Tag Archives: authenticity

the year of revolution

Posted on by
4

8440360682_6211b0e72a_b

Sometimes you have to do the hardest thing.

2012 was my year of revolution.

2012

I had to get clear, be patient, deal with being exactly where I was and am and keeping pressing on.

I look back on the last year and it all happened exactly the way it needed to for me to be pushed to do what I want to do. I wrote a lot, I published on this blog, I was published in print for the first time. I got fired, I got hired somewhere else. Something was missing. My passion. My fire.

I kept thinking about what I wanted to see in my future. There was doubt, fear, and all the other things that come with worry, but I kept on and on. This revolution was years in the making.

I envisioned true revolution something like this:

I work from home, I exercise when I want, I write in the mornings, I make enough money to feel safe. I wrote it down, erased it, rewrote with more clarity and intention. I pulled images together in my head of what it looked like. What it meant. How it would feel.

I had no idea how it would work OR IF, but I was certain about this – if I didn’t start today and today and NOW, I would never know. So I did it. I began.

And last week I resigned from my job because it happened, it all came together, all the stars aligned and I now work for myself. I did it. I started my own business. I can shape it into what I want it to be. To write, to take on only the work that I want to be doing, to believe in myself and to take my own advice and GO!  I’m terrified and overjoyed. Thankful, humble and feeling badass all at the same time.

And I find it no coincidence that it’s right about year ago today that I started, that I began. That I posted for the first time on this blog. That I wrote my way through all of it.

My friend Candice always says, be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

It might not be exactly the way you envisioned getting there, but you just might get it.  Dreams do come true – are you willing to risk it? Take that chance? Set it all on fire? Start today?!

your story about yourself

Posted on by
1

2767390866_9aa62ee8ae_byou tell yourself a story about yourself

who you are

who you want to be

who you are not

who you will never be

who you must be

what you believe

what you cannot do

sometimes – you have to change your mind about who you are – to actually be who you are

change your story, it is only a series of words and is meant to be written and rewritten. change your mind, it is filled with thoughts that are meant to be changed. change your image, it is who you appear to be and is ever changing.

start now. today. 

what stories do you tell yourself?

your failure

Posted on by
1

2925094345_624e28f5e1_bYour failure is to get up everyday and say you are going to do something and then not do it.

Your psyche will soon believe it and will give up on you too. Your self-sabotage will win.

Every day you wake and think – I want to be healthier, I want to write more, I want to volunteer, I want to… whatever it is that you say to yourself – if you continue to say it and never do it – that’s failure.  Stop thinking – start doing. A lot of people will say there is no such thing as failure and part of me thinks that is true, but we can’t always be gentle with ourselves when we want to get something done, when we want to do something meaningful, when we want to heal our own lives. Sometimes we need to kick our own asses and get up off the couch and change something.

That small voice needs to be heard and listened to – believe it just once – and then again.

Sometimes the fear of following through is actually the fear of success – stop thinking – start doing.

Your failure, my failure, our collective failure is to not even try. And then again – there is always tomorrow.

Stop? or GO! – GO!

Accidents_lead to breathing

Posted on by
5

This morning I got up was thinking I didn’t want to go to the gym – was mopey about some things and while driving the car to the Max station I ran over something, a medium sized animal of some sort. A gasp fell out of my mouth, uncontrollable sobs and sniffling came next. Through the side mirror, I saw whatever it was run away, it didn’t look hurt, but I just hit it.

Should I stop? Should I get out and see if it’s okay? There is traffic behind me. I can’t stop crying – there is no way I can go look.  Instead I pull to the side of the road and cry for a minute and try not to think of the thud and the crunching sound. My heart hurts.

The things that make us stop are the places I like to pay special attention.

Life is interesting that way, the moment  you think you’ve got it, you’re good, yep this is it. You run over some small furry animal and it makes you take a longer look at things.

It’s almost the end of another year and a good time to pause, a good time to let my heart hurt if it does and to let myself breathe.

Sometimes breathing is difficult.

I can’t get enough air in between the must do, must have, must think about, must provide clarification, must get better at.

I can’t breathe.

So, today – I’m breathing, that’s the goal for today, just keep breathing. No need to do anything else. I’ll think about the future tomorrow, I’ll make goals and plans when I’m finished with pausing.

I hope that little furry guy is okay.

sentimentality

Posted on by
5

8254174933_dd536912a2_bI try not to get bogged down in being sentimental.

I read this book years ago Conscious Femininity – Interviews with Marion Woodman and this passage stuck with me.

On how sentimentality robs us of our feeling:
Woodman: To me sentimentality is not genuine feeling. Sentimental people tend to ignore their own shadow, their own darkness. They cover up real suffering with self-pity, for example, and stultify their own growth. Or they may focus their energy on another person who is trying to deal with genuine feeling, perhaps genuine evil, and because they’re unable to face that in themselves they say, “Poor thing.” They take a condescending attitude toward people who are fighting for their lives trying to get to their integrity. Sentimental people refuse to suffer. Real anger or real grief are put into cotton wool that smothers any possibility of transformation because they cannot stand the fire, and real feeling is tempered in fire.  Real feeling moves into the conflict and hold the opposition until the new is born. Sentimentality fears the heat of passion. It takes a holier-than-thou attitude and pretends it knows no evil, feels sorry for anyone trapped in compulsive behavior. Nazis were sentimental. Children are not.

Today, I’m being sentimental about my life and feeling sad for myself and at the same time taking pause for where I’ve been, what I’ve learned and where I’m going.  In a way maybe it  is not actual sentimentality, but a remembering, an honoring of days gone by. Not wishing them different, not passing them off, but feeling them the way they come through to me.

Sometimes, okay most times, when I hear a Christmas song, it brings a lump to my throat or I see a family in front of a Thanksgiving table, it turns me to tears. I used to push that aside and not deal with it at all, thinking it was because of the wonder of the season, the magic, the miracle of it all, but it’s not.  It’s grief for what I missed. What I’ve lost – my mother, my father, my two brothers and all the other things – we all have things that make us sentimental.

So, while I’m feeling sad, I remind myself – I’m no “Poor thing.” I fought life for my integrity, my authenticity and I can be okay just grieving – what might take a thousand more days to grieve, but I know if I keep  letting it come in, come through – things will change. I’ve seen it. Instead of avoiding what’s going on, I ask – what am I avoiding? Am I being sentimental or am I willing to really feel what’s going on? and then letting whatever that is in, without sentimentality, might change your life.

Sentimental:
Marked or governed by feeling, sensibility, or emotional idealism
Dig into sentiment when you need to, DON’T forget to dig your way back out.
What are you avoiding? What’s asking you to suffer? What makes you sentimental?

the right words at the right time

Posted on by
1

7505372906_226767c8f5_bIt always happens. The right words come at the right time.

I’m just about to give up an idea, a spark, a thought of what I want to do or be doing or how to do something differently and someone says something that urges me on, causes me to change, or to not listen at all and keep going – because it’s the right thing to do for me.

And then sometimes it’s not about hearing the right words at the right time, it’s about listening to whatever question I have at the moment.

In letters to a young poet, Rilke says the questions we have of ourselves may be the answer themselves.

…have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. 

I don’t often like when things are challenging and yet I love the challenge. I say I want things to be easy, but I’ll never be happy if things are always easy. I say that I don’t want to question myself but to just keep going toward what I said I was going to do and then I love to question it.

Not everything that is “worth it” is challenging, but most times, for me, anything that is challenging me is “worth it”. It’s worth taking the chance to see what comes from it – what new information is about to blow my mind. It’s the difference between living and being alive. It’s a small risk in becoming more of who I am, to take the challenge to see if it’s worth it and to learn along the way.

In the last couple of weeks two people have said something to me that stopped me in my tracks, that validated my thinking in a way that surprised me that it was true to them. Are they talking about me or just an image of what they believe me to be? And then I thought to myself, it doesn’t matter, they heard something from me at the right moment in time that maybe helped them live the answer to something they were questioning, or challenged them, or was whatever it was they needed to hear.

That to me, is worth it. The challenge is to keep going.

The right words come at the right time as do the right questions.

Keep going, keep doing, keep questioning, keep listening, keep being more alive.

Re_frame

Posted on by
2

I’m halfway to my goal.

I’m eight months in and only halfway.

I have 4 more months to post another 51 writing sessions.

Nothing like a deadline to get me going.

I’ve been aggravated lately, something seems to be off in my life and I can’t figure out the exact WHY or WHAT of it, but it’s there. A general down-ness, maybe it’s the end of summer and the beginning of fall and winter. The time to turn in, hibernate, not be so out and about. Maybe that’s what it is. Or maybe it’s something else, maybe I’m not where I want to be in life and then I say – AM I EVER?

In any case, I want to find a way to re_frame it.  Not that I want to avoid what’s going on, but to put a perspective on it that doesn’t suck. That’s the part of working through it for me. Recognizing that I’m in a funk and not fighting to get out of it but being more understanding of it.

That’s what it takes for me to figure things out. ACTION and non-ACTION. Both.

ACTION – think about why I am in the space I am. ACTION – believe I can change it. non-ACTION – don’t do anything until I’m clear, don’t be reactive, or rash. ACTION – settle into and think about how I’d like it to be. non-ACTION – let it unfold. It’s a challenge to stay with it. It’s a challenge to not ACT and yet be ACTING.

So today – I’m re-framing it. Rethinking what everything is about and eventually, I’m going to make a change. I’m not sure what it is, but it will come when it’s ready. Sometimes the change will come when someone else makes a decision and it impacts me, sometimes I have to decide.

I’ll keep deciding what feels right and what doesn’t, what should stay and what should go. Not making decisions right away, but to watch and think on it.

When it’s time – I will cut – as Marion Woodman says – with a sword of discretion. A sword unlike a knife produces an immediate cutting away. Cutting away that which doesn’t bring more to my life.

It takes courage to realize that something isn’t right and to work to change it. It may take all the strength I have to make that cut, but once I’ve cut, I can move on. I can be more alive.

It’s easier to have someone else decide sometimes, but when I choose, the cut is swift and then the door is closed.

What’s getting in the way of what I want? What’s getting in the way of writing? What’s getting in the way?  That’s what needs to be cut.

There is always light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel never really ends, I just go toward the next light.

What’s getting in the way of what you want?

Happiness

Posted on by
Reply

No one ever told me “When you grow up you are going to be happy.” No one ever said “When you grow up you are going to have a good life.”

Maybe they should have told me that, but they didn’t.

Even if they had told me that, why do I always think that that’s what I’m supposed to be? Happy and having a good life?

Happiness for me might be misery to someone else. Happiness is and it isn’t.

You do not have to be happy.

It reminds me of the first lines of this poem:

Wild Geese ~ Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

In other words, we do not have to struggle, fuss, fight. We don’t need to punish ourselves for not being what we thought we should be.

Sometimes things come up and I think – I’m not happy with this. Then I think – So what? I’ll be happy again sometime. I can work to change it or not.  Be unhappy. Be happy.  Sometimes the pause of unhappiness brings happiness.  It’s the pause that counts.  It’s the pause that gives me the courage to decide what’s next.

Wherever you are, you are. Why fight it?

Happy.

Go!

 

working it.

Posted on by
3

For the first time in my life I work with sixty four other people – In the same office. I’ve been a part of large and small organizations and sometimes even felt like a contractor in my last job when I was an office of ONE. But I’ve never worked in an office with this many people.

In an office of 65, you don’t have to like everyone, work with everyone, or even talk to everyone. It’s foreign, compared to the smaller places I’ve worked where you kind of have to find a way to deal with everyone’s crazy.  I mean we’re all crazy – right? It’s a matter of whether my crazy works with your crazy or not.

What this new office has made me think about is what makes a good company? What makes people want to come to work everyday, what makes people positive instead of negative?

So far, I’ve realized, nice is better than cool – considerate is better than cool – organized and trying to be a better collective organization is better than fighting the world for the ideas of one influential leader.  The opposite of patriarchy is good. Positivity is good when it’s real.

Smart people doing good work together is cool.

These things seem obvious, but why are so many organizations dysfunctional then?

In a world where we are so conscious about service, why do we sometimes choose to work in environments that are less than employee-centric? Aren’t we the internal customers of the companies we work with?

Maybe a better way of saying that is – isn’t there something in it for the company you work for if you get better at your job and become a better human being? I think there is.

Working for a company that so far embraces me for who I am and what I bring to the table and allows me to play to my strengths is where I believe the future of successful businesses is going. It makes such good sense that I find myself mistrusting it every day, I keep thinking, this can’t be real. But so far – it is.

Employer got you down? They most likely aren’t going to change unless you do. Nothing is static, everything changes, start with yourself – it’s the only real control you have.

In any good relationship as you change so does your partner, you communicate, you talk about change. If you’ve changed and your work/boss/environment hasn’t or can’t come along with you, maybe it’s time to find a new place to work. As painful as that can be, it’s worth it, you’re worth it.

If you’re a business, you might want to think about how you treat people, how you engage with them, how you influence them, or stifle them. Are you thinking only about what you’d like? Or are you asking the tough questions about what the people who work with you actually want?

The world is changing to be more inclusive will you keep up with that change?

July 1976_searching

Posted on by
4

It’s my birthday.

For my birthday, I’m putting up this writing session which makes me sad, but at the same time, it makes me happy. I look back at the little me at five and think, you’re amazing. GO! I also look back and think, THAT HAIR! And a pink shirt!?

I am pretty certain that my Mom must have cut my hair for this photo and for some reason it looks orange. My sister always argued with me about this photo and one other saying it was her, but I know this was me. So there. Regardless, it could have been any of us.

We’re human, we’re amazing, it’s what we do with it that matters.

~ July 1976 ~

“Momma, I can sing real good if you want me to.” I said. She looked down and said “No girl, singing’s not going to get you anywhere. Learning is what you need.”

“But Momma, I’m big when I sing.” I stand up tall. She shakes her head back and forth, short curls swaying close to her head. ”No girl, singing’s not for you.”

“I’ll be right back, don’t come looking for me either.”

I know she is not coming back, the little feeling that I’m choking comes up in my throat.

“How long Momma, how long will you be gone?”

Looking down at me she lifts a hand, the back of it brown from sun, she slaps her leg and laughs a little. Her mouth is empty, only a few teeth left, those are black and brown and broken on the edges, she has one gold one in the back. We aren’t that bad off if she hasn’t had to sell that tooth yet.

“I can’t find peace with you Gaaddamn kids”. She mostly smiles with her lips pursed straight across, so that she doesn’t have to show her teeth.

I need to know how long she will be gone.

“How long will you be gone Momma?”

Her serious sad face, her saggy skin hanging down “Just a few minutes.” Turning to the door

“Is a few more than a couple?” I ask. “A couple means two right Momma?” “Yes a few is more than two.” she says “Like five?” “Yes, three, four or five is a few.” “No more than five, right Momma, that would mean many and you said a few. Do you promise Momma? Do you promise it will only be a few?”

“Yes, only a few minutes.”

I throw my arms around her leg and take hold.

When she lies, I feel all tingly on the inside, I can tell so I ask more questions to see if I can figure out the truth.

“How long, how long, how long, don’t leave, don’t leave.” the rhythm of the words choking back tears. Please just tell me “5 minutes, 10, an hour.”

“Now let go of my leg and behave” her polyester pants scratching me as she moves her leg, her hands pushing me down and away. My hands turn cold and as she gets close to the door; I run to it pressing my hands against it as it closes.

I run back to the couch and sit stiff like a board.

“Three, four, five, she’ll be back in three, four or five.” I sing, “3, 4 or 5. 3, 4 or 5 is a few, means more than a couple, that means 2.” I watch the clock. I always watch the clock when she is gone. “Sit still, very still or you might cry. Watch the clock. Watch the clock.”

“3, 4, 5.” I sing, in a small and quiet way.

At three minutes I am hopeful. I can move a little now because I know she’ll be back soon. Four feels good, hopeful. Five is very long but by six she’ll be home, she said so. Five comes and goes and I am not sure what to do. My head says she is not coming back. Five, five, five, she’s not home. I rock back and forth, running my hand along the seam of my pants. They are my favorite pants, purple pants. What if she doesn’t come back?

I punch my leg hard. Maybe I won’t think about her never coming back if I do something else. I hit the place where the bruise is deep, black and lumpy.

The bruise is from Peggy and a game she plays with me to see how much I can stand before I cry. Peggy hits me over and over. I don’t even feel it anymore. It’s just about being strong enough to not cry.

Last week when Momma was in the kitchen making noodles, I was on the couch, watching the black and white TV. Peggy sat beside me and hit the soft fleshy part of my thigh. I winced, but no crying. Pausing, in between the balling up of her fist, she pinched. I looked straight ahead, no crying. My face hot, not saying a word. It could have been worse she could have been kicking me or hitting me with the brush or broom handle, or threatening to stab me with a knife, which is much more scary than this.

Smack.

“Ready to cry yet?”

“No”

Smack. Sucking in air, holding my breath

“How about now”

“No”

Smack, smack, smack.

“Now?”

No longer able to hold back the breath, chest rising and falling, the tears came, giving away the pain. I couldn’t stop them once the bruise was deep enough.

I didn’t want her to be able to make me cry.

She turned away happy, smiling, her wavy brown hair flying behind her bee-bop walk into the other room. I got myself back together and just as she was about to leave the room, I laughed and I couldn’t even stop myself from doing it. I laughed and laughed, which brought her back and the hitting and asking started again.

Today, when I hit myself, it doesn’t hurt much. The tears are already welling up because Momma is never coming back. The punching makes me wince, but I’m not afraid of that hurt. Only afraid she is not coming back. It’s 8 now. I want to go looking for her. She said not to, but I have to.

I know when I go looking for her I don’t like what I find.

I can’t wait any longer. Ten minutes is too long for me, I will check with Granny to see if she knows where Momma is. She’s not really my Granny, but that is what everyone calls her. She is smaller than Momma and bent at the shoulders, her blue and pink flowery housedress is always pressed and clean, small glasses shade her eyes, her thick panty hose sag at the ankle. I don’t know her real name. She lives next door and I like that she only has a basin and a toilet, no bathtub or sink in the bathroom. I would like it if I did not have to take a bath. There is a sink in the kitchen, but none in the bathroom. If Momma is not there Granny will give me a cookie, she always does, the kind with jam in the middle from the store, not the kind we have at home.

I peek out the front door though the plexiglass window. It used to be glass-glass but has been broken too many times from angry slams. Every time it broke Momma started crying, someone cleaned it up and put cardboard in the window. Whoever broke it was always long gone and the rest of the day we’d all try to be quiet to not make Momma cry anymore.

After checking the front door, to make sure no one is lying in wait, I open the door, the handle jiggles because it is loose. The smells of summer, grass, lilac, rough wood siding, slip through me. I run down the stairs and across the cement that was replaced earlier in the summer, but has already shown wear because one of my brothers didn’t know how to mix cement. There’s always something half way finished around here.

Running fast across the two driveways, ours and Granny’s, touching the big maple tree that stands in-between them. Hand hitting bark, rough, it’s not smooth like a birch. The gravel is hard on my bare feet, but I am a fast runner and I don’t care.

I hear them after me already, my brother Bobby and his friends, Phil, Joel and Pat, like a wild pack of heathens. Momma calls them that. I am not sure what a heathen is, I imagine it as some sort of monster, gray like a rat with yellow teeth and the legs of a lamb, where you aren’t quite sure what you are going to get the good side or the bad.

Yelling, they chase me.

“Yeah, get her, we’re going to pound you AmyBeth.” They say my name as if it is one word all strung together. Stomach lurching, eyes darting back and forth searching for an exit, I run faster.

At Granny’s door, I know I should knock and wait for her to come but if I knock they’ll be here before I get in. And today they might wring my neck good. I reach and grab the doorknob, lungs pumping, hands slippery wet with sweat, open the door shove myself through and quickly but gently close it behind me. I slide my back down against it, breathing out fear.

I hear Momma laughing in the other room, a laugh that comes from the belly, the kind like you really mean it.

“Who’s there?” Granny calls, she sounds like the voice on an old record.

“Probably one of those gaaddamn kids looking for me.”

I walk through the kitchen, the dining room, and into the sitting room. Passing the cookie jar, which seems to smile at me as I walk past. Standing up tall and proud, a fake smile across my face, maybe they’ll think I’m pretty.

“I found you Momma.” I say as sweet as I can.

She looks angry and rolls her eyes. My shoulders fall forward, head down.

“I told you not to come looking for me.”

She nods to Granny “I can’t stay away for not one minute.”

Granny who smells like liniment, laughs and smiles at me as if to say you’ll be ok.

“Now gaaddamn it I told you I’d be home soon now get the hell out of here, I’m having a quiet time with Granny.”

It hurts me in my heart, more than punching my bruise, when she says things like that. I turn around and run but know I can’t go back outside, I don’t want to get beat up just yet.

I’ll wait until I hear Momma leaving.

I pretend to leave, opening and closing the door and then shuffle into Granny’s bathroom, lifting the lid of the white wicker hamper, I hike one leg up and pull using my back to push forward, I slip down into the hamper and close the lid. The rubber rim around the lid does not make a sound when it closes. I sink down into the dirty clothes. It is musty here, but it feels safe. The smell is like the hair from Granny’s trash that we burn on the burn pile. She wears her hair in a bun, when she lets it down it’s down to her waist. When she brushes it hair gets trapped in the brush, she pulls it out in little bundles and throws it into the trash that we collect, because we are always helpful to Granny. I like to watch the long gray hairs burn, bright red at the ends, winding around through paper. The smell of it is nice and bad all at the same time and I like it.

In the hamper, I get nervous that if I don’t go home Momma will hit me with the paddle for coming to look for her, I wait for a while longer, which is probably only a minute or two and scramble out of the hamper, head first, hands out, the whole thing tilting behind me. I make the few steps from the hamper to the door silently. I stand on tip-toes looking out the glass-glass in Granny’s window. No one is around. Bobby, Phil, Joel and Pat are in the backfield. I grab the handle and turn it as quiet as I can. Sliding out the door, this time not running at all. They may not hear me if I walk soft. I pass through gravel, tree, dirt, broken cement, uneven stairs that creak which reminds me. Momma says they’ll need to be fixed by winter and where the hell is she going to get that money?

I’m not tall enough to see in the door window from the outside. Most times no one is home during the day but me and Momma, so I don’t feel too much worry going back into the house.

It’s quiet inside and smells of dust and plaster.

Maybe if I can sleep, I will wake up and she will be here. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll sleep, close my eyes.

To be safe, I move the couch out just a little using my hip and leg to push with force. I grab a wadded up blanket from the chair and slide behind and under the couch. The heathens can’t find me here. Momma will know to look for me if she comes home though. She knows all my hiding places. Lying there, I stare at the wall. She might be gone forever. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Sing your song. Sometimes singing makes me sleepy. Go on sing. I know that singing makes me feel better especially if I get all the words right. Where is thumbkin, where is thumbkin? I sing quietly, the words rock me back and forth. I use one finger from each hand to talk to the other.

It takes a long time to fall asleep during the day, especially if when Momma is gone forever and I don’t know where I’ll get any food. But, if I am behind the couch with a blanket it seems like a cocoon and that is good. I know I can’t get up and look at the clock because she is still not home and it makes the lie seem bigger the longer she stays away.

I pick at the plaster and at the peeling off wallpaper. No one can see it here, it’s ok if I peel it off. I won’t get yelled at. The paper is brown on the edges. It used to be tan, now its ugly and torn like someone peed on it. I am sure someone probably did or spilled some slop on it. The carpet behind the couch smells like dirt and old things. It’s red and yellow with a wavy curly design in it. It has been worn thin, even here behind the couch. Yellow fibers show through where there should be red. Sometimes the dusty smell makes me sneeze. I know how to sneeze real quiet so no one will hear me or find me back here. As long as I am hiding, no one can see me, they can’t bother me.

The creak of the door scares me, hot air streams in.