Here I go....

In 2016, at the end of a 25 year marriage, I did something brand new.  I booked myself a tour to Spain, Portugal and Morocco.  It was a baby step getting on a tour bus with a gaggle of strangers, but it took as much faith, maybe more, than Neil Armstrong stepping onto the face of the moon. 

It was worth every nerve.

So when I sold my house in 2017, I packed everything I felt was worth owning into a storage unit and spent the summer in Europe.  I made plans to fly into Madrid and out of London, bought a Eurail Pass and hit the Continent.  It was a daily adventure in deciding where I wanted to be, each morning waking to the possibility to leaving or staying as I felt in that moment. My strongest memories are built upon the recurring theme of walking down a paved/cobblestone/dirt sidewalk/street/road and thinking "I am so happy!"

Now, it's 2019 and I am 11 hours away from getting on a flight yet again.  Now don't get me wrong, there have been lots of flights in between (Canada, Colorado, Mexico City, Cuba, California, New York, Washington, and more) but none that I consider an Epic Adventure.  Not like this one.

I can tell, because I have butterflies.  I have packed and repacked every day since I submitted semester end grades five days ago.  I have a plan that includes flights, ferries, trains, buses and bikes.  I have hotels and hostels and hang outs and all the clothes I need that fit into a pack back.  I have paid my bills, checked my insurance, texted my kids, settled the dogs, and arranged to have my apartment cleaned while I'm gone. 

Every trip is a fresh start.  I know I won't return the person I was when I left.  I will be richer, wiser, and my worldview will be wider.  I will have stories and songs and pictures and probably an extra pound or two.  But I what I value more than anything is the new way I will see my life with a brand new B-roll running as background in my being. 

"Do Epic Shit" was the theme of my 60th Birthday Party 18 months ago.  Never doubt I will.  Never doubt I am.

Here I go......

Standing naked before the crowd? Or a slow striptease?

My friend Rheem and I had an open honest conversation about friends.  How hard it is to develop new, deep, friendships when life changes and you find yourself alone and starting over.  It's hard for many reasons- you don't have kids to bond over, or their events to plan for, or share the daily trials and tribulations of school projects, dance recitals and soccer matches to discuss and lament.  Instead, when you're 50 (or more) and find yourself divorced and needing a new "go to, puts up with your quirks, do anything with" best friend, it's really hard to find your tribe much less your person. They are camouflaged with layers of life and stay in the shadows lest they become prey one last time.  The tribe has dispersed into family clusters and villages where the paths have become overgrown after decades of unuse and of course, the ex got the machete in the divorce.

It's hard.

Damn hard.

So Rheem and I took a blood oath (or was it a champagne toast) at a swanky club in London to find our tribe.  To make new friends.  To blaze the trail.

Almost two years later, I've had some success.

I met my new friend Carol who sat on a bench everyday along my dog walking route.  She introduced me to Ann, Kym, Carol, and Karen.  My new friend Victoria is a colleague going through her own stuff, looking for her tribe too.  Deborah sits next to me at the theater where I bought a single season ticket and now meet her before every show.  Angie and Cherie and Lenka and Valerie and Patty joined the book/movie club I started.  And the best part of living in an apartment building is all the wonderful neighbors and staff that I chat with every day.

I've also had some failures.

I've lost a couple friends this year for a myriad of reasons,  which I'm not ready to talk about.

Which brings me to my lesson...

While I have gained friends, and we chit chat like town women in Music Man, they're not yet the deep, tell everything to, cry with, laugh with, curse with, sing with kind of friends.  I care deeply about them, and I see them often.  But they haven't seen me.  Not really seen me.  Not seen my soul.

And that's on me.

If I only show folks part of me,  one dimension (and not even the same dimension for each) can I really be part of this tribe? Or am I simply traveling on a visa, living on the fringe, just that tiniest bit an intruder?

Brene Brown says, "... true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world..."

Now that my (hopefully) friends, is scary.

Frightening.

Petrifying.

Jordan and I were talking one day after attending a funeral.  I had to admit that at my funeral, during each portion of the eulogy there would be many people saying "I never knew that"  "Really?"  "I never saw that side of her."  There is not one person on this planet who knows me.  Really, really, really knows me.

"...our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.”

Self acceptance leads to vulnerability.  Or is it vulnerability leads to self acceptance? Or is it enough to acknowledge they walk hand in hand?

How do I start?  How do I practice being vulnerable?

Everything starts with a good story, right?

So if I start talking, sharing my story, maybe my tribe will hear me as my vibe goes out into the world and like echolocation of whales and dolphins, we will find each other.  I will find my tribe.  My tribe will find me.  I will find my person.  My person will find me.

So here I am.... writing it down.

And I'm out there, telling my story.  First time at RAW.  Then again.  Then Fort Lauderdale Story Slam.  And City Speaks.  And if the fates allow, one day at The Moth.  Live, true storytelling is standing on stage exposed.  Naked  if I let me.  For now, I'm keeping the stories as powerful as I can but safe in a way too.  Not too much me yet, but maybe I can strip off a layer at a time until like a seasoned burlesque star that last piece of protection will come off with joyful abandon and my soul will stand free.

In the meantime, I am trying to post the audio links to the storytelling I've done here on this blog.  All uncut and grainy and unedited in hopes that my tribe sees me and hears me and hugs me and calls me their own.  But I'm having some technical challenges, so if you'd like to hear them, post a comment or send me your email and I'll send them to you.

Learning to strip.  Learning to be naked.  Learning to be authentic.  Learning to be vulnerable.  Learning to belong.

https://youtu.be/PYE-fcGf2FI

It takes a truckload of faith to get by

There is a difference between facing my fears and having faith.  It may be subtle to some, but to me, it is the greatest paradigm shift in my world.

You see, I am brave.  I am one of those people who others might even say is fearless.  Give me a topic, any topic, and I can, will, and have stood up in front of thousands and deliver a 15 minute speech that will seem it had been written and rehearsed countless times.  I’ve developed this gradually over time by facing my fear of judgment, capability and all the nausea, sweating, and sleepless nights that it brings.  I have learned to “be brave”.

I travel alone.  Sure, the first time I was scared, almost to the point of it not being the first time.  But I sucked it up, prayed the rosary, took a Xanax, and went.  And the next time was easier.  And the time after that even more.  Now?  I’d rather not travel with anyone anytime thank you very much.

When I went skydiving the first time (back in the day of solo, tethered first jumps), I was so afraid, I found myself hanging from the strut, fear paralyzing me. I could NOT let go!  The jump instructor screaming at me, “We can’t land with you there!” 

Yes, I faced my fears, conquered them.  I am a WARRIOR!

But that my dear friends is limiting.

It has occurred to me that what I really, really want is to move in faith.

What’s the difference? 

Facing my fear is hanging on the strut of the plane, looking down, feeling the dread of possible death, adrenaline rising, stomach churning, flight or fight in full tilt mode and then letting go anyway.  It’s saying, “I am stronger than my fear.  I am more than my fear.  Fear, get behind me!” and then jumping.

Faith, is hearing the next three words from my jump instructor, “You got this!”

And believing I did.

Fear is saying, “I can handle anything negative that comes my way.”

Faith is saying, “Everything that comes my way is perfect.”

Fear is saying, “I can solve problems, tackle adversity, face my fear.”

Faith is saying, “Problems, adversity and fear are exactly what I need.”

Can you feel the difference?

It is so subtle that I don’t have the language for it.  I am not sure how to express it.  I am not sure how to feel it.  Or live it. But there is a difference.

And I have faith I will find it.

Look where you're going!

I remember so vividly teaching my kids how to ride their bikes.  Well, not Jordan.  She simply got on the bike and started to peddle around age 3.  But the boys.  I remember.

Andrew and Derek were ready.  Bryce I had to bribe.  But regardless, each one, one at a time when they were around 5 years old,  donned their sneakers, buckled the helmet (always a little too big calling even greater attention to their own tiny demeanor and exceedingly large eyes), and stood alongside, listening to the instructions.

"Don't worry.  I'll be right here.  I'll hang on to you and I won't let you fall.  I will run alongside you until you say to let go.  I'm here.  You're ready.  Let's go."

And we would start. 

But invariably, in their fear of falling, they would lower their gaze to the ground in front of them, under them, and in result, they would topple.  And fall. 

I'd pick them up.  Check the damage.  Apply either kisses or ice depending upon the severity and we would try again.

Peddle.  Peddle.  But they would lower their eyes, then their heads to better focus on the fear.  And fall.

"Don't watch what you are afraid of.  Instead, watch where you want to go."

And they would try to look out, but then ultimately would look down, and then, down they went.

But we kept on.   And each time, they glanced down less and out more until pretty soon, they got it, and said "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  And in their new found focus and skill they would peddle off, going further and further each time.  Until they barely remembered they ever needed me at all.

They learned a lesson.  Me?  Not so fast.

So many days with my now grown 20 year old kids, I focus on my fear.  I look at all the perils in their paths, all the things that might go wrong.  In doing so, I loose my focus, my balance, and in my insecurity I grab out for them, trying to get them to see my fear too.  Sometimes I am successful, and we both careen to the ground.

But more often than not, they keep looking ahead, riding confidently over the potholes and through the puddles.  I run after them, until I hear them yelling once again "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  When I do, and I raise my eyes to see the broad horizon they are confidently moving toward, and only then, I am so very, very happy. 

If they fall, I can still see them.  I can go pick them up and apply kisses or ice depending upon the severity.  But soon the distance between us allows them to pick themselves off before I even get there.  Then, they simply remount, turn to give me an "I'm ok" wave, and start again.

Looking not at their fear, but at their future. 

And teaching me to do the same.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about privilege....

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about privilege.  There's been a lot of time since my last post to think about it, and a lot of reasons why.  And of course, much of my thinking is informed by the lives of my kids.  I will write more about that soon, but for now, I need to write about it from another place.

Privilege....

It is a hard concept to grasp if you have it, not so much if you don’t.

Friends, colleagues, and others in my circle have denied their privilege. Hard work, stick-to-iti-ivism, and sheer gumption are the key to success.

But that doesn’t seem to be quite enough.

Hurricane Irma blew through here recently, and this is when my privilege reared its pretty blond head.  I have enough money.  Not a ton, but enough that when I sold my house, I chose to move into a newish apartment downtown. When the storm was brewing, our staff had a plan, had resources, called a meeting, and told us exactly what to expect.  We had impact windows and doors, a five year old building, a team to prep the space, and generators for our generators.  Residents formed an online chat room, communicated what was happening from the various views and even sent video so we could see the rise of the river.  When someone had a leak, neighbors came with buckets, towels and duct tape.  When a woman cut her hand, a doctor in the building responded with first aid.  When we got bored, there was a bottle of scotch in the stairwell.

On the other hand, there are the people of Puerto Rico where over a million residents had no power and 500,000 had no water after Irma crossed their path.  And just when it seemed the island was at it’s lowest, along came Maria, leaving the entire island powerless-literally and figuratively.  People are dying in a San Juan intensive care unit because there is no diesel to power the generators.

Without privilege, there is no power.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Maria had followed Irma to Houston instead of San Juan taking the one-two punch.  Would FEMA have done something different to prepare for the second strike?  Would Congress have stood on the Capital steps and demanded that Houston be protected, shored up, a wall built to guard it from the coming tide?  Would the citizens have called the media, the government, the world to take them in and create evacuation to safe havens created specifically for them?  Would FB have exploded with “Pray for Houston” or banners, or outrage over the government’s denial of climate change or adequate storm resources?  Would Houston somehow been prepared in a way that Puerto Rico wasn’t?

But it wasn’t Houston.  It was Puerto Rico.

There was no Congressional ranting, no media outrage, no FB protest.  Why?  No one, note even the residents of Puerto Rico expect much from mainland US.  Heaven knows, they have learned there is seldom a hand reaching across the Caribbean.  After all, the government of Puerto Rico saw Congress had already deserted them in the myriad of financial crises.  FB didn’t expect much because, well, it’s Puerto Rico.  They’re not America’s responsibility, right?

No privilege, no power.

Privilege is a social construct that gives power and opportunity to some, but it also creates expectation.   Over a lifetime of being a white American in the middle class, I have come to expect results.  Concern.  Caring.  Results.  And when I need something, I have no hesitation in expressing those demands, making those demands, demanding those demands.  And the majority of America, white, middle class jumps on my bandwagon amplifying my voice until it is a deafening roar society must listen to, respond to, take care of.  That is not my “fault” but neither is it the fault of those who have NOT been listened to, NOT responded to, NOT cared for to NOT bother.  Their energy is conserved and used to take care of themselves because there is a social construct that society will not respond.

No privilege, no power.

Look at this difference.  According to CBS News,  “An eight-member team from the Energy Department’s Western Area Power Authority that was deployed to Puerto Rico ahead of the storm and assisted with initial damage assessments has been redeployed to St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands.”

Did you read that right?  EIGHT member team.
                                        Now REDEPLOYED to St Thomas (as of 9/25, five days post Maria)

No privilege, no power.

Compare that to Houston, where, “Within days, the number of FEMA employees, other federal agencies, and the National Guard deployed topped 31,000, all focused on helping Texans respond to Harvey.”

No privilege, no power.
Gail Choate
September 25, 2017



NOTE:  There is no ending for this piece, because, quite frankly, there is no end in sight.  But I am sick and tired of the majority in this country, (yes, you, white, middle class) denying privilege exists and denying that we live in class based society.  How dare we say that America is equal opportunity?  How dare we say just pull yourself up by your bootstraps?  How dare we, when the unprivileged have the audacity to point out our privilege, how dare we say, “Get that son of a bitch off the field right now, he's fired. He's fired!"  

No privilege, no power.

No ending, no end.





https://www.fema.gov/news-release/2017/09/22/historic-disaster-response-hurricane-harvey-texas http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2017/09/25/hurricane-maria-puerto-rico-power-grid-damage/

My child is not giving me a hard time...

My friend posted a meme this morning that said, “My child is not giving me a hard time.  My child is having a hard time.”

What a simple statement of absolute truth. 

Oh it sounds simple.  “It’s not about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you,”  my mom used to say.  Interesting that she would say that to me, but then her entire world revolved around me and my brother.   Everything that we did wrong was somehow her fault.  

I remember, for example, one of my biggest faux pas.  As a teen, my church youth group went to a weekend Jesus retreat.  It was going to be outdoors at a great camp with lots of open space to explore and commune with nature.  To be with God.  

What better place to bring alcohol?  Yup… we brought along a bottle of vodka (I think it was vodka although I seem to recall that slo gin was normally our bottle of choice).  After a day of Bible and prayer and reflection, we proceeded to sneak out of our cabins late at night and congregate in the nearby woods.  There we drank ourselves silly.  Except for Steve.  He drank himself into unconsciousness.  And we were scared.  Really scared.  In our drunken panic, we went to our Youth Group leader.  I don’t remember what exactly transpired after that, but whatever he did revived Steve without any flashing lights or trips to the hospital.  I seem to remember it consisted of simply waking him up and then everyone sleeping it off.  However, what I do remember with more clarity than Sharpie on a Solo Cup is my mom’s words… “How could you do this to me?”

It was more sobering than a hard slap to a cold face.

How could I explain it had nothing to do with her.  In fact, my mom was the furthest thing from my mind when we concocted our transgression.  It was Wisconsin.  It was the 70s.  We were only 1 or 2 short years from the (then) legal drinking age of 18.  It was a retreat.  An escape.  We wanted only to retreat.  To escape.  Not our parents.  Not even the world.  We simply wanted to escape being kids and be adults.  And vodka seemed to be the most immediate way. 

But my mom didn’t see that connection.  Instead, she connected the dots between our foray into alcoholism and Mother’s Day and immediately labeled my actions being about her.  She was a bad mom.  She didn’t measure up.  She was a failure.  She was embarrassed.

And in true penitent Christian fashion, she took that embarrassment to a whole other level on the Sunday when we evildoers had to stand in front of the congregation and admit our iniquities.  Ask for forgiveness, not from Jesus who proved he understood the value of a good drink at Canaan, but worse.  We had to beg forgiveness from the elders of the church who wore white gloves and mink stoles and looked over their glasses as they sucked their teeth.  And while we may have been eventually absolved, my mother never was.

I learned that from her. 

To take things my kids do personally.

And now, as the mom of young adults, I am unlearning it.

My kids love me unconditionally. They would do anything for me.  Anything.  Yet when they mess up, get jacked up and even fuck up, it’s not about me.  It’s all about them.

It’s about them feeling for the boundaries in the dark.  It’s about them looking for their place at the table in a packed dining hall when they’ve arrived a tad late.  It’s about them finding 1000 ways that won’t work on their quest for the one that will. 

As a mom, I remember when they learned to walk.  With my first, Andrew, I tried to remove everything dangerous from his path- to clear the way.  Yet I couldn’t keep him from wandering into a pool and nearly drowning.*   With my second, Jordan, I swore I would follow around behind her ready to catch her at the first wobble.  But she had other ideas and went from sitting on her own to standing and walking long before that milestone was supposed to be in sight.  Derek started running behind the first two with reckless abandon before I even seemed to notice. And the youngest?  With three older siblings and a mom who was trying to be more perfect with every child, he didn’t have to walk.  Everything he needed/wanted/desired was simply brought to him in eager anticipation.  So by the time he took his first steps, I was simply relieved.

Were these four approaches a reflection of me?  Were they a measure of my momhood? 

No.  They were four kids reacting to their worlds in a way that was purely theirs. 

And today, when I take the time to look, each continues to navigate their world in similar fashion.  The way each learned to move through their world as babies is much the way they move through the world today.  It is about them. Their view.  Their speed.  Their path.  Their road.  Them.

It’s not about me at all. 

The lesson my mom taught me, my kids untaught me.  I must stop being afraid my kids might embarrass me in front of a judgmental world and instead, watch them maneuver through life. Whether they go from ditch to ditch, before I think they are ready, with reckless abandon or so slowly I am simply relieved when they hit their own stride, I stand on the side cheering them on.  Ready to pick them up, dust them off, plant a kiss on the boo boo, and send them back on their way.

My child is not having a hard time.  My children are living their own time.

And nothing makes me prouder. 

* I wrote about this in my blog post of December 2016.

Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

The sound of a good massage.

My thoughts ricochet like a pinball wizzard  between "this is heaven, please never stop" and "WTH?!?!".

Blissful images flood my mind as the therapist's expert hands glide, without resistance, from tight muscle to tense muscle.  He deftly takes the knotted remnants of my day accumulated over my life and deposits them into some cosmic communal vessel where all unused stress goes to be recycled into something wonderful.

But then, "OW!"  He hits a spot, just to the left of my right shoulder blade, where all of my responsibility and worry and angst take refuge, hoping to hide behind my "should"er. That place in my body where obligation and regret reside.

Yes, nestled between what I think I should do and what I really can do, my frustration and fear are allowed to fester and furrow deep within my fibers. There they hibernate and marinate only to arise at 3 in the morning causing me to lie awake or fight myself in restless dreams

Ahhhhh..... but when my magic man presses his thumb, or his elbow, or all 180 pounds of himself deep into that recess, damn, that hurts.  And it feels so good.

Why is it that when I get a massage, I like the pain?  I'm not a masochist (although I might like to star in my own version of "50 Shades of..." but that's a different blog post).   But I do.  Like the pain I mean.  I know it hurts, yet I lean into it, I breath through it, and in some strange way, I relish it.  It hurts, but it hurts with purpose.   Sometime, somewhere somehow my mind learned that at the end of the pain is release. It is pain with purpose.  In fact, the pain in a good strong massage is one of taking control of the latent pain, squeezing in "Take that!" and with sheer force of will, chasing the pain of "You didn't do that!" away.  The pain is good, directed, healing.  Afterall, without the trigger point pain, the knot just stays there and rots, turning septic and oozing its poison not only in my shoulder but my neck, my head, my back, my entire body.  So during a massage, I don't simply tolerate the pain, I yearn for it, beckon it and embrace it because i know that without it, I will never find sweet release.

Is all pain the same?  Is it not bad at all, but simply the final holding on of the negative right before the huge release?  Is it a precursor of growth?

If it is, then why do I constantly fight it?  Set my life mission toward "AVOID PAIN AT ALL COST"?  I'm not thinking I should look for pain, but rather, perhaps when I feel it, like in a good massage, I should lean into it, breathe through it, welcome it, and wait in giddy anticipation for it to be over (which it will) since I KNOW on the other side is sweet, sweet release.

The Buddha is credited with saying "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  In massage, my pain does not yield suffering.  Quite the opposite.  Can I move this learning to other sufferings in my life?

Ahhh...ouch...ahhh...ouch....

In between the shooting flashes of pain release, my kids pop to mind.  Ever since they were little, I did everything in my power to shield them from pain.  I sheltered them and if that didn't work, I fixed whatever it was that went wrong.   I wrote notes, and demanded conferences, and fudged a thing or two.  As teens, I escalated and began solving problems they didn't even say they had.  All they had to do was text a question "Do we have roadside assistance?" and I would have the mounted police on their way with a jump, new tire and a hot thermos of cocoa.  "Mom, do you ask your students to do narrative essays?" BAM!  I was googling the components, downloading examples and before you could say "I only need a rough draft" was providing prompts to overcome my daughter's writer's block before it could manifest.  As a parent, I worried, and stewed, and frantisized all sorts of calamities so that I could outrun, out takle, and out perform them in my supermom quest to save my children from pain.  

"I got this mom."  "I love you but stop..." "If I need help, I know who to call."

As children they would insist "I can do it!"  As teenagers, what I called rebellion, they called doing it on their own.  They've been trying to teach me that my job as a mom is not to suffer on the way to avoiding their pain.  In fact, without pain, they can't grow.  Without pain, they can't feel the sweet release of growth.  They need the pain.

I think I finally get it.

I love them so much.  I would do anything for them.  I would give them anything.

And what I need to give them now is their own pain.  Their own mistakes.  Their own choices.  Their own lives.

They are smart, and resourceful and resilient.  They will make some bad choices but more good ones. And like my massage, any pain they experience will allow them sweet, sweet release.  

Pain is inevitable.

And I am here for them.  Leaning in.  Breathing.  Loving.

Suffering is optional.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.................