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......
Monday, May 6, 2019
Friday, February 8, 2019
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'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
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