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Is beauty worth $8 + tax?

May 6, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

As I sat down to journal this morning, I spotted the fresh tulips I bought just four days ago. They are already drooping. One or two more days and I’ll have to throw them out. Is it worth the money when
they only last such a short time? What I’m really asking, is this:

Is beauty worth $8.00 + tax?

I know the answer AND I can see the way my mind wants to weigh the benefit, the value, the worth – as though beauty (and so many other things) is practical, something to be calculated through a Return-On-Investment filter. And this got me to wondering: How many other values that defy measurement do I subject to such?

Multiple examples rush to mind:

  • The measure of my own self-worth tends to decrease the higher the number on the scale. (I’m not proud of this – even disagree with it, fundamentally – and still…)
  • I have been known to measure a blog post’s success (and subsequently the worth and value of my writing) on the number of shares, likes, or views it receives.
  • Based on the response I receive (or don’t) from a text or email I send will measure my willingness to continue to express my desire.

This kind of measurement doesn’t serve me at all! And yet, I do it all the time.

But here’s the thing: self-worth, creativity, and desire don’t bow to a cost-benefit analysis.

There is no measurement or rating to place on such things – as though we can analyze and determine in advance whether a quality like hope or love or grief or disappointment is worth it. And when we try, it’s a slippery slope. More than slippery, it’s downright dangerous.

  • The tulips are going to die. Why spend the $8?
  • Allowing myself to express grief surely won’t change the past. Why bother?
  • This happiness won’t last more than 5 or 6 days. That’s not long enough. Better to tone things down than to be disappointed.
  • Even if I don’t eat this candy bar today, I’ll weaken tomorrow. The effort at restraint isn’t worth it given my certainty of the future.

Though a few of these may sound somewhat silly, more of them sound familiar. This is exactly what we do. This is exactly what I do. Here’s my best (and most current) example:

Too often when I sit down to write I am measuring the value of my words as I go along. I hear the voice of the critic, fear certain misunderstanding, worse being ignored, and have already begun quantifying them, limiting them, cutting them off at the knees. I have already dismissed their significance and the value of my ongoing investment. In effect, I’ve done to myself (before anyone else can) the very thing I fear: I’ve ignored my own words! Sometimes I so completely pre-determine their value and worth (or lack thereof) that I never begin! (I know you know what I mean here…)

Further, in (pre) measuring the worth of something, in determining it’s value (or not) we actually enable the very thing we intend to prevent.

  • 6 days of beauty in my home isn’t worth $8 — and so there is no beauty in my home.
  • My weight will never change — and so it doesn’t.
  • My grief won’t heal anything — and so I don’t heal.
  • My happiness will never last — and so it doesn’t.
  • My writing will never go anywhere — and so it doesn’t.
  • Why keep hoping? I’m going to end up single anyway — and so I will be.

Here’s what I’m coming to:

Risky investments and not measuring the approximate value and worth, even logic, of our every move might actually be the safest bet. Buying tulips even though they’ll droop and die. Making healthy choices even though it’s hard. Choosing to grieve even though it’s scary. Allowing myself to feel joy knowing it will not last. Writing and creating no matter who understands (or not), reads it (or not), loves it and me (or not). Giving away my heart and desiring, desiring, desiring even though I might get
hurt.

Stated even more clearly, a safe bet is never as interesting, exciting, or fun as tossing our fate to the winds, holding on to hope, and being willing to risk everything for what we value most  and deeply desire.

I’m off to buy more tulips…

Living in the in-between

Apr 17, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Once upon a time, long before women had volition or will as to who they married, a search commenced for the perfect wife. A servant was sent out – commanded to find a bride, but only from particular tribes, with particular lineage, holding particular pedigree. Perplexed as to how this would ever happen he prayed. “O God of my master, please give me success today. I will stand by this spring as the young women of the town come out to draw water. I will ask one of them, ‘Please give me a drink.’ If she says, ‘Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!’ let her be the one I am to select…”

As the story goes, this is exactly what happened. As she finished speaking the words he had hoped to hear, he adorned her with a gold ring for her nose and two gold bracelets. She took the servant to her family. Negotiations ensued with her father who finally asked her: “Are you willing to go with this man?” She replied, “Yes, I will go.”

The servant began the long journey back to his master with this young woman in tow. One particular evening, after days of traveling, she looked up and said, “Who is that man walking through the fields to meet us?” The servant replied, “It is my master.” She covered her face with her veil as the servant told his master the story of how he had found her. And the text says, “Isaac brought Rebekah into his tent and she became his wife. He loved her deeply…” ~ from Genesis 24

Tell the truth. Even if only for a brief moment, don’t you feel desire stir? The part of you that wishes her story was yours. But if you’re anything like me, that quickly passes, you heave a heavy sigh, and you hear the resigned internal response that says, “Forget it. That only happens in other people’s stories. After all, you’re not the answer to the craziest of prayers. You’re not recognized as the perfect woman. You’re not being adorned with expensive jewelry. And let’s be honest: there are no camels anywhere in sight! What could her story possibly have to do with yours?”

In one swift movement – from desire to cynicism – the in-between is bypassed.

How convenient.

Want some more examples?

  • I could step into my strength, my power, my amazing-ness, but no one will be strong enough to handle it. Better to play small.”
    “Sure, I could write the book and it would be fabulous, but I’m certain no one will buy it. Why bother?
  • Yes, I do have an amazing business idea, but it won’t make enough money to support me. I’d be foolish to even start.
  • Of course, I could tell the truth in my marriage/relationship/job, but it will create way too much trouble. I’ll just suck it up – again.
  • It’s true, I could clean the house / get my eyebrows waxed / exercise, but I’ll just make a mess / have to wax them again / quit. There’s no point.

Brilliantly, this pattern grants carte blanche permission to hold back, not risk, not do. We stay stuck. We leap to the ending we want, witness it in others, assume it won’t be ours, and then wonder why our story doesn’t go the way we had hoped or planned.

Lest you think I’m preaching here, know with complete certainty that this has been my reality more times than I care to count – or admit. The narrator in my brain tells me incessantly that I want too much, that I am too much, that less would be better, smarter, and far less rife with certain disappointment. I stop before I start. And even worse, I get irritated at the stories around me that I want for my own – like Rebekah’s.

Unless…I look at her in-between.

Here’s what I believe: Far before we were invited into her tale, she had learned, loved, lost, tried, failed, laughed, grieved, and then some. Far before she was discovered, wooed, adorned, and loved she was generous, brave, strong, and courageous. Far before she was chosen by the servant and then by Isaac, she had chosen herself; she knew and believed herself to be worthy of love; worthy, period. How could anything else be true? It was all of this – and so much more – that created the perfect and seemingly coincidental circumstances at the well. Far before that day ever came, she was doing the work, living her life, dwelling in her in-between.

There is no other way.

And this is one of the many reasons why I love her story (and those of so many other ancient, sacred women). She calls me back to what’s most true about stories; most true about mine:

After once-upon-a-time and before happily-ever-after there’s a whole lot of in-between.

When I can see this in Rebekah’s story, I can begin to see it in my own. I can stay put instead of wishing. I can choose hope over resignation. I can do the good, hard, ongoing work of being the protagonist in my own story. The one I’m in this day, not someday. I can be strong and powerful and amazing. I can write the book. I can build the business. I can have the hard conversation(s). And I can maybe even clean the house / wax my eyebrows / exercise (though admittedly, some days, those seem about as probable as watering camels). I can live my in-between.

So can you.

Turn your attention from the outcome and fix your gaze on the in-between. Trust that the day-in, day-out work of living, hoping, choosing, risking, being, makes a difference far beyond what you can imagine; that you are writing a story worth being told.

And for the times in which you’re tempted by cynicism more than compelled by desire, listen to Rebekah. She’ll gladly and graciously remind you of her in-between and yours; of who you are: her daughter, her lineage, her kin.

See how amazing your story is already? Wow!

May it be so (with or without the camels).

Extravagant Love. Extravagant You.

Nov 26, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

There’s an ancient sacred story told of a woman who was beautifully, lavishly, even shockingly extravagant.

Desiring love, she risked. Potential misunderstanding. Certain ridicule and scorn. Whispers, shouts, and most certainly shame. None of it mattered. Only the experience and expression of love. Compelled by love, she held nothing back. Unrestrained and passionate, her deepest heart revealed and exposed. A recipient of love, she gave. Generously, without thought to prudence, scarcity, boundary, or anyone else’s ideas of what was appropriate (or not).

Because of all this, she knew extravagant response:

Worthy of love, she was honored. All shame erased. All spoken and unspoken bonds broken. All penalties paid. Freedom hers. “Truly, I say to you, wherever good news is spoken in the world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”

*****

There’s so much I love about this story, so much I love about her. But most of all this: Her love was pre-determined, her actions hers alone, and NONE of this dependent on the response she might (or might not) receive. That is extravagance, right there.

And that, right there, calls forth the truest, most honest expression of self we could possibly hope to attain.

Want to be more authentic? Want to live in a brave and connected-to-the-Sacred- Feminine way? Here’s the template:

Risk.
Hold nothing back.
Give.
Be extravagant.

And all as expression of the love that is yours to offer; the Love that is you!

Extravagant, indeed.

This woman calls us to be exactly who we are: risky, honest, generous, and completely compelled by (not for) the love that already dwells within us; the love that defines us; the Love that is us!

When we are truly ourselves, we can be nothing other. And this is extravagant, indeed.

*****

Be assured, I’m hardly preaching here – other than to the choir. I’m working diligently on these ideas/practices in my own life. For I intuitively know that this is the way in which I am to be. The afraid, protective part of me is, well, afraid and protective. It’s true: I’ve been hurt before, the love I’ve expressed has not always been returned, and the risks have often felt far too costly. With a closer and more honest look though, I can see that these memories and experiences also carried my expectation, my desire demand for love’s return and a reward/recompense for being oh-so-generous and eh-hmm, loving. This is not my truest self. This is not my truest nature. This is not the Sacred radiating forth through my life. And this is not extravagant.

So what if, even in the smallest of moments and slightest of ways, I could move through my world as the glorious being I most truly am?

What if I were to risk because it’s a thrill; because I’m strong enough to handle it?

What if I were to hold nothing back – in my relationships, to be sure, but also in my writing, my parenting, my friendships, my self-care? What if I gave little-to-no thought to what’s in it for me, and instead, just gave, period?

What if I were extravagant?

Though a rhetorical question, I already know the answer. I would be me. I would be Love. And I would reflect the Divine.

May it be so.

 

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There Is No Plan B

Apr 4, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

On days like today I need a way to make sense of (or at least hold on to) my broken heart. Perspective. Confirmation. Sense-making. Sort-of . . .

Because we are vulnerable, life hurts. We are not here to be free of pain. We are here to have our hearts broken by life. To learn to live with vulnerability and to turn pain into love. . . . There is nothing so whole as a broken heart, said Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk, [a] Hasidic sage. The world breaks our hearts wide open; and it is the openness itself that makes us whole. The open heart is the doorway, inviting the angels in, revealing that the world–even in the pit of hell–is charged with the sacred. ~ Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions

Yes, this: “. . . even in the pit of hell . . . ”

I’m taking deep (and sometimes graspy, raggedy) breaths.

On days like today, I want to shut my heart down; to create a super-power barrier to the inevitability of ever being hurt or sad or disappointed (again).

And on days like today, the idea (and reality) of continuing to open myself up, to be exposed, to risk and palpably feel heartbreak as the very path to wholeness and joy feels not only counter-intuitive, but just plain idiotic.

Still, there is no Plan B.

Without heartbreak there wouldn’t be space – and spaciousness. Shattered-wide-open creates room for more love – and love and love and love.

So, down I go. Over the edge. Making the leap (which, more truthfully, feels like being pushed off the side of a cliff). Trusting that vulnerability (and raw strength, capacity, and time-worn-hard-earned perseverance) will sustain me (along with texts from my sister, calls from friends, the glimmer of a kind face via Skype, lingering conversation over good soup and better wine, sage advice from wise women in my life, and knowing-hugs from my daughters). And hopefully, prayerfully my faith. Yes, all this will (eventually), lead me back to joy, the sacred – and love and love and love.

“There is nothing so whole as a broken heart . . . ”

I click the heels of my Ruby Slippers and try to imagine, try to believe. “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.” Longing for home. Longing for hope. Longing . . .

And always, especially on days like today, longing for love – and love and love and love. There is no Plan B to this, either.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~ Jesus, Matthew 5:4

May it be so. And then some.

*****

I wrote this post nearly three weeks ago . . . not ready to say it out loud; the emotion too raw. It still is. But in the midst, gracious confirmation that my words matter, that my heart is whole: 

“This is precisely why grief, like love and any other foundational, deceptively simple human emotion or state of being, is the terrain of artists. And it is a writer’s even more specific job to give voice to loss in whatever ways she can, to give shape to this unspeakable, impermeable reality beneath all other realities.” ~ Emily Rapp

Yes.

And so, on a day exactly like today, I’m hitting “publish.” Because even though Easter has passed, I still believe in its message. Because comfort comes. Because grace conquers grief. Because faith endures. Because hope cannot be held back or held down or even, ultimately, withheld from a heart that’s hell-bent on surviving and healing and knowing-giving-generating-offering-receiving-being love and love and love.

Because there is no Plan B . . . gratefully.

Holy Week and Les Miserables

Mar 26, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

It’s Holy Week. As is often the case this time of year, I feel some ambivalence: a tinge of regret, a flood of emotion, a lifetime of memory.

So many Easter Sundays spent. A young girl in a new dress and white patent leather shoes. A mother with young daughters in new dresses and white patent leather shoes. And now, a faith-full and church-less woman with no logical reason for a new dress or patent leather shoes.

Was there ever really a logical reason for white patent leather shoes?

My now-less-young daughters came home from a weekend at their dad’s with the Deluxe Edition DVD set of Les Misérables – including the collectible book, the collectible cards, and lots of behind-the-scenes content. I thumbed through and then tumbled across four phrases, all in caps, each on their own page, boldly proclaiming the film’s Eastertide (and practically-illogical) message:

ONE DREAM CAN CHANGE THE WORLD.
FIGHT FOR WHAT YOU LOVE MOST.
FIGHT FOR JUSTICE.
HOPE CHANGES EVERYTHING.

Doctrine, denomination, an affinity for epic musicals, and ambivalence aside, Holy Week tells a similar story. The message inherent in the life of Jesus (and Les Mis) is both impossible and impractical (sort of like white patent leather shoes). But that’s exactly why we love it so; why we weep at its poignancy and power; why we silently hum (and pray) the lyrics to I Dreamed a Dream or Handel’s Messiah; why we fondly, wistfully recall our days of new clothes and shiny shoes. Because it’s the impossible and impractical, the seemingly-crazy, the risky, the beyond-belief, the self-sacrificing, and the love – Love – LOVE that touches us more deeply than anything else, that moves us, that inspires us, that invites us to believe.

To believe — even for a moment — is holy, is sacred, is resurrection for your very soul.

Believe that no form or aspect of death can contain the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love. Believe that it is the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love that enables you to rise – again and again. And believe that whether you don white patent leather shoes, or not, the impossible, impractical, and wild power of Love is a dream worth dreaming, a fight worth fighting, justice beyond compare, and the hope that changes everything.

It is my prayer that you will know and experience infinite and overflowing amounts of this impossible, impractical and wild Love throughout Holy Week (and always) – in unbridled, unimaginable, unlimited ways; that our world will know the same.

May it be so.