3 ways to be fear-defying in writing and life

Nov 12, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

When I look back over 17 years of blogging, here’s what stands out to me:

My voice has fluctuated, depending on the level of fear I’ve felt at any given time.

I’ll admit: “fear” sounds too strong, somehow, but when I boil it down, that IS what’s left.

What I wrote about when I was still married and still part of the church, is far different than what I said once outside both those structures (and strictures). I can see and remember how afraid I was to express my doubts, my questions, my grief, and the many places in which I was feeling more anger than hope. I was afraid I’d be misunderstood, that I’d go too far, that I’d be too much.

What I wrote about in my 40’s and 50’s was different than what I write today — now in my 60’s. And though I could go into all of the details and themes inherent here, suffice it to say, I was afraid I’d be misunderstood, that I’d go too far, that I’d be too much.

This looking back has “forced” me to track the circumstances and seasons in which I held back, hid even, because of fear — all of which was expressed (or not) in my writing. And as I’m inventorying every bit of this, I’m not only getting clearer about fear’s presence, but angrier. Not at myself, but at fear itself.

As women on this planet, we have been conditioned to be afraid, to be far more concerned with how others perceive and experience us, than to hold fast to (even fight on behalf of) who we know-that-we-know-that-we-know ourselves to be.

That needs to change.

In If Women Rose Rooted, Sharon Blackie says:

To become [one] who can express her wrath rather than her rage, and warn of the dire consequences of ignoring it, is to have stepped fully into your own power as a woman.

And in Untamed, Glennon Doyle says that women need to be “full of themselves.”

What we need right now is more women who have detoxed themselves so completely from the world’s expectations that they are full of nothing but themselves. What we need are women who are full of themselves.

A few chapters later she says this:

What the world needs is masses of women who are entirely out of control.

We must, you and me both, consider who we’d be and how we’d be, if fear weren’t present. Yes, in writing. In relationships. In our choices. In our work.

We must, you and me both, be crystal clear on (and done with) everything that has perpetuated its presence.

We must, you and me both, begin and continue to name our wrath over our rage.

We must, you and me both, step fully into our power as women. No more holding back. No more hiding. No more fear. Done.

*****

Here are three provocative questions to consider that serve as a helpful start and then some in this fear-defying, world-changing work:

  1. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you expressed your rage (at fear and all that perpetuates) it instead of ignoring it?
  2. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you didn’t pay any attention at all to anyone’s expectations of you?
  3. Who would you be right now (and what would you write) if you were entirely out of control (at least as far as the world is concerned)?

I won’t speak for you (though I’m guessing you feel the same): The answers to these three questions define how and what I want to write; more, how I want to live and who I want to be: unbound by fear, unmoved by others’ expectations, and completely unrestrained (even out of control).

May it be so.

How Courage is like Ballroom Dancing

Oct 29, 2021 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

My favorite movie of all time is Strictly Ballroom. It’s an Australian film from 1992. Quirky. Hilarious. Endearing. (For film buffs: it’s the first in the Red Curtain Trilogy from Baz Luhrmann that includes the Leonardo DiCaprio version of Romeo and Juliet and Moulin Rouge with Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor.)

The first time I watched it was in 2001 while I was in grad school. Someone had recommended it as metaphor for something. I’ve long-forgotten what it was. What I’ve not ever forogotten though, is the experience of watching the credits roll at the end, hitting “back” on the remote, and watching it all over again. I could not tear myself away.

Since then, I’ve probably watched it another 15–20 times. (Just ask my daughters…) It touches something deep within me — something that feels familiar and hungry and true.

Though it could be some latent desire to learn ballroom dancing, I’m pretty sure it’s courage.

I won’t spoil the story for you (in case you are now in complete suspense as to how I could possibly like a film enough to watch it this many times), but I will given you my primary takeaway:

There are times in which I must be willing to break all the rules and believe that winning is not what matters — only dancing my own steps; I have no other choice, really, than to trust my heart…and leap.

Or in this case, paso doble.

Whether on the ballroom floor or, more likely, in the warp and woof of our everyday life, we encounter profound risk. The choice is ours as to whether it will overwhelm us or whisk us straight onto the dance floor.

Risk is actually the evidence that courage is not only called for, but (already and always) ours.

Need a bit more on this?

  • What if, instead of feeling overwhelmed by the risks you’re so quickly calculating in your brain, you saw them as data and proof for the significance and import of your voice, your honesty, your action?
  • What if the presence of risk (and your understandable fear) is what clarifies exactly what you need to do?
  • What if you don’t need to deliberate more, list out the pros and cons yet again, or cross your fingers one more time in the hopes that everything will just resolve itself?
  • What if the things that feel scary and daunting and cause your heart to race are evidence that courage is within reach and within you; that you are ready?

I know. I know. I know.

It’s not quite that simple. In fact, it’s downright complicated most of the time. Which is yet another reason why I love Strictly Ballroom: in just under two hours I can feel into all the fear, all the risks AND all the triumph of courage trusted and displayed.

It’s  because it’s hard, because it’s risky, that courage is needed at all.

And so we lean into and rely on some inner source of gumption; we step, speak, stand, leave, declare, name, intervene, stop, go, and yes, dance.

Believe me, I’m not trying to diminish or negate just how significant the risks and costs can be when you choose yourself, when you demonstrate courage, when you are fully sovereign. I get it. I have more stories to tell than times I’ve watched this movie where I’ve NOT trusted the courage that is mine, I’ve chosen others over myself, and I’ve chosen “safety” over self-trust.

This is what makes me think that perhaps courage is a lot like ballroom dancing.

Yes, courage requires (and is emboldened by) the small, incremental steps that I wrote about last week. But it’s also what’s required in the big moments, the huge decisions, the life-changing next steps, the things you’ve know are yours to do but that you’ve been holding back…

Listen to your heart.
Listen to and trust your wisdom.
Remember that agency is yours.
And then step onto that dance floor — even when the music stops and all hell breaks loose and it seems like it’s over (even though it’s not).

You and your courage are beautiful and glorious. We are riveted by you. Because this IS you — in all your glory.

Dance…please?

About Courage & American Ninja Warrior

Oct 22, 2021 | Mothers and Daughters, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power

I do not know how to explain why I love American Ninja Warrior.

My youngest daughter and I started watching it a few years back. We sat on the couch, side-by-side, mouths agape at what these individuals were able to do. Willing to do! She would laugh at me as my body would move in rhythm to theirs — whether they were swinging on some kind of contraption or trying to jump up to catch a ring, or trying to make it up the 14-foot warped wall — as though I could somehow will them success by fully participating in the comfort of my own home. The two of us would ooh and aah and cheer as they did amazing things, took spectacular falls, and always, always triumphed — no matter what. And we both cried through all the stories about the athletes, their families, hardships, tragedies, and miracles.

So why does this impact me so? Why do I cry? What is that about? It’s American Ninja Warrior!! I’m sure there are lots of reasons for my reactions and responses. But bottom line…It is a privilege to witness the inherent beauty of courage. I cannot help but be moved.

The beauty seen in their stories, their physical capacity, their falls, and their triumphs only comes because of the most incremental of efforts they’ve extended over a very long time. What we witness is the accumulation of small, almost imperceptible courageous acts.

We often think that courage has to be big and dramatic, bold and audacious, crowds cheering, loved ones weeping with joy, “victory,” of some sort. And though that may be true, I have a different idea.

Courage is small and incremental, slow and steady (sometimes fits and starts); the tiniest of choices made, actions taken, words spoken, behaviors altered, and/or lives changed.

This perspective matters.

As long as we see courage as big and dramatic, bold and audacious, we are often stopped before we start.

Instead, what about this:

  • Courage is extending yourself some compassion, practicing self-kindness, and allowing yourself grace.
  • Courage is only one sentence, once a day, spoken in truth. (Yes, just one!)
  • Courage is voicing your opinion just once this week at work. (Yes, just once!)
  • Courage is taking the time to list out the specific steps related to the big leap (Yes, just the list!)
  • Courage is reading a book for even 30 minutes before turning on Netflix. It’s also watching Netflix without guilt or shame because you know that rest matters.
  • Courage is letting yourself honestly name your emotions to yourself. (I am furious. I am devastated. I am afraid. I am in grief. I am lost. I am stuck. I desire. I am actually happy.)
  • Courage is taking the time to write down what you would do if you felt even more courageous.

Cleary, I can go on (and on and on). But far more important than my words and thoughts — are yours. What are the smallest and most compassionate and kindest and most grace-filled acts of courage for you? (Start a list, add to this one, give yourself permission to consider courage as small; but no less significant, powerful, or transformative.)

This quote from Mary Anne Radmacher bears repeating:

Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying “I will try again tomorrow.”

Exactly!

Does it feel costly to be yourself?

Oct 15, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Let’s be honest: it does feel costly to be ourselves. Maybe not all of the time, but certainly in some relationships, some conversations, some contexts?

Believe me: I completely get it! Here’s a peek inside the (sometimes) craziness of my brain:

  • I know I need to _______.
  • But if I do, then _______ is going to get mad (or hurt or offended or silent) which will then lead to an argument which will then lead to them shutting down (or blowing up or walking away or being passive aggressive) which will then lead to me having to mend fences or else deal with the fallout.
  • The fallout will be awful. _______ will happen and then _______ will happen and if that’s not enough, then _______ will most definitely happen!
  • Once those things occur, that will mean that I have to _______ which will then impact _______ and ________, and _______!
  • It’s too much. It’s too risky. I can’t handle all of this!
  • Better to NOT be fully myself.
  • Whew! ‘Glad I thought that through!

My brain aside, I’m guessing yours processes somewhat similarly, especially when you are on the verge of stepping more fully into who you are, telling your truth, choosing alignment and authenticity; defying compromise or compliance or playing small or holding back or hiding or putting others’ emotions above your own or, or, or…

Here’s what is true: 

More times than not, the choices we make to be fully ourselves come with a whole freight train of risk, cost, and consequence.

It’s no wonder we are a bit tentative!

So, what is a wise, brilliant, amazing, and strong woman (you!!!) to do?

I wish I had an easy answer. There isn’t one. (Parenthetically, let me say that you should be highly suspect of anyone who does!) But here are 4 uneasy answers that are worth considering:

  1. Don’t ignore or downplay the risks, the costs, and the consequences. And please don’t try to *just* have the “right” mindset and overcome (or repress) them.
  2. Give yourself permission to name all that you’re afraid of. Listen to the inner chatter, the imposter, Resistance itself. Unedited. Unrestrained.
  3. Listen to the wisdom within, to your wisdom. Even the fears themselves offer profound insight that is deep and true and trustworthy. You are wise.
  4. Let the wisdom that is yours — including the awareness of risks, the inner chatter, and the stunningly powerful insights — help you remember just how strong and amazing you are.

It feels costly to be fully yourself because it is!

Naming this is what reveals just how valuable and important you-being-you actually is.

(And, in case you were wondering, you’re worth any cost and every price!)

May it be so.

Acknowledging the Choices that are Ours

Oct 8, 2021 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I received a frantic call from one of my daughters a month or so ago. She was in a desperate state, I was scrambling to figure out what to do (while simultaneously holding fast-ish to the awareness that I need to let her figure these things out). I noticed, somewhere in the middle of that teary call, that she felt unable to make a choice – like she had none; she was almost-completely immobilized. What I also noticed, shortly after getting off of the call, is that I went to the opposite extreme — moving into hyper-drive, fix-it mode, making quick decisions, creating lists, finding more options, eliminating every aspect of  the “unknown” I possibly could.

One outworking of choice is not taking action. Another is being frenetically active (like me).

My point is NOT to determine which is better, which is more sane, which feels wiser or stronger or right. Not at all!

Having agency means admitting — sometimes under a bit of duress — that we DO have choice, that we are not hapless or helpless, that we have the right and ability to make decisions about how we will proceed, what we will do or not do, what we feel, how we will express our emotions, and so much more.

it also means admitting that our choices can (and probably will) mean risk and cost and consequence.

To only look at one side of this equation without the other isn’t helpful. We must hold the complexity of both:

  • I DO have choice. I CAN demonstrate agency.
  • I don’t want to make this choice because…

I know: far easier said than done.

For my daughter: acknowledging that she DOES have choices and can/must make them means that she also has to look at the risks, costs, and consequences of not having made them previously and how she is limited and bound by what’s available to her now, in this moment.

For me, acknowledging that I DO have the choice to step in and help her AND that perhaps the best help is NOT helping means that I have to look at my own patterns, her expectations, and the possibility of disappointment and misunderstanding.

None of this is easy. All of it matters.

Seeing, acknowledging, naming, and honoring all of this feels like growth. it also feels like grace. Tough grace. Gritty grace. But grace, nonetheless.

Worth choosing every time.

*****

[I want to acknowledge that there are definitely contexts in which agency is not available — when true victimhood exists: domestic violence, sexual violence, any number of situations. I am in no way claiming that even in such places we have the power to choose. These are FAR more complex and deserve FAR more wisdom and compassion grace and care.]

 
 

See yourself as a miracle

Oct 1, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

When I was 8 or 9, my newborn sister went into the hospital. I don’t remember the details. I don’t remember ever visiting her there. I don’t even remember what was diagnosed. What I do remember is seeing my mother cry for the first time. She and my father stood in a corner of the living room — her shoulders hunched over as she shed close-to silent tears; his arms around her — trying to console. And I vaguely remember one of them telling me that Lorri was sick.

I can imagine they would have done anything remotely possible to have her back. I can imagine that their desperation would have driven them to cling to the smallest of options. And I am certain that they prayed — asking for her healing, longing for a miracle.

There’s an ancient story told of a father and his daughter. She was only 12 years old and dying. Desperate, the father went in search of a healer he’d heard rumor of, then begged him to come back to his home and heal his girl. As they set out together, messengers arrived saying, “Don’t bother the teacher any longer; she has already died.” The healer paid no attention, saying, “Don’t be afraid, only believe.”

When they arrived at the man’s home, there was nothing but confusion and wailing. Again the healer spoke: “The child is not dead — she is only sleeping.” When people started making fun of him, jeering at what he’d said, he sent them all away and went into her room — along with three of his disciples and her mother and father. He took her by the hand and said, ““Little girl, get up!” She got up at once and started walking around.

I imagine her skipping out of her room and into the crowd of people, all smiles, oblivious to both their shock and overwhelming joy. She probably asked for a snack and then wanted to go play with her friends. Just like that — all was as it should be.

She was a living, breathing miracle. From the age of 12 and for the rest of her life, this would have been her identity — the way in which she was known by others, the way in which her parents would have seen her, what would have been whispered about her as she walked down the street, grew, lived her life. In some ways, we might guess this was a burden to bear: others expect too much of you; an average life will not suffice.

What if she had a different perspective? What if being a miracle was what opened her up to a life of possibility and joy and expanse? And what if that’s exactly what she offers you today?

*****

Yes, you.

Imagine it. Dream big. Dig deep. Ask yourself: If I believed I was a miracle, I would…

Every answer that shows up is your wisdom speaking; your desire, your heart, your longing, your truth. And you can trust it. Because you are a miracle. Now…to believeing it and being it!

May it be so.