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What Blinds Us?

Aug 26, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

Sometimes we have it in our heads that we are limited, that there are certain things we just can’t (or wouldn’t) do, that we need help. It’s not that these things aren’t true, but I’m aware – in a new way today – how often I’ve talked myself into levels of belief about my own capacity (or lack thereof) that just aren’t true.

In reality, I walk around blind to what is true about me – and keep others blind to who I truly am.

OK…maybe I’m pushing the metaphor a bit, but today I did something I’ve never done before: I hung mini blinds. I’m on a rampage to get rid of all those white 1-inch metal things and replace them with anything else. I decided to head to Lowe’s and see if there were pre-cut, semi-decent
oak blinds that I could install myself in my kitchen. Well, the oak cost a lot more money than I wanted to spend and so I settled for some woven bamboo that’s fabulous!

I came back home and dove into figuring out how to get the old blinds down. That done in relatively short order, I headed into the re-install process with a confidence that could not be daunted. A couple of crooked screws and one screw head actually broken off were the only fatalities.

I now have two new blinds hung – on the kitchen door and on the large window. They are a perfect match for the oak floors and cabinetry, and best of all: I did it myself!

It’s a small thing, I know, but it speaks loud to me: I don’t need to be blinded by what I think I cannot do. I need to open up the blinds (or hang them) and see myself for who I truly am.

‘Any home-improvement projects you need me to take on?

“It is finished.” (My divorce is final.)

Aug 23, 2007 | Sovereignty, Women's Wisdom

Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending. (Lazarus Long)

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. (T.S. Eliot)

“It is finished.”

Yesterday I spoke these words. The final, court-approved, attorney-certified documentation arrived. I am no longer married.

It’s an end, to be sure. The end of meaningful, something beautiful, something painful, something
rich, something deeply significant.

All endings bring a sense of grief (even when you’re the one who has chosen such). There is a finality that is weighty and cannot be escaped.

Endings also signify new beginnings. That reality feels weightless; one that is unbounded, unrestrained, unknown, and unfettered. And I find myself, at least today, more compelled (and comforted) by others’ words instead of my own…

You’re searching…for things that don’t exist; I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings – there are no such things. There are only middles. (Robert Frost)

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, about having to change, about taking the moment and making the best of it – and all without knowing what’s going to happen next.

Delicious Ambiguity.
(Gilda Radner)

My life – yesterday and today – feels like a book. Yesterday I ended one chapter, even somewhat tragically. Today, I am anticipating what is yet to come, I turn the page and find the next one blank. A clean slate. White as snow. Anxious and excited for the pen to hit the page and create a new text, new plots, new characters, new experiences. What will this story yet tell?

The secret to a rich life is to have more beginnings than endings.(David Weinbaum)

There is a woman at the beginning of all great things. (Alphonse de Lamartine)

Every day is a fresh beginning, Every morn is the world made new. (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

“It is finished.” And…it is just beginning.

May it be so. 

On Money & Power

Aug 20, 2007 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

I’ve been thinking much these past days about money – how short it is, how fast it goes, how I’m always wishing for more.

I’ve also been bumping up against issues of power – its assumptions, its privilege, its exclusion.

Then today I came across this quote by George MacDonald:

To have what we want is riches, but to be able to do without is power.

How’s that for messing with the categories? It certainly messes with me. I often confuse the two – and I doubt I’m alone. More often it seems that those with riches are those with power. The converse is also often true – or at least it seems so: the less money, the less power.

I’m wondering today what it would be like to redefine both of these words; certainly for myself, but in other contexts and on behalf of others, as well.

  • What if wealth was not something to be attained, but something willingly done without?
  • What if wealth was something I chose to not worry about so much? OK: obsess about.
  • What if my letting go of this category of meaning or significance for my life was actually what ushered me into more wealth, albeit of a different kind, and power – also of a different kind?
  • What if power was not something grabbed; something that just goes with the territory of wealth, influence, gender, privilege?
  • What if power was something I intentionally chose (and experienced) by seeing wealth in a different way?
  • What if power was more available the less I desired such (perhaps even money, as well)?

There’s a story in the New Testament Scriptures that tells of the Widow’s Mite.

While seeing contributions/offerings made by rich men, Jesus highlights how a poor widow donates only two mites, the least valuable coins available at the time. She gave everything (if not more) than she had while others, those with power and money, gave only a small portion of their wealth.

Who was esteemed? Who had the most “power?” Who had the most riches? She did. A woman. A widow. Poor. Shunned. Ignored. Silenced. Unseen. Powerful!

What if, indeed?!?

Women: Choose the Unfamiliar

Aug 10, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Sovereignty, Women's Wisdom

I am here again, in a familiar place feeling something I’ve felt before, wondering why it’s still here, why I didn’t deal with it more fully before. But I’m glad I have a second chance at it…and I know that if I need a third chance, I’ll get it. I also know that if it comes up again, I’ll recognize it sooner and deal with it more readily. This is growth. And, I am happy to be alive. ~ Jan Denise

I just got off the phone with a dear friend, a wise woman, an amazing individual. She talked to me of a current relationship for which she’s had much hope. She told me how it has progressed, how she has known desire for connection that has not dared surface in relationships-past, how beautiful it has been to be pursued, to be seen, to be heard, to be beautiful. She also told me about some unsettling patterns and behaviors that aren’t beautiful, aren’t honoring, aren’t worthy of who she is. So disappointing. And so familiar.

Why is that? Why do we, as women who are strong, courageous, risky, and beautiful, so often find ourselves in all-too-familiar relationships that are not what we want or deserve?

This is nothing new. I’m instantly reminded of the plethora of bestsellers over the years that speak to this pattern, such as Women Who Love Too Much and He’s Just Not That In To You. Clearly, it’s not an oddity. It’s a pattern. It’s familiar.

What would it mean for women to choose to function in unfamiliar ways; to let discomfort, in many ways, be a discerning tool? What would it mean to be in relational patterns – whether at work, with family, or in love – that are not what we’re used to, that don’t even feel all that comfortable (at least to begin with)?

Maybe we need to do unfamiliar things in order to break old styles and move into new, healthy ones.

I’m thinking unfamiliarity, albeit risky and dangerous, might just be a better choice – professionally, personally, emotionally, and relationally.

Eleanor Roosevelt is quoted as saying, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” How’s that for unfamiliar? And how’s that for moving us into realms we’d not normally go, places we’d not normally frequent, careers we’d not normally pursue, relationships we’d not normally consider.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be learned – or at least heeded – when we find ourselves in a place that feels familiar. Maybe that’s the moment when we can best discern that we’d might want to get the hell out of that situation and into something new, something surprising, something unfamiliar…something hope-full.

I don’t know…these are unfamiliar and somewhat uncomfortable thoughts for me – particularly if I actually apply them!

As is often the case, I’m drawn to the stories in Scripture. I think the case could be made that “unfamiliar,” at least in relation to God, is more the rule than the exception. Many things were asked of those who populate these stories that were scary, risky, dangerous, unfamiliar…and ultimately full of hope. God’s way of relating with us seems to be to invite us into the unfamiliar so that we can know something far more of God, of self, of one another. Hmmm.

Worth thinking about…maybe even worth choosing to actually do!

Courage is the power to let go of the familiar. ~ Raymond Lindquist

Getting Drenched and Losing Control

Jun 27, 2007 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

This is one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite authors – Anne Lamott in Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith:

Most of what we do in worldly life is geared toward our staying dry, looking good, not going under. But in baptism, in lakes and rain and tanks and fonts, you agree to do something that’s a little sloppy because at the same time it’s also holy, and absurd. It’s about surrender, giving in to all those things we can’t control; it’s a willingness to let go of balance and decorum and get drenched.

Much of my life lately has been presenting numerous opportunities (whether I like it or not) to give in to those things I can’t control…to get drenched. And as much as I’ve dreaded it, this letting go, this getting wet, it has been amazingly refreshing, cleansing, and freeing.

How early in life do we begin to understand that we are to not be sloppy; that we are to maintain order and decorum; that silliness and play are not the priorities?

My daughters, now 8 and 10, know these rules and, undoubtedly, unwittingly, have learned them from me. I wonder how I might un-teach those – for them and for me? I can already feel my anxiety mount: I’d have to let go and get drenched even more!

My own sense of control (whether real or imagined) is not contained solely within myself. It expands to those over whom I have influence.

In fact, perhaps the more out-of-control I feel, the more I demand it of others. “Clean your room.” “Don’t make a mess.” “Can you please chew over your plate, not the floor?!” “No, we’re not going to turn on the sprinkler. You’d get soaked!” Even typing these examples I can feel their dryness, their rigidity, their grasping for the illusion that my world is working the way I want it to. They are, as Lamott says, our proclivity toward staying dry, looking good, not going under. I need to lose control – of more, and more often!

In the midst of my musings, I’m struck by God’s chosen lack-of-control over us, the absurdity of it, and the freedom it allows and invites.

Truly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I need to turn on some sprinklers and get drenched…with my daughters by my side.

Tiptoeing

Feb 24, 2007 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I can’t tell you how tired I am of tiptoeing; of having to navigate through so many potential landmines that I feel I’ve traversed twice the distance required to get to my destination.

Why do I do this? Why do any of us? 

I sat at a conference today that was really not good. I’m being kind: it was horrible. And I needed to be there. It was important that I represent my employer, that I pick up my nametag and packet of information, that I check off the appropriate attendance box. What I wanted to do was stomp and scream and make a scene. But I didn’t. I tiptoed. 

I got an email today that implicitly asked me to tiptoe instead of stomp and scream. And so I did. I actually walked through a mine field and dismantled any hidden bombs so that others wouldn’t inadvertently get hurt. And as I tiptoed, I felt small, squelched, silenced. 

I could articulate all the details, but more than anything, I’m aware of how much ruckus is created when one attempts to walk firmly, boldly, even loudly into areas that most would prefer remain hidden and quiet: feedback on poorly conceived and run conferences, needed conversation about issues of gender and women in leadership, asking for shared participation and repentance in stories of harm… 

Tiptoeing is usually seen as a delicate and endearing way of remaining unheard and undetected; like a small child who wants to surprise a parent with a hug or a handmade card. I know that kind of tiptoeing, too. But today all I want to do is put on my loudest, heaviest, bulkiest shoes and stomp, stomp, stomp. I want my thoughts, feelings, motives, and heart to be heard and understood. And I don’t want to have to gather up all the potential landmines first. 

It’s late and I’m tired. Too much tiptoeing today. I might try stomping through tomorrow…not second guessing my every step but trusting that I know where I’m going and that I can actually get there without getting blown up.