Playing Sardines with God

The only thing cooler than playing hide-and-seek as a kid, was playing sardines—instead of one person searching for everyone, everyone searched together for one person.  I much preferred searching together—it made the whole experience so much more fun.  I have so many fond memories of cool evenings out with cousins or friends looking for that one person who was hiding.  The best part for me?  When you find the person hiding, you don’t say anything—you just quietly huddle up right next to them and anyone else who may have already found them and you hide together.  You get the thrill of discovery and you let everyone else experience the thrill of discovery as well.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like we’re all playing sardines with God, where He is, of course, the one hiding.  I know it may seem like a stretch, but hear me out.  First of all, I have to acknowledge that some people aren’t playing the game—they don’t expect to find God because they don’t believe He exists.  Fair enough.  But for the rest of us—we’re all searching for Him and whether we realize it or not, we’re all in the search together.  The rules of the game don’t dictate that we don’t say anything when we find Him, but let’s face it, it doesn’t typically work out well if we do.  If I say I’ve found God, you’re likely to have one of three reactions: 1) you think I’m crazy because you don’t believe He exists, 2) you think I’m wrong because you believe in a different concept of Him, or 3) you don’t want to hear about it unless it somehow helps you find God.  And I guess that’s the point I’m coming to.  It’s not that we can’t help each other find God, it’s just that it’s such a personal journey and all the shouting ‘Hey guys, I think I found Him’ is not likely to be useful.  It’s still dark, you still can’t see Him and each person ultimately has to find their own way.

So I won’t tell you that I found Him.  Or that when I did, I huddled up right next to Him.  Or that I’m trying really hard to stay put, stay quiet and not yell out.  To those of you who found Him before me, thanks for still being huddled up here with Him, and thanks for letting me find my way here on my own.  To everyone else—whether you’re actively seeking or not—I’ll be here . . . quietly hoping that you find us.

More Than a Feeling

This post is especially for you if the title reminds you of a Boston song you listened to in High School.  And no, this isn't just a vanity post.  Okay, maybe a little vanity is involved.  Understandably, I've always liked the song--every time I hear it, I'm reminded of guys singing 'see my Mariann walking away...' as I walked by them back in the day.  Who wouldn't like that?

But that's not why I'm writing this.  Today when I heard it quite unexpectedly, I started thinking about the 70's and how much I missed them, in spite of how much turmoil there was.  I know we've moved on from the reprise of the 70's as far as fashion, music and pop culture goes.  But I'm not sure we've fully appreciated what the 70's gave us.  Yes, there was incredible diversity in the music and yes, the 70's styles have a swagger that is undeniable.  But in my opinion, those aren't the best or most important contributions from that period.

Here's how I see it.  The 40's were the heyday for the greatest generation.  Coming out of the war, we experienced an unprecedented boom in the 50's, but we hadn't yet learned how to be honest with ourselves or others.  That led to large doses of escape in the 60's.  But in the 70's, we started to grapple with the truth.  We started to see that war was ugly and did not always lead to prosperity or peace.  That our families weren't perfect and there were issues that needed to be addressed.  That the office of the President was not above reproach.  That our reliance on fossil fuel could make us vulnerable.

I miss the honesty of the 70's--when being honest was more than a feeling--it was real and it was gut wrenching.  We didn't have illusions about being honest or 'keeping it real', we either told the truth or we hid from it.  Straight up.  I think we've lost much of that today.  We're so preoccupied with posting our status on Facebook or our images on Instagram, that I'm not sure we've noticed how superficial we've become.  I've started to notice and now that I have, I'm working on making sure that my experience in life is more than a feeling.  Not just illusions. Not just managing perceptions, but really attending to what's true and what matters most.  Who's with me?

The Pain Won't Hurt You

A few years ago as I was clipping my young son's fingernails, the clippers hit a tender spot and he jerked his hand away causing even more damage.  In one of my less compassionate moments as a mom, I said flatly, 'the pain won't hurt you.'  What I really meant to say is, 'yes it's tender and you think it's really going to hurt you, but if you hold still, it will all be okay.'  But that's not what I said and I will never live down how I really said it.  In fact, it has become a family joke.  Anytime anyone gets hurt and a discussion of pain opens up--especially if it isn't too serious--you can be fairly certain at some point someone will say, 'the pain won't hurt you.'  We laugh and move on.

I've reflected on this since then and have come to realize how profound and not-quite-so paradoxical this statement really is.  When any kind of pain comes into our lives--whether it be emotional or physical--we often assume the worst.  That it really will hurt us--that it will lead to some damage from which we won't recover.  In my experience, the opposite is usually true.  If we can resist the impulse to pull away, stay calm and breathe through it, we can typically find a way to cope, learn from it and maybe even be better for it.

So I'm not recommending that you seek or inflict pain intentionally.  Or even that you don't express compassion in the presence of pain.  I'm just saying, next time it comes on it's own--think 'the pain won't hurt you' and see if it isn't true.

One Wild and Precious Life

I recently read the poem 'The Summer Day' by Mary Oliver and marveled once again at her deep connection with nature and her gift for illustrating what nature can teach us about life.  The last few lines of the poem have both inspired and haunted me for days...

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?

Okay, no pressure. I mean really, it's not a big deal--it's just that I only have this one life and once you call it 'wild and precious' well, that kind of kicks it up a notch or two, doesn't it?  On top of that, I'll be turning 50 in less than a month and I don't care who you are or what you've done with your life, that will get you thinking.

So what have I done?  I could measure it in major events or accomplishments like college, marriage, career, home, children. I could reflect on what I've learned about living with strength, grace, courage and compassion. I could count my friends---not the number of friends on Facebook, though I treasure all of you---but rather how many I've had the privilege of really knowing and allowing to really know me.  The more I consider it, the more I realize that Ms. Oliver isn't talking about what we've already done, but rather what we're going to do.

So what am I going to do?  I'm sorry if this disappoints, but I have no grand manifesto, no bucket or 'don't die wondering' list.  That would be too easy, too much like what I did the first 50 years of life.  Now instead, I'm inclined to do as the poet described before she posed her soul-searching question---learn 'how to pay attention...how to kneel down in the grass...how to be idle and blessed.'

A simple matter of shifting emphasis from what to how, from doing to being.   Something tells me that if I can do that all my remaining days, at the end of my life, it will be both wild and precious.

The Great Equalizers

When I was a younger, I thought grown-ups were underachievers.  I didn't think this about everyone, but I will confess that I often thought it about my older siblings. This was after spending many years looking up to them and thinking they were the greatest--all nine of them.  And then one day I turned 13, my eyes were opened and I saw that they each had flaws. I continued to watch them in their endeavors as I always had, but instead of thinking only how wonderful they were, I also thought that I expected more and better of them.  That wasn't all--I would tell myself that when I went to college, got married or had kids, I was going to do it differently and much, much better.

Time passed and soon it was my turn to engage in these wonderful rite-of-passage adventures.  As I undertook each endeavor, the oddest thing happened: I started to resemble my older siblings very much.  Of course, I didn't notice it at first, but some months after I gave birth to my second child, the realization started to settle on me: my husband and I looked very much like every other married couple with two kids that I had ever known.    How could this be?  That wasn't my intention at all.  I was going to be different.  I was going to be...amazing.

In the years that followed (my second child is now 11), I've learned that age and circumstances are the great equalizers in life.  We can each seem quite unique and different--until we reach the same age and find ourselves in the same circumstances.  Suddenly, any difference seems to be insignificant.  The fact that our paths and experience in life can create common ground and unify us is very reassuring to me.  The truth is, as much as I thought I wanted to be different from my siblings, I really just wanted to join them.  They've always been ahead of me and they always will be.  In my post-adolescent years, I've gained a deep appreciation for all of my siblings and their example---it turns out they have been my inspiration and guides all these years. 

But as reassuring as common ground can be, I also find it reassuring that we each get to choose how we respond to the hand that age and circumstances deal us. Viktor Frankl, a psychologist who survived the concentration camps of Nazi Germany said, 'Everything can be taken from a man or a woman but one thing: the last of human freedoms, to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.'  So even though age and circumstances may level the playing field for all of us, we still get to choose how we feel  and what we do about it.  We get to choose whether we'll allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by our situation or as Frankl says, 'when we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.'

So if Frankl has it right (and I think he does)---it is our choices, not our circumstances that distinguish us and determine who we will  become.

Impervious No More

A few years back, as I was completing my coaching certification, one of my mentors commented that I was 'impervious.'  That's a heavy word and I learned that it meant I didn't really let people in. Or if something affected me, I didn't show it.  I needed to learn how to become more accessible, open and well...'pervious.'  I looked it up in the dictionary thinking it wouldn't exist.  But it does.  It means 'admitting of passage or entrance; permeable.'  Or even better, it means 'open or accessible to reason, feeling, argument, etc.'  So if you know me, you know that I can be very open and accessible--when it suits me.  But I can also be very guarded and private.  As a matter of fact, this is the first blog that I have ever posted or published.  But the truth is (you can see for yourself), I started blogging sporadically in 2009...under a pseudonym...and I never published any of them.  But now, thanks, to my friend, Jenni--The Digital Diva, who taught me some of her blogging skills this week--I am not only blogging again, but I'm opening up and making my blog accessible to others.  And in the spirit of openness, I will share with you a quote I heard this week from an Improv group based in Portland, Oregon: 'My goal in this conversation is to be changed by you.  If I walk out with exactly the same perspectives I had when I walked in, then we have both failed.'  Robert Redford gets credit for saying this to his team at Sundance.  Thank you, Bob.  This is now my mantra--to be changeable, permeable and impervious no more.

The Grand Gamble

We're in the process of making some trade-offs. All of us. We're picking up the new techno-gadget and signing up for the new service. We're booking ourselves up. The kids are in every activity so they can become well-rounded. Or they're into something deep so they can become an expert. Either way, they're booked up, too. But we're all still connected--we're texting, we're posting, we're blogging (yep, at this very moment). So it's all good, right?

All good. At least for now, because we don't really know how this grows up. Nobody's ever been through it before. We don't know yet (for sure) that all of this is true progress. We just hope it is, because we know we can't deny it. It's here now and it just keeps coming. So we keep making the trade-offs: yes to the smartphone upgrade, no to the quiet weekend away, yes to extra activity and no to more time for just breathing.

In a few years, we'll look back and call it. That decade--the one that started with a dot.com boom and is ending with a highly complex and sophisticated brand of malaise--was the decade of putting our money on the future and turning our back on the past. Can you do that and have true progress? Nobody knows. Nobody has ever done it before.

I'm in it like everybody else--can I keep upgrading without leaving behind something of value? Can I invite technology to take over my life without giving up control? I don't have any answers. All I know is it feels right to take a little time every day to just...breathe.