Filling In The Blanks

Hey! Turns out I made the cast of Listen To Your Mother! I am super excited. I have done many, many public appearances in my life: speeches, television, presentations, bridal shows, an appearance on Donald Trump’s The Apprentice, a Sears commercial, a TV special about motherhood, you name it. (One of the most fun things about being a magazine editor is I never knew what opportunity would come to me next.)

But I have actually never stood on stage and read a work I wrote as part of a performance.

I can’t wait! And I am in utterly fantastic company!

See?

Barbara Patrick
DeBorah “Momma D” Gray
Jaime Fernandez
Kim Forde
Kizz Robinson
Laura Pruden
Marinka
Mary Beth Coudal
Nicole Goodwin
Nivea Castro
Rebecca Land Soodak
Sandy Rustin
Sasha Schreiner
Shari Simpson
Sofia Quintero
Stacy Morrison
Susan Buttenweiser
Tracy Beckerman
Virginia Watkins

I am so looking forward to the rehearsals and to meeting the women above I have not yet met. I absolutely loved the experience of auditioning (read the post below), and can’t wait for the big night! (May 12; buy tickets here.) And come up and say hi after the show!

I love doing something I’ve never done before. Please share with me: What have you done or tried recently you had never done before?

This weekend, I attended an audition. My first. Or, well, my first since my tryout for the college chorus.

I was late. It was raining. The subway was at a crawl for the last four stops. Not exactly how I’d like to show up for an audition: breathless, damp and sweaty, apologetic.

I kind of laughed when I walked into the audition room, because there sat four women I know, at increasing levels of intimacy: Dusty, Amy, Holly and dear friend Varda. I had not been expecting to know everyone there. But of course I should have expected that. I was auditioning for the Listen To Your Mother show, after all, an idea spurred by BlogHer (my place of employ, but more than that: a longtime home for me) and ushered into being by the fabulous Ann Imig.

A set up my piece on the music stand (which I wasn’t expecting to have — so helpful!), took a moment to give Varda a long sympathy hug (as she recently lost her mother, too soon after losing her father), and said to Varda, “I’m sorry, but I’ll be reading about my mom’s death, of course.”

And off I went—”My mother had refused to speak to me for three days…”—disappearing into my piece and feeling only the words that I had written and all the notions and images I had corralled for one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written.

When it was finished, I may have taken a bow (excess adrenalin, that’s what I blame), and I definitely ran to give Varda another, longer hug. And then I waved and scooted out the door.

Truth is, I don’t even need to be picked as a performer for the show. (Though of course I would like to be.) But that singular experience of standing up and reading a piece about my mother, about me, about life and its gorgeous mishaps and mystical lessons, was rewarding enough.

Sharing who we are: it’s such a wonderful potion, a dose of concentrated humanity.

We can all hope nothing more than to be witnessed for who we are—which, of course, was what my piece was about. And for that experience this weekend, I thank LTYM, BlogHer and all the many, many deep, true friends I’ve made in the ether of the internet.

Proud Special Proud Special That’s Me

Do you know the last time you felt proud of yourself?

Isn’t that an interesting question? What did you hear inside when you read that? Did it feel like an appropriate question? Did you flinch a little, think it’s an unseemly idea, self-pride?

I feel like in adult life it is used more in a negative sense, like, “Are you proud of yourself now?” Said with scorn, over the steaming pile of argument aftermath. Whereas for my son, I use it as the highest compliment, usually with tears in my eyes. “Aren’t you proud of yourself, Zack? YOU did that, YOU did,” for his first report card ever (yes, ever) with no negative points or comments on his behavior and (lack of) self-control.

But I am feeling proud of myself, at the ripe young age of 44, and I am going to claim it.

December 9 I was drowning in pain. And it so was not pretty. So deeply unpretty that I hate to put it all down here, so I could stare at it directly, measure its sprawling size and strength, like mapping a hurricane. Storm Stacy, registering as a 5.

And now, not even two months later, I am free. By my own hand. A blizzard is bearing down on my city, but I am calm. And proud.

Everything I learned in the aftermath of my divorce was tested. Everything I so painstakingly wrote down and recorded, in 100,000 much-considered words, was thrown into fresh doubt. Aside from being devastated, I felt like a failure. I could not live the very truths I had codified, the very truths I believe to my core.

Except, I did.

But this time around I had to learn that even hard-earned wisdom can’t protect me from life’s pain.

Of course!

But I paid attention, I stayed open to Derek (when I so desperately didn’t want to), I kept asking questions, questions without angles, I listened to the answers. And once again, I learned what I needed to set myself free. I ransacked the kitchen drawer of our shared memories and experiences as individuals in a couple, in front of him, and with him, and then at one point, enough junk moved out of the way, Derek was able to reach in and hand me the key.

The key is my aha, my “secret,” a connection to a truth about myself I had never before seen, that I’m still turning over in my mind, slowly attaching to words.

And all that will continue to unfold, leading me toward the peace in the center of my being.

But for now I am calm, and proud. And so happy to be a human who keeps learning.

I stumbled across this image today—quoting the words of the fascinating Anais Nin—on the extra-fabulous Brain Pickings, which always features smart wonders to think about, and so deserves your attention (and your money).

Turns out, the lettering was done by Lisa Congdon, a really inspiring person and artist (artist person?) whom I had the pleasure of hearing speak at Camp Mighty—she told the story of basically leaping into her career as an artist, and not waiting until it all made sense. And yes, it’s worked out fantastically for her. Her confusions—or at least some of them; I’m sure there are more—have become clear.

It’s a brilliant phrase, and the kind of sentence you can crawl into, walking up and down its interior staircases, checking out all the different levels on which it is operating. It reminded me of another beautiful script image I cherish—maybe even still a tad more than this. “Trust Your Struggle.” Wait, here, I’ll find the photo:

See how it even reads differently in the script? It’s like an aria, an open-throated call for grace.

Adore.

This is all we can do, and all we must do. Live the confusion, trust the struggle, and reach for clarity even if it is forever at just a fingertip’s distance away.

I’ve been overusing the word “good” lately, but I have to say, it’s a hell of a lot better than overusing the word “miserable.”

I had a weekend of two wonderful things: I took Zack to see the house I’ve been eyeing in Garrison for more than a year, and he loved it, and so I’m bidding on it (yikes! and yay! all at once); and Derek came to visit on Friday (for a final move-out errand) and to see Zack, and the three of us had a great, easy time.

It’s crazy what time does to agony… Also, what conversation, mutual understanding, letting go, seeing what really is rather than what I wanted… all that. I know I wrote a book about traveling that journey, but I was as suprised—no, more surprised—this time to stumble into acceptance and grace and peace. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can feel better than releasing the chains of attachment, the self-imposed barbs of regret, dropping them to the ground and seeing how light life can be.

But you do have to go through the dark first. There’s no other way to get there.

Seeing Zack and Derek was beautiful, poignant, and above all, amazing. Zack was open with Derek about how much he missed him, how he wished he could come back; and Derek was gentle in responding. The three of us slept all in one room, just like before, but not quite—all different, in fact. And it was fine. And lovely.

When Derek put on his coat and readied to leave early the next morning, Zack was pedaling away on my exercise bike, reading a book (hilarious, yes?) and he dismounted to run and give him one of his trademark velcro hugs. He jokingly dropped to the ground, his arms wrapped around Derek’s leg, saying “Nooo! I won’t let you go!” and giggling like a maniac as Derek began walking toward the door. He meant it, of course, but he was saying it in the right tenor. Then he got back on the bike and started pedaling again as Derek opened the door to go, and Zack shouted, “I love you, Derek!” And Derek said, “I love you too.”

I died. A good death this time.

Later Derek sent an email saying it had been good to see us and that he looked forward to “finding our way together.”

I’m so grateful I don’t have rules in my head about How Things Should Go. Because it leaves room for accidental beauty like this, painful and pretty in equal measure, and worth all the gold in the world.

44! And so much more!

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. —Walt Whitman “Song of Myself”

It feels almost too easy — at least for me, a woman of words and literature — to quote Walt Whitman for myself on my birthday, but it feels so right.

Inspired by this poem, and the simple magic of its title, I offer up—to myself and the universe, to my friends and readers—a quick list of what I can sing to the heavens in celebration and appreciation of the person I am.

I feel I am a brave person; this makes me proud (though no less afraid)

I am so happy I feel compassion and empathy so deeply

I am vain in a totally appropriate way about my long, blonde hair; it brings me simple, daily joy

I love my long, slender fingers. I’m always amazed to see them in pictures. And my son has them, too.

I am lucky that words have always been my currency and coin, jangling around in my pocket. I am so satisfied that I have found ways to use my voice that bring me joy, peace and a sense of rightness

I am a good friend.

I am a good-enough and great mother.

I have an unbelievable memory, not for names but for moments, and clothing (what you were wearing when I met you), and the exact time I had any realization about life that made me go “oh!”

I do everything in a big way. Which used to worry me that I was artificially inflated. But in the last few years, I’ve become life size, and now know this is my simple, gestural truth: my drama is genuine. I think life deserves a sense of being eventful!

I am a poor loser when it comes to board games. Good thing I don’t lose that often. (And I really have to force myself to let my son win a game. And yes, I know how ridiculous that is.)

I love poetry, and I still hope to become a poet

I am at peace when I am in the middle of a grand landscape of nature—most especially mountaintops, forests. It is where I know I am home.

I am lucky. So lucky. Luckier than most. And today, I can really feel that.

And so today, I sing the song of myself, and I celebrate myself, and I am ever so very glad to have this space I can tell the truth of me and know it is always welcome.

Not every day is hearts-and-flowers. NYC, June 2012.

This blog… it can be intense, no?

I challenge myself to tell “it” like it “is” and not varnish or sugarcoat my experiences, perhaps a bit to my peril. I live a not-completely-private life, functioning as a figurehead some days, as a talking head others. A voice. A representative. An advice-giver. An answer girl. An easy-to-idealize font of facts and suggestions. Type my name into Google and woah—lots and lots and lots and lots of photos come up. Often of me with overstyled hair standing next to celebrities. (Thank god I was fit and trim and allowed to style my own hair the day I was photographed with Cindy Crawford!)

I suppose that collection of public imagery means I have a something at stake when I’m unfurling such raw sheets of emotion. And I get it. I know why this isn’t typical, isn’t a “normal” thing to do, if you’re a person who has public currency. I could be judged! I could be deemed as being flawed, unstable, depressed, out of my mind, downbeat, dark! These are not at all the traits that support the viability of my public persona—which, I assure you, is as real as this one you see here. But as we all know, soundbites are not the place to search for complexity. (Though I do my best.)

But I go ahead and keep this blog for a reason. I do it to heal. Both myself, and others. I do it to be an example. For myself, and others. I do it be a dare, a challenge, a line in the sand. I do it because I think the truth is a powerful force that we don’t rely on enough in our culture—which is pretty ironic when you consider that I tell stories, find stories and shape stories for a living. Ha! But every story has to have that underpinning that rings and resonates like a clarion bell, sending its reverberations into the minds and hearts of those who read it, so it doesn’t turn into another random distraction, read and discarded, another 11 minutes passed in a life full of minutes easily dispensed, tossed away on a tide of distraction.

Truth is freedom. Yes, that old saw “the truth shall set you free” is one of my guiding principles in my life. I’ve often joked (and maybe I shouldn’t be joking) that I want to write a book called “The Truth Will Set You Free (But That Doesn’t Mean That It Won’t Feel Bad First)”. And I guess I live that axiom out loud here for myself every day.

So when I find an article called “There’s More To Life Than Being Happy” (from The Atlantic, one of my few daily must-reads), I have to admit, I get pretty excited. And yes, perhaps a touch smug. Because when decades of research—including a brand-new not-yet-released study—show yet again that happiness, both as a pursuit and as a reward, is fleeting. But then conversely finds that creating meaning in one’s life supports resilience, self-worth and compassion (which in turn, support meaning),  and it’s all created by having a sense of connection to something larger than oneself. Yes, yes it does.

I know my life has meaning. And I know my experiences, even the dark ones, have meaning. And not just because I type them up and share them here with you. But certainly, sharing those experiences is another beautiful way of being human, of being connected, of commiserating about experience and pain and life and loss and love and the achingly poignant and ultimately incomprehensible burden of consciousness.

I can be only who I am. A blonde who shows up on TV from time to time, coiffed and well-packaged. A mom who worries and wonders and weeps with the magic of motherhood. A friend who tells off-color jokes, no matter who’s listening. A black-belt internet shopper. And yes, a woman who aches and hurts and bleeds, just like everyone else. And who isn’t afraid to admit that that suffering—and we all get our due—is worth looking at as closely as the triumphs.

And if you don’t believe me (though I know YOU do, you who read this blog), believe the research:

Having negative events happen to you, the study [from a forthcoming issue of the Journal of Positive Psychology] found, decreases your happiness but increases the amount of meaning you have in life. Another study from 2011 confirmed this, finding that people who have meaning in their lives, in the form of a clearly defined purpose, rate their satisfaction with life higher even when they were feeling bad than those who did not have a clearly defined purpose. “If there is meaning in life at all,” Frankl wrote, “then there must be meaning in suffering.”

I’m always meaning to be happy. But I’m happier to have meaning. A meaning that I have dug up out of the earth of my own life, with my bare hands. The dirt under my nails—and the pain on this blog—is proof that I’ve lived, and that I expressly desire for life to leave its marks on me.

The shiny marbles of truth and meaning I’ve pulled from depths of my own experiences are the lights in the heavens, my guiding stars. And yes, indeed, often the very words on these pages.

New glasses, and a new vision of myself. Yes, they’re, unrelated, but still… aren’t they nice glasses?

And the secret is me.

This weekend I had a profoundly transformative experience. I saw something in myself that I have never before seen. I literally felt the “twannng” of a new self-recognition, a piece of a puzzle falling into place, a shell of something empty falling away.

Of course, once I had decided there was nothing to solve, I learned something new. Isn’t that always the way? If we can clear the path of our bullheaded effort, a piece of grace can float down out of the sky and land in our lap, eiderdown with weight and meaning.

I am playing with this discovery in my mind, flipping it over and over like a coin in my pocket. It’s found change, a penny from the sidewalk, a piece of luck.

When I understand it more, I’ll share it here. But I wanted to register the simple joy of seeing myself in a new way—the utter thrill of being shown again and again, that even though my little human mind can’t remember this, that every day we are reborn and the world starts anew.

 

“Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment.“—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The first part of this beautiful sentiment, I have been lucky enough to live. I have always been bold, much more afraid of being haunted by the What Ifs than worried about the repercussions of the What Dids. Even though I feel those repercussions as deeply as anyone, timid, surefooted or otherwise. (See also: My Beautiful Maybe.)

The second part of this sentiment, I need to internalize more. I need to accept that Part I and Part II of this quote are weighted together, leaning against each other like an A-frame of possibility: one without the other and the whole structure falls flat.

I don’t want to live in a tidy brick house at the bottom of the hill that can withstand most of life’s predictable storms.

I want to live on top of the mountain, even if in that rickety A-frame. I want the views and the majesty, the heavens and the earth—even though up here I’m not sure if the weather will be wicked or glorious. And even if I have to accept that there exists no weathervane that can tell me what is coming.

I am sometimes afraid that I will never find my peace. But then I have to remember that the fear is the teacher, the guardian who stands in the way of true knowledge. On the other side of every fear is freedom.

I want to accept the challenge of the experiment. How much desire for certainty can I let go of, in order to feel truly free to be whomever I am meant to be?

“I Am Good.”

I made that my mantra for my return to a meditation practice, and I have to say, it’s been perfect. And I don’t say that word lightly, ever!

I am good. I mean good. The world is good. It’s all good. I’m good. You’re good. He’s good. It’s all meant for good. For good. The good. It’s good. I am good.

Of course, at that point in meditation the word “good” ceases to have any meaning, and the mind is just on its endless loop of letting go and letting in. But even to see words stripped of the inherent judgments we attach to them has been instructional—a potent reminder that the conversations I’m having with myself in the front of my brain are one hundred percent created by the ego and its needs. Meditation reminds me there is a whole other, larger portion of my brain that is interested in non-verbal communication and non-judgment. Oh, hello there, you! Nice to see you again! I thought you, and the sense and evenness you bring to me, were gone forever!

I am good, even when I am “bad,” when I feel bad, when I do badly. The good is the stasis, the center point.

I am once again comforted by my unimportance in the larger scheme of things. In the grand scheme of things, I am definitely good: I love, I live, I create and encourage compassion, I dare, I have passion, and I fail at doing those things no more and no less than my compatriots. I am good.

It’s amazing how just a few moments of carefully focused non-attention in the morning can let all that come pouring back in. We spend so much time making this journey of life complicated (all the reasons why we can and can’t do the things we want to do, have the things we want to have, the internal stories we write to explain our pain and put it elsewhere) and yet, so much of life is so simple—if only we can allow ourselves to be empty, for just a moment, to really feel it, and let it be so.

I won’t expect that my entire life will be completely transformed by my rediscovering this necessary practice. But keeping this gentle little feeling of “I am good” with me at all times is one hell of a consolation prize.