Happy 19th Birthday, Abby!

Oct 7, 2017 | Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

Your birthday. Nineteen. Somehow, it feels different this year.

As I was thinking about what to write today, I went back and looked at what I wrote 10 years ago – on your 9th birthday. Amazingly (or maybe not) it all remains true. Not that different after all.

…In the middle of the night on October 7, 1998, the doctor had to tell you to slow down; that we weren’t ready for you to make your appearance yet: so eager were you to burst into the world. That has not changed.

You continue to burst into my world (and that of many others) with eagerness and full of life. I love that about you.

What has changed? This past year has been one of much change for you and with it, your own testing of emotions, relationships, your very strength and resilience. You have grown as a friend – grieving over the hurt that others can cause, longing for fairness and justice, deeply wanting your intent and heart to be known and understood, standing loyally by those who might be overlooked or not chosen. I love that about you.

You have struggled with your own emotions – the things that hurt, that seem unfair, that don’t make sense. You have raged, wept, sat quietly, and thought things through, often without resolution, without available answers, without any fix. And still you have laughed, played, danced, sang, created, and loved. I love that about you.

Though not through teachers I would have desired, you have learned about disappointment, loss, and heartache. As much has changed in our family you have had the amazing ability to survive ambivalence – letting good and bad, confusion and resolution, celebration and mourning, joy and pain all be true simultaneously. It has been difficult. And it continues. And you wake up each morning (after a bit of prodding) ready to face a new day. I love that about you.

As I have walked through this past year’s days with you, Abby, I have been amazed at your tenacity, your demand for the good, your endless hope, your tender heart, your stamina, your strength, your loyalty, your sense of humor, …your laughter, your singing, your love. I love all these things about you…

In the middle of the night 9 years ago you burst into my life with a cry that left no one doubting your will to live, your unmistakable presence, your indelible, undeniable mark. That is even more true now than then. What is also more true now, is that I love you more deeply and more profoundly than I did then. You have that effect. I am entranced – just as I was the moment I held you for the very frst time. I love you.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

Yes, Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

I’m stunned, humbled, and overjoyed (always and infinitely) by the plumb-line that is you – through and through. Oh, how much stronger and clearer that has become in the 10 years since I wrote those words – and in powerful, palpable ways in just the
past few weeks since you flew the nest; certainly, without a doubt, in the days, weeks, months and years to come.

YOU are the gift to me – always have been, always will be.

I love you, Abby.

My Empty Nest

Sep 20, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

I can hardly believe the title of this post, the truth and heft of just three small words, the fact that they actually apply to me in just a few more hours.

My youngest, Abby Evangeline, leaves for college today.

In just a few more hours we will pack up my car and her dad’s truck. She’ll ride with me as we caravan north to Seattle
and arrive at her dorm at least 15 minutes before her assigned move-in time. “I want to be early, mom.”

I will help her carry pillows and rugs and a duvet cover and matching sheets and an adorable ottoman that doubles for storage and a mini-fridge and an over-the-door mirror and boxes and boxes of toiletries/supplies and boxes and boxes of clothes and even more.

I will carry my heart – tenderly, gingery, gently – because I know the smallest stumble, the tiniest tumble, will cause it to break. And I will shelter hers – because I still can – for just a few more hours.

She’s ready. It’s time. She knows it – despite her understandable and allowed fears, uncertainty, and edge-of-sadness.

I’m ready, too. It’s time.

But still…

How can one ever really be ready for this?

What guidebook or manual exists to walk me through even these next few hours – not to mention days, weeks, months, and years?

There is no such thing. Instead, I will listen to my barely-beating heart as it catches at her smallest sigh. I will trust my shaking hands to wipe away both of our tears. I will watch my now slightly-more frail body get back in the car and drive “home” to the nest that awaits.

Leaves. Sticks. Twigs. Feathers. Bits of string. And empty; both birds now flown.

I will circle, circle, circle…not ready to land.

Abby has no guidebook or manual either, but her heart beats strong and fierce even as she tentatively steps, tentatively leans forward, tentatively lets go…and flies. As she must. As she can.

Of this I am certain: she will land.

But me? How? And where, exactly? Must I? Can I? Will I? I’m less certain.

 

*****

 

The lines from one of my favorite children’s books, read more times than I can count, circles, circles, circles in my mind:

She was almost too sleepy to think any more. Then she looked beyond the thorn bushes, out into the big dark night. Nothing could be further than the sky.

“I love you right up to the MOON,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Oh, that’s far,” said Big Nutbrown Hare. “That is very, very far.”

Big Nutbrown Hare settled Little Nutbrown Hare into her bed of leaves. She leaned over and kissed her good night. Then she lay down close by and whispered with a smile, “I love you right up to the moon – AND BACK.” (All pronouns admittedly changed…)

She feels almost that far away already…the moon…and we haven’t yet left this bed of leaves. Just a few more hours…

 

*****

 

I expect to dream of flying tonight.

Of this I am certain: it’s a long way to the moon and back.

And it is there that I will go, for now. Until I am ready to return. Until I can land-and-stay in this empty nest. Until my heart is yet-again steadied by the joy, elation, and in finite-and- endless gratitude I feel for all she’s been, all she is, all she’s yet to be.

Of this I am certain: in just a few more hours I won’t be able to lean over and kiss her goodnight.

Instead, I will hope that she looks up, sees the moon from her brand new (and far-from-empty) nest, catches a glimpse of me as I circle, circle, circle, and hears me whisper with a smile, “I love you, sweet girl. Always. Now soar!”

My Inner Critic = The Patriarchy

Sep 5, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

I was recently organizing files on my computer (something I do when I intend to write, but instead find busy work…) and came across a piece I wrote just over a year ago. Why I didn’t post it then, why I didn’t work with it more, I do not know…Well, I have a hunch, but I’ll get to that at the end. First, the writing I found…

 

*****

 

Perhaps this isn’t news to you, but I just realized this morning that the voice of the inner critic inside of me is the patriarchy; even more specifically, the patriarchal god.

This actually came as a shock to me – one I am still sitting with and trying to make sense of. But the second I wrote the words (which I will share in a moment), I knew this was true. And now that I know this is true, I have a clarity and certainty about some other things that I didn’t before (which I’ll also share in a moment).

First, how I got to this realization:

As is my normal routine, I journal in the morning. I set the alarm and, with the best of intentions, try my hardest to not look at the emails that have accumulated overnight on my phone. I go to the kitchen, fill the teakettle with water, get coffee measured into my French press, and then open up my 3-ring binder and take out two sheets of college-ruled paper. I take the cap off my very favorite pen and write the date in neat script on the top line.

By then the water is hot enough to pour into the press. I wait the four interminable minutes it takes for the coffee to steep, gratefully pour it into my waiting mug, then return to my chair, my notebook, the paper, my pen.

This morning I was recounting details of my previous day, reflecting on what was ahead in the hours to come, scribing a litany of words and questions and feelings. Nothing monumental. Nothing transformational. Just the practice of pen on paper, page after page, day after day.

In the midst of these musings, I began to write about my writing – this writing – this practice of pen on paper, page after page, day after day. As often happens, I dropped down a level – from information to reflection – and then, not surprisingly, to critique.

Why am I writing any of this? What is the point? What is its value?

And only because I have gotten just slightly wiser to its ways over the years, I began to write out exactly what my inner critic had to say:

What a ridiculous waste of time! How arrogant of you to think that your writing has the capacity to impact anyone. Are you kidding? Just because you’ve filled pages and pages over the years, doesn’t make you some kind of expert. And clearly, it’s not made any difference in your life. After all, you’re still listening to me, aren’t you? Why you don’t finally and once-and-for-all give up fighting me and trying to hear any other voice than mine? You know I’m going to endure, defeat, and conquer. I mean, really! What other voice has this much staying power, this much resolve, this much potency, this much influence? I am undefeatable! I am impossible to silence. I am all-powerful. I am God!

What? What? Wait! Go back. What did I just write?

A smile spread over my face and I immediately knew two things: 1) my daily writing practice which often, admittedly, seems trivial at times, actually matters – made obvious through three small words that are now out in the open and exposed; and 2) that “God” comment needs a LOT more attention!

My writing continued:

There. That’s the bottom line. The critic within me is God. Which is crazy – and not. This IS the God I’ve learned of, at least in part: the God I must fear, the God that keeps me in my place and silent, the God of the patriarchy.

More wheels turn as I speedily scribe and watch myself write these words:

Could it be that the inner critic IS the patriarchy, is the patriarchal God?

So, there you have it. That’s how I got to this realization and awareness. Now, as promised, the clarity and certainty about some other things.

I have understood the voice of the inner critic to come from, well, the inner-me. I have seen it as the collective voice of all those spoken to me throughout the years – negative messages I’ve heard, taken in, and believed. But even more, I have convinced myself that its volume and tenacity is because I have fed and fueled those messages, because I have not had the will or fortitude to disavow them. I have seen the inner critic itself as something inherently within me, as part of me.

And because of such, it is something to be exorcised out of me, something aberrant or wrong about me, something I must be blamed for and ultimately responsible for. The inner critic is clearly and resolutely my character flaw.

The problems with this are so prolific, I don’t even know where to start. Stories flood my mind – each one sticky with shame. And, truth-be-told, shame that has been self-inflicted: I should have done better. I should have tried harder. I should have stopped sooner. I should have said yes. I should have said no. I should have known.

Let me intentionally stop this tirade and go back to my earlier revelation: the inner critic is the patriarchy and even more specifically, the patriarchal god.

This is a big deal. A huge deal. A game-changer.

It’s like the great eye in Lord of the Rings (my VERY favorite movie, by the way). It turns, the focus shifts, and I recognize that the force that has controlled me for far too long and for which I have blamed myself, is something that is not me, something I could have no more stopped or controlled than been able to fly. And this not-of-me external force has allowed my shame because in so doing it has remained undiscovered, off the hook, and fancy free to wreak as much havoc as it likes.

As long as the patriarchy can keep me thinking that I am the one to blame, it has accomplished its greatest feat and highest aspiration.

And oh, how successful it has been.

I write some more.

Now you have revealed your cards. Now I know what I’m dealing with here. And now I know exactly what is needed to soother the beast, to tame this savage, to calm my very soul.

I need the God who speaks just the opposite, who reminds me who I am, who blesses and honors, who loves. I need the God of the women I know and the stories I tell. I need the God who speaks wisdom and grace. I need the God who is mother. I need the God who is feminine. I need the God who is far more fierce and powerful and all-consuming than the little god who isn’t one at all, but has somehow become confused.

And this God, though not often enough named as such, is alive and well and waiting within.

She rises still – and strong. She will yet roar.

Me too.

*****

Do you have a hunch as to why I didn’t post this piece until now, until just happening to stumble across it almost a year later?

Well, there’s this: the patriarchy (and/or the inner critic, and/or the Imposter Complex, call it what you will) is still alive and well – within me. The subconscious messaging that tells me to keep such things to myself, to only say what’s acceptable, to not expose it…ever.

Well, until now.

Maybe you, too?

Charlottesville

Aug 17, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

I feel a heavy, collective shame.

I feel stuck, trapped even, between not knowing what to say or what to do and simultaneously knowing that I can’t not speak, can’t not act. My privilege feels visceral – like a creeping flu that I know is in my system and will, undoubtedly, make itself manifest; already has. I can do all the right things: get extra sleep, down the Vitamin C, but it’s inevitable: I won’t be able to hold it off forever. Likewise, I can do all the right things: speak out, go to vigils, write my congress-people, sign petitions, give money, write strong and opinion-full blog posts, but it’s inevitable: I can hold it off forever. I can stay in my house and appreciate its comfort and feel safe and be grateful for healthcare and a steady paycheck and my freshly-mowed lawn and both my own and my daughters’ education, and change nothing.

Maybe it’s something to say so. Maybe it’s something to see and notice and name. Maybe it matters to acknowledge the shame, the stuck-ness, the viral-privilege that inhabits my cells whether I want it to, or not. Maybe it matters: my writing, my voice, my words, my persistence, my presence, my heart.

I don’t know.

But I do care – and deeply.

Even though it doesn’t feel like enough.

Because it isn’t enough. It just isn’t. And I’m so, so sorry.

About Being Ubiquitous

Aug 7, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

This post could be entitled About Being God Without Realizing Such.

I came across this word while reading a novel a week or so ago and texted myself this note: Look up ubiquitous. (I do this sometimes, no, lots of times: type myself texts so that I don’t forget…because I will.) Later, I did look it up. (Voila! the value of the note!)

u·biq·ui·tous | y͞ooˈbikwədəs
adjective
existing or being everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered

The thought occurred to me that this IS what we are – ubiquitous, or at least, what we are attempting. OK, not you, just me.

This is what I’m attempting – as a woman, an entrepreneur, a writer, a mom, a friend. And more than just attempting, it seems required! Facebook. Twitter (which I finally abandoned). Instagram. Pinterest. Medium. LinkedIn.

And the evidence of my ubiquitousness? After typing out each word in the previous sentence, I then spent the time to find-and-enter hyperlinks for each so that you can see that I’m everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : ubiquitous. Blech.

The next thought that occurred to me was the idea of God as omnipresent. This is a theological term that even without theological training, you can probably parse out for yourself. But here, I’m happy to help:

om·ni·pres·ent | ämnəˈpreznt/
adjective
widely or constantly encountered; common or widespread

Sound familiar? Like anything else you’ve recently heard? Here’s a big surprise: a synonym for omnipresent is…wait for it…ubiquitous.

So, let me reverse engineer things: we then, in our efforts to be ubiquitous, are attempting to be like God.

OK, not “we,” just me.

As a woman who is an entrepreneur who is trying to run a business and build a platform and write and be a mom and be a friend and simultaneously be everywhere at the same.

It’s no wonder I’m sometimes, lots of times, weary. (Maybe you, too?)

It seems a bit problematic, don’t you think? I don’t need (at least here and now) to have a conversation about God – as omnipresent or not, ubiquitous or not, even existing, or not! I’m merely stating that an attribute we once wholly and nearly-unanimously applied to THE Deity, is now what we all aspire to be.

Even as I type words which might sound provocative, they really aren’t. This is what all of humanity has been doing from the beginning of time – creating gods in our own image. How could we not, really? This IS human nature. And if I wax even a bit more philosophical, there IS no God other than the one we’ve created – in our own image. How could there be? We’re the ones who have described and made sense of (so we often think) every form/version of the Divine that has ever existed! (I’m not saying…yet again…that God doesn’t exist. I’m just naming that WE are the ones who have created, constructed, described, and written/preached/demanded any and every comprehension of any god that has ever existed or ever will. There’s no Plan B on this one.)

OK. Enough of my random thoughts and texts-to-self and dictionary de nitions and theological/philosophical musings.  Here’s my point:

I don’t want to be ubiquitous, or omnipresent, or like God; I don’t want to be God at all!

Though I said otherwise, maybe I am having a conversation about God. For all my ambivalence, ever-shifting opinions, and intentionally unlearned doctrine-of-a-lifetime, here’s what I can tell you: any God I would believe in or espouse would be everything I’m not; a God who is not in my image – at all; a God who
is ubiquitous so that I don’t have to be!

So what’s a girl to do? (Yes, just me; not you.)

One “answer” is to believe and *just* have faith that this God does exist. Because if I did, if I would, if I could, then I would no longer have to work so hard and be everywhere at the same time, right? It wouldn’t be my job, but God’s. Right.

And…this is where the idea of faith gets a bit dicey, yes? What if God (no matter how understood or comprehended, or not) doesn’t have everything in hand? What if God doesn’t care about my business, my platform, my bank account the same way that I do? I can’t actually trust, can’t actually let go, because what if…God forbid…things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to? I must stay in control. I must navigate and engineer my every reality. And yes, I must be everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : ubiquitous, because who knows what might happen if I stopped?!?

Wait.

That’s a good question.

What might really-truly-actually happen if I stopped?

I’d rest. I’d stop worrying. I’d stop feeling like there’s always more to do, that I haven’t done enough, that if only I work harder, then… I’d be able to sit still. I’d not need my phone umbilically connected to me at all times. I’d trust that all will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well. And then I’d breathe. A lot. I’d step away from my computer. I’d need no Tylenol for the pain across my upper back and shoulders. I’d enjoy where I am and who I am and who I am with and all that I love.

Oh…that.

I looked up one more thing in the midst of all of this pondering: the antonyms to ubiquitous and omnipresent. Want to know what they are?

rare
scarce
limited

In other words, fully human, fully unique, fully present, fully me.

I don’t say any of this to declare my abstinence from social media or any and all of the activities in which I’m engaged to keep my business (and life) going. Nor do I assume anyone else should do the same. But I am going to think about why I ever thought that I could be (or want to be) everywhere at the same time: constantly encountered, ubiquitous. I am going to wonder a bit more about why I ever thought that I could be God (without actually realizing that this was what I was doing). And I am going to think much more about what it means to be rare, scare, and limited – because I am. Which, now that I say it, sounds WAY better than ubiquitous anyway!

My Heart (Monitor)

Aug 1, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

I am hooked up to a heart monitor right now. It’s mobile – just four electrodes connected to various and particular locations on my chest with wires that connect to a small timer-like thing that’s currently in my pocket – even as I sit here and type.

Other than the fact that I definitely know it is there, I barely know it is there.

I’m hooked-up because my heartbeat is erratic. The doctor asks me what I’m feeling. He listens with his stethoscope. He has me take deep breaths, “in and out, please.” He explains what a normal heart does and what mine is doing – which may or may not be normal. He tells me that he’d also like to do an ultrasound – just so he can see the heart itself and make sure there is nothing damaged or structurally problematic. Then he talks to me about a couple of possibilities: 1) This is happening for no apparent reason and may just go away; “it happens more than you’d think,” he says. 2) My heart is getting older and sometimes, for some people, needs help – more help, like not just a 24-hour monitor help. I’m opting for and planning on #1.

It’s somewhat paradoxical: the way in which stress impacts the heart. And yet here I am, stressed because I’m worrying about my heart. I’m trying not to, of course; trying to trust that my heart is simply making itself known to me in a very particular way, wanting me to be mindful. And once assured that I have given it due attention, it will go back to beating steady and strong, steady and strong, steady and strong.

May it be so.

*******

Today is August 1.

Emma leaves in early September for her 3rd (and possibly final) year at Western Washington University and Abby leaves three weeks later for Seattle Pacific University for her 1st year away. My heart(s) – leaving; the two hearts to whom I have given my heart – leaving; the two hearts who have filled my heart and enabled its strength – leaving.

I’m hard-pressed to not believe these two realities are interconnected. Could my physical heart be feeling this tug, this pull? Could my physical heart be beating out-of-sync as it tries to incorporate this lifealtering transition, tries to find equilibrium and balance, tries to determine its rhythm in the absence of my two girls? Could my physical heart already ache? Could my physical heart feel grief that my mind does not yet know?

My mind says, “It’s all going to be OK. You’ve been preparing for this season, this time, these goodbyes. Your girls are ready. You are ready. All will be well.”

My mind is wise, to be sure; but it doesn’t know everything. (I have to keep this in mind…and in heart.)

There is nothing I need to do about any of this.

Indeed, even the medical establishment confirms this unwittingly when they inform me the first follow-up appointment available isn’t until early October. “If we see anything serious in the monitoring, we’ll bring you in sooner; otherwise, that’s the best we can do.” Little comfort. And bizarre. The significance of the timing is not lost on me: when I return to the doctor, the girls will officially be “gone.”

There is nothing I need to say about any of this.

No pronouncement. No vows. No promises. No “if I only had 1 year to live” plans. No. Just awareness. Just presence. Just this.

Beat-beat——————–beat——-beat——-beat. The two quick beats, followed by the long space-and-pause are what keep calling me back to my heart – the discomfort, the impossible-to-ignore “flip” within.

My two girls, quickly gone, followed by the long space of just me – it keeps calling me back to my heart’s ache and its strength, its impossible-to-deny will and stamina and love. It will keep beating. I will keep living. Just differently – with a bit of arrhythmia – at least for a time as I adjust to this out-of-sync, not quite correct, and not quite steady way of being that waits for me.

*******

When I was pregnant, two hearts beat within me. I cared more about my daughter’s than mine. Hers was all I wanted to hear, all I wanted to see on the ultrasound, all I wanted to watch when hooked up to countless monitors during labor. Keep beating, little heart. Keep living, little girl. Come into my arms. Come home.

And now you are leaving. Both of you.

Three hearts have beat within me. Not always in sync, by any means. Hardly steady all the time. But all here. All beating. All together. Now, in just weeks, one heart remains and now, strangely, beats alone. Mine. Erratic. Unsteady. Imbalanced.

It’s no wonder I’m hooked to this monitor.