Month: December 2009

Similarity and Difference

I’ve had Kristen’s post called Validation in my head since I read it yesterday morning. Kristen asks herself (and us): “Do I simply search out people who reflect back to me what I want to see in myself? And, if so, is that a bad thing?” She goes on to talk about how she gravitates towards blogs whose general perspective feels familiar, and wonders if this reflects a “preference for a pot unstirred and waters untroubled.”

But I’ve been thinking more about this today, and about the comments, particularly that by BigLittleWolf. It was on my mind when I commented on Kristen’s post: I thought about blogs I read that are “different,” and realized that those that are the most different, the most off-topic, don’t really push my thinking about parenting or identity or presence or love or any of the big questions that roil my brain daily. Yes, I read a bunch of technology blogs, and also some superficial celebrity blogs. Both of these groupings I would call very different, in both topic and worldview, from my own blog. But that very difference opens up a gulf, and in that space the ability to influence my own thinking about my own thorniest personal issues is lost.

In my comment I defended what Kristen worries is a tendency towards validation as something more fundamental. I stand by my overall belief that those who feel “like us” in the blogosphere are probably much more legitimately “like us” than people we meet in real life. In a world where we are represented by words on a page a lot of the superficial identifiers that we use to sort through other people are removed. So when we resonate with another blogger we are, in large part, resonating with a very real and honest part of her. Not, for example, whether she has a kid at the same school or is wearing the same jeans we are.

And so what I’m mulling over now is that in order to really expand our horizons about topics like mothering, does a blog (or a person, or a point of view) require a baseline degree of familiarity? If something is too foreign, don’t we all instinctively dismiss it, some psychological version of graft-versus-host disease? I agree with BLW, in fact, that while there are some similarities in theme and tone among the blogs that I read most passionately and loyally, they are hardly identical. I am sure that those of us who blog about parenting, for example, actually differ quite widely in the ways in which we mother. I’m sure we have different points of view on bedtimes and food and time-outs and appropriate behavior. And none of us is right, by the way. The learning comes from hearing other people talk about why, and how they think about it.

At least for me. I think the most valuable conversations – be they in person or in the blogosphere – are often (not always) with people who are relate-able enough that their view is credible to us, their input valued because we know we respect their opinion and perspective. Of course this respect is earned multiple ways, and similarity to ourselves is neither the only way nor a guarantee of it. The people whose input I esteem the most highly in this world are not all like me; they are not all mothers, not all women, not all like me. They are, universally, intelligent, thoughtful, caring, and deeply engaged in the business of living.

And this is what I look for in blogs I love – in fact in all media that I consume. I am drawn to people whose outlook on the world makes me think, people who are able to spin words into a dazzling gossamer web, people who are honest about their struggles and challenges and weaknesses. I think that having this, ultimately, is the similarity of which Kristen speaks: the willingness to share candid stories, to actively engage in the effort to live more thoughtfully and consciously, and to admit difficulty. If that’s what the blogs I love best have in common, then I can only aspire to call myself similar to that. That’s a community of “sameness” that I would be proud to be a part of.

Best of 2009: Gwen Bell blog challenge

Today: What’s an article that blew you away?

Easy. The Atlantic magazine article titled What Makes Us Happy?

The article was one input to a long blog post about the puzzles that we all are. I found myself thinking about the article, and the study, long after I read it this summer. I refer to it constantly and circulate the link a lot.

The article describes a longitudinal study of 268 men over 72 years, whose goal was nothing short of understanding what contributes to happiness. What I took away from the article is that happiness is in our reactions. It is not driven by what we have, what we are born with, or even, to a large degree, what happens to us. It is by what we do with those things, and, even more specifically, how we respond to challenges and setbacks. The article’s conclusions are much more nuanced, of course: read more detail here.

Fascinating, inspiring and daunting in equal measure, I’ve returned again and again to this premise this year. May 2009 be the year I decided I needed to grow up and learn a bit more about resilence. I think the happiness of my life depends on it.

Darkness and light

I have been thinking a lot lately about darkness and light. About how this is the darkest season, the darkest month, and yet, somehow, lately it is lit for me by an unmistakable light. I was talking to a friend about this yesterday. The days are so dark now, at least where I live, and I remember that I used to find this suffocating. But in the last few years somehow a faint but growing sense of light has crept in for me.

The optimist in me feels a wild surge of hope about this: perhaps I am witnessing the birth of my own faith. This is a holy month, after all, full of imagery of light, regardless of your religion. Perhaps it is the flickering, nascent light of my own belief that illuminates these dark days. The candles in windows and the holiday lights strung on trees and in windows everywhere I look both reflect and contribute to that internal flickering.

My parents co-host an annual party on the winter solstice. They have been doing this for years and I’ve been attending since I was very small. Late in the evening, as midnight nears, the crowd is led in a Mayan ritual that involves lighting candles and chanting. The Mayan chant is one that invokes the return of the sun. I’ve been thinking about it, lately, and wondering if that is happening in some small way each day of this month. It’s no secret that the solstice is a meaningful day for me, and I wonder if just the promise of its arrival, the clear evidence that the world will turn again towards the light, is enough to buoy me through the darkness.

I’ve been turning these ideas over in my head for the last few days, seeing echoes of my thoughts in things like the huge, luminous full moon in the pitch-black December 1st sky. And this morning, as I got dressed in a morning so black I thought when my alarm went off there must have been a mistake, I read Meg Casey’s words. Once in a great while I read a piece of writing that makes me want to kneel and press my head to the ground, saluting its gorgeousness and ability to evoke emotion. This is one such piece. Please read it.

I considered not even writing anything myself, just linking to Meg, since she articulates the thoughts I’m trying to share so much more beautifull than I can:

December is a holy month. Maybe it is the dark silky silence that descends so early, that speaks to me of reverence. Maybe it is the promise that December holds–that no matter how dark, how cold, how empty it can get, the light is coming back. Something always shifts in me when December arrives–I embrace the darkness and am eager for the coming solstice when the whole world is still and holds its breath, waiting to be reborn again. December whispers to me of midnight mass, of ancient choirs, of stained glass windows turned into gems by candle light.

And Meg then goes on to talk about the connection between holiness and wholeness, using the image of a stained glass window: Broken, jagged, sharp pieces of glass held together magically, transformed into one perfect design not by gold or silver but by something as mundane as lead. Oh, how glorious this is. There is more to Meg’s post, of course, and it reminds me of an Anne Lamott line that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about lately: “Love is sovereign.” Yes. As Meg says, Love is the transformative power that turns our brokenness into something beautiful.

Perhaps the sense of lightness that I feel in the midst of such complete darkness is love. I don’t know. Probably it’s some combination of faith, hope, love, and white Christmas lights. I care less about the source, frankly, than I do about honoring that light, about celebrating the mystery of its arrival and the glory of its radiance.

Present Tense. With Danielle LaPorte

Today is day three of Present Tense, an exploration of how various wonderful, wise women work to be more present in their daily lives.
It is my privilege to share with you today the words and insight of Danielle LaPorte. I bought Danielle’s book, Style Statement, when it came out, and I have been a devotee of her writing and her thinking since before she launched White Hot Truth. It was an absolute thrill to meet Danielle in person in September at a Firestarter in New York. The session at Aidan’s house overwhelmed me, in the best possible way.

Then I was lucky enough to have a one-on-one with Danielle in early November. Much like at the firestarter, I found myself fighting back tears (not always successfully) during that session. So I’m concluding that Danielle is one of those people who, both intuitively and gently, accesses the vulnerable and volatile core of other people. She’s a sage in snakeskin leggings. I’m serious. She is soft-spoken but intensely charismatic, and she sees into the heart of things. And of people.

I wish I could be more specific about Danielle’s gifts, but they are as ineffable as they are undeniable. You can get a real sense of her through her writing on White Hot Truth, though. I love her words and her voice: she is funny and straight, deep without a whiff of grandiosity. She writes about provocative topics in a compelling way and shares quotations that inevitably make me cry with their wisdom. As far as I can see, her approach to the world is honest and brave; she tolerates no bullshit and accepts nothing but her heart’s true path. She makes me want to live the same way. Danielle fills me with inspiration and hope that is tangible: talking to her makes me feel like there’s a balloon in my chest. When I’m not crying I’m gasping, unable to quite believe the beauty of the life she dares me to imagine for myself.

I’m delighted and honored that she agreed to participate in this series (which, truth be told, was pretty much her idea!).

1. When have you felt most present? Are there specific memories that stand out for you?

I was in a car accident a few years back and it was amazing how much “information” I received in nano-seconds – the cause, the state of mind of the driver, the future physical implications, the whereabouts of my husband and child, the depths of personal issues I was going through at that time in my life, a certainty of human inter-connectivity. It was so holographic, I was astonished at how much I knew-saw-felt-smelled in that crash-bang-crack-flash.

Luckily there have been less traumatic moments of presence. Birthing my son at home was one of them, for sure. But in terms of everyday kinds of Presence…my awareness is most piqued when I’m not looking to get anything from the exchange. I let the moment, the friend, the circumstance be free to be itself and I listen with all my cells. Sure feels good.

2. Do you have rituals or patterns that you use to remind you to Be Here Now?

This is so incredibly new age cheesy, but…candles. I only burn honey beeswax which I order from this crazy place in small town Ontario (did you know that real beeswax candles clean impurities from the air? the petroleum based wax is nasty shit…I digress…) Fire reminds me to focus. Ditto for some old mantras and chants that I pull out once and a while, especially before a speaking gig.

3. Do you have specific places or people that you associate with being particularly present? Who? Where? Any idea why?

Some of my girlfriends have a huge presence to them – you feel like they have all the time in the world for you, even though they don’t. My Jew-Bu shrink is like, Shamanic in his capacity to hold space and see everything floating in the air, I’m grateful for that, to say the least.

4. Have you ever meditated? How did that go?

I’m meditating right now. And when I do the dishes. And walk the dog. And read to my kid. And wander an art gallery. It doesn’t have to happen in lotus position. I try to be my own temple, that way, I’m always home. But yah, I’ve logged many hours cross-legged and watching my in-breath, out breath. And much of my prayer transcends into meditation for me. For me, the learning has been to mediate without attachment to what the meditation will “produce” or do for you. In terms of meditation, I’m more interested in observing my mind than trying to control it. Easier said than done, because there are soooo many others things that I’m also hooked on controlling.

5. Has having children changed how you think about the effort to be present?

Absolutely, positively. When my monkey-boy came along almost six years ago, I got FOCUSED. I wrote a poem about it in which I said, “my world became the size of a seed” so focused, so massively full of possibility. My greatest heartbreak is noticing when I’m not present with my kid. It’s what he wants and deserves the most.

6. And just cause I’m curious, what books and songs do you love?

I’m currently loving Pema Chodron’s latest book, Taking the Leap.
Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clariss Pinkola Estes changed my life.
The Soul’s Code by James Hillman is one of the few books I’ve read more than once.
And I never leave home without some Red Hot Chili Peppers or Serena Ryder.

********

Danielle … thank you.

In September we spoke briefly about birth and I know it’s something that we are both interested in. I believe devoutly that birth can be a defining and deeply spiritual experience for women, an opportunity to be present almost unlike any other. I love your other examples, though. I think the idea of not needing anything back from the other person or the moment is profound. What I wonder is if we can wish or think ourselves into this or if that is in direct opposition to the goal?

I love the expression about your shrink “holding space.” Oh, there is something to that. Are there people whose spirits have a stillness that allows us to relax into the space we share? Somehow certain people can create for us the conditions where we are present. What an extraordinary gift. Danielle, I suspect you hold space for a lot of other people.

Your comments about meditating everywhere you are remind me immediately of the work of Thich Nhat Hahn, whom I’ve long loved. Your words seem to echo the understanding I have of his teachings: the point is to be present in your daily life. To make a meditation, a celebration, of washing the dishes. Of waiting at a red light. To be aware of your breathing in and breathing out. To hear you say that letting go of attachment to what the meditation “produces” is a revelation. I think I get caught on that, every single time, and I can’t get past it. This is one of those aha moments that I suspect you create all the time for others: it seems so blindingly obvious now that you say it, and is utterly revolutionary. Just stop worrying about what the end of the meditation is. Just take a breath. Let go. Wow.

As usual, with all things Danielle-related, I am full to the brim, blinking back tears, my mind full of thoughts and questions and hope and horizons heretofore never imagined.

Thank you. Thank you.

Bearing Witness and Pushing Through

Oh, yes yes yes! So much of Danielle’s imagery is familiar to me, resonant like the deep ringing of a gong: truth.

A woman makes a cup of her heart. This reminds me of my musing about whether the propensity to feel both deep sadness and deep joy is about capacity or contrast. But Danielle’s onto even more. She reminds me of the way women connect, often instantaneously, and of how a woman “carries your story with her.” Absolutely right. In this way, I am a repository of thousands of stories I have heard over the years, from intimate friends and casual acquaintances. I am composed, in large part, of the stories of the women I have known. Of their wisdom and humor. Of their narrative.

Sometimes people criticize me for taking on the emotions of others, tell me this is only bogging me down. Maybe it is: I have wondered before if I am simply too porous. But Danielle reminds me that there is a gift in this, too. That this is just part of what we women do. We carry others’ stories with us.

Women feed each other, literally and figuratively. Food is comfort, and it represents nourishment writ large. I’ve been reminded of this over the years, by the food my mother brought to me when I couldn’t see straight in the days after Grace’s birth, by the organized bring-dinner-over schedules that gathered around a neighborhood friend undergoing treatment for cancer, by my daughter’s firm preference for my hokey homemade birthday cakes over fancy store-bought ones.

This reminds me of a passage from Eat, Pray, Love, where Elizabeth writes about learning of a family whose mother and three year old son were both diagnosed with cancer in one year. Her reaction: “Oh, wow. That family needs grace.” Her sister’s reaction: “Oh, wow. That family needs casseroles.” What we realize is that casseroles are grace. Food is comfort, food is solace, food is a concrete way that we take care of each other. To provide bounty on the table is a way some people represent their spirit’s generosity.

Adjunct to the notion of women feeding each other is Danielle’s most provocative question: Who asks you if you have everything you need? That is an easy answer for me: women. Always women. My mother, my sister, even my daughter. My female friends. This kind of being mindful of others’ needs seems to me a quintessentially female trait. It is the women I love who both care about and anticipate what I need. They call after doctor’s appointments to see what the news is. They remember to have a nut-free cupcake for my son. They send a book through the mail, just because they read it and they think I might like it. They ask what I need, they ask again, they don’t stop asking, even when I don’t know what I need and when my tears threaten to drown both of us.

There is one quote that reminds me of these qualities. I sent it to Danielle today and that she included in her post’s comments:

“Women do not leave situations like this; we push up our sleeves, lean in closer, and say, “What do you need? Tell me what you need and by God I will do it.” I believe that the souls of women flatten and anchor themselves in times of adversity, lay in for the stay.”

– Elizabeth Berg

Women touch you. This reminds me of a story like the one Danielle tells. When my grandmother was very ill, in her hospital bed, my mother would massage her feet with lotion. I never thought of my grandmother as a particularly physically affectionate person, and I think this level of intimate caretaking was new for both she and my mother. But still, my mother sat at the end of her bed, rubbing her feet, a benediction, a way of holding her own mother tight as they drew near the precipice of death.

Women push. Yes, we push out babies. Of course. But it’s more than that. We push each other, too. I recently had a soul-rattling argument with a very dear, old friend. It threw me, bigtime. And I thought a lot about it. It pushed me to consider the ways in which I might come across as insensitive, uncaring. That is a pushing that is uncomfortable, but unimaginably useful. We also push through each others’ crap, to the molten core of who we each are. Push past the bratty and the bitchy, through the thick forest to the luminous clearing we know is there.

So, Danielle, thank you for your warm and wise celebration of the ways that women relate to each other, the ways we bear witness, the ways we feed each other, the ways we push and push and push, the ways we excavate the layers of ourselves, each other, and the world. Thank you, Danielle, for honoring the brilliance of our gender. You make me proud to be a woman. Thank you.