100 Days from Today

Jun 25, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom, Writing

One of my daughters used to get so excited for her birthday and Christmas—counting down the days, rehearsing all the details-specifics-traditions to ensure perfection, and pretty much oozing anticipation and joy. But as memory serves, there were a few early-teen years in which she’d politely say “thank you” for each gift and then as quickly as humanly possible, escape to her room, shut-if-not-slam the door, and sob in bitter disappointment.

I did not always often handle this well. I was frustrated she wasn’t more grateful, happier, elated, even exultant. And I was hurt: so much time and attention paid to making sure everything was special only to have her feel like none of it was enough. I know: I made it about me. Blech. It’s one of the many things I’d go back and redo if I could. I’d acknowledge just how hard it can be to live with the gap between expectations and reality. I’d name just how painful it is to realize something is finished that you’ve looked forward to for so long. I’d give her permission to feel what she feels without the slightest hint of my judgment. *sigh*

It is easy to say that this was simply a child’s perspective. She hadn’t yet discovered that life is unfair. She’d not been battered down by disappointment’s frequent and repetitive presence. OK. Maybe. But here’s the thing:

It is brave to live with an unswerving commitment to celebration, to revel in anticipation, to plan on joy, and to hold firmly to hope.

*****

Now, so many years removed, I wonder whether or not I have the courage to “practice what she preached” in such a tender and poignant expression of her heart. I wonder whether or not I will give myself permission to revel in anticipation and plan on joy and hold firmly to hope. I wonder whether or not I will let myself feel what I feel. I wonder if I will celebrate at all or if, instead, I will protect myself from the massive risk inherent in every bit of this. And I’m wondering all of this on this day, today specifically, because it is worthy of celebration:

It is exactly 100 days until my book is published.

*****

I know! Woohoo! Cue the confetti, the champagne, and the celebration! That does seem the appropriate response. But truth-be-told, I’m not feeling nearly that brave.

I’ve been watching the countdown app on my phone inch closer to double-digits for a very long time now; the exact date, 10.3.23, has been staring at me since mid-December, 2021. When I signed the contract with my publisher, nearly two years of forced patience seemed an eternity. As the days, weeks, and months have passed—and especially as the deadlines have loomed—it’s seemed way too close. And in-between time moving like molasses and now being right-around-the-corner, I’ve known every emotion under the sun: excited, panicked, honored, nervous, thrilled, hopeful, anxious, and yes, even exultant.

Today? Exactly 100 days out?

I feel resistant to feeling much of anything.

I know it’s ridiculous. I should be overwhelmingly thrilled at being so close to the finish line of this long-pursued accomplishment: my near-singular intention and aspiration for almost two decades. I’ve given countless hours of my life to these 237 pages that feel more like 2370 and then some. I’ve labored and wept, typed and deleted, hit “submit” and wished I hadn’t, doubted and trusted it would ever happen. I’ve accepted (and sometimes rejected) the recommendations of editors and proofreaders. I’ve wrestled with my perfectionism again and again. And I’ve realized how shockingly hard it is to let go, to place my writing, my work, my book, my very heart, in someone else’s hands—in your hands. It gets worse . . .

Even a small sampling of my inner dialogue (that I’m not at all proud of, but which is no less loud or real) sounds something like this: What if October 3 gets here and I’m bitterly disappointed? What if everyone else is? What if, after all this time, the day just comes and goes, completely anticlimactic? What if the book is not all that good? What if it’s nothing special or meaningful or impactful? What if I’ve built this up to be so much more than it actually is or could ever be? What if it doesn’t sell, doesn’t speak, doesn’t matter? (I know you so want to disagree with me right now, to tell me just the opposite, to encourage me, to remind me of what’s “true.” Believe me, I get it! And thank you.)

Every bit of my exaggerated caution, my reservedness, my insecurities, and even my stated lack of feeling (which obviously isn’t accurate), is the antithesis of my daughter’s then-reality. She dove right into the thick of each celebration, head first, with complete faith that it would be glorious. It never crossed her mind to temper her expectations, to hold back her enthusiasm, to picture the day being “less than” she’d imagined.

All of us were just like her at one time, I suppose: not yet jaded by “Santa” putting fruit in our stockings (fruit?!?), unwrapping gifts that weren’t quite what we asked for (or anywhere close), knowing more times than not when desire and reality didn’t quite match up—relationships that failed, jobs that didn’t remotely resemble what we’d been promised, the myriad of other lessons-learned that life has oh-so-consistently brought our way. These singular experiences, along with their many forms, have the tendency to convert themselves into our most deeply-held beliefs:

  • If I don’t expect more in relationships—when I opt for compromise and compliance over truth-telling—I don’t have to feel the disappointment of not really being loved for who I am.
  • If I don’t put myself out there at work, I don’t have to risk the disappointment of not getting the promotion, the raise, even much-deserved praise for the above-and-beyond effort I’ve consistently extended.
  • If I don’t have the difficult conversation with my kid(s) or significant other or parent(s) or friend or co-worker or boss (or all of the above), I don’t have to deal with the disappointment of things getting even worse.
  • If I temper my words and emotions to fit what I’m convinced others can (or cannot) handle and/or want from me, I don’t have to experience the disappointment of being unseen, unheard, and rejected.
  • [H/T to my daughter: if you don’t anticipate that your birthday or Christmas will be full of celebration, anticipation, joy, and hope, you don’t ever have to feel the disappointment of “less.” I’m so sorry about this, sweet girl.]
  • And let’s be honest: if I don’t acknowledge and honor something as simple and relatively small as today, it’s all part of my bigger plan to not be disappointed if little-to-nothing monumental happens 100 days from now.

Ugh. Every one of these statements is gray and pallid. My shoulders slump as I type; I hear my own heavy sighs. Yes, on some level it makes sense: my reluctance to risk celebration and all that goes along with it, to hold back, to prize my oh-so-amazing ability to successfully manage my emotions. (I’m being sarcastic. It’s not an amazing ability at all.) But a wiser and way-braver part of me screams, Nooooooo!

Anticipating disappointment instead of allowing joy is not how I want to live.

*****

Defaulting to self-protection over vulnerability, repression over expression, safety over risk, or a lackluster meh over jubilant and unrestrained celebration is not at all representative of how and who I want to be.

I’m loathe to be seen as a silver-lining kind of person. I’m definitely more glass-half-full than empty, but I have little patience for worn out cliches, irritating axioms, or warm-and-fuzzy memes. All this said, it still seems important to name (and yes, even celebrate) that the risk and even experience of disappointment is actually what enables joy to be so much more deeply felt. The very possibility of loss is what invites our appreciation, devotion, presence, and love. Our previous heartbreaks are what make a new (and healthier) relationship feel not only amazing, but miraculous; what makes our sense of self feel whole, intact, and strong. Our former mind-numbing work is what validates our now-felt energy and excitement for how we spend our days. And our fear of pain, when acknowledged and maybe even overcome (at least in moments), is what makes our bliss, well . . . bliss!1

Here’s what’s true: Our lives are not a binary; they do not go one way or the other— black or white, up or down, good or bad. We don’t celebrate or avoid the mere mention of it. We don’t experience disappointment or joy, loss or love, heartbreak or healing, soul-sucking work or satisfaction, pain or bliss. We know and feel all of it, all the time.

You don’t have to take my word for it.

“. . . to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”
~ Brené Brown

Full engagement and no guarantees. Risks, vulnerability and pain. Discomfort and joy, gratitude, and grace.

Deep breath.

I wonder how all of this lands for you, what memories and stories come to mind, what emotions are stirred. I wonder if your inner dialogue sounds even remotely like mine. I wonder about the places in which you have held back—and do still. I wonder about how much joy you’ve missed out on when compared to how much you’ve deserved, especially given all that you’ve accomplished, survived, endured, finished, left behind, and risked.

And I wonder if you’ll join me (whether figuratively or literally) in tossing confetti and popping champagne. Yes, as it relates to today and 100 days from publication, but far more—and far more importantly—as it relates to you and me both living bravely, maintaining an unswerving commitment to celebration, reveling in anticipation, planning on joy, and holding firmly to hope no matter how ridiculous or crazy it might seem. Maybe especially then!

May it be so.

 

1 I am not saying, in any way, that we should excuse or forget or allow or be remotely grateful for the most egregious of experiences, the harshest of violence, or known-injustices of any kind. To diminish or dismiss these excruciating stories (whether our own or others’) has been a painful pattern in our culture, in religion, in politics, in race-relations, in gender and sexuality, and sadly, in so much more besides. The bold, unapologetic, and ceaseless naming of exactly these things is what is most needed . . . and what deserves to be honored and celebrated as a triumph of courage and truth.

Not perfect at all . . .

Jun 11, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

I’ve been writing a lot about not knowing what to write. (Yes, I see the irony there.) It remains a recurring theme. Case in point, a portion of my journaling from just a couple days ago:

I am struggling to come up with content for this week’s post. Nothing. Again.

I don’t have the energy to write about anything “negative” (anger, capitalism, patriarchy, sexism, injustice, fear). So what, then? The repotted spider plant that doesn’t look like it’s going to survive? The fact that today is my niece Grace’s 10th birthday and I cannot remember that same landmark for either of my girls, even though I’m sure, at the time, I was certain I’d remember it forever? How I get lost in thought about ways I’ve failed as a mom? The struggle to let go of these thoughts – and even the girls themselves (appropriately and wisely)? About time—wasted, spent, imagined?

Hmmm. This last one offers me the slightest spark. Maybe? I’ll riff . . .

Time wasted: Any game on my phone, FB, IG, checking email, looking up random things on Google. Opening a book but stopping every chapter to repeat most of the above. 

Time spent: Client calls. Consulting/training. Emails. Social media planning, creating, and scheduling. Stuff with my book. Some reading. Some writing. Dinner & TV with the fam. Weekends at the beach or eating out or running errands or all three. Rearranging furniture. Spending my credit on ThredUp. Watching movies. Adding something else to the upcoming wedding’s to-do list. Calls with the girls. Missing the girls. Reminding myself that they are the writers of their own story – not me.   

Time imagined: Lost in the pages of a book. Lost in the pages of my own writing. Committed. Focused. Dedicated. Disciplined. Inspired. Motivated. Compelled. Having to pull myself away from the computer at the end of a writing day. More to say. More to offer. More to give. Pleased. Productive. Satisfied. Certain. Clear. Unstuck. Followers. Readers. Sitting at the beach. Walking. A commitment to my health. Drinking water. Invested in relationships that matter. Not spending money. Living simply. 

Time is now both short and expansive. I’m lost somewhere in-between, I think. Transitioning from no time to lots of it, from endless days and years ahead to just the opposite. A liminal space. “Betwixt and between,” was the phrase I heard a day or so ago. I viscerally feel the internal demand to get my shit together, work harder, produce!! and there is a small and quiet part of me that can, sometimes, take a deep breath and remember that none of this is needed or remotely required.

Maybe I can allow that I don’t quite know how to (re)imagine my time . . . yet. Maybe I can allow that this is yet another transition I didn’t see coming. that I’m smack in the middle of. Maybe I can extend myself grace.  

Maybe all of this IS this week’s post. Relatively unedited. Raw. True.

Maybe.

It feels too unorganized, too un-pretty. Yes. I already hear the question this sentence provokes: What would your writing be like, Ronna, if you were actually in it—emotional and present—instead of perfect and crafted and polished? Maybe you could offer it anyway: your inner workings, your doubts and questions, your own efforts at NOT rewriting. Hmmm.

Maybe.

As I look back over what I’ve written (and now shared), I don’t think this week’s post is really about time at all. Instead, maybe this:

  • When I do actually write, I (eventually) land on something that has some grist to it; something I am interested in and curious about. The takeaway – for me and maybe you, as well? Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Persist. Persist. Persist. Stay. Stay. Stay.
  • I’m far more committed to perfectionism than I care to admit. I desperately want my writing (and me-myself-and-I) to be genuine and “here,” present, right now, no matter what. For you, to be sure; even more, for me.
  • Maybe most important of all is *just* being real. Showing up. Telling the truth. Even (and especially) when it’s hard or unclear or ambiguous; when I’m ambivalent or uncertain or wobbly. Because (and this is just a guess) you might be, as well.

Nothing neat and tidy to finish this up. But that sort of feels like the point. At least this week.

I hope you’ve found something/anything that rings true. I hope you stay with whatever it is that sometimes/often alludes you. I hope you’ll choose being present over being perfect. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, we can, together, not keep up the façade.

May it be so.

Living from a Softer Place

Mar 16, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

For as grateful (and amazed) as I am that I’ve completed my book, it is an incredibly odd thing to place it in someone else’s hands, to know it is no longer in my own. I’ve been writing its words and pages and stories in some way, shape, or form for nearly two decades and so, without it, I feel a bit wobbly, out-of-sorts, and slightly disconnected from myself.

I am rhetorically and repeatedly asking what I’ll do next, what I’ll create, what writing will yet be mine.

No answers come.

It’s not only about the writing. It’s also about time. What do I do now? What do I not do now? How do I fill up the empty space? And with what?

Still no answers—at least not any that are immensely helpful, generous, or grace-filled.

And so, as one does, I turn to Google.

I thought about asking “what to do with extra time” or “how to manage a slightly existential crisis” but both of those felt just a tish too broad. Instead, I asked, “what to write when you don’t know what to write.” There are lots of helpful tips and techniques to be found but none were quite what I wanted to hear. So, I looked at the books on my shelf, thinking maybe something would inspire me. Nope. Then I got out a deck of cards I’ve had for a long time, but rarely use: Writing Down the Bones Deck: 60 Cards to Free the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. I thumbed through the first ten or so, and came across this one:

” . . . there’s nothing you feel like writing about. Don’t pop up or pull a different card. Sit there for ten minutes, feeling your breath. Allow everything to be as it is. Just now I’m asking you to be.”

Hmmmm.

On the back of the card, she says this:

“Now write what you can accept with no judgment, no criticism . . . What else can you accept? The more we accept what’s around us, the more we can accept what’s in us and what comes out on the page. Let’s face it, we are all a little odd, maybe demented. From another angle, delightful. For our ten minutes of just sitting, we can put our arms around it all and write from a softer place.”

We can put our arms around it all and LIVE from a softer place. 

That sounds lovely, doesn’t it? To live from a softer place.

If you’re at all like me, you are immediately looking for the how-to manual. Apparently, Natalie Goldberg anticipated this:

  • accept what’s around you
  • accept what’s in you
  • no judgement, no criticism

Deep breath.

I have a hunch that were I able and willing to do this—accept, accept, accept—my writing, creativity, time, and life itself would, indeed, be softer. 

This is what I want.

*****

There’s an ancient, sacred story told of two sisters. One was busy with all the details connected to hospitality: cooking, cleaning, serving. The other sat at the feet of their guest and soaked up everything he had to say.

The striving one complained, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”

Their guest responded, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

There’s plenty I chafe at in this story. But at least in this moment, I’m accepting the wisdom it offers: to live from a softer place is the better choice.

The better choice—and—in my lived-experience, the harder choice.

It is easy for me to stay busy. I know how to work hard. I am actually quite comfortable with efforting and striving, thank you very much. *sigh* What is not easy, what I do not know how to do, at least as well, is to let go, to wander, to wonder, to sit still, to accept what is, to be.

It strikes me that my first step is accepting even this. Allowing it to be as it is, me to be as I am. Putting my arms around it all. Taking another deep breath. Letting these ambivalent places between work and rest, striving and ease, knowing and unknowing, even writing and not writing, be a softer place to land . . . and live.

How about for you?

Whether you are a writer, or not, it is well worth your while to spend some time with pen and paper (or, like me, keyboard and screen) and these questions. No urgency. No wrong answers. Allowing. Embracing. Soft, remember?

  • When you look at your circumstances, your surroundings, your relationships, your work, your world, what is yours to accept? Not accede to, but name honestly with deep breaths and no stiving.
  • Where, when, and with whom do you notice your tendency to strive, to effort, to push, to labor? What if you didn’t, even for a time?
  • What yet longs to be accepted within you? How can you put your arms around it all?
  • What would happen if you let go of judgment and criticism? How would you feel? What would change?
  • If there were a softer place to land and softer way to live, what can you imagine that would look and feel like in the most specific of ways?

And for us?

Imagine a world that is not endlessly embroiled in arguments, political tension, and seemingly constant fights over gun-violence and abortion rights and same-sex marriage and racism and ableism and sexism so much more. Acceptance does not mean we look the other way where injustice is concerned; rather, it means we see and name it for what it is. We respond from a place that is clear, succinct, and even devoid of judgment and criticism. It means we are compelled by courage, desire, and hope. And collectively, that would create a softer place for us to live—together.

Deep breath.

May it be so.

In Praise (and Pursuit) of Normal

Jan 27, 2023 | My sort-of Sermons, Writing

I turned my book’s manuscript in to my publisher just over three weeks ago. It’s a bit of a shock, given that for the past year, I have had a minimum of two full days per week blocked for nothing but writing (not to mention the 20-some years I’ve been working on this thing!) I now find myself with days that are blank, open, spacious . . . and admittedly, a bit daunting.

Part of me revels in this reality. I (mostly) appreciate that I am not busy, pressured, or stressed; very few demands are placed upon me. When I can stay with it, it feels “normal,” somehow. This is rare, even strange, when compared to how much of my life has been shaped-if-not-defined by exactly these things: busyness, pressure, and stress (as a mom, a single mom, an employee, a laid-off employee, an entrepreneur, and far more hats-worn than I dare count).

“Normal” is in fierce opposition to what our culture endlessly pushes and promotes: messages to respond to, emails to answer, feeds to scroll, exercise regimens to enforce, meal plans to obey, days that are never long enough to get everything done, planners and calendars to purchase, time-management systems to master, success to achieve, money to make, more to buy, more to do, more to become . . .

We live in a world that does not honor, esteem, or support “normal;” rather, it demands just the opposite.

It’s no wonder we struggle to rest, to breathe, to loosen our grip, to *just* be.

Given all this, you can imagine my response to this quote:

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.” ~ Mary Jean Irion

As you read her words, I wonder: do you exhale in gratitude? Or do you feel a sense of longing, an “I wish” that rises up within?

Me? I feel a bit of both. I want this to be true — treasuring normal days — AND it feels foreign, sometimes even slightly impossible. I’m way more familiar with the “quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.” Not so much as it relates to a singular day, but the quest for perfection in and of itself. Ugh.

Yes, I know better, but it hardly stops me from fantastical thinking: if I could just do/get/attain/manage/accomplish X, Y, and/or Z, then surely everything would come together, fall into place, and be . . . well . . . perfect.

Right.

It feels worth naming that when we stay in fantastical thinking, the pursuit of perfection, and the grind of the day-in-day-out Hustle (which pervades everything we see and hear around us), we forget what “normal” even is. Worse, we no longer see it as “treasure.” Instead, normal becomes something to avoid at all costs: Who wants to be normal? Who wants to live a normal life? Who wants to settle for *just* normal? 

Uh, I do. Desperately.

I’ve spent a lifetime captivated (“confined” is more accurate) by the climb, the challenge, the race, any and every effort to do and be more/better/all that I can be. It’s incredibly seductive! Which explains why, when I have time on my hands, I feel restless — like something’s wrong or “off.” I wander around (especially in my mind), trying to come up with what I “should” be doing, what will accelerate and advance, what will move me forward. Because CLEARLY, “normal” is not nearly enough!

Except that it is!

I get glimpses of “normal” every once in a while: moments, even a stretch of them, in which I am satisfied by very little, by something small, by doing nothing. I am able to let things be as they are vs. demanding they be different. I (miraculously) give myself permission to not do something else — one more thing — and even more after that. Steps in the right direction. Bit-by-bit. “Normal” as intentional choice and oh-so-gentle pursuit.

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.”

I have more to think about and MUCH more to practice when it comes to embracing and treasuring “normal” in my life. I know this with complete certainty because even in this very moment I am wondering what more I should write in this article to make sure it is pithy and meaningful and deep and . . . well . . . perfect. *sigh*

I’m making myself stop.

These last thoughts (for you and me both):

  • Reflect on how you might define and express “normal” in relationships; with time, money, and work.
  • What if you let go of every “quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow”?
  • Consider a C- as a completely acceptable grade.
  • Believe that you are already and always enough, that no more is required of you to be worthy, valued, and loved.
  • Normalize “normal” in every way you possibly can, knowing that you’ll never get it completely right, completely perfect, completely anything . . . which is exactly the point!

May it be so.

I hope the days ahead offer you generous opportunity to let go of any and all expectations/demands of “more,” that you can *just* be, and that normal reigns. Ahhhhhh.

Two P.S.’s:

1) I recently came across the idea of C- (mentioned above) when reading Reclaiming Body Trust: A Path to Healing and Liberation by Hilary Kinavy and Dana Sturtevant. I highly recommend this book. It is challenging SO much within me and it feels hugely significant, even critical.

2) Worth reading one more time: “Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.” ~ Mary Jean Irion

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About My Book

Dec 2, 2022 | Women's Voice & Power, Writing

It feels WAY too far away to actually talk about, let alone celebrate, but still, I’m naming it:

On 10.3.23 my book will be published! Rewriting Eve: Claiming Women’s Sacred Stories As Our Own. 

I am relieved beyond words that 20-ish years of writing — and my deliberating and editing and doubting and pitching and starting over and sticking with it and frankly, just sheer endurance — is, at last, making its way into a book that I can hold in my hands . . . as can you. 

I can also tell you that it would be just like me to bypass every bit of this, to not note the significance of today’s date, to not let myself revel — even for a moment — in what I’ve accomplished, to not celebrate at all.

My dear friend Tanya Geisler talks about this often:

“[T]he Imposter Complex and its relentless requirement for perfection and certainty tries to keep us from celebrating our accomplishments, because what has been done is ‘not enough.‘”’ Or it could have been done better, faster, or more . . . something.

And so many of us have been conditioned to believe that celebrating our own accomplishments is far too much. Far too audacious.

And who are you to be larger than life, anyways?

Listen, I won’t lie.

Taking up the space the universe has carved out for you is not for the faint of heart. It takes tenacity and resilience and a reverence for ourselves that transcends the wee space around our toes. It takes boundaries and a willingness to rewrite the stories that were originally written to limit you and others like you. It takes support and a clarity of vision and a relentless fidelity to the promises you have made . . . to yourself as much as to others. It takes discernment and care and a trust in your ability to wield power in generative ways, even if you haven’t seen it modeled well before. It takes audacity.” 

You can read her whole post here.

She’s right of course.

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks because I know that every bit of this applies to me, that she’d say exactly these words to me (and few choice others), to be sure. I hear the voices within that natter on: “It’s not that big of a deal.” “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” “Almost a year away yet?!? Sheesh! Let it go.” 

I don’t like admitting any of this. 

But I know it’s needed: my own truth-telling. I also know that when I name my patterns and proclivities — with empathy and large doses of grace — I become more aware, more awake, more myself. 

I also know that every bit of this beyond-ironic. 

My book speaks EXACTLY to Tanya’s words above and my own: truth-telling, believing I am enough (and not too much), “. . . rewrit[ing] the stories that were originally written to limit you and others like you.” It’s what I have done in 60,000+ words. It’s what I’ve been doing for the last two decades, at least. And every page of it is about what it means to see ourselves as sovereign, glorious, and amazing. It’s a celebration of women, their stories, their wisdom, and their lives: the ancient, sacred ones, yours, and mine. 

And still, I struggle to celebrate myself! *sigh*

So today I’m making an effort. I’m giving focused attention to unravelling the messages within. I’m trying to do just the opposite of what I’m predisposed toward. I’m choosing to celebrate this “small” thing in preparation for what’s coming in another 330-some days. 

In the same blog post linked above, Tanya quotes Caroline McHugh:

“[There] are individuals who managed to figure out the unique gift that the universe gave them when they incarnated, and they put that in the service of their goals…

And when we see these people, we invariably call them larger than life. Life is large, but most of us don’t take up nearly the space the universe intended for us. We take up this wee space ‘round our toes, which is why when you see somebody in the full flow of their humanity, it’s remarkable. They’re at least a foot bigger in every direction than normal human beings, and they shine, they gleam, they glow. It’s like they swallowed the moon.”

This is the ache and the invitation, isn’t it? Not just for me, but you as well.

We are loath to take up more space, to shine, to gleam, to glow. We WANT it to be true about us AND we struggle. Both at the same time. 

This? Being a woman who has figured out the unique gift the universe has given them? Putting it in service of your goals? Looking like someone who has swallowed the moon? It’s what I want for you, more than nearly all else. It’s what you deserve.

And yes, me too. 

May it be so.

The truth is almost always personal

Nov 25, 2022 | Sovereignty, Women's Wisdom, Writing

I recently read Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir, by Beth Kephart. On the back cover are these words: 

It is almost always personal – and consequential – to tell the truth. 

And . . . right alongside the risk of truth-telling, is the possibility, the benefit, and our hope:

“Every word a woman writes changes the story of the world, revises the official version.” ~ Carolyn See

I’m back and forth between these two bolded statements because of my own writing of late: the final edits of my manuscript. It’s not memoir, but still, personal – and consequential; not memoir, but certainly compelled by my dogged desire to “change the story of the world.” (Or at least the way we have been telling the stories . . . )

On the one hand, I am reminded that it’s not truth OR consequences (a reference to a very old TV game show – if you are too young to remember); it’s truth AND consequences. On the other hand, I am compelled by just how important it is that I write, that I speak, that I trust the ways in which my words, my truth, do change the story . . . my own and others’.

Writing and me aside, the same is true for you. All women sit in the tension these two statements elucidate.

We are caught between the risk of our truth and its impact, its cost and its significance, our fear and our yearning.  

*sigh*

*****

Another recent read has been The Book of Essie. I stumbled across it while looking for an epigraph quote — a couple relevant keywords in Google, plus “quotes” and this is what showed up:

“It’s men who trust they will suffer no consequences for their actions, while women suffer no matter what they do.” ~ Meghan Weir

No surprise: I immediately went to Amazon for details, then my online library app for the audio book. I won’t spoil it for you, but again – no surprise – it deals with exactly what I’m naming here: Women reside in the impossible tension between telling the truth and changing the(ir) world.  

It shouldn’t be impossible.

As I was lost in the pages of Essie’s story, I thought back on my own — the places where I knew my truth, but wouldn’t take the risk and couldn’t bear the consequences (or so I thought). I thought of other times in which I spoke my truth, how everything changed, how it was impossible to go back, how most of the time I wouldn’t have gone back even if I could, and how painful it was to move forward. And I thought about how this is the reality for most every woman. Past and present. Not just once, but over and over again.

If we weren’t so familiar with it, we would feel crazy (and often do)! It’s become par for the course, second nature, what we know how to do extremely well.

Weigh the costs
Consider the outcomes
Put ourselves second . . . or last
Compromise
Comply
Long for change
Wonder if it’s even possible
Speak up
Take it back
Apologize
Wish we were stronger
Get stronger
Step forward
Risk everything
Survive

I’d be elated if we could jump directly from “weigh the costs” to “step forward,” “risk everything,” and not only “survive,” but thrive.

There’s no simple “answer” to this conundrum, but I do have some thoughts.

We alleviate the consequences of our truth (or at least our fear of such) by telling it, by building our capacity to do it even more, by trusting ourselves.

The way in which this messy and excruciating world will change is by women being unswervingly committed to their truth – and its out-loud expression.

Our courage to tell our truth and change the world is exponentially increased when we are surrounded and supported by stories of other women who have done the same – whether Essie, Eve, or countless others.   

I had “maybe” at the start of each of the three sentences above. A dilution of my own truth. A fear of being misunderstood or too bold or too outspoken. And a way in which the change I long for on my behalf, yours, and the world’s, is slower to occur, harder to imagine, and that much further away. I guess it feels important to acknowledge that even though I am the one writing all of this, I am often stuck in the same bind – over and over – in the most insipid of ways.

And then there’s this:

I know telling your truth is hard. I know it is scary. I know there are consequences. And I’m sorry. 

I also know that your truth, the know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within, is worthy of being heard, that your story is, that you are. Written. Spoken. Allowed. Celebrated. Lived. And when that happens — as it should and as it must — it’s definitely world-changing, story-changing, life-changing . . . changing everything. As you deserve.

As I’ve written this today, I’ve wondered how it will land for you — whether you will feel desire or tension, a deep knowing or a shoulder shrug; if you will be proud of where you’ve boldly and bravely told your truth or lost in your memories of truth-avoided.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I long for you to trust your truth and your power to change the story of the world . . . of your world. If I could wave a magic wand or say a prayer or cast a spell or maybe all three in one, this IS what I’d wish, hands down, every. single. time.

May it be so.