blankies

when my photographer brother was preparing my son for his senior photo session, he asked connor to bring along a few of his favorite things. his thinking was that interacting with these objects might make for some natural and contented portraits. connor brought his inline skates and guitar. two years later, having been given the same pre-session speech, my daughter brought her “momma blankie.” my favorite photo from the session is of her from behind, perched atop a four foot tree stump, blanket wrapped around her like a cape, and hair blowing in the wind. it reminds me of when i would pull up to kindergarten car line to find her with that same momma blankie wrapped around her head like a turban. that blanket has an important place in many of our family stories and she claims that i periodically threatened to take it away if she got out of bed as a preschooler. i cringe to think i may have done this. it seems a discipline far too harsh to imagine...even now.

today i took my nephew shopping for his 10th birthday. among all of the objects in the brightly lit toy store was a small section of “build it yourself” items that caught his eye. after several minutes of comparison shopping he settled on a very fancy “security safe.” not only would this amazing container hold his most treasured objects (at least those that would fit in a 3 inch by 3 inch cube) but it also touts a buzzer alarm, a combination lock, and a key (that could be added to his new lanyard). “this is not just a toy, this is an important present” he said, on the way home. when i inquired what made it important and what he might keep in his heavy duty safe he responded without even thinking, “my blankie.” this is not what i had anticipated as a response.

blankies are important. most of us have one. some of us have several. many of us don’t realize we have them nor do we cuddle up with them because they have taken on different shapes altogether. technology, hobbies, habits, possessions of all sorts, and even people have come to fill the role of security blanket in so many of our lives. these things make us feel less alone, give us something to hide ourselves in, and often come to mean so much to us that we are loathe to go without them.

security blankets are part of a category that mental health professionals call transitional objects. transitional objects are things that help one hold on to important aspects of a person, place, idea, or feeling as they move into relationships with new people, places, ideas, or feelings. when a parent leaves their newborn they may leave a t-shirt they’ve worn as a comfort object for the baby if he or she cries. the shirt smells like the parent, therefore, easing the discomfort of being with another caregiver. this is a transitional object. when moving from one home to another a person might bring a momento from the first home to the second to make the new dwelling feel less foreign. this is a transitional object. coffee doesn’t just wake people up in the morning. it also serves as a transitional object from home to car/bus/bike to work/school/meetings. the warm cup, the smell, the feel of hot liquid down the back of your throat. all of these things make you feel good and comforted and, strangely, less alone.

hence, the blankie.

nostalgic connections with our blankies aside, the goal of using a transitional object is to eventually be able to do without it. kaija no longer wears her blankie as a hat. she can sleep without it. she can leave it at home. she’s moved past needing it. this is because transitional objects are healthy when used as tools. they are useful in helping an individual overcome the fear of the unknown or the gaps that are encountered in moving from one developmental stage to the next. while attachment to them is necessary for their usefulness, full fledged, long term dependence upon them transforms them into something else altogether. many of us understand this and live packing our transitional objects from one place to another, making it difficult for us to fit into spaces of all kinds.

the world can be an unsettling place. we move at a rapid pace. in moments of stillness or stress we find ourselves bereft of healthy coping strategies. in the absence of such, we grab for those things which move the stillness or numb the stress. we reach for something to eat. or drink. or watch. or listen to. we check facebook or instagram or tumblr or twitter or any other number of technological transitional objects. we busy our bodies and minds. we titillate our emotions. we find ways of bringing ourselves from one moment to the next instead of being fully in the moment we are in. and all the while we become less capable of coping. of being present. of thriving.

kaija wrapped herself in her momma blankie at school in order to hold on to the comfort of home even when away from it. i am guessing that many of us can relate. we aren’t comfortable when we’re alone in a crowd so we gather our digitized social network around us like a blanket, burying ourselves in our phones and rescuing ourselves from the moment of discomfort. we don’t know how to slow down when we’re moving too fast so we escape the moment of pressure with all its accompanying messages (yawns, tension head aches, distractibility, fatigue, racing thoughts, and the like) by grabbing yet one more caffeinated beverage to get us to and through the next action packed moment. 

what would it cost us to put our blankies down? to leave them at home? if this feels like too much, what would it look like to at least use them with intention? what skills might we seek to learn to help us use our transitional objects as, well, transitional? not habitual. not as crutches. to use them, rather, as tools to help us move into places of greater comfort, freedom, and groundedness. might we need to learn to be uncomfortable? to handle awkward moments wherein we feel bereft of skills? could deep breaths, prayer, meditation, asking for help, or any other number of actions help us remain in a moment without having to rely upon an object? if the goal of an object is to help steady us as we move into new spaces then shouldn’t we be preparing to give them up? anticipating the freedom of moving about in the world unencumbered by them? learning to leave them in the safe?

what i learned at summer camp, part 2

i just returned from my second year of high school camp. serving in the roles of “camp elders” this year, my husband and i were responsible for encouraging and caring for the counselors and staff and stepping in wherever else was needed. over the course of the week i had both beautiful and difficult conversations with staff and campers, helped out in the infirmary (i have come to believe that every camp infirmary needs a mental health expert/volunteer), led the staff in contemplative prayer and meditative exercises, delivered a lot of encouragement notes and tokens, and generally loved on everyone present. what surprised me most, both this year and last, is that i was lonely for the experience as soon as it ended. exhausted, completely spent, and ready for the week to end, i also felt sadness as i loaded my car to depart.

the lessons i learned this year were different from last. i share them here as a form of motivation for each of you who read this blog. volunteering is costly. it is inconvenient. it certainly rarely wins one raises or rewards. it stretches and shapes and moves us into new, and sometimes uncomfortable, spaces. even still, it is important. so much so that i believe it is essential for a life that values empathy and other awareness. it grows us, i believe, and shapes us. here is what my week of volunteering taught me.

1 it isn’t all about me. given the way in which we live these days, it’s easy to believe that everything really is all about “me.” the ads flashed before us on facebook are chosen based on our clicks and likes, the videos suggested to us on youtube are done so based on what we’ve enjoyed in the past, push notifications seem to anticipate our wants, 24 hour available customer service means we never have to make time today or wait until tomorrow, and netflix is happy to make entertainment suggestions based upon what we’ve watched. unaware of these “ploys” we simply bask in a world in which our preferences are catered to. in direct difference to this, when you spend a week sharing time, space, and a communal schedule with 250+ others, you give up seeking only what you’d like. you’d like to stay up to 2 a.m. working/watching youtube/trolling facebook/answering email and sleep in until 9 a.m. or later? too bad...meeting with your community begins at 8 and meals are only served at set times so it’s best to think ahead/important to live by lights out guidelines. basically, to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight so you’ll be refreshed in the morning. to participate in hang time now because it’s when others are available, to pay attention to a shared rhythm because it gets us out of ourselves. this actually works.

2 recreation and arts and crafts are important. i cannot imagine a camp devoid of scheduled recreation or a place to do crafts. these times of whacky, exertion- or creation-filled wonder are important. physical challenges and arts and crafts opportunities allow us to open our creative potentials while, at the same time, busying our bodies while we engage with those around us. when we don’t move our bodies during the day, when we avoid fresh air and sunlight (or rain), when we don’t work together physically for a common goal, when we don’t give ourselves opportunities to stretch ourselves creatively, we miss opportunities for health. we are made body, soul, and mind. each needs time for recreation and refreshment. solo time, play time, time to create, and spiritually directed time are as important as work and learning time. why not build games, barefoot walks, sketching or sculpting into our days? it takes a little effort yet the pay off is a more well rounded and grounded sense of self.

3 love languages matter. many authors posit sub-types of love languages. gary chapman suggests five: words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service, physical touch, and gifts/tokens. i find these to be effective categories. not everyone feels loved by a hug. not everyone needs note after note of encouragement. not everyone is refreshed by lots and lots of information. by paying deliberate attention (and possibly even taking notes) you can learn how those around you best receive the love and care you have for them. when you pay attention like this you can begin to minister to others in much more meaningful ways. you’ll also begin to feel freer to ask for what you need in the way of support, making it easier for those who love you to do so tangibly. this helps build and maintain community and gets us out of the myopic thinking (everyone likes what i like and will also read my mind so i don’t have to ask for anything) that reigns today.

4 how you look (externally) does not matter (if you’re willing to take risks). yes, first impressions happen. they just do. i hate this. they are, however, changeable. so what if someone sees you and labels you upon meeting you? this does not mean that you have to fit their label. similarly, others that appear to have the least in common with you may just surprise you once you actually encounter them, talk with them, share time and space with them. given this, it is essential to keep a strong check on the tendency to categorize people upon initial meetings (or even sightings). a highlight of my camp experience was found in watching kids and staff who would appear to have nothing in common bond and begin to relate authentically with each other. this is community in its richest form.

5 dancing is a great way to end every day. there is nothing like a huge group of folks you know dancing to the village people (or any other number of dance classics) to bring a day to a close. even if you’re alone, hearing songs that bring a smile to your face and a lightness to your step helps usher you into a new time of day. 15 minutes spent dancing, with no care for how you look, heals a multitude of stressors and leaves you tired. try it. you’ll see.

6 there is no difficult/hard conversation that is not worth having. over the course of the camp week everyone present was given ample opportunities for challenging conversations. getting straggling couples to head to their respective cabins, telling a counselor that home is not safe, confronting rumor and bullying, and more provided opportunities to wade into the deep end with people. this is where growth occurs. it feels convenient to stay in the shallow end, to avoid topics where disagreement, emotion, or discomfort might lurk, and yet in doing so the opportunity for growth is cut short. every time i entered into a difficult conversation at camp (as in life) with the goal of listening and working hard to communicate well, i left it feeling more empathically engaged, resilient, and connected. i hope my conversational counterparts felt the same.

7 it’s important to be kind to everyone. at high school camp, as in life, it’s easy to want to avoid the others you suspect will take every bit of energy you have and natural to want to write some off as “that” way, “unreachable,” or “disinterested.” it’s human to hope that someone else will be the one called to love the “thems” among you. naming people is easy. it’s understandable that we’d like to identify those that will be easy for us to serve versus those that won’t. the reality is, however, that we each have a difficult (and sometimes parallel) journey to those we encounter when we serve. once we engage with someone lovingly it’s often not long before we realize that we share the same limiting reality of being human. whether we volunteer with habitat for humanity for a day or a pet adoption service once a month, at a library weekly or a political campaign bi-annually, we will encounter people we wouldn’t otherwise meet. it’s important to take the opportunity to get to know them and to encounter them well, attending to our deep and shared common humanity rather than our more external differences. we just might come to love them or they us. some of the kids and staff that would have been easiest for me to label and avoid ended up sharing life stories that made me cringe, cry, or laugh out of deep connectedness and a longing for them to feel loved. i want to be a person who welcomes them up front....not only after hearing how they became who they are. 

8 intergenerational interchange is important. people under 25 should get the opportunity to teach their elders about snapchat, messy buns, and the current cost of higher education and impossibility of finding a job. people older than that should have the opportunity to tell those younger than them about what it’s like to age in this culture, what kinds of music they like, and which old movies simply must be watched. both groups, and all those in between, benefit by simply sharing time and space around a communal table, on the frisby golf course, during hang time, and in settings of all kinds. we have so much in common and, at the same time, so much to learn from each other. it’s important to find ways of being within each other’s radius so that we can do so.

9 saying goodbye should be hard. if you’ve spent a week with people (or a few hours or days...whatever you can afford) and you feel nothing at leaving them, you have likely held back. volunteering provides an opportunity to be among people who share an interest or passion. these are people who are giving of themselves as you are. taking the opportunity to inquire beyond the normal, “what do you do?” and to answer with more than the traditional, “just fine, thank you.” might provide you with profound opportunities for community building. take them. relational risks toward connection are worth it...every time.

10 giving yourself away is something that is rarely regrettable. staying up too late to answer just one last (o.k., admit it, 20 more) email(s)...regrettable. eating the entire bag of chips...regrettable. unnecessary purchases...regrettable. huge debt incurred for outlandish vacations or ridiculous “toys”...the same. giving freely of yourself to a task or need or cause or idea or person for its/their benefit is rarely so. on the front end it can feel costly to commit to time spent for others and yet, on the back end, it is almost 100% of the time life giving, instructive, and rewarding.

in what ways have you been grown by giving yourself away? i’d love to hear about it here.

conformity, complexity, creativity, and growth

years ago, before blogs were on my radar, i frequently wrote rants. i was a part time psychologist and a full time mom. i had a boatload of opinions, boundless intensity, and a serious desire to have a voice in the world. the only reality greater than these was my need (for me it was a need) to be a mostly at-home mom. mothering young children didn’t make the best context within which to rant so i wrote. after a day of insights and experiences i would sit down at my computer and type strongly opinionated essays on all manner of topics. knowing no one would ever see them, i let the full weight of my opinions and emotions flow. these were not papers for the faint of heart. they were strong. ridiculously so. a favorite of mine from that time is a four page piece i wrote after my first real clothes shopping experience with my daughter.

a little background is in order here: i have never been a shopper. not only have i long abhorred our consumer culture, but i also wanted to raise children who wouldn’t fall prey to peer pressure about how they dressed and thought. malls have always felt like hotbeds of peer pressure to me with store fronts screaming what should be worn, given, and received to be cool/beautiful/smart/hip. when my kids were in 3rd and 5th grades, they asked me what a mall was. they kept hearing their friends talk about them and had no idea what they were referring to. in 4th grade my daughter suggested that she might like “one of those sweatshirts that everyone has that has a hood and has the letters ‘g’ ‘a’ ‘p’ on it...whatever that means.” a gap was a space, not a store, at our house. 

with this in mind, you can imagine that i had a lot of self talk to do before kaija and i embarked on our first real mall outing. i wanted it to be wonderful. i wanted to have the dreamy kind of experience other moms described where we’d try on clothes, stop at the food court for hot chocolate, and leave, hours later, giddy with excitement over shared time and a new outfit or two. kaija was in middle school and there was a new (at the time) store that she really wanted to visit. we made our way there and i smiled and interacted positively with the sales staff and kaija. i feigned interest. i chose a few things to try on in an attempt to show my solidarity. i “oohed and aahed” over all manner of clothing and accessories, seething inside about oh-so-many things. that night, i unloaded into my computer. my rant flowed forth without thought or effort. at the end of four typed pages i went back to the top of the first page to add a title. there, in a caps, i typed, “I’VE BEEN TO HELL AND IT’S CALLED HOLISTER.”

now that i look back on both the experience and the essay i can laugh. a store cannot truly represent the pain that has been associated with hell and much of my response was overly emotional and simplistic. even still, much of what i wrote that night rings more and more true to me with time. let me explain.

the retail establishment of which i speak is one that screams “conformity!” upon entrance, a person’s entire sensual experience is controlled. the entry is small and windowless and looks like the front porch of a beach house. when entering there is the distinct feeling that you’ve entered an environment rather than a mere store. the sales staff is young, visually attractive, and perky (and unhealthily thin). the music is pumping, the lighting is low, and there are large overstuffed chairs scattered at just the right spots. the walls are covered with ever changing digital images of sand and waves and surfing. magazines, placed strategically near those big, comfy chairs, advertise the clothing on the shelves and the air is constantly infused with the company’s signature fragrance. the clothing items intended to look “worn” (think well washed, slightly torn jeans) are made to look so in the exact same way on every single item in the perfectly folded pile. each garment is emblazoned with the corporate logo and, for the right price, you can take every part of the experience home with you (dvds, music, fragrance, etc are all displayed at the registers for you to notice as you’re making your clothing purchases). it’s all so “nice.” so nice and so neutral. so contrived and so controlled and so loud with the message, “conform! be just like us. wear our clothes, listen to our music, hang out for a while. look like us. be like us. smell like us. we have your ticket to cool.” 

let me be clear, i don’t think that holister’s executives or staff are malicious nor are their shoppers necessarily immature or followers. the words hell or evil don’t actually apply here at all. my point, however, is that experiences in places such as the one i describe illuminate that we live in a world that values conformity to a norm over celebrating differences, uniqueness, complexity, and growth.

this all came back to me tonight as i read sir ken robinson’s the element: how finding your passion changes everything. a brilliant advocate for people discovering, and then living into, their own unique way of learning, robinson asserts that the most creative and well functioning groups are those who have people of different interests, learning styles, and giftings. these groups have members who challenge and stretch each other and who capitalize on each other’s strengths and compensate for their weaknesses. groups composed of homogenous members, he has found, tend to be less dynamic, creative, and generative. members of these groups tend to fall prey to group think and are prone to have limited impact. this got me thinking of the intersection of conformity, creativity, and personal growth.

not long ago someone asked me how i might discuss the topic of prejudice with high schoolers. as i pondered this question i kept coming to the realization that our prejudices hinder our personal growth and cause us to associate with homogenous groups. this lead me to think that we might all expose our prejudices as well as our creative stuck places simply by considering the groups with which we associate. just as frequenters of certain stores recognize each other by the tell tale logos they wear, we often identify (and associate ourselves with) members of our “tribes” by the ways in which we are similar. when this is true, our individual and communal lives become more about conformity than creativity and growth.

how many friends do you have who hold dissimilar political opinions from your own? when you are “choosing your teams,” do you consider ease of fit over dynamic (sometimes difficult) or growth inducing interchange? shared life styles over different ones? those who look (and dress and smell and shop) like you over those who look (and dress and smell and shop) like you never have before? do you lean toward the conforming or stretching side of the affiliative continuum? is your contact list diverse? have you ever considered this? 

to see where you fall, take out your cell phone and a piece of paper. on the paper make columns for as many categories as your contact list might have dimensions. title the columns with the categories your friends are likely to fall into. these could be anything from more obvious traits like “gender,” “hair and skin color,” “age,” “partnered/single,” and “likes the same kind of music as i do” to more complex categories such as “shares a basic world view,” “ascribes to a similar theology,” “had a similar up bringing,” or “agrees with me politically.”

now go through the contacts stored on your phone, making a mark in every column that each person fits within. if you are like a majority of people, you will begin to notice some major tally-heavy  columns. take a look at these and see what you learn. if nearly all of your friends share your relationship status what might you be missing out on in the way of understanding and relating to those in different relational spaces? what might the consequences be if everyone you’re connected to shares your world view, politics, or theology? if the bulk of your community grew up in the same kinds of situations or places or homes that you did, what are you doing to make sure you don’t assume that everyone comes from the same place?

while it is comfortable to blend in to the crowd or to surround ourselves with people who agree with us, it is also stifling to our growth. putting aside our feelings of needing to be right in the eyes of others in deference to encountering others authentically, causes us to examine our own choices and affirm them or alter them accordingly. reaching out to another’s shared humanity rather than reacting to the ways in which they are different causes richness in our relational lives and expands our ability to live empathically. having respectful interchanges with people who disagree grows us. having a diverse community of contacts boosts our creativity. ensuring we are, at times, uncomfortable and stretching, seems to mature us. sure, living this way is no trip to the mall but, it just might get us closer to heaven.

hatred and growth

a few weeks ago a child at my table announced that he hated spinach. a young adult, also at my table, responded immediately. “oh,” she said, “you mean you haven’t learned to like spinach yet.” in that moment bells and whistles went off in my mind. what a fantastic reframe she had just offered to everyone present. we are all so quick to know that which we hate or dislike or are uncomfortable with. “i hate...” “i don’t agree with...” “i’m against...” even “i don’t believe in...” peppers our thoughts and language (as though not believing in spinach could make it not exist). there’s so much safety in using such language. it’s definitive. it’s declarative. it’s final. no ifs, ands, or buts. 

i hear such statements all the time. from the mouths of others and myself. “i hate rain.” “i don’t believe in exercise.” “i’m against tofu.” “i despise going to movies by myself. or concerts. or dinner.” “i hate sundays. or parties. or my job.” so many of these are said with so little thought. they are made as declarations and, as such, frequently side step a good pondering.

i’ve thought about this alot lately as i’ve come to realize that some of the experiences i love most in life are ones that others abhor. and vice versa.  why is this? while it’s healthy to know ones limits and appropriate to be in touch with ones preferences, why do we have such a need to express them (even to ourselves) so emphatically? do we really want to define ourselves by our dis-likes and limit ourselves by our hates?

in life there are risks worth taking and so many of them are so readily available. we just haven’t learned to like them yet.

there’s a benefit in trying foods i think i hate. doing so enables me to be a gracious mealtime guest, an open-to-where-i-am traveler, and a healthier person. there are growth opportunities in exploring why the word “hate” rolls so immediately off my tongue when i talk about certain forms of entertainment, groups of people (i do not like admitting this), and experiences. do i genuinely hate these things or have i become lazy with my language? might i be uncomfortable, inexperienced, or uncertain about them rather than truly harboring hatred? if i use more accurate language might i identify where i need to grow?

later today i’m going to walk with a friend. this will not be a leisurely stroll. it will be fast, it will be long, and it will be (mostly) uphill. as i’m remembering this, i’m saying to myself, “i hate walking with people!” while this is true, it makes no logical sense. i love walking. i love this friend. our schedules don’t allow us much free time so this is a way we can accomplish both a deep discussion and our daily workout. even still, exercising with people is something i don’t enjoy. when i use this kind of language in place of “i hate walking with people” i afford myself an opportunity to explore the source of my strong feelings and understand how they are stirred. come to find out, as i consider it now, i don’t like exercising with people for a couple of reasons. first, the more deeply i settle into myself, the less i like doing more than one thing at a time. second, when trying to walk and talk i fear i’ll be exposed as out of shape. i’ll sweat and i’ll breathe heavily. i’m afraid i won’t keep up and then i’ll see myself, and others will see me, as weak. in reality, it seems, i haven’t learned to like walking with people yet because i fear exposure and vulnerability. this is much more complex than mere hatred. hatred assumes it’s about the walking. my new insight assures that it’s about me. 

perhaps there are other things i haven’t learned to like yet that are really more about me and my lack of flexibility, resilience, and/or grace and not about the object (or idea or activity) at all. maybe i don’t actually hate people who ascribe to different values than i do. perhaps i simply haven’t learned to like them, or respect them, or even interact with them effectively yet. when i own this, the impetus is on me to determine my responsibility in responding to the “hated group’s” presence in this world rather than on them to change (or at least be quiet/silent/invisible) just to be tolerated. or, more to the point at hand, perhaps i won’t press myself to walk with my friend anymore, choosing instead to talk with her when we can sit and linger face to face. or, better yet, maybe i’ll tackle my fear of being exposed so i can make way for some enjoyment in the shared exercise experience. either of these options provide so many more opportunities for growth than merely hating walking does.

today, i embrace the opportunity to consider what i haven’t learned to like (or respect or value) yet. life is too rich with possibility to cut my experience short by settling with dismissive hatred in places where expansive growth could reside. and with that, i am off...to conquer my fear of vulnerability with a good long walk and lots of sweat.

welcoming

walking into target is rarely an occasion for me. i’m typically in a hurry, ready to grab what i need and go. tonight, however, was different. rushing through the parking lot i looked up and caught the eye of a friend i hadn’t seen in quite some time. as soon as she recognized me she lit up and ran to hug me. literally. she ran. we had a really wonderful (all too brief) time of catching up on some basics and then it was (all too soon) time to say goodbye. in response to my “it is sooooo nice to see you” her husband responded, “it is so nice to be seen.” we laughed and hugged our goodbyes and went our separate ways. later, as i walked back to my car, i realized i was still smiling. it’s been a complicated season and i’m a complicated person (who isn’t) so i never know for sure how people will feel when they see me. cristi’s response to me, however, left no doubt. she lit up. she ran to me. she held my gaze and didn’t let me avoid answering her questions about me. she saw me. in so doing she, quite literally, welcomed me. all of me.

this experience is convicting to me and causes me to consider how i welcome others. in person. on the phone. via email. or text. 

brene brown says that one of the best gifts a parent can give a child is to simply light up when the child enters a room. this could apply anywhere. the best gift a partner might give could be to light up when their partner arrives home from work. or a run. or a nap. the best gift a disgruntled caller could give the customer service rep might be a lightness in their voice. a child could answer their phone in a voice that says, “i welcome your communication” when their parent calls rather than sounding as though they are barely conscious. actually listening for the answer to “how are you” might be an offering. it is, however, so painstakingly difficult to give such gifts.

welcoming others requires effort. it also requires vulnerability.

while i’m quite confident that cristi’s response to seeing me was automatic and authentic, it was also risky. i could have made a “you’re crazy” expression and postured for a quick, dismissive side hug. her husband and daughter could have teased her for her squeal and unabashed excitement. it’s vulnerable to fully welcome someone. you often have no idea what you’ll receive in return. 

what if i run to you and you turn from me? what if i greet you with the cheeriest of voices and you roll your eyes? what if i welcome you graciously and i can tell you have no interest in sharing time or space? what if i initiate and you never respond?

welcoming others without regard for what we will get in return is costly. too often we’re more concerned with how we will be seen than with how we will see those we encounter. we edit and posture and position ourselves. we weigh the possible outcomes and offer up only as much enthusiasm as is “warranted,” making sure we don’t give more than we might receive back. in all, we’re too preoccupied with our own self consciousness and how we might look to authentically welcome others.

we all love to watch others be welcomed wholeheartedly. we can’t look away from reunions at airports, banners in lawns welcoming babies or soldiers home, or bold declarations of love on youtube. last week i cried when a teen ager yelled out from the silence of a waiting crowd, “that’s my sister!” before her drum corp took the field for a very formal performance. what must it have felt like for him to yell from a hushed and full grand stand and what must it felt like for her to hear his voice? i am guessing that the last thing on either of their minds was how he looked as he yelled.

what might it take for each of us to forego our self conscious editing to welcome others boldly, meaningfully, and “loudly,” thinking not of how we will look but of how the other will feel? if you need to practice, i invite you to practice with me...i will receive your welcome and welcome you in return. fully. with running abandon.

close enough to see you sweat

objects appear differently in close proximity than they do when they are gazed at from afar.

the first time i was given the opportunity to watch a professional ballet company rehearse, i sat in the studio in awe. with no stage/audience separation and only the rehearsal piano as accompaniment, i was shocked at how loud and “clunky” toe shoes sound against a wood floor. the feats which had seemed effortless from far away took on a different look and feel when i heard the loud “clomp” of toe shoe hitting ground. the sweat soaking through the the dancer’s warm ups belied the effort with which they danced and their deep breaths were audible upon exertion. similarly, i recently attended a small studio concert of a favorite local band. i had never before heard (or even noticed) the hollow and audible breaths the cello players took as they gave themselves to the songs they played. within this tiny shared space these “from the deepest place within the player” inhales and exhales were reminiscent of those of the best yoga teachers who make their breathing audible to model for their students. while at first i was distracted, as i sat taking it in, the breath became a beautiful part of the playing and i felt sad when it was missing in the recording i listened to on the way home.

closeness gives the gift of authenticity. the closer i allow you to be to me the more you know about my internal values and external traits. authenticity means letting you experience the less than perfect parts of me. it doesn’t allow me to appear as though i dance through life making only light landings or that i don’t show signs of exertion when i try hard at things. when you’re close you see me sweat. or say stupid (or inaccurate) things.  

this is, of course, too simplistic. authenticity can be lived out even when space separates the viewer and the viewed. the hearer and the heard. and so on. closeness, however, has a way of forcing the issue of what is actual. when i keep you at a distance, i feel as though i have so much greater control of that which you see. when we communicate only via channels that allow me to maintain distance i can pick and choose what i reveal. when i merely “update” you instead of sharing time and space with you, i have the luxury of things seeming the way i’d like them to seem. i can edit and place emphasis on that which i would like you to notice.

no one is more guilty of this than me. i share in a seemingly basic and automatic human drive to put one’s best foot forward. the world of social networks, of texting over talking, and of having access to a world of information and entertainment 24 hours a day has only made this drive a more viable opportunity. if we are lonely there’s little need to “expose” this to others when we can simply numb ourselves with a constant flow of youtube clips and netflix queues. when we feel insecure we can torture ourselves by trolling everyone else’s perfect lives on facebook, reinforcing our tendency to keep making space, or amass “positive feedback” by sharing an easily likable status update. when we’re angry at being let down, a text can communicate so much more “cleanly” than our voices ever could.

and yet...what are we missing out on?

in the recording studio the band can “quiet down,” or eliminate all together, the breath of the musicians and the sounds that distract from the desired impact of the recording. the seeming effortlessness of a professional ballet performance is aided by the distance between the dancers and their audience and grand musical scores which drown out the sounds of heaving and landing and breathing like an athlete.

do we really desire a relational landscape where these “edits” and altered realities are all we know of others or allow others to know of us? sure, no one “deserves” access to your internal world without having earned it. too-much-too-soon vulnerability is rarely a good idea. boundaries are important for a reason and we all need some moments of seemingly flawless spectacle to entertain us now and again. even still, i respect ballet dancers so much more since i’ve seen the state of their feet, heard the weight of their leaps land abruptly on hard ground, and seen the strain of exertion that lies only barely behind their pleasant expressions. i listen with greater interest to the music made by cellists now that i have witnessed, up close, the embodied-ness with which they play. i am grateful for these opportunities to understand more fully the reality that goes into the gifts these artists give us.

i am similarly grateful to those of you who allow closeness. mine and yours. each of us has a gift (or gifts) to give the world and only rarely is that gift one that is spot-able from a distance. more often than not it’s something much more subtle that can’t be seen from far away. frequently you might not even see it as a gift but, to me, knowing that you sweat too, that your body feels jarred when you land, and that your breath is labored when you try hard is a relief and inspiration beyond all others. so i will keep making efforts to present my authentic self rather than my distanced, staged, status conscious one and will gladly welcome yours.

presence vs fumbling for a phone

i just completed a month of senior events and graduations. final recitals. senior plays. farewell assemblies. all topped off by the graduation ceremonies themselves. i went to several this year, including that of my daughter, who chose a very unique senior year at a waldorf high school. her graduation ceremony was a thing of true beauty. each student was honored by a faculty member who spoke of them with care and grace. corsages were presented to each parent and an incredibly appointed buffet and live band reception followed. the gym was transformed to a sacred space of sorts and a reverence hung heavy about the room. unlike every other graduation i attended, there was an absolute absence of people taking photos with their phones. this was true at the senior project presentations and farewell assembly as well. as i looked around at each of these events, i blushed at finding myself the only person recording anything on a digital device.

waldorf education is built on tending to the whole person. waldorf educators commit to welcoming their students with respect and reverence and endeavor to speak to the mind, body, and spirit of each of them. in waldorf schools computers are not introduced in the classroom until high school (sometimes middle school) and families are encouraged to limit the consumption of media in all its forms. whether one loves or questions these ideals and distinctives, i am here to tell you that waldorf adults experience their children’s/student’s important moments in a way that is increasingly counter cultural. they are not fumbling for their phones. they are not recording videos. they are simply experiencing. fully. hands free (for clapping, hugging, wiping away the tears that result when one is fully present). eyes looking into eyes (instead of screens).

when i am in a crowd with these folks, it’s noticeable how truly present everyone is. it looks so different from the images i’m used to seeing. news stories clad with photos, the foregrounds of which are filled with small rectangular cell phone screens shown recording the moment in real time. flashes from the next table over as diners capture images of their meals. concert goers working harder to video the act than to actually see the stage. it feels different too. there is a quietness. a reverence. a sense that what is happening is important. so important that you don’t want to miss it. so important that experiencing it might be more meaningful than capturing it digitally.

in beauty: the invisible embrace john o’ donohue wisely states:

“traditionally, a journey was a rhythm of three forces: time, self and space. now the digital virus has truncated time and space. marooned on each instant, we have forfeited the practice of patience, the attention to emergence and delight in the eros of discovery. the self has become anxious for what the next instant might bring. this greed for destination obliterates the journey. the digital desire for the single instant schools the mind in false priority. each instant proclaims its own authority and the present image demands the complete attention of the eye. there is no sense of natural sequence where an image is allowed to emerge from its background and context when the time is right, the eye is worthy and the heart is appropriate. the mechanics of electronic imaging reverses the incarnation of real encounter. but a great journey needs plenty of time. it should not be rushed; if it is, your life becomes a kind of abstract package tour devoid of beauty and meaning. there is such a constant whirr of movement that you never know where you are. you have no time to give yourself to the present experience. when you accumulate experiences at such a tempo, everything becomes thin. consequently, you become ever more absent from your life and this fosters emptiness that haunts the heart.”

anymore it feels like our life journeys have little intentional rhythm. we don’t live rests and patterned notes. there is little difference between foreground and background, crescendos and decrescendos. instead it often feels as though we are all trying to capture as many conversations, pictures, videos, and people as possible and hold them in our pockets. rather than leaning into the moments we find ourselves in, we often escape them to share them with others who are present only digitally. we leave present circumstances to check in with our games, the news, the twitterverse, or our social networks. without fully playing the present measure, we skip forward to the next line of music.

i believe that much of this has to do with our ever dwindling ability to be still and our shrinking capacity to be authentically, vulnerably present as full selves in an uncertain world. we don’t like to be caught off guard. we don’t know how to handle the unknown. or make eye contact. or navigate an unforeseen conversational lull. boredom is our enemy and we have made the pointing out of the “awkward” a national obsession. 

i went to what was supposed to be an outdoor concert today. the band included five musicians who had traveled 7 hours to play what would normally be a packed venue. due to rain, the event had been moved indoors. when i found the new location, five minutes into the first set, i felt instantly awkward when i entered, from a door alongside the stage, a mostly empty room. only one table was occupied and it held two people. as i settled into my seat, it would have been much more comfortable to take out my phone and surf the web, check my email, or text someone than it was to sit there, face forward, eyes open, making direct contact with everyone on that stage.

i frequently go to concerts alone specifically to be anonymous. to lean into opportunities to be lost in crowds, part of experiences that are bigger than me and that are feasts for all my senses. this was exactly the opposite. i could not blend in or be lost. my presence, as well as that of each of the 7 others in the room, was remarkably obvious. it struck me, however, that if i felt uncomfortable, very likely everyone else in that room felt the same. and so, i sat and i engaged fully. i forced myself to not look away when a band member made eye contact. i didn’t lock my face to a screen (which would have been oh-so-convenient) to avoid the chit chat that i feel so terribly inept at between songs. i didn’t say, like i wanted to, that they could really just take a long break and grab a few more beers when the others left the room because i really wasn’t enough of an audience to play for. and, i think, i grew a little. or at least i didn’t reinforce the messages i tell myself that i’m a terrible chit chatter and not a worthy audience. i gave them the gift of enjoying their offering and, since i didn’t allow myself to escape to other places via my phone, i enjoyed the offering much more fully. i noticed the skill of the slide guitar player, the nuances of the lyrics, how each song made me feel, and the way the light moved across the room. 

bringing ourselves fully to a moment requires effort and intention, especially when so many enticing distractions are available to us every moment of every day. we must, then, decide ahead of time how we want to engage in each time and space that we find ourselves in. we must plan to navigate awkward moments, pregnant pauses, uncomfortable glances (or stares). we must train our selves to be sturdy enough to stay present even when (or maybe especially when) all we want to do is capture the moment so we can “share” it with others or escape it altogether by engaging our digital universes. perhaps our desire to do so detracts from our ability to experience it ourselves. fully. with all our senses. in embodied ways. how the moment smells and feels and tastes and sounds and looks.

perhaps this kind of attending requires bringing the self to moments in new and different ways. for me this means that i experience a play differently if i dress up to attend it or a concert more fully if i force myself to keep my phone in my back pack because i’ve decided ahead of time that i am where i am to be at the concert not to tell others i am there. i attend to conversations differently when i enter them intentionally, without ringers or vibrations alerting me. i arrive to the present with a new reverence if i’ve taken time to determine these things ahead of time. if i agree with myself to be with myself and others fully in this place called my life.

john o’donohue says, “our neon times have neglected and evaded the depth kingdoms of interiority in favour of the ghost realms of cyber-space...we have unlearned the patience and attention of lingering at the thresholds where the unknown awaits us.” 

and so, i am endeavoring to live life in greater deference to the interior world.  mine and yours. i am trying to linger at the threshold of the unknown, trusting that doing so will grow me. i may not have as many photos to share or videos to show but my internal experience and the intensity of self i will have available for attending to you will be enhanced. for this, i am eternally grateful...even if i am awkward.