Taking in the Good

For years I deflected compliments; I didn't feel worthy. Now I've (mostly) learned to graciously accept kind words--indeed, they are a gift. My external behavior has changed, but part of me still doubts; wonders if I'm a fraud. As with many things in life, it's a work in progress. Recently I've had opportunity to explore my internal process of deflection. During my end-of-career festivities, I've tried to stay mindful. Part of my intention: allow for the appreciation, honors, and kindnesses; do not downplay myself. As a teacher, I've positively affected many students. I take this into my heart (carried with me always). I feel great affection and gratitude for my students and colleagues, why not allow them to express the same? 

On Sunday afternoon, my friends Andrew & Jen hosted a potluck in my honor. It was a gathering of best friends; it was a gathering of love, laughter, and delicious food. Mid-evening, Mark turned to me and said, "you are surrounded by such love and joy." I took in the view and smiled. I agreed, of course, as these are special people who bring with them acceptance, wisdom, compassion, and a willingness to have fun. But Mark's point was a different one: I am surrounded by this circle because of who I am, because of my own large heart. That was a tougher compliment to accept. The resistance came from some mixture of humility, doubt, and fear (what if Mark's right, but then I do something that jeopardizes everything?).

Yet it's vitally important (for all of us) to take in the good. To see the love and generosity around us and know we're a part of it; to let it sink into our bones. We are all worthy of love, just as we are. The circle of love includes others--important others--but it also includes ourselves. We are part of that good. It's okay to sit back and enjoy the ride. It's okay to take in the good. (No lightning strike will come from the sky.) I write these words mostly as a reminder to myself. I am blessed by friendship, love, generosity, and kindness. I am thankful, yet I'm also worthy. And this is an important balance.

Your One Wild and Precious Life

This morning I gave the baccalaureate address as part of commencement weekend at Lawrence University. It was a joyous and whole-hearted experience, for which I'm very grateful. (If you'd rather watch than read my speech go here and forward in 33.5 minutes, where Tony's introduction begins.) Included below is my speech, "Your One Wild and Precious Life":

I was both honored and touched when the class officers asked me to give this address. Particularly because this is my last year at Lawrence. I assure you, there's no drama; no relocation; no upset; no regrets. I've thoroughly enjoyed my 14 years at Lawrence. I've treasured my time with students, both in and out of the classroom. My colleagues are top-notch. I still believe Lawrence is a place where educational magic happens. But it's time for me to change career paths—completely. Away from statistics; away from academics.

So I can proudly say I am part of the class of 2013. I'm graduating right along with you. And, perhaps like you, I have no idea what I'll do after graduation. (But fortunately for me, I have no need to move back in with my parents.) My talk germinated from this unusual, yet rich vantage point. I viscerally understand that graduation holds both freedom and fear; both sadness and excitement. Graduation holds uncertainty—a place we humans find especially difficult to inhabit.

The title of my talk is the ending line of the Mary Oliver poem "The Summer Day"—a beautiful description of attentiveness that ends with the query: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" That's a powerful question. Indeed, life is wild—it's unpredictable and occasionally untamed. Yet life is precious—it's both fragile and utterly priceless. And of these wild and precious lives, we each have only one.

This stark reality hit home for a palliative-care giver named Bronnie Ware. Her patients shared their joys and sorrows. She began to hear the same regret repeated: "I wish I had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me." In Ware's words, "This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made." Choices. At times we feel backed into a corner, responsibilities and expectations high, yet that's precisely when the idea of choice is important. Choice opens space in the room. It opens space in our lives.

But how do we see our choices? How do we live a life true to ourselves? Before we can live our truth, we must know our truth. We must know ourselves. Yet the inner journey is not often supported by society. Our attention-grabbing culture of gizmos, texting, and social media encourages rapid-fire reaction, rather than reflective response. In the audience, some of you are probably texting right now: "at bacc. service" "joy jordan" "yeah kinda deep" "downtown later?" I don't judge you for this, I simply note we humans are habituated to distract. We distract with technology, work, alcohol, busy schedules, rumination about the past, plans for the future. Why? Because the inner journey is hard. Spending time alone with yourself and really listening means you'll see the good, the bad, and the ugly. You'll see love and gratitude, but you'll also see grief and shame. You'll see your kind heart, but you'll also see anger and judgment. We're habituated, by fear, to run from these darker emotions, as if we aren't strong enough to investigate that territory. But if you want to live a life true to yourself, you must step through the fear.

In her book, "When Things Fall Apart," meditation teacher Pema Chodron tells an interesting story about fear: "Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn't want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave her the instructions for the battle. The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. They both had their weapons. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, 'May I have permission to go into battle with you?' Fear said, 'Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.' Then the young warrior said, 'How can I defeat you?' Fear replied, 'My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.' In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear."

I appreciate the truth of this story. I've often had fear close to my face, speaking with urgency. Fear begs for a quick reaction rather than a thoughtful response. Yet, if we take a pause; if we give ourselves a few moments of reflection, then we can see through fear. If you don't do what fear says, fear has no power. Notice this comes back to choice: if you choose not do what fear says, you are free.

Last fall I decided to leave academics; to give up tenure; to relinquish the comfort zone of structured school; to leave my PhD training in statistics. In this process, I did serious battle with fear. I also witnessed the changing nature of a life true to myself. I've spent the last few years mindful of my daily work life—paying attention to my choices, my internal habits (which follow me regardless of career), my energy level, my enjoyment. I wondered if I could rearrange my work day and my priorities so a vocation that once brought me great joy could still be a true path. But I found exhaustion, repetition, and waning enthusiasm. My greatest contentment increasingly came from one-on-one conversations with students about life, not statistics. The tiredness I felt could not be restored by positive classroom energy or quiet sabbaticals. I was cooked. As deeply as I care about the Lawrence community, I knew I needed to move on. This life was no longer true to me.

And it's important to note this decision-making process took great attention; great awareness. In "The Summer Day," Mary Oliver illustrates, within nature, this kind of sharp awareness. The first half of the poem includes keen observations about a grasshopper. I begin midway through "The Summer Day," just as the grasshopper (referred to as "she") leaves the reader:

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

"I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention." How many of us really know how to pay attention? To live a life true to yourself you must understand your own heart, listen to your own voice, uncover activities that bring you alive, identify your core values. And continue this process indefinitely, since the path true to you will naturally wind and meander. If you listen to your internal compass as regular practice, then you won't get lost along the path. There is no "right choice" for the rest of your life. There are many good choices. If you pay attention to where you are in this moment (not where others think you should be), then you're on a good path; a true path.

Yet living in this fashion puts you in a vulnerable position. If I ask you graduates to consider this risk, I should first share with you my uncertain situation. In September, I will not have a paycheck. For the first time in my life, I do not have a plan. In fact, I've purposefully created this space. I don't want to leap at the next thing that might bring temporary safety, yet no lasting fulfillment. I don't yet know what I am outside of academics. I love to write, take photographs, share difficult truths, deeply connect with people. Can I make a career from some mixtures of these loves? I don't know. Will I fail somewhere along this journey? Absolutely. I’ll make mistakes. I’ll feel doubt. I’ll learn. Will people judge and second-guess me? Yes. Some people will call me irresponsible or idealistic. Am I scared? Every single day. Yet I also feel completely alive. I feel an energy resonate within me—an excitement for what comes next. And most importantly, I trust in myself and my gifts. I will find another vocation that lights up my heart.

When I announced my resignation, I received three types of responses: "I'm surprised, but actually not that surprised," "I’m really sad for Lawrence, but happy for you," and "I admire your honesty and bravery." The last response amazed me the most. It's what allowed me to see the cultural undercurrent of a divided life. Circumstances can make us feel as if we have no choices. External and internal forces sometimes lead us down a safe, yet unfulfilling path. Like Bronnie Ware's patients, we put off dreams until later. Why? At least partially because declaring dreams makes us vulnerable. What if we declare a dream—something close to our heart—and then it fails? Our fear stops us—it talks rapidly and flails its arms in our face. But think of the flip-side: what if we live our entire life without openness to dreams or without making choices that correspond to what we most value? Recall our lives are both wild and precious. Let them be wild, yet also honor the preciousness of each moment. In this way, you are laid bare, but in the undisclosed company of many others.

Over 9 million people have watched Brene Brown’s TED talk, “The Power of Vulnerability.” She talks about vulnerability, shame, and taking risks. These are topics our society squelches in many ways. Our current level of societal discourse (e.g., news, social media, politics) is often judgmental, not open to vulnerability. So there's an underlying feeling of uneasiness. People recognize they want to be true to themselves, take risks, make changes, yet it doesn't feel safe. But someplace deep in our hearts we believe the words of Brown: "Vulnerability is the birthplace of joy, creativity, belonging, and love."

To be brave is really to be vulnerable. It's not brave or courageous if we don't expose some part of ourselves. And in doing so, we battle fear. Instead of blindly following fear's urgent voice, we pause, reflect, and listen to our own voice, not that of fear. I think the more brave acts we witness—even small ones—the more courage we gain to tell our stories, be ourselves, and share our passions. The reality is we're all vulnerable. And that real-ness is often what connects us. Whether we're artists struggling to find a meaningful job, students happily attending graduate school, or people re-evaluating life choices after many years, we are connected. We all face fear; we all want to be happy while being true to ourselves.

So, class of 2013, I have some radical suggestions for you: sit in silence with yourself; identify your core values; recognize your choices; pay attention to life—the successes and failures; turn off the television; actively listen to people, including yourself; if you aren't happy, make a change; take a walk without your cell phone; respond instead of react; leave space in your daily schedule; tell your story; stop texting “YOLO” and actually experience your life.

But don't do these things because I, the new-agey professor, tell you or because they seem hip or green. Do all these things so you can know yourself, live intentionally, battle fear, and understand the life that is most true for you (even as, especially as, it changes throughout the years). And whatever you do with this wild and precious life, remember it is yours. Family, friends, and society will give advice, make judgments, and provide support, but the life you lead must be your own.

My students will recognize this mantra: you are not your grade. You are also not your job or your title or your number of friends on Facebook. Your self-worth is not connected to these externals. You are all worthy, as is. And you decide how to live life true to yourself. You have choices—important choices. Because how you spend your moments is how you spend your days is how you spend your one precious life. Make it count; make it real; pay attention; start today, in this moment. Live your life, and know I'm living my own life right beside you.

[Special thanks to my great editing trio: Dad, Mark, & Miriam]

Uncertainty and Justification

After an adrift few weeks post unplugged sabbatical, I feel more centered and focused. My creative energy is spent on a happy task: the baccalaureate address I was asked to give during commencement weekend (thank you class of 2013!). I'm enjoying the celebratory end-of-year events, which also celebrate my own last weeks at Lawrence.

My decision to leave academics, tenure, and my PhD training is still mysterious, surprising, and perhaps refreshing to many. Even as the news sinks in, there's always the question: what will you do next? It's natural for people to be curious. I understand and in fact anticipate the question. But people seem uncomfortable with my answer: I don't know. 

Often, the conversation goes like this...
Curious Person: What will you do next?
Me: I don't know.
[Blank stare from curious person.]
Me: I'm purposefully making space to not know. First I must feel what it's like not to be an academic, so my horizons expand and I get in touch with what I really want to do next.
Curious person: But you must have some idea? Some inkling?
Me: No. 
Curious person: Well, what do you like to do?
Me: Okay, I enjoy writing and I'll give that some time and energy, but who knows what will happen. That's not necessarily what I'm "going to do next" for my profession.
[This is often when the person inserts what she thinks I'd be good at: life coach, pilates teacher, world traveler, etc.]
Me: What's great about my situation is I still get a paycheck through the end of August. So I have paid space to make choices authentic to me.

I don't mind having this conversation. People are curious; humans have difficulty with uncertainty. I understand all the underlying mechanisms, and I'm happy to talk through my personal process. But here's the unnecessary justification: I'm still paid through the end of August. When those words escape my mouth, I know my true self has left the building; I'm justifying my existence via my paycheck. Money = worthiness. (Ugh.) 

I'm working hard to hear my authentic voice over the persistent yelling of ego. Yet it's not only about listening; it's also about speaking my truth. Right now my truth is I don't know. I want to pursue activities that bring me creative joy; I want to work hard on creative projects; I want to stay open to opportunities. And at the same time I really want to not know. This is very unsettling to ego--ego wants me to know (right this moment) how I'll earn money in September. Interestingly, the negative reaction from ego means I'm on exactly the right path: not knowing, staying creative, connecting with people, centering myself, exploring new territory. Often times knowing-something-for-sure separates us from creativity, authenticity, and freedom. 

So dear blog readers, here's something I know for sure: I don't know.

Hard Truths

On Memorial Day weekend we typically meet long-time friends near Decorah, IA, where we camp and canoe on the Upper Iowa river. Though a 4.5 hour car ride, the trip is worthwhile, restorative, and fun. So was our plan this past weekend.

But on Friday I was bathed in a funk. My weeknights had been more social than is good for me (big events with many people); my back hurt from car travel the previous weekend; the weather for Saturday was predicted to be 50 degrees and rainy (oh how I hate being cold & wet); and doubt had furtively seeped into my skin (what I am going to do with the rest of my life?). When Mark got home, excited to leave for the weekend, I was on the back porch hoping we wouldn't have to go.

We talked at length, and I cried. I slowly realized all my reasons for not going were rationalizations. My shame and doubt tried to isolate me; I wanted to be alone in my funk. Mark told me some hard truths: it feels like mild depression to him; this is how I get when I'm adrift without a schedule; this is how things could continue now that Lawrence's schedule won't pull me back (read: this is an important time to be mindful); it's the initial friction that's difficult for me, but it's vitally important we still take trips, see friends, camp in the woods. He nailed it. I knew I needed to go. I wasn't happy about it at that moment, but I knew I needed to go--to just get up, pack all the foul-weather gear I have, and make the best of things.

We rode silently in the car--me trying to stay mindful of my fear and shame (and lack of control over, say, the weather). When we arrived at the campsite, rain lightly falling, our friends met our van with their flashlights. They welcomed us warmly. I knew this was exactly where I needed to be.

I was completely funk-free by the next morning. No rain. Just cool weather, warmed regularly by the campfire. The canoe trip was lovely--a meditative, yet fun adventure. The time at camp was relaxing. I laughed belly laughs. I listened. I ate delicious food and drank moonshine from a community jar. I was entirely myself, as is. I was hugged by both nature and close friends. I was away from technology that had been sucking my creative energy. I was happy and content. And deeply grateful for Mark. Thank goodness I have a mate who appreciates and supports me, yet also tells me difficult truths. I love this man with my entire (very large) heart:

Growth

Springtime fills me with wonder. With just enough sunshine and warmth, the plants and trees burst forth. It really is a bursting. Within days, the growth is remarkable. These beauties of nature want to stretch, grow, and bloom. I'm amazed every single spring. The magic never gets old.

Meditation teachers often talk about sowing seeds of joy, happiness, and contentment. Spring is a natural metaphor for life and personal growth. Which of our seeds grow? The ones to which we attend; the ones we water and nurture. If we want to live with more ease and happiness, then we must water the seeds of gratitude, silence, reflection, love, and kindness. Whatever habits we practice are the habits that are strengthened. I see this again and again.

Monday at dinner, Mark and I discussed the human habit of watering unhealthful seeds. There's so much to grab our attention: email, texting, gizmos, social media. I got completely caught in the major changes to Flickr and what I perceived as an immediate need to update my page. Mark mused that we often allow the attention grabbing to crowd out the activities we most value. That is exactly what I'd done. In my heart, I knew I'd benefit from meditation, writing, or staring at the backyard; but in my monkey mind I chose to spend an hour on Flickr. And I felt the negative repercussions: anxiety and fear. This is the human habit. But it's always possible to change--at this very moment.

I have sown seeds both in my yard and in my heart. How often I water these seeds is up to me; it's my choice. Slowing down helps me see more clearly. Gentleness eases the process. And laughter lightens my mood. (As does wandering through the backyard looking at all the new growth.)

10 Questions

Kristin & Meredith asked my 52-of-You group to answer James Lipton's famous closing questions ("Inside the Actors Studio"). The questions are straight-forward, yet revealing in an interesting way. My answers are included below. You're warmly welcome to leave your own answers in the comments.

1. What is your favorite word?
Curious (but really, how can I choose just one? there are so many worthy contenders) 

2. What is your least favorite word?
Retard

3. What turns you on?
Mark strumming a guitar and singing a song 

4. What turns you off?
Judgment and negativity

5. What sound(s) do you love?
Rumbling thunder and the laughter of children

6. What sound do you hate?
The (obnoxiously loud) train whistle at 3am

7. What is your favorite curse word?
Kid-friendly version: F#@! (in this case, it was easy to choose just one)

8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Writer (what luck--I'm out of my profession in just one month)

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Sales

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?
"You lived life fully, with an open and kind heart."

 

From Unplugged to Plugged

While on Nevis I was unplugged--no email, Internet, TV. I was also away from the daily to-dos of living (e.g., errands, appointments, bills). The magic of this: my days were expansive. So much space to read, write, cook, run, swim, meditate, photograph, take long walks, watch the birds, nap, have silly and philosophical conversations with Mark, gain new insights, and connect deeply with nature.

A hard truth: fear still accompanied me. Daily I worked with the inner-voice that said I was unworthy; that I should be doing and accomplishing more. (If only unplugging from that voice was as easy as shutting down a computer.) But fear will always walk beside me. And the more I understand it, see beneath it, and tend to my needs the less power fear has (and the more strongly I grow into myself). Being away from distractions meant I had regular space to work with fear and shame. It didn't overwhelm me; it's just part of being human. As are joy, contentment, wonder, gratitude, and connection--all of which I experienced daily on Nevis.

Upon my return from unplugged land, I've tried to stay curious--mindful to the multitude of ways in which I get swept back into the busyness. It feels groundless. How do I reconcile my life on Nevis with my life in Appleton? Yesterday I got hooked--completely hooked. I felt such a strong pull to process ALL my photos; to cross that off my to-do list; to receive external strokes for my work. (This is the unchecked fear of unworthiness.)  The good news: I noticed. And I smiled. Because this is how life works--we have periods of mindfulness and periods lost in trance; some moments we're completely present and others we're completely distracted. As I walk my path, I have more moments spent fully present with my experience--yay for that.

It's good to be back. Being plugged in allows for distraction, but more importantly it allows for connection. I look forward to reconnecting with people (while staying connected to myself).