Reflection: The Magic of Living

When I was a child I thought Christmas was magical. I couldn’t describe why, but I got a feeling inside when I heard Christmas music, looked at decorations, anticipated festivities. Sometimes even when it wasn’t Christmastime I remember getting emotional thinking about how much I loved Christmas.

As I grew older the magic dissolved, and for years I thought growing up meant being depressed with life and learning how to deal with it. Only after much processing and growing did some of that magic start to come back. I began to find a new, deeper feeling, and not just surrounding Christmas. It was the discovery that life is sacred. And really for me, sacredness is a more grown-up version of childhood magic. It’s the realization that something is important, worthwhile, beautiful, and finding joy or reverence in it.

I had a conversation with someone recently who told me about how he was working on doing more grounding, and I mentioned that I felt so much happier when I’m in the present.

There’s a road I have often traveled, either to go to class, to therapy appointments, or other events, and I realized tonight that that road is sacred to me. Usually when I’m driving that road I’m listening to music and admiring the fields or trees or fancy houses I pass. And usually it’s in anticipation of work I’m about to do or in processing what I’ve already done. I feel hopeful, positive, because I believe what I’m pursuing is worthwhile. And that road has been representative of a small part of my journey. That journey which is sacred, which therefore makes the road I travel sacred. And it’s beautiful.

On Solitude

I find it interesting that when I want to have an angry outburst there is no one to outburst to. The stressors of work, fatigue, hunger, anything that puts me on edge and causes me to want to express that frustration to someone – no one is there. It is then that I realize I am my own family unit. I am my own spouse, my own parent, my own child. Because those family roles have not materialized in front of me I become them to myself. I need to be self-sufficient, my own source of self-soothing and nurture because I don’t have the safety net of the nuclear family to fall back on. I am my own nuclear family.

Really it’s a mercy I have no one to take my anger out on, because then the issue can come to an abrupt halt with just me, and no one else has to suffer for it. Perhaps you can call it the high road, the transcendent path that leads me to my most enlightened self. I hate it and love it at the same time. My solitary state has prevented the suffering of others and forced me to come to terms with my own suffering, and to take responsibility for my own healing. Oh it hurts. And I hope it’s not all meaningless.

Finding My Life Purpose: An Exercise

Seven years ago I came across Mark Manson‘s Life Purpose Guide, an 11-page article with step-by-step instructions on how to write out one’s goals and find direction in life. How I stumbled upon it I cannot remember, but in the summer of 2013 I found myself writing out the biggest bucket list I had ever attempted: ideas and thoughts of all the things I would love to do before I die. Anything from getting married to singing on Broadway went on the list, no matter how unrealistic, trivial, big or small.

I don’t remember if I actually followed Manson’s guide exactly to determine my purpose in life, but what the exercise did do was help me begin a journey of figuring out what I wanted to do, how I wanted to live.

Many successful speakers, researchers, and coaches advise people to write lists to help with productivity and accomplishing tasks. Since I love to journal, it wasn’t a far stretch for me to begin my own system of list-making. Now, besides regular to-do lists I write for cleaning the house or grocery shopping, I have a running bucket list of certifications I want to obtain, places I’d like to visit, or other goals I’d like to accomplish. And over the years, that exercise of list-keeping has helped me grow as I find my sense of direction, purpose, personhood.

At first the idea seemed almost selfish – focusing on what I want. But in a way, writing out everything I want helped to get myself out of the way. If I got myself out on paper, I wasn’t stuck in my head and I was able to focus on living my best life. I could see clearly what was realistic or not, and I didn’t have to feel ashamed of my thoughts. I was able to create a roadmap of what to pursue and how to get there. And in so doing, I could create the clarity I needed to free myself up so I could be of service to others as well.

Awhile back I created a post that listed what I would do on an ideal day. It was a very basic list, but it gave me a starting point to help define what I enjoy and what I value. And if I know what I value, I know how to live.

The Passion Conversation, Continued

I discovered a few years ago the idea of cultivating a passion instead of finding it. The article on the Minimalists website explaining this idea brought validation to the struggle I felt so strongly in college to find something I was passionate about so I could be like my peers. During one lecture in college the speaker even asked, “What are you willing to lose sleep over?” as an exercise to determine what we get excited – or passionate – about. But the silent answer I came up with was that I’m not willing to lose sleep over anything because sleep is important. It’s important to live a balanced, healthy life.

And so my journey of personal growth developed over the years. I still love sleep every bit as much as I did in college, and I become vexed if I can’t have my sleep. As I have explored in many of my previous posts, I have many interests and many things I love to learn about. However, I only love to explore them if I can do so in a healthy way.

As I’ve grown, I’ve realized I do indeed have passion within my being, just not a traditional, 21st-century type passion. My passion is not for a particular career or cause, but for life itself.

A Quiet Reunion

Like a ghost, you concealed yourself in the dark corners of my mind.

Hidden in the shadows nearly forgotten until recently you emerged again, filling the absence of another.

I have made peace with you; I am not afraid. You have been a constant companion to me these years and I have come to value your presence. You have connected me with a deep part of myself, given me access to a new dimension filled with wonders. You are a painful presence, but I do not resent you. You are a gift given to me to teach me hard lessons, to be my guide. I welcome you, my old friend: Loneliness.

Confession of Anger

Forgive me, Father, for my anger.

And not for the anger itself, but for the depth to which my anger roots itself to my soul.

I have caressed it, coddled it like a child, raised it up to grow into a monster. Feeling blessed by my own self-righteousness I give way to bitterness, resentment, envy. They make me feel good. They are faithful friends who stay by my side, nursing my hurt and making me powerful.

But this is not the way of Love. Love takes hurt into her arms and weeps. Her tears wash away the filth in my soul, melting the monsters I have grown to cherish. She puts pain in its proper place – acknowledging it, grieving it, transforming it – and letting it go.

“I Said Yes!”

“I said yes!” The all-too familiar phrase flashes across my screen. My first reaction is joyful surprise at another of my friends accepting a marriage proposal. My second reaction, almost simultaneous with the first, is a pang of grief. My friend enters a new stage of life, never to be the same again. I am losing part of her.

Perhaps I feel some jealousy when a couple gets engaged; I would love to be married someday. But not yet. I am called to a different destiny for the time being. What I do feel is a form of nostalgia for the girl I used to know – the one whom I’d stay up late with, talking about our dreams, our insecurities, our sexual frustration. No longer would we share the kinship singlehood provided. She has found her calling to be a wife, and I do not wish her to neglect that calling. It is as it should be, but it still hurts.

The challenge of saying yes to something is sometimes it requires saying goodbye to something else. We will not cease our friendship simply because she is getting married. In fact perhaps our friendship may take on a deeper meaning because she is following her calling, becoming more the person she is meant to be. But our friendship as I once knew it will be no more. Something has shifted, grown, evolved.

The woman I described above is not just one friend, but multiple of my friends who have evolved, one by one, to meet their calling. I, like Jo in Little Women, question “Why does everyone have to go off and get married? Why can’t things stay the way they are?” But just as I would not wish children to remain children (when they are meant to become adults), so would I not wish for my friends to remain single when they are meant to be married.

Strangely enough, the engaged women I see on my social media feed are often people I have lost touch with. I have longed to connect with them, but our paths have taken different turns over the years, and the closeness I once felt with them is but a memory. I cherish those memories, I grieve them, I hold them close to me. Most of them may not even know how deeply I valued our connection, however short a time we had it. Through life changes, our individual communities changed, and it was no longer practical to share the same closeness we once did. Oh, but I miss that closeness.

As I say goodbye to the parts of these women I once knew, I find myself saying yes to something else on the horizon. Not a marriage proposal per say, but a calling nonetheless. A deep stirring within my spirit, beckoning me to move. I will not neglect this calling, much like my friends will not neglect their calling to marriage. My soul whispers, “It is time.” And I am ready.

Snapshot: My Lovely Saturday Night

“I’ll be taking wonderful care of you tonight,” my waiter said as he opened his notepad and readied his pen. My order was simple: water, lobster bisque, and biscuits. He dashed off to the kitchen, his feet almost as quick as his speech.

Alone with my thoughts, I took in my surroundings: the soft thump, thump, thump of the base drum on the radio, the low lighting creating an air of privacy, the Canadian man sitting behind me talking about his trip to Florida. A baby cried in an adjacent room. Nearby, some servers gathered around one of the cash registers to share a joke. I wondered if anyone would find it strange for a woman to eat dinner alone in a restaurant, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Wearing my new (to me) sweater and sporting a fresh haircut, I figured tonight was as much a night as any to celebrate. It had been awhile since I’d taken myself “out on a date,” and the gift card I had received gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. I would not look at my phone tonight. Instead, I savored the environment – the mainstream, commercialized bistro I had learned to love from childhood – and drew comfort from its familiarity. I basked in gratefulness for the beauty of these moments, moments I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I had lost sight of something. Of myself. I had forgotten how nice it felt to do something special – by myself. Here, now, I could be fully present, and present I was – well, at least until I realized I had almost finished my soup. It was so good I nearly forgot to enjoy it. The bisque tasted like the sea and like a warm hug all at once, and the cheesy, buttery biscuits melted in my mouth.

I thought about how I had no one to talk to there, but I didn’t mind. My soul was content to rest and reflect and simply be, without having to focus on conversation. Sometimes loneliness is a beautiful thing.

The waiter gave me a small bag to pack up the extra biscuits; I gave him an extra tip for his sweet demeanor. My spirit was overflowing with joy from being fully alive and fully myself. It really was a quick supper – I was in and out in under and hour – but my heart was full. And so was my belly.

When Self Awareness Is Really Rumination

Many have complimented me for my self awareness, my ability to understand my personal growth challenges and identify my weaknesses. However, what many do not understand is that not all of my musings are a result of self awareness, but rather rumination.

Like a cow chewing its cud, I regurgitate my thoughts and turn them over and over in my head. Unlike a cow, I can never seem to fully digest them. They keep coming back up to haunt me. While I have done this for almost as long as I can remember, some periods of time are worse than others. My obsessing over various topics has kept me awake at night, trapped me in bed in the morning, and made me late or absent to scheduled engagements. Sometimes I can distract myself long enough to be productive; sometimes I can’t.

In trying to dig to the root of my struggle, I think I may have begun doing this as a self-soothing tactic to remedy my loneliness. I know that my thoughts are not logical, so instead of communicating them to others, I allow them full reign in my head. I don’t really think of it as anxiety as much as a means of comfort, much like a child sucking on her thumb.

I have tried to process these thoughts with people I am close to, but what I have discovered is I reason them away. I may acknowledge that they are illogical feelings, and almost apologize for them to the people I talk to. In recent reflection, I realized I still talk to my friends about the same thoughts and feelings I was having a year ago. The obsession is relentless.

So what do I do with all that? I have tried reasoning my feelings away, because I am a huge fan of being a person of reason, but there is no reasoning with feelings, no matter how convincing the argument. I think what I crave more than anything is for someone to enter into the worry with me, to cry with me before helping to bring me out of it. To help me realize that my feelings, however illogical, are valid.

When Dark Descends

This evening I am enjoying the warmth and comfort of my apartment, the soft glow of the lamp on my homemade coffee table, the smell of cinnamon and orange drifting through the air from the kitchen. From my cozy corner I contemplate the presence of fear, of darkness, in the context of the surrounding materials shielding me from those horrors, and yet I have had more exposure to those elements than I would ever wish.

I watched an episode on Netflix in which the characters had to face the darkest part of themselves in order to get what they wanted. They had to come to terms with who they were. Coincidently I read a blog post right after that in which the writer suggests we run toward our greatest fears to create our best work. It is in the midst of this situation I find myself contemplating what areas of my life are shrouded in darkness. What do I fear? Who am I deep inside?

Far be it from me to expose my innermost thoughts to the internet, so if that is what you are expecting, I am afraid you will be left wanting. Still, I believe it a challenge to know for sure what our deepest insecurities are without extensive searching and reflection. We do not have a dramatic musical score to tell us when we have solved the riddle. Instead we have mere scraps of music, little bits here and there waiting for us to piece them together into our own song.

Something I fear deeply is being alone. Not physically, for that is how I am most days. It is on a more emotional level I fear I will not find companionship or love. I have no doubt many people love me dearly, but very few are able to come with me to the darkest parts of my heart. Sometimes even I do not dare descend the rickety staircase leading to that dusty basement for the possibility of getting caught in the cobwebs.

In the midst of all this, it is often the advice of many to turn to one’s spiritual health for solace. But I say this: no matter what you believe, it will not always change what you feel. Yes, we must acknowledge our feelings. Yes, we must do what is right despite those feelings, but feelings, fears, and darkness will not always dissipate no matter how hard we try to make them. When hope looks like nothing other than a distant delusion and healing a cruel con, sometimes all we can do is add more measures to our symphony in the making. We cannot yet hear the full piece, only an incomplete cadence. As much as we want to dissolve the dissonance to reach a resolution, sometimes our only antidote is to whisper to ourselves, “Maybe tomorrow.”