Summer Reset: Release and Receive

 Hello, old friend.

Writing is my old friend. The first time that I remember feeling like a writer was in the second grade: I had only been able to read for two years (up until my friend Cheryl P. asked me if I wanted her to read me a book while we were in kindergarten, and I looked at her, shocked, and said something like, "Kids can read?!" and immediately got down to business to learn how), and our teacher asked us to write a myth. I wrote a story about polar bears - how they turned white, I think? - and while we were tasked to write a paragraph or such, I wrote pages. Pages and pages... and I didn't feel done when I turned it in, I felt like I could write forever.

I should rephrase that. I didn't feel like a writer at all - that was akin to feeling like a unicorn, or a Douglas fir tree, or a million dollars. It was unimaginable that I could be a writer, because I didn't feel talented or special - and I was sure that writers were the most talented, special people on the planet - but I knew that I needed to write. If only I had better understood semantics at the tender age of seven, I would have realized that my drive to write meant that I was a writer.

I scribbled in my journals. I wrote poetry. I imagined stories. I submitted a poem to the festival (?) on Mayne Island one summer, and I labored over it. Why I still remember it, I don't know...

Playing on the rocks and sand

I feel a tiny crab gently pinch my hand.

I turn around and see a fish, 

And then I hear a gentle "wish.

Seals and otters  playfully glide,

Gleefully jumping in the tide...

There was more, but that's all I remember. It wasn't Rumi, but it was the truth of my summers, and somehow I'd captured something that I felt about what it meant to be barefoot and lost in the tidepools of the rocky beaches. When I won a ribbon, I was genuinely astonished - why would anyone want to read something I'd written? Why would anyone relate to my experiences? I think I was somewhere between 9-11 when I wrote it.

In junior high, the yearbook published a poem I'd written. I refused to let them put my name on it, sure that it was a trick, that maybe some mean girl was mocking me. I don't know why I felt that way: I wrote because I had to, and my teacher submitted it because he liked it, and why wouldn't someone else like it?

A couple of years ago I decided to get published within the year, no matter how small the publication, and I set it as a New Year's Resolution. A couple of weeks later, I saw a call for letters to the New York Times, and I put something together over lunch at work and submitted it between classes. They published it, and my heart sang - I think they published 40 letters of the 1000 or so they received, and I was so proud. So proud that I was terrified of the feeling, and I didn't write anything for close to a year after that.

And then I decided to write my book, the Serious Book that was about Important Things that had been floating in my brain for years. I worked on it, fell short, worked more... and stopped again, frozen once more.

And then I went to my friend's wedding - the famous friend, the one who is (among other things) a writer, and she introduced me to all her of wonderful friends as "she's a writer" and I felt like crawling in a hole, because I knew that I was a fraud with constant writers' block and a brain prone more to fog than brilliance.

And yet...

And yet, I long to write, and I know that there is something there there.

So I'm changing my ways. Slowly, but surely, I am..

I'm letting go of the idea that I have to be smart, or good, or important.

Release.

I'm opening up my heart, my mind, my soul to the knowledge that whatever I write, it will be enough. I long for the world to read it and find delight and healing... but even if I am the only one who finds delight and healing* it will be enough, because I was born to write. I'm ready for the gift to appear; I'm ready to take risks and ask for help and dedicate time and try.

I have been holding tight to some old ideas, passed down through the generations to me. Ideas like "life is hard so work harder" or "you are nothing and nobody" and "what makes you think you're so special?" and - on my bad days, when my father's words echo in my brain - "you're stupid and lazy and what the hell's the matter with you?!"

It's time to release. Whether I'm a genius or an idiot is irrelevant. I'm letting go of all of those definitions of myself (which were really definitions given to too many in the world) and receive.

Receive.

I keep thinking about the imagine of a fist, holding tight to whatever treasures it contains. The fist protects, the fingers clutching the gifts, fearful of dropping them or having them taken, the fingers squeeze until they cramp and the fingernails bite the palms and the weary soul says "just hang on..." I've been hoarding my idea of writing like that, holding it tight to me to protect it, in fear that if it sees the light it will crumble to dust, or reveal its ugliness, or I will simply find that it doesn't exist.

But...

But if I open my hands, unfurling my fingers like flower petals, then the gifts can breathe. Then my writing can be in the world, open to receive new ideas, new readers, new life. If I open my hands, I might find a butterfly landing on them, or the warmth of sunshine, or a dog's wet nose, or the hand of a belove.

I'm going to try very, very hard, with all the might I have within me, to release fear so that I can feel the light. Whatever the shape of the thing I hold in my hands, it is suffocating in my fist. What will happen if I loosely clutch it, hands open, so that I can see all of it, from every angle? What does it really look like, anyway, after so many years in the dark? If it's more raisin than fruit I couldn't blame it - I haven't given it sunshine or nourishment; the rain hasn't been able to reach its skin.

I love the feeling of rain on my skin: an upturned face to the sky, mouth open to catch the drops. I love dashing through puddles, giggling as I get drenched. I am a lucky one: I've always had a place to go when I was finally too cold and wet to stay outside, and there is such joy in toweling off damp hair, putting on warm cozy clothes, and curling up with a hot mug of tea as the rain pelts the windows. Sometimes the rain is cold and the puddles muddy or greasy... but the joy of coming home, getting dry and warm, is only possible if one experiences the rain first... otherwise it's just another day walking in the door.

I've started taking notes on my phone when I get ideas, and I've got a slim red notebook that I carry in my purse to write down ideas. Every time I go for a walk or a run by myself, new ideas pop into my head. Stories of witches (oh, I'm releasing the idea that I have to be brilliant and wise, and I don't care about anything but telling my stories now, so maybe I don't have to be so serious), essays about mothers and daughters, small poems about my secret heart.

I have it in my head that my writer's block is connected to my lover's block: that believing in myself enough to write is my true self love, and that only when I have self love like that will I find my true love. It's a lovely symmetry, and life is rarely quite so symmetrical, but I think... I think maybe I'm right. And I feel myself letting go of the blocks, ready for what comes next in a creative life.

(Do I curse myself to put that in writing, like a wish that can't come true if I tell it? Or do I manifest my heart's desire? Well... whatever it is, I'm letting go of that old fear.)

I have things to say, and I have love to give.

So it's time to write. It's time to love. And in between, I think I'll go on a walk. It's teacher summer, and I'm hitting the reset button on what doesn't serve me. I'm ready to be ME.

*healing: My stories spread love and light in the world, and offer healing. The world longs for healing, and I long to heal. Does that make me a healer as well as a writer? Let it be so.

***

Marianne Williamson > Quotes

 

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“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
― Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles"

https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/17297.Marianne_Williamson 

Goodbye, old friend

 Today I went to the memorial service for a friend of 18 years - he was a neighbor, but more importantly, he was my daughter's dear friend's father. Since our girls were toddlers they've shuffled back and forth between our two houses, with countless sleepovers and playdates. They've shared every single birthday, one quincenera, two graduations. The parents drove them to roller skating, birthday parties, pools, ice skating. There were more shared meals than I could possibly count - because at the end of the playdate, wouldn't it be nice if you just stayed over? There were Halloween parties annually, and one memorable snowy Christmas where we got snowed in but since we could walk to each others' homes we shared our celebrations. It wasn't just the girls going back and forth - it was their parents, too, mothers and fathers meeting at the rink, or in the living room, or the trailhead, and enjoying our daughters but enjoying each others' company, too.

It's hard to believe that this loving, warm, funny, and crazy-smart father is gone.

He gave me a gift before he left.

The last time he was in my house, it was for a dinner party. I was in the kitchen, and he followed me there, and gave me a small speech about how much it meant to him that I had been such a big part of his daughter's life, and how much he appreciated my support of her, and my presence in his own parenting journey. He told me how much I meant to him.

It was the last time we ever spoke - I had no idea (and nor did he) that these would be his parting words to me.

His daughter is in my home right now, after a day of attending his memorial - our two girls are snuggled under fuzzy blankets on the sofa, eating the snacks of their childhoods, laughing at a movie they're watching together. The movies have changed, but their friendship and connection hasn't changed, and having them here together feels as natural as breathing, even though my daughter's just finished her sophomore year of college and his daughter is a dancer in NYC, even though they sold their home near ours a year ago, even though there have been life struggles and changes that those little sparkly toddlers couldn't have imagined.

But I keep thinking about that conversation, and how he pulled me aside and looked me in the eye and told me how important I was in his daughter's life, and how much she needed that, and how much he appreciated me. In hindsight, it seems like foreshadowing of a request. He loved his daughter deeply and well, and while there are many people in her life who love her, he passed some part of that torch to me. His final words were about the importance of my presence in her life... and I am thinking about them.

20 is still far too young to lose a parent. Isn't 20 really just a kid? 

I'm committed to helping that kid navigate life without her father. I'm committed to being a loving a solid presence in her life.

Old friend, I miss you. I fear I took you for granted, never fully understanding your brilliance, athleticism, depth. I admired you, but I think there was so much more to know, and in that way, I feel the failure of missing out. But this I will not fail in: I will love your daughter, be part of her circle of wellness, safety, refuge. I will never be her parent, but I will take your words as a reminder of where I am needed and show up every time. Thank you for the parting gift of your great kindness, of your acknowledgement of all that we have shared in our parenting journey. I'm so grateful that I knew you, and I'll keep doing the joyful work of being in your daughter's life. I promise.

In loving memory of JS - gone too soon.

Becoming

 Michelle Obama titled her book Becoming, and perhaps one of the reasons that it was so popular is that most of us can relate: we're all becoming.

I am no different. I've been on a journey, but that journey is a process that I can't entirely predict, except to say that I'm determined to get a happy ending, whatever that may mean.

Lately, I'm working on my process more. It's the end of the school year - two weeks left! - and I'm barely holding on, fighting what Urgent Care says is likely walking pneumonia, and definitely under the weather physically. But the end of this school year is so close, and it is such a relief to think that I've made it this far, and that I will likely make it across the finish line (even if I am stumbling, I'll make it). Summer opens up a world of possibilities, and a chance to set the reset button, as well as to have adventures, and I'm SO ready for that. It's a time of year when I process what's working in my life, and what I want to do more or less of. 

I have things I'm looking forward to - a long list. I can't wait to sit on a beach and read in the sunshine (and every day of my life I'm so grateful that a lovely park with a beach is a mere mile - walking distance - from my home). I can't wait to have the neighbors over for BBQ or Aperol Spritzes. I can't wait for summer concerts (I have a number of tickets, including the much coveted Taylor Swift concert), for long hikes, for camping. And I've got a long list of projects: painting my bedroom, fixing a leaning fence, gardening.

But the biggest project of all is myself.

I'm back in therapy, and we've only had one session so far, but she's my favorite therapist from long ago, and I was able to return to her because now she takes my insurance. Even though our one session so far (the next one is next week) could only cover a tiny amount of ground, it set the wheels in motion for me to think about who am I, who I am not, who I long to be, and all of the patterns - good, bad, and neutral - in my life. This is a wonderful time for me to start therapy, because I'm not dealing with anything 'big' - my life is, for the most part, really good. I just want to make it better, move on to the next plane of my existence, fulfilling some of my potential that is yet untapped.

I do think it's working.

Recently (and the details really aren't important) someone at work crossed a boundary in their behavior to me. I calmly asked them to stop; they continued. I asked again, slightly more firmly. They were clearly offended that I asked for this (entirely reasonable) boundary, and stomped off, stuck in their own feelings. Usually, in this type of situation, I would have gone to that person to try to fix, solve, explain, and engage. Usually I would have carried the weight of it inside me, processing how I could have made it go better, whether or not I was in the wrong, how I could help them see my side.

But not this time, and not because of my relationship with this person, but because of my relationship with myself. This time, somehow I knew with certainty that I was "allowed" to have boundaries, that my boundaries are reasonable, and that "hurt people hurt people" and that this person's behavior was about them, not me. I shook my head and thought "what the actual ***!" but then I moved on. Not unsurprisingly, after a few weeks, this person contacted me, still not understanding that their behavior was inappropriate (because hurt people hurt people, I keep reminding myself), and wanted to engage further. Again, I set my boundaries - clearly stating that I did not appreciate being yelled at or talked over, and that I could not sign up on a project with them knowing that such behavior was likely to be repeated (this was not the first time I've had difficult interactions with this individual).

There's some discomfort - now they won't like me! Maybe they can't see it my way! Maybe they will say things about me to other coworkers! - but there is also... peace.

I know who I am, and I know that people don't always do or say what I wish they would - and that's okay. I also know that when someone crosses my boundaries, I am allowed to state my needs and hold the boundary.

Honestly, reading this, it seems like a giant, "duh!" and like the most obvious statement ever... but if it was so obvious, it wouldn't be so hard. I grew up in a family where boundaries were not encouraged or respected, and sometimes they were even mocked. I was taught to place my parents' (and brother's) needs before my own, and that if I didn't do so it was because I was selfish, or lazy, or stupid, or unloving. 

Case in point: sometime around the time I was ten, my mom was crossing boundaries (yelling at me, not respecting my clothing choices if they were different than hers, keeping me close to her and saying that if I loved her I wouldn't go with my friends, I'd want to be with her...) and I got mad and told her to stop, and that she was being unfair. Her response was to cry, and to say, "Well, since I'm such a terrible mother, I guess I'll just put you up for adoption so that you can get the family you deserve..." and her ploy worked. I was SO frightened that she would follow through, that I begged for her forgiveness and told her she was the best mom ever and that I'd do better.

I learned my lesson: setting boundaries leads to withdrawal of love and support. Is it any wonder I had difficulty setting boundaries after learning such lessons so young? The lesson was repeated over and over. I've been out of contact with my parents for several years (my father shouting "I'm ashamed to be your father! I'm ashamed you are my daughter!" in response to something political I put on Facebook was my final straw...!) but a couple summers ago my mom was sick with Covid and I feared she would die, so I called her. The call was horrible. She said she missed me, and I said "I would love to have a relationship with you. If you can agree to no name calling, yelling, or belittling, I can be in relationship with you..." and she said, huffily, "Oh? So you've got boundaries now?!" and basically ended the call.

So no, I haven't done the best with boundaries in all parts of my life. But - and this is the key part - what has happened in my past doesn't define me, and I CAN learn. I've set boundaries in a number of places in my life, and the more I do it, the easier it gets somehow.

So, telling this coworker that I had a boundary and that I was holding it, well, it was a big deal to me. And knowing that I can't control their reaction, and that they might be mad at me (oh how I have struggled to "let" people be mad at me!) is ground breaking. They might not like me, respect me, or understand me. They might be mad.

But I like me. I respect me. And I understand that I AM allowed to put reasonable boundaries in my life. And it's okay if someone's mad at me. People get mad. *I* get mad. And we all muddle through.

It feels pretty liberating to know that I can manage this, that I don't need to replay conversations in my head.

Although my experience is much less dramatic, it makes me think of how Kanye stole Taylor Swift's moment at the MTV awards - a very upsetting and public display - and how years later she wrote "and then it happened one beautiful night: I forgot that you existed!" Kanye is allowed to be mad, to be protective of Beyonce'. And Taylor was right to say, "But you don't get space in my life."

*I* get space in my life. And I get to say what works for me, and take the consequences of my decisions. This feels like brand new territory, because while I've set boundaries before (isn't divorce the biggest boundary, really?) I've also tossed and turned over the minutia of my decisions, longing to explain myself, trying to make everyone happy. And now:

I know what my boundaries are. I hold them. If they need adjusting I will adjust, but if they're working and I feel that they're reasonable, I won't adjust.

It's that simple, and that complicated.

53 years old and this old dog is definitely learning new tricks. I hope that I can help my beloved daughter to learn this if she hasn't already, because my life would have been significantly better if I'd figured this out approximately 50 years ago, and I want her life to exceed mine even as I reach for my own stars.

Celebrating this small/huge success! (By going to bed early. Walking pneumonia sucks. G'night!)