A Story in Progress

I don't know what you're thinking

Out there alone

Or with everyone you claim

Is important to your breath

But what is this now?

Are you here

With me

Speaking whispers of yesterday

That day, that look, that smile,

That time when you

And I

Almost

Release and Goodbye

As I approach my 42nd birthday this fall, I've been doing a lot of mental and emotional processing. You could say I've had a lot to process the last four months, besides the normal reflections of middle-age. This is the time where people normally decide to either start living or continue the process of figuratively dying. Middle-age is also a time where people usually decide who they're going to be for the second half of their lives, evaluating what's worked, what hasn't, and what they need to do to embrace the changes they've decided to become. Some of us more reflective types have been doing that for decades, but why not take the time to do it when it you've accumulated enough wisdom to make it seem more real?

That's what I'm going to attempt to do here. Those of you who have been reading this blog for years or who have gotten to know me well enough in person realize this "reflection thing" is a core part of who I am. You also know how easy it is for me to oscillate between choices because I see, value, and am so many different things. Well, approaching 42nd birthday aside, for the past four months I've been processing a lot of mixed emotions and difficult choices. There's been resolve, resolution, relief, frustration, longing, sadness, some happiness, some regret, confusion, a desire to hold on to people, a desire to let go of people, a desire to let go of falsehoods, identities, and tasks, a desire to be honest, a desire to keep being the better person, self-examination of my contributions to the dynamics, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, and hurt. A lot of hurt.

During the past four months, I left an employer I didn't really want to, but I let go of a job and an environment that had become toxic for me. I'd felt for years that it was time for me to move on, but someone always ended up leaving before I decided to put it in writing, or a big project and a lot of work was looming, or I was needed to do something else or support someone else.....everyone else except me. It's a long-winded way of saying I made decisions based on my perception of what others needed, not what I needed.

I also tolerated years of mistreatment - from bosses, peers, subordinates. When my fuse would finally start to spark, it was too much too late. And people didn't understand why nice, overly compliant, overly supportive, and overly agreeable me would be any different. Actions I took seemed unacceptable for me, but they certainly were acceptable for everyone else. I could be yelled at, demeaned repeatedly (often in front of others), misunderstood, interrupted, dismissed, and talked to condescendingly without consequence. But if I even started to resemble those things, it was game over. I didn't feel human anymore. I couldn't agree, I couldn't disagree, I couldn't take the time to think. There wasn't any support for my mistakes. In fact, it felt as though there wasn't any support at all. I was a punching bag and a dumping ground, and as long as I continued to fulfill those roles everything was okay.

Others who worked with me (some of them not even in the same department) pointed out my unhappiness and mistreatment long before I was willing to admit it to myself. I'm grateful for that and for the opportunity to take other jobs in the organization, even though I ended up not following through because of the nature of the job itself. I wanted to stay and I wanted to work with the people I would have worked with, but I didn't want to end up with a potential misalignment with my true interests and the responsibilities of the position. I'm also grateful for those who forgave my less than ideal (re)actions, and for the talks that validated my perceptions of what was happening. Thank you for offering to go to bat for me, even though I wanted to have the conversation myself with the people who were at the core of my feelings of betrayal and hurt. I never did have that conversation. I always felt as though I were walking on eggshells and I let my desire to please/avoid confrontation override the need to be honest and to honor myself.

I wanted to be honest, but the trust was long gone. And I didn't know if it would come back. Three years ago it was blown apart and I was hurt. Not the first time, but I was hurt to the point where I couldn't speak because what I felt as a result was so overwhelming. I couldn't process or identify the swirl of negativity that had happened. I knew what had happened was bullying - mobbing to be more exact. But I chose to say nothing because I wasn't sure if it was part of some sort of misguided, bizarre ritual that took place with everyone, if I had become a target because true to my conscientiousness I was a "model employee," or if this was retaliation for thinking for myself and choosing not to go along with what someone else wanted me to do at the time. Plus, when I'm shocked, uncomfortable, or a past trauma is triggered, my mind and entire body freezes. I lose my words, can't make decisions, and I can't act. I suppose a professional might call this an effect of PTSD or post traumatic stress disorder, but since it's been with me since I can remember I consider it "normal." I had made a mistake, maybe several, yes. But the instructions I was given were to try and someone else would fill in the blanks, if needed. I didn't realize I was being set up to fail and then publicly humiliated for it, among other things that I did not have knowledge of and/or were beyond my direct control. At that moment, I stopped trusting. I stopped being completely honest. And I stopped wanting to continue trying.

I knew from life experiences that people hurt others because they themselves have been hurt or they're carrying angst they don't know how to process in a healthy manner. I also knew at that point I started to disengage and thought of leaving. I started to line up possibilities. I was ready to leave, but I didn't because someone else beat me to it. And once again I chose to put the needs of others before my own. Looking back, I should have left anyway; regardless of what my absence would have meant, because I was only prolonging the inevitable. I carried the hurt and the shock of that experience for three years. I wondered why someone would choose to publicly humiliate and berate someone for making mistakes without clear direction. If you set someone up to fail, it isn't fair to punish them for not meeting your expectations. Why not use it as an opportunity to coach or mentor in private? Why not ask why certain directions and choices were made, and then explain politely and constructively why other directions and choices were more optimal?

But as humans, we often model what we've been shown or what has been done to us without realizing we're doing the same thing to others we told ourselves we wouldn't. After that "incident," I was no longer able to trust some of the people I needed to trust; people I was supposed to be able to trust. So for three years I wasn't fully authentic. And of course making that type of decision cost me a piece of who I was. And the job and its environment started to mirror the same experience I had separated myself from in 2011. It was more or less the same lesson given from a different angle. When will you listen? You matter. Your needs matter. What do you really want? It matters. Not what others think or what they want you to do. It's about you.

It seems selfish, but the truth is authenticity is the foundation of being able to give. And if you sacrifice your passions, your needs, your wants, who you are, you simply can't be anything to anyone else. And those who are around you or asking and needing things of you because of a mask, shouldn't be there. It's not healthy and it's better to let go.

Suffice it to say that letting go of an employer I didn't want to (but had to) is only one of the changes I've been processing. As my forty-first year of life comes to a close and my forty-second one begins, I'm hoping I can take better care of myself. I'm hoping I no longer tolerate toxicity and actually stand up when it happens, not when it becomes engulfing. I'm also hoping I learn to say "you hurt me. can we fix this if you're able to give me what I need." If not, I release and forgive you, but goodbye.

Prayers and Pie

My little six-year old nephew has quite the air of "sass" about him already. I'm fairly certain that it's one of the prerequisites for being born into our family. One of the many things out of his mouth today were the words "prayers and pie, OMG." Yes, he even said it in an almost perfect "Paula Deen" tone. He was mocking last night's church service. I didn't go this year. I haven't been in awhile. But I went once. It was either when I came back for a holiday visit or when I first moved back to town. I can't remember exactly, but my mom's church has "free" pie in the fellowship hall after the Thanksgiving eve service. Whatever you like, it's there for grabs. Pumpkin, apple, cherry, chocolate, even banana creme. The canvas of life is kind of like that. Here's all the flavors. Try one. Try one more. Keep sampling until you find the one that you love. And it doesn't matter what your neighbor chooses -even if it's the one you can't stand. You're all there, eating a bunch of fillings spread over the same kind of crusts. You laugh, you talk, you discover somebody new. Then you leave, full and satisfied. Your heart is light, your stomach heavy, and the sweetness of what's good is still lingering in between your teeth and on the sides of your mouth. You walk out into the parking lot. The air is cold and dry. You watch for patches of ice as you walk to the warm shelter of your car. Against a black sheet of sky hangs a few stars. You look, you smile inside, and you wonder. Will all the prayers and hopes in your heart and those spoken out loud inside a dimly lit sanctuary be listened to? Are those set of ears out there, hidden behind the twinkling lights or have they already recorded what you said? The ignition fires up the whir of the engine. You rub your hands together, shiver a little, and turn the heat dial as far right as it will go. Outside the windows are a few parking lot lights and old, fancy homes that were probably considered estates in their heydays. Back when the town was young and further west was just a bunch of untouched fields full of grass and open possibilities. The evergreens are there. They're always there. A few of them are lit up with the lights of Christmas. As if to say that the twinkling lights exist down here, too. You look around. This is your life. Everything is still here. Everything as you've always known it. Most of who you know is still here, too. The radio starts playing and the two boys in the back begin to sing along. You smile and close your eyes. This is the flavor that you keep coming back to. The one that you love. The voice that says "I hear."

The Old Lady with the Knitted Hat

I entered the room full of bluish-purple chairs, lined up in rows like pancake stacks. In front of me was a podium, a makeshift stage hung with studio lights and a white-screen backdrop. I was dizzy and unsure of myself. Lost and spinning in an ungrounded dismemberment of my former ego. I sat in a chair, by myself and looked around for something familiar, something I could know, something I could grasp. You sat behind me, unknown until your small voice gave me that something. I turned around to join you, to acknowledge your presence. There you were in bright blue, my favorite color. A knitted sweater, a knitted hat to hide the hair that you'd lost. The white hair that was growing back. Your skin was worn and fresh. Your face innocent, open, wise and bright. We said a few things. About Eat, Pray, Love. About Emma Donoghue's The Room, where we were from, how we got here, and why. You listened. I listened. I laughed. You laughed. You smiled. I smiled. You said it was okay to feel out of sorts, that was normal. You still did, at times. You asked me if it was okay if you could friend me on FB. I said of course, here's my name. And unlike many people, you lived up to your word. Six months later we sat together in the same room, near the front. You were graduating. I was only in my second term. We listed to other students, famous writers, and teachers read their words. We said more things. I don't remember all of them. Then we left. We both had long drives to make. You somewhere off the 10, me up to the hills just past the 101. "Makes for a long drive, after a long day," and "Have a good night" were our last words to each other's faces. We smiled and you turned down the hallway. I went the other way, out the courtyard with white lights and a staircase up to the 5th level of the parking garage. After a while we'd settled back home. You in the same city I'd departed and me on the plains looking up to the Rockies. You offered to keep reading my stories. I offered to keep reading yours. You published a few things. I read them. I smiled. I told you thank you for being so kind. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Then you got sick again and somehow I knew that this would be the last time. I waited. I hoped for better. But when silence replaced your posts and your words, I knew that your release would come. And now it has. I hope that the release has brought you peace. In fact, I'm certain you have found it. Because your example has given me peace. If you can do this at the end of your life, without any hope but to leave behind your words of wisdom and light, then so can I. What we knew of each other seemed small and insignificant. But what you gave was part of the greatness of the unseen. An introduction to a writer that taught me to never stray from your instincts. They're always "right." A bright blue knitted hat that made me think twice about giving up on originality. A friend when I had none. And a reason to stay open to the good in the midst of something bad. Thanks "D." Keep shining, keep touching, keep traveling, keep smiling. And most of all, keep writing, in peace.

We Have Much to Learn

This morning I am finishing up the reading of a book, by Desmond Tutu. I am reminded, this morning, that as a nation we have much to learn from our own history and from the history of other nations. You see, we are not so different from our South African neighbors. We are not so different from Nazi Germany. Not even Iran, Afghanistan, or any other nation that Americans have somehow labeled as "racist," "inhumane," or as "terrorists." It pains me to see propaganda distributed about our current President. Not because of who he actually is, but because of this idea that a certain group will "lose" their political prowess and control over the rest of American society. I am sick that as American citizens we cannot display who we want to vote for or work in that candidate's campaign office without being harassed, shot at, or told that we are "sinners." It pains me even more that this harassment and this hate is coming from the guise of "Christianity" and the "Church." You see, we have much to learn from South Africa if we would only listen.

Everything was subordinated to the security of the state as determined by those in power. It made white South Africans feel that there was a bad world out there, eager to get them, to destroy their "South African way of life." This hostile world wanted to overthrow a Christian government and replace it with an ungodly, atheistic, undemocratic, Communist dictatorship. The apartheid government as propaganda machine was adept at pointing out the disasters that had befallen countries to the north of us in Africa that had adopted socialism - basically they had come to a sticky end because these unreliable, feckless blacks had taken over.

Desmond goes on to say, though, that there is hope. South Africa managed to take that path. I hope that America takes a good, honest look at the values that the founder of its main religion actually stood for, and not the hate, discrimination, and dehumanization that some of its members seem to want to use to rule this country. I hope that Americans choose to take the path of hope and true change (even though it is more difficult) that their fellow South Africans have chosen.

None but the most obtuse can doubt that we are experiencing a radical brokenness in all of existence. Times are out of joint. Alienation and disharmony, conflict and turmoil, enmity and hatred characterize so much of life.

Now and again we catch a glimpse of the better thing for which we are meant - when for a little while we are bound together by bonds of a caring humanity, a universal sense of ubuntu. Then we experience fleetingly that we are made for togetherness, for friendship, for community, for family, that we are created to live in a delicate network of interdependence. There is a movement, not easily discernible, at the heart of things to reverse the awful centrifugal force of alienation, brokenness, division, hostility, and disharmony. God has set in motion a centripetal process, a moving towards the center, toward unity, harmony, goodness, peace, and justice, a process that removes barriers. Jesus says "And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shall draw everyone to myself" as he hangs from His cross with outflung arms, thrown out to clasp all, everyone and everything, in a cosmic embrace, so that all, everyone, everything, belongs. No one is an outsider, all are insiders, all belong. There are no aliens, all belong in the one family, God's family, the human family. There is no longer Jew, Greek, male or female, slave or free - instead of separation and division, all distinctions make for a rich diversity to be celebrated for the sake of the unity that underlies them. We are different so that we can know our need of one another, for no one is ultimately self-sufficient. The completely self-sufficient person would be subhuman.

*Excerpts taken from No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu.

A Lyrical Response to America's GOP

I've been listening to this song (off and on) since I was a young eleven-year old. It has such a strong message, and it's so fitting, given this year's political landscape. I try not to judge as the lyrics of this song reiterate. But I feel strongly that there is so much at stake for so many of America's people if a certain party gets elected to the White House. So, because this song sums it up beautifully......take a listen. http://youtu.be/bGayAVrH0gQ

A Little Boy

A little boy raises his voice and slams his books against the desk. He says he doesn't have to listen. He's not going to detention. He's not going because he doesn't want to. He's getting more agitated, more belligerent, more demanding. He's raising his voice and he's fighting a calm, steady one because the rest of his life is out of control. Outside of these walls, these books and this playground he doesn't have a voice. All of his choices are made for him; even the impending split of his world, of his allegiance, of his heart. Outside of these walls he is not a little boy.

Who is he, you might ask. He even wonders. He is our present and he is our future. He could become anything, anyone. Maybe an astronaut, perhaps a leader, a scientist who finds a cure, an author whose words inspire change and human transcendence, an actor who becomes other people so that people can see a reflection of who they really are, maybe a difference maker who works with the disadvantaged; the unfortunate. Maybe, perhaps, a healer.

Today he is wounded. He suffers. His pain is well-known. His pain is my pain. His voice, his anger, his hurt, and his sobbing makes my own eyes wet. His teacher knows his pain, too. But his teacher is better at hiding that old wound than I am. I force it back, I stuff it down, and I wait until my tears recede from the edges of my lids. I am only here to fix a different problem, and it's not this one.

No matter what he hears, no matter what anyone tells him, no matter how many people try to help him, he's the only one who can solve the problem. Eventually he will learn he has more strength and more power than he thinks he does. If he learns anything from the aftermath of a broken home, he will learn to release personal responsibility for his parents' choices. He will gain insight into the human condition and become compassionate about the darkness. He will see that light is always in the depths of despair. One day he will wake up and be happy. He will forgive his parents for the pain and the suffering. He will simply say "it's not worth it. It is time to let go."

It is time to enjoy what beauty exists in the world. And it is time to value and share who I am in this journey. It is time to not hide my pain, not stuff it down, not wish it away, not project it onto others so that it becomes a constant reflection that I cannot break. No, it is time to acknowledge it and make it into something good. Because I am good. Not evil, not bad, not lost, not wrong, not to blame. I am just like you. Just like me.

Wings of Trust

Trust. It's a heavy and scary word. At least it is for me some of the time. It may be that way for you, too. That's part of being human, isn't it? Sometimes we trust too fast and when we shouldn't. Sometimes we don't trust something or someone we had no reason not to. And some of us find it difficult to trust our own choices. Even when we've trusted ourselves and our decisions before. Even when our younger version gave little thought to the "what-ifs" and the big, long list of pending uncertainties. I think that's because part of being young means you don't always have that lingering experience that's conditioned you to say "remember what went 'wrong' when you did this last time." You start racking up experience and if it's not positive, it makes you more hesitant (maybe even unable) to trust that something or someone.

Trust is one of those internal convictions that requires you to believe in the unseen. On the other side of the coin of trust is its cousin faith. These two don't keep balance sheets, analyze the data, or debate the list of pros and cons. Nope. These two say 'this is what I feel to be my truth' and follow it. These two are the light in ordinary darkness. They don't dwell on what might be 'wrong' with what is; they seek the possibility of change, growth, and progress. These two always say "why not?" instead of making excuses.

Trust and faith helps us reveal something about who we are. Those answers without questions. Answers that only we know. Answers that don't stop revealing their truth. Trust and faith lead us to something we couldn't have seen otherwise. Something that we don't know how to touch. Sometimes we leave that 'something' smiling. We go back to the place where we've always stared at the moon. And sometimes we don't. Sometimes we leave the familiar for that something unseen.

If we're asked if we're happy with our choice, on some days we might say yes and some days we might say no. There is no sense in torturing yourself over lives you wished you had lived. Perhaps we get to live out all of our would-be choices. We split and divide into other people. Whispers that we only hear beneath tree boughs when we stop and wonder ‘what if?’ Sometimes we see each butterfly emerge from separate trees, identical in appearance, identical in the ways they fly. But they land on separate birches, never touching, never embracing, never quite seeing every leaf on the other branch. Once in awhile the butterflies look over at each other. They stare inquisitively, wondering ‘could that be me?’ One flutters its wings. The other sits and keeps staring. For awhile they both realize ‘it is you.’

They each learn to survive on their own birch; in their own tree. And each one learns to trust their choices. Not because those choices are easy or what will happen because of them. Because they know that it doesn't matter what the answer is. It's better to just ask the question and realize that reflection is always both an illusion and a revelation.

We find what we seek, but we also find what we may not want to see.

Character Lessons - Part One

To think that we only have a certain window of chance is to render ourselves powerless. There is always a chance. There is always hope. There is always a new beginning, if you're willing to believe and do the work. Anything is possible as long as you still exist.

I pull up my pants leg. My aunt is there, smiling. Hair flowing from her head, lush and thick. Eyes piercing. Eyes welcoming. Eyes soft. When I was little, she took me to the river. El río. She told me, siempre bailar con él corazón. Incluso en la lluvia. Even if it rains, dance with your heart.

You were so right, Tía. So right. La lluvia can’t melt me now. La lluvia can only bring me good. Pura buena. Pura buena. Pura. Buena.

You still hurt, Tía. You are red. Rojo. Inflamado. Como él fuego. Just like you were. Just like I remember. Where are your ashes, Tía? Where is your espíritu? Here, like always? Or thrown up against the sky, like el ave?

You say, Le felicidad es una ilusión mí niña. It is not a mountain that you scale once, but many times. As many times as your eyes desire a new one.

Le felicidad es una ilusíon mí niña. It is in you. In how you see. Mañana le dará. You see. Mañana estará libré.

I park my car across the street by the fairgrounds. I push my purse underneath the seat, lock the doors and start walking towards the grass. My hand is shaking as I dial the number. The sun shines through the leaves above me. They begin to shake gently, like they want to dance.

I hang up the phone and stare back at the sky. The clouds are wrapped on top of the mountains, still. Sitting. No longer grey. Just white.

Siempre bailar con él corazón. Incluso en la lluvia, mí niña.

Turbulence

An airplane ride over the Rocky Mountains almost always brings a little turbulence. Sometimes the force of the wind off the Front Range is enough to make the plane sway back and forth. If you're a novice at Denver International Airport descents, it almost feels like it's going to tip. Sometimes you notice the pilots are flying the plane at an angle--to keep it from doing just that.

Today was one of those days. But as the lady behind me freaked out and one of my iPod playlists blasted in my ears, I had this calm feeling everything was going to be okay. Not only because I've been on these bumpy rides before (and survived without a Bloody Mary), but because the turbulence made me smile.

Turbulence has that power, even though it seems counterintuitive. But, you're up there for the ride anyway--with no guarantees--only faith, and hope, and a view you can only imagine from the ground. You can enjoy those bumps or you can fear them. Either way, you can't stop them from coming. The wind knows what it needs to bring, but it never promises that it will be smooth and easy.

Smile. Laugh. Throw your hands up and pretend you're on a roller coaster ride, like the woman seated a few rows in front of me this morning.

Sometimes turbulence is the only way we stay awake. Sometimes turbulence is the only way we figure out how to survive.

Rebirth

After my accident, my brain changed. And consequently, my mind along with it. At the time, I was too stubborn and determined to slow down to notice any of it. I had to get back to work the next day so I could get paid, make sure all of my accounts were taken care of, and make sure that no one else at my company was inconvenienced. I also had a final to study for. And like all the finals before it, I was going to get an 'A.' No questions asked.

I was still drinking after work almost every night to wind down from the stress and the emotional taxation, so I didn't notice my inability to stay asleep for more than a few hours at a time. I also didn't notice my brain's inability to calm itself down and drift off into sleep without some sort of sedative as an aid. I didn't notice that I would wake up feeling unrested, as if I hadn't slept at all. I didn't notice the apathy, or the carelessness around my house, or the simple inability to wake up and find something joyful about the life around me. I noticed the dizziness, but I thought it was just because I was tired or exhausted. It was just my job and it would go away once the cause went away too. I don't remember if I noticed the nausea, but because it wasn't as bad as it was during the first week after the accident, I probably shrugged that off as exhaustion, too.

I didn't want to believe that there were going to be any consequences from a contusion, a concussion, a hematoma, and a scalp laceration. I'd stuffed down and ignored "the bad" and "pain" all my life; why should this accident and its aftermath be any different? Well, after I'd gotten all my 'A's' and quit the 'exhausting' job, I finally had to admit that something was different. I was different. And I was going to have to make peace with that and find different ways of doing what I had done for most of my life. And I was going to have to let go of some things, no matter how painful or how much of a struggle it would turn out to be.

When I started this blog, I wanted to give a voice to HSPs. But I am more than an HSP. I am also a traumatic brain injury survivor and so today I choose to bring a voice to that experience. I am not complaining. I know I am one of the 'lucky' ones. I am not in a coma, I am not in a hospital bed, I do not have to go through physical therapy sessions, I can still talk, and for the most part I can still think. Even if that 'thinking' is a little slower, a little more haphazard, and more frustrating when I can't quite be as 'sharp' as I used to be. But even the 'lucky' ones know the aftermath is still a struggle. You have to work slower, especially when it involves thinking, writing, or studying. You have to take many more breaks and sometimes you can only concentrate for a few minutes at a time.

Some things you can't control anymore. Like naps. You may have the intention of closing your eyes for only a few minutes, and then wake up 3 to 5 hours later wondering what happened. You want to find happiness and for a few moments you do. But then it's back to the irritation and the apathy, and the 'I just want to sleep and zone out.' Those 3-5 mile runs you used to go on? Maybe tomorrow you'll start. Maybe tomorrow you'll try walking instead. And sometimes you do. For weeks, even. But then you stop. You have to take a break. It's too much. The effort is too much. The effort of living is too much.

Not living, breathing, taking life in. No, it's the demands of living. The demands of 'our culture.' I finished a book this week about learning how to live and what's really important about living. It is only when we learn about 'dying' that we learn about 'living' is the gist of the lesson.

There are all kinds of death. There's physical, of course. And emotional; spiritual. But there's also the death of our self-concept. What we must do; what we must be; who we think we are by definitions and labels. It's all a bunch of nonsense. Silly, really. The truth is, we are everything. We will be everything. If not now, if not in this life, then soon. Pretty; ugly. Young; old. Ambitious; content. Self-serving; self-sacrificing. The list goes on.

Rebirth happens because we die. Is it something to fear? Is it something to avoid? Many of us try. Some of us eventually realize that love is what brings us back. It is what keeps us from staying away. It is why we come back.

And many of us soon find out that we're going to have to tell ourselves "I was who I was, but now I am simply something undefinable. I am simply life."

Butterfly Colors Continued

You’re going to have to choose. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, you have to choose. It isn’t easy, that choice. And people wait. And people hope. For us to choose. For us to say yes. So that we can start living. And realize how precious time is. How precious those things about life are that we can’t grasp when we’re not sick, when we think we have everything, when we believe in only what we see, when we aren’t forced to tell ourselves the truth.

Some of the paths that we choose to take look polished, pristine, and safe. Some are ambiguous because they're a little narrower, are comprised of gravel instead of blacktop, and curve around the shadows of things we can't see unless we keep following what has already been laid out for us. A few don't exist yet because we're the ones who are going to have to break the ground and carve them out. The few of us who spend the time to envision something that hasn't been done yet, and who might make it a little easier for those who come after us, are the ones that travel alone.

The last stretch of that path was the toughest because the garden was so near. You could say that you saw it without ever walking in it, or sitting on its benches, or touching its orange red flowers, or staring at the city through the outlines of two palm trees, or watching the bird bounce up and down into the valley on a carpet of wind. But that wasn’t what she wanted--a side view or an almost there feel. So there went her left foot, and then her right, and then her left again. She turned on the spicket of water, filling her mouth, her throat, her stomach. It tasted a little like the bronze metal it had come from, but it was cool enough to splash and rub against her skin. Dante’s View, read the sign. Like Dante’s Inferno, she thought. Tricky to get to without a map or a GPS. But like any destination without a blueprint, an adventurous surprise.

Wisdom

Wisdom is not necessarily comprised of concrete knowledge or the ability to make the "right" decisions according to some generally accepted standard. It is an individual skill, I think--a recognition of what feels right for a single person in a given set of circumstances, an ability to listen and trust your own voice. Not the dichotomous ones that we often hear, but the calm, steady one that seems to come from an internal center-place of peace and omniscience.

I've recently been reminded that I know how to do that. I know how to trust and follow my own calm, steady inner voice, even when it's being shrouded by the opinions of others that I may value and respect. Even when my doubts are trying to silence and discredit it. I've realized that this is a skill that I have not only developed through my own experiences of being "different" in some way, but by living with the example of someone who did just that. Despite the familial abandonment, the years of financial distress, the emotional taxation that came with the job, and the inability to at times, juggle her spiritual and physical purposes. Some of those consequences have more than reconciled themselves or been replaced by something more worthwhile, if not intangible. Some of those consequences are permanent parts of the deal she signed up for. But she never stopped listening, or fighting, or lost the courage to keep doing something that was connected to external and internal parts of her self. She may not always understand or agree completely with her daughter's own inner voice. But she knows that I'm completely tuned in this time--and I'm not switching stations, for anybody.

Sometimes that means going against conventions. Sometimes it means acknowledging and agreeing with the well-intentioned gestures of support from people that you admire, but realizing that you have to accomplish your mission your own way, in your own time. And--not be in a hurry to get it done and over with, because you've been "wasting time." I don't believe that any time is wasted. The calm, steady inner voice of wisdom that we all have doesn't see time as an excuse or even as a valid concept. Periods of stillness and retraction can be just as beneficial as periods of movement. Reflection, after all, is what drives action in the first place.

Sometimes when we are in the middle of something, it can be difficult to know how much or how little to show and how fast (or slow) to move. The most important thing, as my current mentor has said, is to keep moving.

Water Under the Bridge

My 15 year old self once stumbled upon a poem with the title "Water Under the Bridge." For some reason my current self can't seem to find it. She's curious to revisit its words, but the search has come up empty. Perhaps she's looking in the wrong place. Perhaps it only exists in the parallel plane of the past. But its meaning and its value have remained intact and I suppose that is what is much more important.

A river or any body of water can separate two sides of reality. It can make it more difficult for humans to switch places, make progress, explore, discover, bridge gaps, and become "something else." The water is impartial because it is omniscient. It reflects and cherishes both worlds. But we humans build these things we call bridges, in order to make it "easier" and more "convenient" to get whatever we want, to open up possibility, to go back and forth between one world and the next as if we could be as carefree as a butterfly and not experience any consequences for our actions. We try to outsmart the water, thinking that if we cover up a portion of its reflection that it will allow us to be blind.

Water cleanses. Water heals. Water knows that you have to let go in order to keep moving. Water sees where you've been, hears every thought and hope, feels everything you've felt, and is well aware of why you chose to cross those safe and trustworthy bridges in the first place. In order to do that you had to turn your back on something. You had to let something go. You had to make a choice. Whatever happened, happened. It is gone. It is "water under the bridge." Making choices for the present based on who you were, where you've been, and whatever occurred in the past is silly and detrimental to your current Self. You are no longer that person. You no longer live there. There is no reason to keep punishing yourself once you realize that the water is the true bridge. And what could have been, what might have been if you had chosen a different one needs to let go, too.

Believing in Yourself

"It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not."-Anonymous

When I was working for a business process outsourcing company, one of the accounts that I contributed to had a supervisor that used to tell me (repeatedly) that it was ok for me to believe in myself. I used to feel guilty at just the thought of being able to believe in my abilities, my potential, my own perspectives, my own journey. I don't need to see a fancy psychologist to know that it stems from being told (in one way or another) that my needs didn't matter and that no matter what I did (or didn't do), it was never good enough. I'd seen and talked to enough of those by the time I was 16 to write a novel. And in the end all they get paid for is to point out what you already know deep inside. You still have to do the work. You still have to change your inner voice.

There was always that stigma that I would turn out to be a "bad, hurtful" person. But the thing is that a child doesn't choose a "bad childhood" or "bad experiences." They just happen. It doesn't make them a bad person. It certainly doesn't mean that they'll grow up and participate in anti-social behavior. Some of the most beautiful people come out of ashes and darkness. And people who have wonderful childhoods can grow up to not be so "beautiful," and commit several "bad" behaviors simply because that's who they choose to be. The real demon that you have to fight is your own inability to believe and value who you are.

Yep, I'm still fighting that demon. I haven't conquered it yet, but I'm trying. Apparently the universe has faith that I can, because it keeps showing up. A former boss who tried to make me feel incompetent and unable to go after what I thought I wanted because in reality she was threatened by my abilities and credentials. A mentor who sees her former self, but wants to project her own experiences and her own capacities onto someone else. It's funny sometimes how we end up trying to sabotage and punish ourselves through other people who either remind us of what we think we're lacking or who we just might be inside. Jealousy, envy, and competitiveness are dark traps that I consciously try to avoid. Sometimes that means ending relationships with people and situations that I otherwise love, enjoy, and truly value in some way. But there's no sense in living a lie of "toxic support."

The thing is I know who I am inside. I know what I'm capable of. I know that I have ability, knowledge, experience, talent, wisdom, insight, determination, and elasticity. And so does everyone else. The difference may be that they grew up in an environment that reinforced these beliefs by the time they were 10. I have to build and re-build my own foundation. So what? At this point I am tired of listening to external opinions about what I may or may not be capable of. Sometimes you have to go through the class twice. And the reality is that each of us are capable of accomplishing anything that we choose. But we have to believe that we can, and then we have to do the work. There's no easy path to graduation-only the inner strength that propels you to keep walking as you say "no matter what anyone thinks, I'm doing this."

Butterfly Colors

The night when the box came I'd buried your name. Irritated with the intrusive sounds of the courtyard gate welcoming the scattered leaves and the doorbell ringing loudly, I dropped it on the floor underneath the edge of the breakfast bar. I cursed the postman for acting like a mischievous teenage lover, running away before I could see who was there. I said I wasn't going to look until the next morning. I had a scene to write, twenty pages to script by an impending deadline that kept screaming "miss me and you'll lose what you thought you wanted."

But I couldn't take the anticipation of not knowing. Patience has never been my virtue. So I stopped writing and I tore the tape off one of the edges. I skimmed over the letters and the paperwork, tossing the quarterly magazine full of contest and publishing opportunities to the side. The outside covers of the books were purple, lavender. How fitting, I thought. I didn't open the one bearing your name. I just stared for a moment and smiled. How amazing that the universe seems to keep showing me signs of "full speed ahead" whenever I'm ready to pack up my bags and turn around.

I remembered you from last time. How could I not. You didn't look like the others with your pristine image and the black dress with embroidered butterflies in blue and green. You spoke of the Appalachian mountains and delivered your image of the world with a smile and a confidence that I recognized. You came from that world I'd decided to leave. The world I no longer needed a map for. And now I was stuck in this one without a compass or a lighthouse to guide me. I thought perhaps you might understand and offer some insight about this journey from one side of the universe to the other. I thought maybe I would switch genres for a semester so I could get the chance to feel at home. The universe must have heard me loud and clear.

What strikes me is that I don't have to do anything but keep walking. There must be something going on here. Something that is making everything fall into place like a stack of dominoes seemingly out of control. I can't give up. I can't stop. I have to see this through. I have to remain strong, but not so strong that I stop myself from feeling. I have to stop saying "I can't" and say "I can."

Humans are like butterflies that can't see their colors before they emerge from their cocoons. But once they fly, the entire world notices every single shade.

Purely Conditional

This week I've been thinking about how our responses and perceptions are largely determined by our past experiences. I had this wonderful epiphany at my day job as I suddenly realized why one of my bosses is periodically asking me how I'm doing with my new assignment. It's not because she thinks I'm incompetent or can't handle it, but because she doesn't want me to get burnt out or hate what I'm doing. As silly as it seems, this kind of consideration from an employer is kind of foreign territory for me after the past five and a half years.

I love the fact that I can actually call in sick and not get raked over the coals for it and come in late with no consequences and guilty looks if the roads are bad or the power goes out at my house. I appreciate the fact that I'm not expected to work more than 40 hours, have a set schedule, and can take comp time if I ever get into a situation where I go over those 40 hours. The 100 percent employer paid insurance plan is nice too and I certainly appreciate the fact that I'm not treated like a complete idiot if I need to go to a co-worker or a boss for assistance. And just about every week there's free brownies, zucchini bread, donuts, pizza or some type of treat for everyone in the office.

Every month there's staff engagement meetings and the Director of Technology actually took the time to have a private meeting with me as a new employee. He thinks it's important to find out what his employees think about the organization and the department. To top it off he sincerely listened to my suggestions and put one of them into practice. It was a simple request to help introverts like me come up with things to say in those meetings. I was kind of caught off guard and flabbergasted. Something like that would have been completely ignored and discounted with my former employer. I would have been made to feel like an outsider and alien for even bringing it up.

They tell me that they think I have "so much" to offer and that I was hired for my communication skills and confidence in dealing with people. When I hear this, I automatically think huh? Wasn't it my former boss who used to say that my weakness was communication and that I didn't do this at all? It was assumed that because I was "quiet," came to work and didn't get involved in office politics that I was "very unapproachable" and "extremely sensitive." Intellectually I realize my former boss wasn't very adept at understanding people different from herself. Or perhaps she was criticizing parts of herself that she was told she shouldn't be. It still stung at the time. It still does. No one had ever told me things like that or been so mean. I asked a few friends and former co-workers to make sure. They all said "no" and I still had a hard time believing it wasn't true. But then again this is the company that likes to point out and focus on any little weakness rather than what's being done right. They would also rather ignore the fact that their own culture and structure creates the situation rather than find some way to make it better.

I've figured out that it's going to take some time to get reconditioned and retrain my internal responses. Rather than assuming I'm the target of someone's dislike of my personality or inability to achieve perfection, I'm going to have to learn to realize that some people want to be supportive and I can depend on them. But this lens isn't just from my former employer. I'm not trying to blame them or point the finger away from myself. There's a reason why I was drawn to that pit to begin with. I was conditioned to think that kind of treatment was okay, normal even. I didn't want to take the time to see that another reality was possible.

We make choices and then we wake up and stare blankly at our surroundings, wondering how we got here and why our lives are a certain way. Sure, we can change it but then we would have to consider the possibility that our responses are triggered by something that isn't really there. It's automatic, it's robotic, it's programmed, it's not real. But we only see what we think we know as truth and then we end up re-creating the past nightmare we weren't even in to begin with.

The universe is funny. We think. We wish. We hope. And somehow we get these lessons and these external fulfillments that end up revealing that we've been asleep and struggling because we've let our conditioning poison our eyes. It's true that the bad exists. But it's also true that it only continues to if we allow it to become real.

Letting Go is a Battle

Sometimes when I'm in the middle of a really good book, I have to put it down because its language and its message inspires me to write. So that's what I'm doing at this moment. Staring at my computer screen, mind suddenly drifting to a make-believe scene and a set of words that's decided to resurface today. Of course at this point in my life journey I'm not so sure anymore how "make-believe" that scene is, or the countless others I probably know too well for someone who never thought she'd grow up to sound like she'd been "ripped from the script." But anyhow, those words are about how letting go is a battle and a fight that takes a little help, a little courage, a little trust, a little hope, and a whole lot of belief.

The battle of letting go can take on many forms in our lives. They may be different for each of us. Who can say what they'll end up being....disease, financial hardship, death, dying, forgiveness, transformation, acceptance, self-discovery, or the resolve to finally make yourself listen to the truth. As much control as we think we have, sometimes our higher self knows better. Sometimes it's not going to let us get away that easy this time with our ability to exercise free will. We've already done that and look where it got us. Time's up, baby. It's not about you anymore. It's time to let go of who you think you are and master this lesson so you can move on to the next one. It's time to serve the rest of who you are-the rest of humanity that you once were and might someday be again. The universe holds more miracles and mysteries within itself than we can ever comprehend. Listen. Pay attention. Connect the dots. Stop resisting and start accepting.

The funny thing is we already know what we need to do, we've known it for a long time, decades even. We just have a hard time doing it. We have a hard time believing in something that doesn't make sense. Letting go and surrendering to something we don't understand yet, that's our battle, that's our fight. It's probably something we don't even like, something that certainly doesn't serve our ego or what we think is in our best interests. In order to do it, we have to shut that half of our brain up (as a wise MFA friend kept repeating to me in June) that doubts, tries to discredit, tries to justify, and tries to preserve the lifesaver that ends up drowning us anyway.

As tough, sad, scary, and completely ludicrous on paper as it is, we don't need a lifesaver. When we let go, we find out just how strong we already were and that we already knew how to navigate and save ourselves. And when we let go, we release what was keeping us from seeing possibility.

We go for it anyway. Despite the risks. Despite the consequences. Because it keeps pulling, it keeps pointing, it keeps whispering until it gives us no other choice.

Chances, Love, Light & Rescue

The purpose is never in the action, but rather in the reflection.

Within our human experiences is the point where we can look back at a low point in our lives and realize that something saved us. Call it inspiration, revival, divine rescue, light from the work of an empath, or a simple chance. As I sat in the balcony of a local auditorium last night, slightly dizzy from the height, I got the opportunity to listen to the lyrical and spoken wisdom of someone whose work had a profound effect on my spiritual evolution. By spiritual I don't mean religious, but the journey we take to find our voice, our human identity, and our purpose.

The songs that I used to sing to in my bedroom drifted up to the rafters, somehow instantly transforming into something more meaningful inside my older self. What is the chance that you'll get to sit next to someone that you have a relationship with that's in need of transformation, hear the most poignant songs from that collection you still listen to, have flashbacks to those good childhood moments, hear the voice of your future whispering into your being, have a musician say exactly what needs to be said to the person beside you, and connect with the gift and purpose of a light worker all in the course of a couple of hours? Pretty amazing, I think.

A co-worker and I recently talked about the quote that says you'll find your destiny on the road that you took to avoid it. That wonderful and beautiful novel I read recently said you'll never know when you'll find yourself rescued or what will become your light. It's one of those mysterious aspects of being human that is so exhilarating, peaceful, and beyond expression when it comes together.

Those things I once aspired to be, I already was. I just had to grow up to see. The message was already there. I think it's like that for most of us who discover that the reason we're here is to spread light, compassion, pixie dust, whatever you want to name it. Our eyes "see good where good cannot be found, we see every pain, know what you're going through and feel it the same." If those lyrics don't sum up the empath experience, I don't know what does. Whatever form it takes, whatever our talents, no matter the name we give our beliefs, all we have to do is jump on that train and let it slowly show us the track we thought we weren't on.

Embrace every car of that train, every rail on that track, every scene, every moment. As another greatly undervalued source of light more or less revealed, at the end you might realize that it wasn't quite near long enough.

Risk

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.

-The Painted Drum by Louise Erdrich

There are very few novels that I find myself seduced by. The kind that grabs you from the first line and you can't put down. Or the kind that stir something within you. The kind that make you feel. The kind that you find yourself connected with and whose words and characters are blurred between their identities and your own. The Painted Drum is one of those.

My writing mentor (whom I listed as my first choice because of one of those "feelings" of intuition) suggested that I read it. The author fluctuates between first and third person point of views and that's what I'm trying to do with my own novel. The strange thing about my mentor is that she's one of those subtle intuitive types that seem to address more than just what may be going on with your craft. To say that she knows me completely would be a lie. But it would also be a truth.

Someone once told me that it takes a very strong person to survive what I've survived. But there is a line between strength and self-containment. For me it's not about fear or courage. It's a matter of not making a mistake. Who wants to do that? Who wants to admit that the sun didn't exactly set like the postcard showed it would?

What Erdrich writes so eloquently is true. There is risk in living. There is the chance of falling when you take flight. There is a real possibility that you may have to rewrite your lines, repaint your dream, or perhaps keep dreaming until you wake up in the picture that feels like home. If you're alive, you feel both good and bad. Sorrow and hate. Disappointment and failure. Abandonment. Triumph, joy, and ecstasy. Love. Commitment. Compassion. Connection. Wholeness.

That's why we come here to be human. To become whole. To experience what we could not otherwise. To risk what could and should be. To listen and learn not to resist that destiny we planned before we entered our bodies. To feel the dreamer's firm answer that says go and pack up what you think you know.