When I was in the fourth grade, I started public school for the first time. Having moved around quite a bit as a child, my mom had chosen to home school us up until that point, rather than pull us in and out of classrooms. I was excited to go, but very scared.
Two things happened that I can remember.
One, because this was my first time in school, I had to take a standardized test to determine my level of education. I was a very anxious child, and I remember being terrified of this stranger sitting in front of me, asking me to answer endless questions and grimly timing my response.
I did average, and they placed me in an average class.
Two, as the year went on, I gained more confidence and my grades reflected this. So well, that my teachers wanted to place me in a gifted class.
I remember this day so clearly.
I walked in, looked around at my peers. They gave me some worksheets to do. I nervously observed the other students. Everyone was zipping through the assignments, finishing quickly and moving on to the next set of tasks.
I was overwhelmed, and this feeling consumed me. Shame ate at every edge of my newly built assuredness, shredding my self-worth and promptly handing it back to me like garbage.
And in this state a little voice spoke to me, quietly but surely enough:
You are not smart.
I took that voice in, placed in in the middle of my chest, and continued forward with my life.
As the years went by, I still did well in school. I still took classes that were above average, still got good grades. But the voice, and the anxiety, they were always there. They teamed up like too old friends, kicking me down if I got too relaxed, feeding me fear to keep me in line and on my toes at all times.
This thought, this feeling, this identity, this not being smart--it followed me. I believed it, I spoke it, I let it dictate exactly how many chances I was willing to take.
Or rather how many failures I was not willing to endure.
It kept me in a box.
Fast forward past college, grad school, and into my first year of work as a clinical counselor in NYC. My coworkers are all of varying intelligence, some graduating from Princeton and others not even high school. But here's the difference:
I am the only clinician besides my boss.
I am the first female to ever work in this organization as a counselor for men recovering from homelessness.
I am the solitary person under the age of 50.
And because of all these things, the odds should have been stacked against me.
But.
The context had changed.
I was now a valuable asset, something unique to the team. I was young, I was educated in the field, and I was a woman. There wasn't anyone else like me there, and the knowledge I was equipped with was new to everyone else.
I was seen as smart.
Bright.
Capable.
And people would tell me this. And I would shoot them down. I would say it's only because I am a woman or young or because no one else is trained. I would say trust me, if I was anywhere else I would have had my ass handed to me several times by now.
But still, people persisted to tell me this thing, this thing I was sure I wasn't allowed to believe.
After about three years, my curiosity started to rise. What if I was smart? What if I was capable, was bright? Could it be that all these people are wrong?
I went back and thought through my life, through all the situations I had been in, all the different learning environments. And it was true, in some places, I was not even close to the smartest person in the room. And in others, I was most certainly at the top.
It depended on the context.
So, what did this mean for me? About how I was going to label myself moving forward?
Because in some contexts, I was a brain child.
And others, slow as a sloth.
Did it make a difference?
The answer is, in no uncertain terms, yes.
But not so much whether I was intelligent based on my IQ or my ability to succeed in assessments.
But what I believed myself to be.
You see, once I started identifying myself as smart, I took more chances. I was able to answer questions more easily, I found I could memorize things quicker and process information at a higher level. I went after more challenging courses, tried my hand at solving problems no one else could solve.
I did more simply because I believed that I could and because my anxiety wasn't eating at my brain.
Because a new context had taught me something that an old one did not.
And the truth was that while one environment pushed me to shrink and the other to grow, my capabilities would have been the same in either context.
But I read the wrong context clues.
I made the wrong inference.
And I limited myself because of it.
So, what have you based your identity on because of the context you are in?
How are your surroundings benefiting or binding you?
Context can shape you.
But don't let it define you.
The place where you are the smartest? Bravest? Most full?
That is who you are.
It is what you carry with you no matter the context you are in, because the context is only a clue.
The answers are already within you.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Monday, April 17, 2017
just as he said.
Things are, very rarely, just as we plan them to be. We can guess, we can try, but life often shows up instead--politely mocking what we thought was the ability to control our circumstances.
We get let down.
I have a client who refers to this as the "expectation gap", and as far as psychology goes, she's not too far off the mark. There's a certain type of enmeshment that we talk about in counseling, where we become entangled with others in such a way that we feel we are them. Their emotions become our emotions, their experiences our experiences. And because of this, expectations are usually high and frustration tolerance is low. In short, we say:
event+expectation=emotion
So when we plan something, and our expectation is that it will go exactly as we planned, we become emotionally dysregulated when it does not.
The expectation gap.
The irony is that the more we fight things not going our way, the more reactive we become. We literally make it impossible to enjoy an experience because we can't let go of the fact that it is not how it is supposed to be.
Our job.
Our relationships.
Our life.
It's all terribly messy.
And rarely does anything happen in the way we wish it to.
Nothing is just as we said it would be.
And I love this for several reasons.
The first is that rarely have I ever had the foresight to choose things for myself that were good. I have a long history of poor choices, mostly wrapped up in who I thought I was supposed to be or what I thought I was supposed to do. Thankfully, my feet have found the path I needed to go on, versus the one I thought I was supposed to. And I am healthier, more whole for it.
It's not to say that the paths were easy, or even comfortable. Most of the refining times in my life have been in the fire, and now is no exception. Growing is hard because it means we have to let something die, let something go. And this is never uncomplicated. There are so many parts of ourselves we have fought to protect because we didn't know who we would be without them, and at times this has heeded our growth.
It's scary to die to yourself, in whatever capacity that may be.
But it's almost always worth it.
There's this story in the bible that talks about when Jesus was raised back to life from the dead. We've all heard it a thousand times, and whether you believe it or not you most likely know it--Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sins, and three days later he rose again.
The scriptures say that Mary and Mary (his close friends) were among the first to see the empty tomb. As they got there, still mourning his death, they were surprised to find he was not there.
An angel said to them:
He is not here, He has risen, just as He said.
Just as he said.
I'm not sure why I have never noticed that phrase before now, or why it's suddenly gained so much meaning for me--but the truth of it stops me in my tracks in its stark simplicity.
Jesus didn't promise that he wouldn't die, that he wouldn't be betrayed by the people he served. He didn't say that it would be easy or that he would take away the painful process.
He died.
And then he rose again.
Just as he said.
You see, the hope doesn't come in just the cross or just him coming back to life. He could have promised to only die, but that wouldn't have been meaningful--just sad. And he couldn't promise to come back without having gone somewhere, it wouldn't make sense.
He died and promised to rise again.
And it was just as he said!
Do you know how many times in the course of my life I have doubted that hope would come through for me? That desperation was the only tune I knew how to sing? That death after death after death made the possibility of life seem like a cruel dream?
But.
I walked through the flame.
I was burnt, ashes to ashes.
And found beauty on the other side.
It was just as he said.
So today, I am resting in the fact that while my expectations may not be met, it's not because everything is just dying.
It's that everything is coming back to life.
My expectations are not high enough.
And I don't mean circumstantially--in a physical sense.
I mean eternally.
There is a hope that has been set before me, and despite what is happening in and around me, it is there--just waiting for me to grab on.
And when the time comes, when my walk through darkness is over, I will be able to look back at my suffering and forward towards the joy set before me and say:
It is just as he said.
He has risen.
And so I have I.
For the joy set before him he suffered.
So that I could have the joy.
AND IT IS JUST AS HE SAID.
Though the suffering may be unbearable.
And the fire impossibly hot.
Hope is the unshakable, unwavering expectation placed before me.
So when I can't feel anymore, or when I feel too much.
I will remember the joy.
I will remember this thing, this promise that was made in dying, so that new life could be raised up.
Because in the midst of my doubt, my faith has yet to fail me.
And it has always been, never as I said, BUT always as hope said--
far beyond and above the expectations of my soul:
and straight to the heavens.
We get let down.
I have a client who refers to this as the "expectation gap", and as far as psychology goes, she's not too far off the mark. There's a certain type of enmeshment that we talk about in counseling, where we become entangled with others in such a way that we feel we are them. Their emotions become our emotions, their experiences our experiences. And because of this, expectations are usually high and frustration tolerance is low. In short, we say:
event+expectation=emotion
So when we plan something, and our expectation is that it will go exactly as we planned, we become emotionally dysregulated when it does not.
The expectation gap.
The irony is that the more we fight things not going our way, the more reactive we become. We literally make it impossible to enjoy an experience because we can't let go of the fact that it is not how it is supposed to be.
Our job.
Our relationships.
Our life.
It's all terribly messy.
And rarely does anything happen in the way we wish it to.
Nothing is just as we said it would be.
And I love this for several reasons.
The first is that rarely have I ever had the foresight to choose things for myself that were good. I have a long history of poor choices, mostly wrapped up in who I thought I was supposed to be or what I thought I was supposed to do. Thankfully, my feet have found the path I needed to go on, versus the one I thought I was supposed to. And I am healthier, more whole for it.
It's not to say that the paths were easy, or even comfortable. Most of the refining times in my life have been in the fire, and now is no exception. Growing is hard because it means we have to let something die, let something go. And this is never uncomplicated. There are so many parts of ourselves we have fought to protect because we didn't know who we would be without them, and at times this has heeded our growth.
It's scary to die to yourself, in whatever capacity that may be.
But it's almost always worth it.
There's this story in the bible that talks about when Jesus was raised back to life from the dead. We've all heard it a thousand times, and whether you believe it or not you most likely know it--Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sins, and three days later he rose again.
The scriptures say that Mary and Mary (his close friends) were among the first to see the empty tomb. As they got there, still mourning his death, they were surprised to find he was not there.
An angel said to them:
He is not here, He has risen, just as He said.
Just as he said.
I'm not sure why I have never noticed that phrase before now, or why it's suddenly gained so much meaning for me--but the truth of it stops me in my tracks in its stark simplicity.
Jesus didn't promise that he wouldn't die, that he wouldn't be betrayed by the people he served. He didn't say that it would be easy or that he would take away the painful process.
He died.
And then he rose again.
Just as he said.
You see, the hope doesn't come in just the cross or just him coming back to life. He could have promised to only die, but that wouldn't have been meaningful--just sad. And he couldn't promise to come back without having gone somewhere, it wouldn't make sense.
He died and promised to rise again.
And it was just as he said!
Do you know how many times in the course of my life I have doubted that hope would come through for me? That desperation was the only tune I knew how to sing? That death after death after death made the possibility of life seem like a cruel dream?
But.
I walked through the flame.
I was burnt, ashes to ashes.
And found beauty on the other side.
It was just as he said.
So today, I am resting in the fact that while my expectations may not be met, it's not because everything is just dying.
It's that everything is coming back to life.
My expectations are not high enough.
And I don't mean circumstantially--in a physical sense.
I mean eternally.
There is a hope that has been set before me, and despite what is happening in and around me, it is there--just waiting for me to grab on.
And when the time comes, when my walk through darkness is over, I will be able to look back at my suffering and forward towards the joy set before me and say:
It is just as he said.
He has risen.
And so I have I.
For the joy set before him he suffered.
So that I could have the joy.
AND IT IS JUST AS HE SAID.
Though the suffering may be unbearable.
And the fire impossibly hot.
Hope is the unshakable, unwavering expectation placed before me.
So when I can't feel anymore, or when I feel too much.
I will remember the joy.
I will remember this thing, this promise that was made in dying, so that new life could be raised up.
Because in the midst of my doubt, my faith has yet to fail me.
And it has always been, never as I said, BUT always as hope said--
far beyond and above the expectations of my soul:
and straight to the heavens.
Monday, April 3, 2017
shame and security.
There is a darkness hidden deep in my heart that I am not
proud of. It makes me selfish, a character trait often born of the strange mix
between vulnerability and pride. This shadow makes me bitter, it makes me angry
towards myself and others. It makes me feel like a professional hater, which is
mostly a projection of self-hate onto others. I’ve never understood people who
were so confident in their right-ness, people who would go down fighting,
people swearing through and through that they are correct. This idea is so foreign to me, this complete and utter
loyalty to self-preservation, this certain belief in one’s own goodness.
Psychology has a great deal to say about our fight and
flight from self, most of it rooted in attachment theory. We either understand
that we have a secure base or not—and this leads to different forms of
attaching to self and others. The ideal attachment would be that we can see
ourselves as primarily OK, and others as the same. But so often this balance
gets hijacked, whether by life or circumstances or the chemistry in our brain.
Because of this, our attachments are skewed. We may think that we are OK, but
no one else is. Or we may think that we aren’t
OK, and no one else is either.
More common than not, we believe that we aren’t OK, but that everyone else is.
Our okay-ness is wrapped up in the other, defined by what we
perceive and believe to be true about the goodness of those around us in
comparison to ourselves.
Silence perpetuates this myth. As humans, we aren’t exactly
in the habit of sharing our secret darkness with others. We are so afraid of
this part of ourselves that we can’t even bear to bring it into the light, lest
someone discover who we really claim ourselves to be.
So, we go on believing, behaving, and becoming based on our
assessment that we are not good—while strongly clinging to the idea that everyone
else is.
We call this shame.
We keep on weighing our faults, our failures, more and more
heavily until all that’s left on the scale is a heaping pile of self-loathing
and guilt, with some bitterness sprinkled on for good measure. And the weight of this becomes so heavy, so hard to carry,
that we give up all together.
We isolate, we numb, we go to sleep.
Because the thought of living with ourselves is just too much.
And the idea that we could believe something different is
out of question.
That we could believe that maybe, just maybe, we are OK?
Never.
I have shame to carry, don’t you understand? It’s mine, no
one else’s, and I did it to myself. If I let it go, it’s like letting myself
off the hook, like believing something that’s not true.
What?
When did our mistakes start outweighing our successes?
When did our propensity for bad start deciding that we are
no longer good?
That we are no longer worthy?
Where did the grace go?
The truth that says we are loved, forgiven, whole despite
our sufferings?
Sometimes, when I get this way, I like to pretend that God
is in the room with me—and He has a voice. I ask God, what do you think about
this, this ugly thing I did? This thought that I had? This badness within me?
I say, it’s wrong that I’m angry, sad, bitter, depleted, fed
up—aren’t you disappointed in me?
Ashamed of the way I’ve been reacting?
Carrying on? Responding?
And God says to me—what are you responding to?
So, I get quiet for a moment and think:
Everything, I
whisper. The brokenness, the fear. The uncertainty of life. All of it. I’ve been pushed down and
kicked around and labeled and ignored and I’m angry all the time.
And God says, me too.
I know how you feel.
And I’m angry too.
With me? I ask,
afraid to look up, worried to see the disappointment in His eyes.
And God, takes me by the face, looks at me with love, and
gently says:
Remember the cross?
And I say, well, yeah. I know a thing or two about grace.
But God looks at me knowingly, at the words and mess and shame that I’ve laid before him in this
moment.
And that look says, you
do not.
You do not know about grace, because you haven’t accepted it
for yourself.
You may think that others deserve it, that it is a gift for
them, but.
It was also a gift for you.
A gift that was given because God himself was angered by the
suffering of the world.
By your own suffering.
By the fact that you kept acting like you were bad, when God knew that you were really good.
Because he had once created that good in
us.
And believed that we could be whole again.
So He brought down that goodness in the form of grace and gave us a secure base.
He wanted us to know, we
are OK.
That He knows how we
feel and is also angered by the suffering we've endured.
The suffering we've placed willingly on ourselves.
So, he responded.
And his response, His grace speaks louder than our feelings.
Than our thoughts.
Than our behaviors.
Sometimes, I think God is more offended by our lack of belief in His grace than our everyday shortcomings.
More angered by the shame we let ourselves endure when the weight of glory is right there, ready to change the scales for good.
Because, in this world, we will feel.
Sometimes bad, sometimes good.
We will act.
Sometimes bad, sometimes good.
But ultimately, the good wins in the end.
Grace wipes it all out, leaving nothing but light behind.
I want to live out of that light.
I am free to believe
that I am OK.
That I am light shining
in the midst of my sufferings.
Not darkness.
That I don’t need to be uncomfortable with the goodness that
God sees when He looks at me.
I can run with my arms wide open and my heart to the sun.
You’re OK.
I’m OK.
May we live out of this security each day.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
help me cross.
This is a story about listening.
The other day, I got off the train in my neighborhood, headphones in my pocket and fully tuned into the buzzing sounds of the Bronx. I've been trying to hear more lately, connect more with what's going on in and around me. As I plopped off the platform of the two train and down the stairs, I saw a blind man, alone and on the corner of the sidewalk. He was tapping the ground with his cane, grappling for direction and intently observing the area around him through sound. I smiled to myself as I thought, if there's anyone who knows how to listen well it's certainly him. I kept walking, curiously watching him from a distance.
I had almost rounded the corner to my street when I heard his voice, one that sounded like vulnerability wrapped in braveness--authoritative and afraid all at once. His words made me stop and take notice, made me turn around and go back, and they were so simple:
HELP ME CROSS!
There was something in the sincerity of his plea that led me to answer his call, a plea that I'm sure he makes several times a day. As I approached him I asked him where he needed to go. He paused for a minute and tilted his head, looking at me and through me and around me all at once. He said:
Wouldn't you just look at that. I call out to God and he answers straight away! I'm making my way to the corner store, and I need you to help me cross the street. Just grab on to my arm and I'll tell you where to go.
And at first I thought that this was your typical "when we are lost and blind God steps in and leads the way even though we can't see" experience. But, much to my surprise, he directed me. Left this way, a few more blocks, OK now right. As I held on to him and gently accompanied him on his journey, I realized that while I knew where we were going, I didn't know how to get there.
But he did.
And he just needed me to help him cross.
Oh, aren't we all just like this on our own journeys?
You see, there are times where we are blind and cannot see.
But then there are times were we can see and are afraid.
Times where we know where we are headed, but don't know if we are going to get there.
Times that we feel hopeless, exhausted...
alone.
So we cry out to God and say HELP ME CROSS.
We say that we know the way but we aren't sure if we are up for the challenge. We say we aren't strong enough, smart enough, brave enough, good enough to do what we've been called to do, that we will surely be run over if we even try.
And God looks at us.
Tilts his head and says:
But I know what you can do.
And you do know the way.
Listen to me.
Hold on to me.
I'll help you cross.
The other day, I got off the train in my neighborhood, headphones in my pocket and fully tuned into the buzzing sounds of the Bronx. I've been trying to hear more lately, connect more with what's going on in and around me. As I plopped off the platform of the two train and down the stairs, I saw a blind man, alone and on the corner of the sidewalk. He was tapping the ground with his cane, grappling for direction and intently observing the area around him through sound. I smiled to myself as I thought, if there's anyone who knows how to listen well it's certainly him. I kept walking, curiously watching him from a distance.
I had almost rounded the corner to my street when I heard his voice, one that sounded like vulnerability wrapped in braveness--authoritative and afraid all at once. His words made me stop and take notice, made me turn around and go back, and they were so simple:
HELP ME CROSS!
There was something in the sincerity of his plea that led me to answer his call, a plea that I'm sure he makes several times a day. As I approached him I asked him where he needed to go. He paused for a minute and tilted his head, looking at me and through me and around me all at once. He said:
Wouldn't you just look at that. I call out to God and he answers straight away! I'm making my way to the corner store, and I need you to help me cross the street. Just grab on to my arm and I'll tell you where to go.
And at first I thought that this was your typical "when we are lost and blind God steps in and leads the way even though we can't see" experience. But, much to my surprise, he directed me. Left this way, a few more blocks, OK now right. As I held on to him and gently accompanied him on his journey, I realized that while I knew where we were going, I didn't know how to get there.
But he did.
And he just needed me to help him cross.
Oh, aren't we all just like this on our own journeys?
You see, there are times where we are blind and cannot see.
But then there are times were we can see and are afraid.
Times where we know where we are headed, but don't know if we are going to get there.
Times that we feel hopeless, exhausted...
alone.
So we cry out to God and say HELP ME CROSS.
We say that we know the way but we aren't sure if we are up for the challenge. We say we aren't strong enough, smart enough, brave enough, good enough to do what we've been called to do, that we will surely be run over if we even try.
And God looks at us.
Tilts his head and says:
But I know what you can do.
And you do know the way.
Listen to me.
Hold on to me.
I'll help you cross.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
listen and live.
Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; listen, that you may live|| Isaiah 55:2-3
There are not many people in the world who don't interest me. I can find a story around any corner, and life becomes more and more beautiful the more I listen. It's so easy to miss the mystical in the mess of the mundane, so easy to trade the everyday magic around us for perfection and plastic smiles. I find that these days, the more I fight for success the more I lose it, and the harder I rage against powerlessness, the more helpless I become.
So I learning to listen and live.
And I am astounded by the difference.
Recently I went on a trip to Miami and all I wanted to do, all I told anyone I was going to do, was lay on the beach in the sun and read. From morning to night, I did not want to move. I wanted to be so still that people would mistake me for a freaking sitting Buddha. This, I declared, would solve my burnout. This would fix my weary soul, this stillness.
Wouldn't you know that for the two days I was in Miami there was a wind advisory so strong that we literally could not even stand near the beach without wincing in pain? That the weather was so incredibly chaotic that the sand itself became mother nature's own personal weapon against humanity? In the words of every teenage girl in America, I simply could not.
I wanted to be still and instead I spent my vacation in a wind tunnel where everything was constantly moving. Where all my intricately designed plans were literally blown to pieces, right before my very sad, very tired eyes.
And yet, what was there to do? I could flail against it or let it fill my sails--the choice was mine alone.
Turns out when you go to a beach town and you can't go to the beach, the only other options are eating and making friends with strangers, which happen to be two things I'm very good at. I encountered so many, fully alive, enthralling people.
I got to listen to the ramblings of a woman in the airport, who was convinced that her flight was cursed or blessed--she really couldn't quite put her finger on it. After arriving at the airport three minutes past check-in, she was placed in row 33, and our flight was slighted to leave at 8:43. She quickly called her sister to fill her in, superstitious and wide-eyed and slightly panicky. "Should I get on the flight?" She pondered this question up until she set foot on that platform, and her circular worrying followed her all the way on to the plane and that fateful seat of threes.
In the terminal I also got to see a group of young college girls, giggly and excited and annoying in the way only a group of recently graduated adolescents can be, as they ventured on their first collegiate spring break. I also got to see the less giggly but equally excited posse of college bros, slyly checking out their counterparts and carefully calculating their chances. They watched each other from across the room, the tension mounting until finally one of them had the courage to just walk up and start a conversation. In teen mating rituals, this was an act of pure courage, especially in the public arena of a major airport with all parties watching. But initiate they did, and what fun it was to witness and remember the simple joy of talking to your crush for the first time.
Then there was our barista at our hotel, a skinny little thing not a day over 25, with a handlebar mustache to boot. Always smiling, always greeting you with a warm hello and a hot cup of coffee. Whenever you thanked him for anything, no matter how small it was, he replied sincerely and with great earnest, "you're very welcome", as though your simple gratitude was a gift and he was the happy recipient. He taught me the power of appreciation, of the contentedness you can experience by merely delighting in the satisfaction of others. He wanted nothing more than to see us well cared for, and that in itself was enough for him.
Next was the uber driver who also moonlighted as a champion for the elderly. In our pool ride he picked up an old woman so kind and so naively sweet that you couldn't help but love her. She recounted to our patient chauffeur the woes of ever changing technology, and stated that she once loved her uber driver so much that she braved navigating the uber app for the sake of giving him a good rating. However, she somehow mistakenly gave a one star rating, and was so incredibly committed to righting this grievance that she spent hours on the phone trying to contact the company to change it. Our present driver remained respectfully reflective during this story, until this concerned, thoughtful abuela lifted her hands in exasperation and said "he was just so nice!" to which our driver responded emphatically, "well NOW he's probably driving around Miami looking to RUN YOU DOWN!" To which none of us knew how to react but to collapse in a fit of laughter.
Finally, there was another uber pool with a mom and daughter, come to Miami together to celebrate the passing of midterms and a well-deserved break. I wouldn't have guessed they were related in this way, as they were both happily chatty and high-spirited, likely by way of Jack Daniels. Not surprisingly, they were from New York, with the daughter studying at a prestigious college in Pennsylvania--who also made it very clear that she was not in Florida for your typical spring break. Every time the daughter spoke the mom would finish her sentences, and vice versa, both increasingly excited to share the high-brow adventures they had embarked on since landing in Miami--all museums and fancy bars and historic hotels. They insisted that we visit this one restaurant because it was "to die for", and quickly pulled up pictures on their phones to reinforce their opinion. We dropped them off and promised to go, and then promptly returned to our own hotel to eat ice cream in bed and watch a TV movie. At 7:30 PM.
You see, I had this grand idea that I would rest and remain in solitude this trip, that I would be still and listen to my heart and all that crap. And you know, I even had this idea in mind of how I would do this. I had found a letter I had written, almost a year ago, when packing for this trip. This letter contained some of my most painful feelings, some of the hardest parts of my life to let go. I had decided I was going to bring this letter to the beach, that I was going to make a big dramatic ceremony of it--that I was going to rip it into pieces and let the sea carry it away. But here's what happened instead:
I got to Fort Lauderdale, where we landed and were going to take a cab to the much more glamorous Miami. I went to the bathroom. I placed my book on the counter, which also contained the letter.
And I left.
I forgot it.
I abandoned it in the bathroom of Fort Lauderdale.
And I was so sad. I hadn't even read this letter fully, waiting to digest it and process is and leave it on the serene beaches of Miami. I was going to prepare myself, slowly cleanse myself of everything that had been dragging me down for so long.
And I left it in THE DAMN BATHROOM OF FORT LAUDERDALE.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Nothing goes how it's supposed to go.
And well, if there was ever a tagline for my life, that would certainly be it. I fight, and I wrestle, and I try so hard to grow and challenge and change myself, day after day.
And it. is. exhausting.
I'm exhausted.
And I thought that I could just manage my rest and rehabilitation the same way, that I could "do it" right, that I could control it in a way.
But healing, oh healing is not controllable.
Healing is wild and slow and unpredictable, it takes time and unexpected resources.
It never comes the way we think it will.
So this trip, I learned to listen.
I learned to not spend money on what is not bread, and my labor on what does not satisfy.
There are not many people in the world who don't interest me. I can find a story around any corner, and life becomes more and more beautiful the more I listen. It's so easy to miss the mystical in the mess of the mundane, so easy to trade the everyday magic around us for perfection and plastic smiles. I find that these days, the more I fight for success the more I lose it, and the harder I rage against powerlessness, the more helpless I become.
So I learning to listen and live.
And I am astounded by the difference.
Recently I went on a trip to Miami and all I wanted to do, all I told anyone I was going to do, was lay on the beach in the sun and read. From morning to night, I did not want to move. I wanted to be so still that people would mistake me for a freaking sitting Buddha. This, I declared, would solve my burnout. This would fix my weary soul, this stillness.
Wouldn't you know that for the two days I was in Miami there was a wind advisory so strong that we literally could not even stand near the beach without wincing in pain? That the weather was so incredibly chaotic that the sand itself became mother nature's own personal weapon against humanity? In the words of every teenage girl in America, I simply could not.
I wanted to be still and instead I spent my vacation in a wind tunnel where everything was constantly moving. Where all my intricately designed plans were literally blown to pieces, right before my very sad, very tired eyes.
And yet, what was there to do? I could flail against it or let it fill my sails--the choice was mine alone.
Turns out when you go to a beach town and you can't go to the beach, the only other options are eating and making friends with strangers, which happen to be two things I'm very good at. I encountered so many, fully alive, enthralling people.
I got to listen to the ramblings of a woman in the airport, who was convinced that her flight was cursed or blessed--she really couldn't quite put her finger on it. After arriving at the airport three minutes past check-in, she was placed in row 33, and our flight was slighted to leave at 8:43. She quickly called her sister to fill her in, superstitious and wide-eyed and slightly panicky. "Should I get on the flight?" She pondered this question up until she set foot on that platform, and her circular worrying followed her all the way on to the plane and that fateful seat of threes.
In the terminal I also got to see a group of young college girls, giggly and excited and annoying in the way only a group of recently graduated adolescents can be, as they ventured on their first collegiate spring break. I also got to see the less giggly but equally excited posse of college bros, slyly checking out their counterparts and carefully calculating their chances. They watched each other from across the room, the tension mounting until finally one of them had the courage to just walk up and start a conversation. In teen mating rituals, this was an act of pure courage, especially in the public arena of a major airport with all parties watching. But initiate they did, and what fun it was to witness and remember the simple joy of talking to your crush for the first time.
Then there was our barista at our hotel, a skinny little thing not a day over 25, with a handlebar mustache to boot. Always smiling, always greeting you with a warm hello and a hot cup of coffee. Whenever you thanked him for anything, no matter how small it was, he replied sincerely and with great earnest, "you're very welcome", as though your simple gratitude was a gift and he was the happy recipient. He taught me the power of appreciation, of the contentedness you can experience by merely delighting in the satisfaction of others. He wanted nothing more than to see us well cared for, and that in itself was enough for him.
Next was the uber driver who also moonlighted as a champion for the elderly. In our pool ride he picked up an old woman so kind and so naively sweet that you couldn't help but love her. She recounted to our patient chauffeur the woes of ever changing technology, and stated that she once loved her uber driver so much that she braved navigating the uber app for the sake of giving him a good rating. However, she somehow mistakenly gave a one star rating, and was so incredibly committed to righting this grievance that she spent hours on the phone trying to contact the company to change it. Our present driver remained respectfully reflective during this story, until this concerned, thoughtful abuela lifted her hands in exasperation and said "he was just so nice!" to which our driver responded emphatically, "well NOW he's probably driving around Miami looking to RUN YOU DOWN!" To which none of us knew how to react but to collapse in a fit of laughter.
Finally, there was another uber pool with a mom and daughter, come to Miami together to celebrate the passing of midterms and a well-deserved break. I wouldn't have guessed they were related in this way, as they were both happily chatty and high-spirited, likely by way of Jack Daniels. Not surprisingly, they were from New York, with the daughter studying at a prestigious college in Pennsylvania--who also made it very clear that she was not in Florida for your typical spring break. Every time the daughter spoke the mom would finish her sentences, and vice versa, both increasingly excited to share the high-brow adventures they had embarked on since landing in Miami--all museums and fancy bars and historic hotels. They insisted that we visit this one restaurant because it was "to die for", and quickly pulled up pictures on their phones to reinforce their opinion. We dropped them off and promised to go, and then promptly returned to our own hotel to eat ice cream in bed and watch a TV movie. At 7:30 PM.
You see, I had this grand idea that I would rest and remain in solitude this trip, that I would be still and listen to my heart and all that crap. And you know, I even had this idea in mind of how I would do this. I had found a letter I had written, almost a year ago, when packing for this trip. This letter contained some of my most painful feelings, some of the hardest parts of my life to let go. I had decided I was going to bring this letter to the beach, that I was going to make a big dramatic ceremony of it--that I was going to rip it into pieces and let the sea carry it away. But here's what happened instead:
I got to Fort Lauderdale, where we landed and were going to take a cab to the much more glamorous Miami. I went to the bathroom. I placed my book on the counter, which also contained the letter.
And I left.
I forgot it.
I abandoned it in the bathroom of Fort Lauderdale.
And I was so sad. I hadn't even read this letter fully, waiting to digest it and process is and leave it on the serene beaches of Miami. I was going to prepare myself, slowly cleanse myself of everything that had been dragging me down for so long.
And I left it in THE DAMN BATHROOM OF FORT LAUDERDALE.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Nothing goes how it's supposed to go.
And well, if there was ever a tagline for my life, that would certainly be it. I fight, and I wrestle, and I try so hard to grow and challenge and change myself, day after day.
And it. is. exhausting.
I'm exhausted.
And I thought that I could just manage my rest and rehabilitation the same way, that I could "do it" right, that I could control it in a way.
But healing, oh healing is not controllable.
Healing is wild and slow and unpredictable, it takes time and unexpected resources.
It never comes the way we think it will.
So this trip, I learned to listen.
I learned to not spend money on what is not bread, and my labor on what does not satisfy.
I learned to listen, to eat what is good, and to delight in the richest of fare.
I learned to listen and live.
I let my healing come in the wind, changing as ever, chaotic and constantly moving and at times threatening to knock me down. I let its powerful whisper call me and overwhelm me and tumble me about, because it was only the wind that could fill my sails and gently push me forward.
I had to listen to find what was good, I had to stop pushing and pressing and fighting to let myself settle into what made me whole.
And most of all, I had to connect.
With those around me, with nature, with myself.
What gifts I received in return, what simple beauty found in the stories of everyday people.
I never want to miss out on listening again.
I don't want to miss out on living, for the sake of fixing myself, when the answer is so often the same:
We will never know the answers if we don't listen.
And we will never listen unless we learn to let go of what we wish to hear.
So let go.
Listen,
and live.
I had to listen to find what was good, I had to stop pushing and pressing and fighting to let myself settle into what made me whole.
And most of all, I had to connect.
With those around me, with nature, with myself.
What gifts I received in return, what simple beauty found in the stories of everyday people.
I never want to miss out on listening again.
I don't want to miss out on living, for the sake of fixing myself, when the answer is so often the same:
We will never know the answers if we don't listen.
And we will never listen unless we learn to let go of what we wish to hear.
So let go.
Listen,
and live.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
problems and prosperity.
Life happens to us in extremes. We have good seasons and bad seasons, and sometimes these seasons happen at the same time. I have come to accept that for every joy there is the potential for immense sorrow, and for every problem, a chance for prosperity. Our success sits itself squarely between these two seemingly oppositional forces, asking us to both accept and change, to both move and be still.
In the mental health world, there is a whole treatment built around the idea that we must integrate opposites to survive, aptly called dialectical behavioral therapy. It asks the client to find balance in a body where emotions are intense and present and dialectical, where feelings indicate reality and can be difficult to overcome. And isn't life just like that? Full of happiness and sorrow, hope and despair. The dialectical oppositions pull at our souls, demanding an answer and a response, asking us to both stay and proceed forward.
One of my favorite stories that represents this concept is where God leads the enslaved Israelites out of Egypt, and towards the promise land. It was not an easy journey by any means, and the Bible is full of examples of their faith and doubt, over many, many years. From the very start, they really had to trust that God was leading them somewhere good, somewhere better than where they were. It says that when they left Egypt, the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. It also states that He wanted to take them on a shortcut through Philistine land, but knew the Israelites may turn back if faced with war. So.
He went ahead of them and led them by the safest route to the Red Sea. And when the Egyptians pursued them, He went behind them and kept them safe. Ahead and behind, forward and back.
Problem and prosperity.
Can you imagine how frightening this time was for the Israelites? How confusing? To be led out of slavery only to have their enemies pursue them? To be taken out of captivity only to be trapped by the Red Sea? To not be able to see how they were going to get to the promised land, and to face incredible, seemingly impassible opposition?
But God did not falter. He took their circumstances and their doubt and their desperate belief that there was prosperity to come and he balanced it. He kept them safe, despite their situation, and he led them forward, though they didn't know how or where or even when.
He taught the Israelites to face their problems.
But also to believe in prosperity.
He taught them that while life may be dark and messy and uncertain, there is a light leading them, going ahead and following behind.
He taught them that He would fight and that they need only be still.
And in dialectical behavior therapy, it is the same. We teach our clients that it's OK to be where they are, as they are simultaneously growing and changing into who they wish to be. We teach them that we can't change that which we cannot accept, we cannot will ourselves out of a place we don't wish to acknowledge in the first place. We have to stop fighting because change does not come from a place of hatred, a place of spite for ourselves or our circumstances.
It comes from acceptance.
And it happens in the spaces between problem and prosperity.
I am learning to stand in the middle of the sea, in between everything I wish to leave in the past and everything I hope for in the future.
I am learning peace in the present, right where I am, in the midst of all that propels me forward and threatens to drag me down.
Because I know that there is light.
Leading me forward,
and protecting me from behind.
I don't have to choose between the ends of the spectrum, because they both make up a part of me, they are both a part of life.
I will have problems.
But I will also have prosperity.
And I don't have to fight.
I need only be still.
In the mental health world, there is a whole treatment built around the idea that we must integrate opposites to survive, aptly called dialectical behavioral therapy. It asks the client to find balance in a body where emotions are intense and present and dialectical, where feelings indicate reality and can be difficult to overcome. And isn't life just like that? Full of happiness and sorrow, hope and despair. The dialectical oppositions pull at our souls, demanding an answer and a response, asking us to both stay and proceed forward.
One of my favorite stories that represents this concept is where God leads the enslaved Israelites out of Egypt, and towards the promise land. It was not an easy journey by any means, and the Bible is full of examples of their faith and doubt, over many, many years. From the very start, they really had to trust that God was leading them somewhere good, somewhere better than where they were. It says that when they left Egypt, the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. It also states that He wanted to take them on a shortcut through Philistine land, but knew the Israelites may turn back if faced with war. So.
He went ahead of them and led them by the safest route to the Red Sea. And when the Egyptians pursued them, He went behind them and kept them safe. Ahead and behind, forward and back.
Problem and prosperity.
Can you imagine how frightening this time was for the Israelites? How confusing? To be led out of slavery only to have their enemies pursue them? To be taken out of captivity only to be trapped by the Red Sea? To not be able to see how they were going to get to the promised land, and to face incredible, seemingly impassible opposition?
But God did not falter. He took their circumstances and their doubt and their desperate belief that there was prosperity to come and he balanced it. He kept them safe, despite their situation, and he led them forward, though they didn't know how or where or even when.
He taught the Israelites to face their problems.
But also to believe in prosperity.
He taught them that while life may be dark and messy and uncertain, there is a light leading them, going ahead and following behind.
He taught them that He would fight and that they need only be still.
And in dialectical behavior therapy, it is the same. We teach our clients that it's OK to be where they are, as they are simultaneously growing and changing into who they wish to be. We teach them that we can't change that which we cannot accept, we cannot will ourselves out of a place we don't wish to acknowledge in the first place. We have to stop fighting because change does not come from a place of hatred, a place of spite for ourselves or our circumstances.
It comes from acceptance.
And it happens in the spaces between problem and prosperity.
I am learning to stand in the middle of the sea, in between everything I wish to leave in the past and everything I hope for in the future.
I am learning peace in the present, right where I am, in the midst of all that propels me forward and threatens to drag me down.
Because I know that there is light.
Leading me forward,
and protecting me from behind.
I don't have to choose between the ends of the spectrum, because they both make up a part of me, they are both a part of life.
I will have problems.
But I will also have prosperity.
And I don't have to fight.
I need only be still.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
obstacles and opportunities.
My mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer two years ago. There have been many uncertainties during this time, but only one thing has stayed consistent--my mom is alive. Despite everything, despite the statistics, the questioning, the status of her health--she is still with us. Still breathing, still encouraging. Still fighting for her life.
None of us have the answers. We don't know what's ahead of us, what there is to come. But my mom has hope. She has faith. She has not given up, not thrown her hands in the air in despair. She has accepted the challenge in front of her and resolved herself to surviving, and because of this, she is alive.
I've been thinking a lot about obstacles and opportunities, what it means to step up to the plate and take responsibility for what's been placed before us. Our time on earth can be so daunting, and at times it takes everything we have to uncover our eyes and ears to see and feel all the pieces of life--full of chaos and frenzied brilliance. I often find myself running away from the weight of all that is mine to carry, mine to fulfill. For some reason I thought that most people ran towards the option of more--more power, more control, more recognition. But as I look back on my nearly 28 years, I have found that at every chance I had, I hid.
We tend to look at people in leadership positions and think that they always wanted to be there. That they fought for that promotion, carefully planned out their rise to success. Recently, one of my bosses reminded me that in history, God rarely chose men and women who wanted to be leaders--more often than not, those chosen resisted a great deal. They were too weak or too old or too disabled or too poor, they pleaded with God to pick anyone else. Now, I always knew that God chose the humble, the least likely to succeed. He chose those from whom his power could be displayed, and the idea was that their shortcomings demonstrated his grace and mercy, his ability to change the game from hopeless to eternally hopeful. And this was true--Moses had a stutter, Abraham and Sarah were old, many of his disciples were fishermen. Jesus loved the lowly.
But.
The lowly were not always excited to be chosen. They didn't want the perks that came with leadership, because the risk was too great, because they were afraid they would fail. Because it hurt, to carry people along with them, it hurt caring for the cause of the oppressed, for those stuck in slavery. It was uncomfortable and inconvenient and uncertain and couldn't God just find someone else?
He could.
But he chose them.
So.
I'm trying to stop fighting against who God is calling me to be. And while I may not know how or when or where I do know who. And the responsibility is heavy. But as much as I may feel it, I'm not carrying it alone.
I'm not walking alone.
Though there may be times I look ahead and behind and see nothing but desert and emptiness--
I have not been abandoned.
And I take great comfort in this. I take comfort that though there will be times I am physically by myself, that impossible decisions have to be made, decisions that involve lives that hang in the balance--I am still not alone.
God is with me.
In one of his sermons, Tim Keller talks about how the hero of a story never wants to own up to the responsibility of his destiny--the kingship, the rescuer, whatever. As a whole, we are afraid.
And he goes on to say, Jesus himself was afraid. He begged God to let him skip out on the cross. He sweat blood, real actual, stress induced blood. The responsibility of what was ahead of him caused him to be under such extreme duress that his physical body reacted.
But he went.
And we too, must go.
We must remember that though the weight is heavy and the risk is high, our call remains the same.
Stand up a little straighter.
Look up a little farther.
And see the promise of heaven shining on the other side.
The promise of hope.
You may have to cross the desert.
But you will never walk alone.
Because:
"The one who has called you is faithful,
and he himself will do it."
1 Thessalonians 5:24
None of us have the answers. We don't know what's ahead of us, what there is to come. But my mom has hope. She has faith. She has not given up, not thrown her hands in the air in despair. She has accepted the challenge in front of her and resolved herself to surviving, and because of this, she is alive.
I've been thinking a lot about obstacles and opportunities, what it means to step up to the plate and take responsibility for what's been placed before us. Our time on earth can be so daunting, and at times it takes everything we have to uncover our eyes and ears to see and feel all the pieces of life--full of chaos and frenzied brilliance. I often find myself running away from the weight of all that is mine to carry, mine to fulfill. For some reason I thought that most people ran towards the option of more--more power, more control, more recognition. But as I look back on my nearly 28 years, I have found that at every chance I had, I hid.
We tend to look at people in leadership positions and think that they always wanted to be there. That they fought for that promotion, carefully planned out their rise to success. Recently, one of my bosses reminded me that in history, God rarely chose men and women who wanted to be leaders--more often than not, those chosen resisted a great deal. They were too weak or too old or too disabled or too poor, they pleaded with God to pick anyone else. Now, I always knew that God chose the humble, the least likely to succeed. He chose those from whom his power could be displayed, and the idea was that their shortcomings demonstrated his grace and mercy, his ability to change the game from hopeless to eternally hopeful. And this was true--Moses had a stutter, Abraham and Sarah were old, many of his disciples were fishermen. Jesus loved the lowly.
But.
The lowly were not always excited to be chosen. They didn't want the perks that came with leadership, because the risk was too great, because they were afraid they would fail. Because it hurt, to carry people along with them, it hurt caring for the cause of the oppressed, for those stuck in slavery. It was uncomfortable and inconvenient and uncertain and couldn't God just find someone else?
He could.
But he chose them.
So.
I'm trying to stop fighting against who God is calling me to be. And while I may not know how or when or where I do know who. And the responsibility is heavy. But as much as I may feel it, I'm not carrying it alone.
I'm not walking alone.
Though there may be times I look ahead and behind and see nothing but desert and emptiness--
I have not been abandoned.
And I take great comfort in this. I take comfort that though there will be times I am physically by myself, that impossible decisions have to be made, decisions that involve lives that hang in the balance--I am still not alone.
God is with me.
In one of his sermons, Tim Keller talks about how the hero of a story never wants to own up to the responsibility of his destiny--the kingship, the rescuer, whatever. As a whole, we are afraid.
And he goes on to say, Jesus himself was afraid. He begged God to let him skip out on the cross. He sweat blood, real actual, stress induced blood. The responsibility of what was ahead of him caused him to be under such extreme duress that his physical body reacted.
But he went.
And we too, must go.
We must remember that though the weight is heavy and the risk is high, our call remains the same.
Stand up a little straighter.
Look up a little farther.
And see the promise of heaven shining on the other side.
The promise of hope.
You may have to cross the desert.
But you will never walk alone.
Because:
"The one who has called you is faithful,
and he himself will do it."
1 Thessalonians 5:24
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