draws the world to her. To be in her orbit was both exhilarating and comforting – for I was with someone I have known forever though I can’t remember where or when. I just know it to be so.
For twenty-four hours we talked, commiserated, wondered about people we have grown to care deeply for (despite not being able to identify them if we passed on the street – and you know who you are, which is a good thing), shared personal histories in more exquisite detail, cried a bit, laughed far more. My words are not doing this visit justice, yet I’m certain you get the gist.
Last week Bill @ drbillwooten.com was generous enough to include me as part of his WordPress Family. The coincidence of these two moments is not lost to me. We who write and read each other’s posts, who comment and delight, commiserate and comfort, find ourselves in a family of sorts. Perhaps it is not one that is standard issue, nor one that can be identified by pictures and get-togethers. But nonetheless, to one degree or another it is defined by connection and dare I say it, levels of love. There is no ambiguity despite the opaque wall of anonymity. Within these posts lie the magic of people I have come to love in a way that I need not try to define. I just have to acknowledge that it is there. And I do – with arms wide open.
How We Carry The Day
Another early morning finds me sitting in the office atrium, catching up on the day’s rhythm, seeing if I can match the beat. The energy is too slow, involving shuffling instead of stepping, a resignation in the bend of the head. Clearly I am not going to be a helpful dance partner. I need to carry the day differently…which propels me towards an entirely different train of thought. How to carry the day.
Should it be carried gently as a sleeping baby in your arms, held with acute awareness of its inestimable preciousness? Or with abandon? Tossing the day up in the air with delight, watching it return to your hands gleefully anticipating the breathlessness of being thrown higher again and again.
Perhaps it should be carried over your shoulder, as one carries shirts fresh from the dry cleaner? Protected in plastic that provides the security that they will make it home spotless and pressed (assuming you don’t fall into a puddle).
Do you hold the day like a briefcase – holding so tightly to the handle that your fingers ache, secure that no one will be able to take it from you?
Or
Like a well-worn handbag held casually and almost mindlessly – its weight comfortable in your hand, its contents familiar (save for the occasional forgotten lipstick and dollar bill at the very bottom of the bag).
How do you carry the day?
Held tightly against you like a cell phone to your ear, doing all you can to make sure that no one can hear what you are attending to? Protectively guarding your privacy despite being in the middle of all this humanity??
Do you carry the day with confidence or trepidation? Delight or dread? Is it one more parcel to hold along with too many others to effectively juggle? Do you push it away as a stroller or a shopping cart, keeping control of the direction by keeping a certain distance between you and it? Is it pulled along like a rolling suitcase, casually unaware of its contents (for after all it is always behind you).
Do you balance the day like an overly full cup of coffee that is thisclose to spilling over, taking mincing, tentative steps to avert sartorial disaster?
I suppose different days require different handling. Today my arms are at my sides, keeping questionable rhythm with my feet. Today perhaps the day itself will carry me.
A View From The Lobby
Whenever I have a meeting – of any kind – I’m early. It’s my definition of being on time. I was facilitating a meeting yesterday morning, and with the rain pummeling the house, I decided to give myself more than enough time to get downtown. What does one do then with an hour to kill? Head into the open, skylit atrium with a cup of coffee, review your notes and then watch the world go by. Another olio from yours truly…
Rather than look like I’m just sitting there ogling people, I make notes, raising my eyes subtly to take in the action (Actually, I like to think I look surreptitious – I have a hunch I’m not so graceful).
– A guy walks by wearing a grey cap, striped sweater, wire-rimmed glasses…he looks like he could be a student at GW, but for the absence of a backpack. He’s so intently texting that he slams right into the corner of one of the metal (heavy, wrought iron) chairs. Unfortunately, said corner is of a particular delicate height and I wince for him. He lets out a “oooph” – a restrained exclamation if ever I heard one, and gingerly walked into the coffee shop. Those of us sitting nearby all look up with sympathy and even a little amusement (that’s what you get when you don’t watch when you walk and text). Ok, the women look more amused then the men.
– The skylights which are supposed to welcome all the natural light look like they are bearing the traces of a really good cry. It’s that kind of day.
– Beige lady – I swear this is a beige lady. Beige hair, outfit, shoes, necklace, purse…urban camouflage. Her posture is perfect, her strides are long and her heels strike the floor with emphasis. She covers a lot of ground with maximum efficiency. A person on a mission, confident, hyped, ready. She comes out of the coffee shop holding two Red Bulls. I feel for the people with whom she’s working today.
– Choices, choices..a man in biking shorts and a heavy sweat (or rain-soaked) checks out his options at the coffee shop. Grabs a yogurt. Puts it back. A box of Special K. Shakes his head and places it back on the shelf. Granola bar? Uh uh. This is a small Au Bon Pain, there are limited choices. He looks conflicted. Ah!! He grabs a an apple turnover. I like this guy.
– Cross-body bags with cross-body briefcases is not a great look. People look like pack animals heading up Everest. And the puce thermal lunch bag? Um, I vote ‘no’.
– Why does no one smile? I must be missing the memo. This feels like a very unhappy place, with questionable elan (but this is DC after all, we don’t pride ourselves on elan or fashion sense – or any sense at all for that matter). I am on a crusade to get people to smile. I consciously smile at everyone – the garage attendant, the vanilla-outfitted girl who passes my table with vacant eyes, the maintenance person who traverses the perimeter of the atrium scrupulously checking for…something.
I’m not talking maniacal smiles here – just a small smile that someone could choose to ignore or return without fear of a Jack-Nicholson-in-‘The Shining’ reaction. So far I’m 5 for 6…wait, 6 for 7 – not bad. Each moves along in his/her own moment, which is totally cool. I’m not looking to create memories here. I just want to break this wall of impassivity – see if there’s any light behind those shuttered eyes, as if there is too much risk in letting someone see any emotion at all.
And I want to know all their stories – where do you work? Do you like what you do? What’s on your mind this morning? House? Condo? Tent? Pets? Kids? Partners? What could change this moment from one that has merely passed to one that is fantastic? Are your shoulders bowed from the weight of your backpack or the weight of your woes?
Why fuchsia lipstick?
They need music here – something to lift these sagging commuter spirits, to imbue the morning with the hint of the possible, the funny, the sublime or even the stuff that really matters. Time for me to head to the elevator with the guy who looks like Stubby Kaye when he was in “Guys & Dolls”.
For The Boys
Mother’s Day is Sunday. When my mom was alive, this was a day feted like few others. Dad would have it no other way, for he knew how much it meant to her. We’d stand by her bedroom door waiting for her to come out, give her a cape made out of a sheet, a scepter (which in actuality was one of our batons) – even the dog had a ‘Happy Mother’s Day‘ sign around his neck. Coffee first – always. Then gifts and cards (she felt cards were a critical component of the whole thing). In retrospect, we took the Hallmark holiday to almost ridiculous levels. As teenagers, Deb and I would roll our eyes at the theatrics involved – Dad reminding us repeatedly to make sure that she not be disappointed by any failure of our memories, the Queen for a Day spectacle expanding in scope as we got older. As dad’s health began to fail, we just celebrated her as much as we could – though nothing really compensated for what she was losing.
I come at this though from a different place. Boys perhaps are different – more muted in their expressions, though arguably more consistent. And this is really about them. Whether they read this or not is moot; it is for them in absentia.
If it wasn’t for the boys, I wouldn’t be one of those women for whom Mother’s Day is intended. My boys. Really, the appreciation should be directed their way. They are not perfect; I have no illusions. They are however the perfect sons for me. They each came equipped with unique characteristics that amaze, delight, occasionally frustrate and always, always reinforce my wonder that I got so lucky. So blessed. I wish I could still hold them in my lap, yet I also love hearing their expanding world views. I can touch their heads and remember them nestled in the crook of my neck, and then blink and re-focus on a conversation about work, current events, the Stanley Cup. I crave them – I aways have. And though I knew from the time I was able to toddle that I wanted to be a mom, I never knew I would be a mom to men who I like as much as I adore. Their love is nutritious – even though I’m not sure what the RDA is. All I know is that when I’m with them, I am the better part of me. I look at them with occasional disbelief – these men, as boys were mine. These men allowed me to be a mom. And as convoluted as it may sound, Mother’s Day celebrates them. They are my greatest treasures, my heart, my soul. They are my history and I am watching them travel into their futures. And to take a line from my dad, “more loved [they] cannot be”. Thank you for being the sons I always wanted, and becoming the remarkable men that you are.
Observations From Starbucks – A Wednesday Olio
Sometimes you just need a venti, skim cappuccino. Sit down, listen to the music, silently intercept the conversational volleys around you. Look like you’re working on your laptop while inventing stories about the people waiting in line. ‘Not very nice of you Mim’, you say? No worries, I reprimand myself in between thoughts. It’s how I roll.
OMG – that’s Helen Mirren!! What is she doing in my neighborhood Starbucks??? She is magnificent, what a cool gravitas surrounds her as she regards a message on her iPhone with bemusement. I swear it’s her. I applaud my fellow humankind as we sublimate our collective desire to swarm, leaving her to be among the people. It is interesting to me though that no one else seems to be sneaking peeks. Wait…is she chewing gum while drinking her latte? With her mouth open? Helen! Oh no she isn’t. Yup she is. Sticking the end of a ballpoint pen in her ear and scratching. Her pinky isn’t raised. I can hear her snapping her gum. I get it – this most definitely is not a Helen Mirren sighting. Damn – I was so sure.
Young woman in line with her shoulders slumped, hair covering her face as if she would give anything to be invisible. She’s lovely actually, and dressed in black on a gorgeous spring day does not serve as a cloak of invisibility. The blue lipstick doesn’t either – it actually looks like she’s been caught inflagrante delicti with a Smurf. It’s that same blue. I have to get this visual out of my head as soon as possible – it’s both funny and mildly gross. And if this involves two consenting adults and no one is getting hurt…
Interesting meeting going on at the only table that seats four. Three guys, one girl – all dressed in the new sartorial category “business casual”. The young men are in khakis, three variations of the color beige and button down shirts – two blue, one white. The woman wears a scarf wrapped twice around her neck in the fashionable way that conceals any spots on the front of your shirt. Blue skirt, blue tights, flats. I look at them not looking at each other and smile – they all look so young, so intense. I have yet to see one of them look up from their respective laptops, and I wonder why I’m so sure they know each other other than their matching outfits. One guy gets up to get a refill and says to someone at the table – “I just texted you”. Really? I am inclined to sit here until they leave just to see if they acknowledge each other in real time as they move towards the door. I’m inclined, but my time here is limited.
If a woman is standing in line and the seam in the back of her very-very-very tight skirt has gone off-center, do you tell her? She’s got too much going on with the whole look not to care. I think she is dressing to impress and she certainly leaves an impression. I can’t imagine that she just threw herself together this morning. Her hair is sprayed to natural perfection (yes, it’s an oxymoron – get it?), eyelashes curled and mascara-ed, blush applied and blended right at the ‘apples’ of her cheeks as fashion magazines suggest. I should tell her…no I can’t. As I sit here in my chic gym clothes, I look like a really credible source to comment on the seam placement of her skirt. Nope – I’m letting it go.
I see an older couple who work out at the gym when I do – we say a quick ‘hi’ as I begin to head out. I look up just in time to see him kissing the top of her head as she leans her body into his. The best takeaway from Starbucks this morning – all other thoughts just fade away and I carry their love in one hand and my coffee in the other. Happy Wednesday everyone.
How The Heart Heals
“And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on” — George Gordon Byron
I struggle to describe this week. All of the adjectives in my mind seem to collide with one another in a frenetic game of bumper cars. Contrasting realities – awful, horrific, mind-numbing, tragic, senseless, obscene, heartbreaking; life-affirming, connectedness, heroic, powerful, humbling, breathtaking, faithful.
Some people don’t do well with lots of stimuli – I’m one of them. It’s why I hate the mall. Too much going on that is competing for my attention and focus. This week makes a trip to the mall look positively mundane.
I was in the city on 9/11; in the Sears Tower (as it was called then – now the Willis Tower) two days later and flew to the Library Tower in LA thereafter. My mom thought the firm was asking too much and was a wreck while I was gone. I really think that had she known who to call, she would have dialed immediately and railed against anyone who had arrived at this decision. Other than that, the trips were all about being there and not being rattled, reassuring those who needed it and confirming our collective strategy for responding to this serendipitous element of the new normal.
Of course, as this week shows there is no strategy for these traumatic reminders of the new normal. The new normal wrenches us out of our skin, changes the rhythm of the day into a monotone dirge that quietly plays on an endless loop. Daily stressors are too much to bear, everything that is routine is somehow, not. I found myself in tears for no reason (when of course there were all the reasons in the world), sitting with my body wrapped around itself, trying to contain this inexplicable sorrow, covering my mouth so the screams would remain silent while they vibrated through my body. Did I even hear the birds engaged in their gossipy conversation over these past few days? I don’t think so.
The collective release of tension in Boston last night infused my soul with light (and the hearts of many I am sure). To see such joy and gratitude after these incomprehensibly tragic days returns my heart to baseline. The treadmill begins to slow, the incline is less arduous. The music changes – not necessarily exuberant, though hopeful. And when I walked the Sirs this morning, I heard the birds engaged in a rockin’ game of Marco Polo. And with a heart that is bruised, perhaps even broken, we return to our lives.
With Love
I was particularly struck by a poem posted by ivonprefontaine.com (Teacher As Transformer) yesterday. As with most things evocative, we considered Derek Walcott’s words differently – which is why I didn’t reblog his words.
Once again, I am motivated by friends, for whom this will resonate individually. Yet I hope above all, among the takeaways is a feeling of the tremendous value you have, the wonder that you offer up everyday and the love you deserve – from yourself first and foremost.
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
I’m really going to try to work on this…I need to. You need to. Let’s do it together, ok? Happy Saturday all.
Waiting for the Karma Truck 