Farewell 2014

At the end of my 2013 rope, I begged for joy in 2014. I got a lot of it. But as much as I wanted 2014 to be the year of joy... it morphed into something else entirely.

And, I have tried to write a neat and tidy synopsis of what I learned this year, what I want to take away, what I want to carry forward into next year.

But 2014 was messy. Really messy. Not in a bad way, just—messy. I had ups and downs, ups during the downs, downs during the ups—bursts of joy amongst the tears. Burst of tears smack in the middle of joy.

The reality of loss set in. The reality of dreams I no longer get to have also set in. And once it set in—I couldn’t deny it any longer. I couldn’t just change the subject and make it easier or better or more positive.

As much as I wanted 2014 to be about joy… what it ended up being about was acceptance. 

Accepting where I am, who I am, what has happened, what is happening, and what each moment brings. Living in the present has its merits, and acceptance is a big one.

2014 taught me the value of fully living in the present moment. What sucks about living in the present is that it’s hard to go back and ruminate over the year, because I didn’t record a lot of it, except on Facebook or Instagram.

I spent most of the year living day to day instead of trying to capture my thoughts about living day to day.

That’s unusual for me—but it isn’t bad, good, or indifferent. It simply is.

Right now it is like this: I am glad the year is over.

Somehow I feel unjustified in saying that, because it wasn’t a bad year. But it’s my truth, so there you go.

I learned the value of rest this year. I learned the value of letting go. I learned the value of rooting. I learned the value of sitting quietly and doing nothing. I learned the value of sweating buckets in hot yoga.

All that to say—I learned the value of self-care on a level I never knew I could care for me. The reasons I practice self-care have shifted ever-so-slightly, but what’s more impressive is that the depth to which I practice self-care has grown deeper than I ever thought possible.

I have learned to ask my body/mind/spirit/soul what it needs, what it longs for—and whatever the answer, I heed it.

Most of the time, that means slowing down and doing less.

The exhaustion I still feel confounds me. I thought I wouldn’t feel this tired anymore. I thought I would have more of my energy back. I thought…

It doesn’t matter what I thought, because everything I have learned about grief is that it’s different than what you think it is or what you think it’s supposed to be.

And that’s okay.

The end of this year has been quiet—very quiet. And for that, I am thankful. Quiet equates to slow and deliberate—two key pieces to my puzzle of transformation.

I can see and feel myself transforming.

And I know with a certain degree of solidarity that this transformation is my best yet. I am on the cusp of something big, special, and mind-blowingly awesome.

Yes. Amazing things are coming! I wear that belief like a new tattoo. And I smile as the wise words of Carol Lee, who I met this year, ring true in my heart right now.

I asked her, “How do I practice trust?”
She said, “You don’t. You just ‘be.’ Be the observer, and the trust will come.”

Indeed…

Right Now It Is Like This

I first heard that phrase just over a year ago, and it started a whole new phase of evolution in my life.

I heard it from Lucia Horan as she taught a 5rhythms workshop in Dallas. She mentioned who coined the phrase, but I don’t remember.

When I first heard this phrase, it resonated in a way that “It is what it is” can’t and never could. That’s because “It is what it is” has no movement. It implies inertia. Dead weight. Something to complain about.

But “Right now it is like this” has movement. It is grounding. It acknowledges that this moment right here—the present—is all that exists. Perhaps it’s not exactly what I want. Perhaps I feel emotions I don’t like or don’t want to accept.

But those feelings, those emotions, are temporary. They will pass. This phrase helps me accept it—because when I say “Right now,” that means I could (and probably will) feel differently in just a few minutes. That means I can change my perception, change my attitude, and, just like that—shift. Move. Gain forward momentum.

And, the second part, “It is like this,” reminds me to name my feelings. Name the situation. Describe it and what it feels like, so that the next time it comes around, I’ll recognize it faster—which also means I’ll recognize that I can move through it, too.

And in variably, I do—and quickly.

In other words, “Right now it is like this” is empowering.

The tattoo isn't blurry... that's from my camera phone not knowing exactly where to focus. :)

And now I have to share the story about actually getting this phrase tattooed on my arm.

I knew who I wanted to do the lettering. I’d stalked his Instagram for a while, and although I love his lettering, it’s not really “my style” as far as something I would want permanently on my body. But I still felt he was the right guy to do it—so, I went with it.

I was frustrated that day because I was in the middle of the push-pull of trying to open my heart to the man I was dating, yet I kept pulling back (now I know why... *ahem)… I felt out of control, and I was struggling to trust myself (and him). And, he called me out on it—and there I was, in Denton, at the tattoo shop… my heart pounding because I wasn’t sure what would happen with the guy, but I also wanted to make sure this tattoo turned out just right, too.

(Even now as I read over that last paragraph, I’m smiling at my own control issues. I am a “recovering” control freak. Sometimes I fall off the wagon, though…)

I met with Joe (Zombie Joe, aka Joe Chavez) and told him what I wanted—in excruciating detail. He came back up front with a drawing, and I didn’t like it. I made some suggestions of what to change, and he went back to draw it again.

When he came back out, it looked somewhat better, but I still didn’t like it.

He went back to the drawing board a third time and emerged to the front of the shop with a few more drawings.

I still wasn’t happy with the drawing, and I became increasingly frustrated.

I could tell Joe was frustrated, too.

At that point, he had a little “come to Jesus” talk with me. He told me that he was an artist who had won awards all over the world for his lettering. “This is what I do,” he said.

He asked me to just… let him do his thing.

I immediately understood where he was coming from. I agreed. He popped up off the couch—clearly re-energized—and disappeared into the back.

He came back up front a few minutes later with a sly grin on his face.

When he showed me the drawing, I immediately loved it and felt overcome. Tears came to my eyes as I nodded yes and said, “I love it.”

“Really?” He said.

“Yes!”

Later, I thanked him for talking sense into me and I pointed out the irony of the whole thing—with how much I struggled with trying to control the tattoo, when “Right now it is like this” actually helps me differentiate between my emotions and feelings (which I cannot control) vs. how I respond to them and what I do with them (which is within my control).

(And yeah, we had a good laugh about that.)

When I look at this gorgeous, one-of-a-kind scripting on my arm, I can’t help but smile.

Right now, it is like this.

25 Classes

Sunstone Yoga gives wristbands for achievement. (10 & 25 classes)

25 classes. It might not seem like much, but that's 25 hours of hot yoga. It is just the beginning, really.

But this beginning is profound.

Some days are still hard. Really hard. Usually that happens when I am low on resources—dehydrated, too hungry, not enough sleep. And sometimes, it’s just random.

But I get through every single class, and that still feels like an accomplishment, although I must admit that the time goes by so fast, it blows me away.

And at the end of that hour, I am exhausted, sweaty, stinky, and serene. Not a terrible combination, if you ask me…

So, what has changed? What has shifted in me?

I’m up to going to classes at least 4-5 times a week. It was remarkably easy to get there, even though I was really skeptical at first. I haven’t posted to Facebook for accountability because I actually haven’t needed it.

I am solely accountable to myself.

Holy shit!

This might just be the first endeavor in my entire life where I haven’t needed to be accountable to anyone but me. That’s huge! And I didn’t actually realize it until just now, as it hit me that I’d stopped posting yoga updates to Facebook.

Wow.

As far as other changes, there are the outwardly obvious things—my posture has vastly improved. My skin looks amazing and glowy and happy. My clothes are all fitting looser because I have lost inches. And over the past 5 weeks, even though I’m not actively trying to lose weight (because on yoga days I tend to eat like a horse, or so it feels like, and I love to eat, and I eat whatever I want so long as it’s got ingredients I can pronounce and identify and feel good about eating)… I have indeed lost 5 pounds. And of course, I am more flexible, I’m getting stronger, and my balance is better (most days).

And it’s really cool when I can hold poses longer than I used to, or better, or both. It’s fascinating to see and feel my own progression and growth and change. I am enjoying this process very, very much.

But the real, soul-deep benefits are much harder to articulate.

I’ve noticed that I’m making yoga a priority, no matter what. It’s not so much the yoga as it is making taking care of me the real priority.

I’ll give you an example.

This past Monday, I knew I was going to go to my dad’s house in the evening. I normally try to catch the 8pm class on Mondays, but after 9pm would be way too late to head up to my dad’s house.

Instead of skipping class, I got up an hour earlier, went in to work earlier, left work earlier, and caught the 5pm class instead. I was done by 6pm and on my way up to my dad’s not too long after that.

In other words, I rearranged my entire day to make sure I could still get to yoga but also get to my dad’s. I fulfilled both priorities and felt great about it.

The more profound piece of that, though, is that missing my yoga wasn’t even an option that came to mind.

Which means that I have turned it into a habit to take care of me and prioritize my own health and well-being. It’s not even an option anymore for me to be sedentary, because that is so far from what I want that it doesn’t even enter my mind anymore.

Even now, that realization brings tears to my eyes.

As I anticipated, hot yoga is changing my life. I feel calmer and more in control during the day. I am sleeping harder and better. I’m not waking up at random times of the night anymore. I am able to fall asleep immediately once I’m in bed—and that is a gift, considering falling asleep fast (or sometimes at all) eluded me after my mom’s death.

Oh yeah!

There's one other thing. A really big thing, too.

I’ve stopped drinking coffee.

Yes. You read that right… this life-long coffee lover (coffee obsessor, more like) has actually stopped drinking coffee altogether.

Before—I drank about 20 ounces of coffee.

That’s a lot of caffeine, y’all.

So now it’s one or two cups of tea (or perhaps a chai latte using almond milk), and if I drink any tea in the afternoon or evening (and I often do), it’s herbal and caffeine free.

And I honestly couldn’t feel better about it than I do. I feel great! I love the smell of coffee, and I do still enjoy the taste (provided there’s enough cream and sugar), but even after a couple of sips, I can recognize that my system just doesn’t like it anymore. In fact, my system all but completely rejects coffee, now that I’ve stopped consuming it.

These changes in me are profound.

And there are more (good! happy!) changes, too—not having anything to do with yoga.

But you’ll have to wait for another post…

Shifting Focus

The dating scene is quiet.

On purpose.

I’ve stopped dating for now. It was taking entirely too much energy from me, and it’s not like it was really getting me anywhere—except feeling discouraged, disgruntled, and disheartened.

I have "almost" posted about it here, many times. But there's already so much negativity in the world, and trying to craft a thoughtful post or two on dating when I'm really just full of piss & vinegar about the whole thing is, well... a bit futile.

On the (wayyy!) upside, that means my time has become totally my own again.

I’m focusing on two things: writing and fitness.  

The writing part is a no-brainer. I have books to write and classes to teach, and I’m working on both. In fact, I might just take a quick moment here to shout out to our wonderful Wholehearted Writing group. You can like the Facebook page—where I post photos and other inspiration that helps you keep writing (or at least thinking about it).

You can also find us on meetup.com! Our membership has grown to over 100, and we regularly have writers attend our Wednesday evening meetings (twice a month). I’ve set up a workshop in September (based on The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown), and I’ve just set up another one for October (based on The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz; this is a great book that I’ve blogged about before).

And I’m still working on a book about grief.

And a book about writing.

The second part of my current focus is fitness. But I’ll write more about that some other time…

Love Completely Without Complete Understanding

“We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? Help,” he said, “is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly. So it is, that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always, say, ‘Sorry, we are just out of that part.’”

I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein I felt absolutely helpless to help him. He reminded me of Paul Maclean in the story, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean.

In that story, Paul is the younger of two brothers. He is wild and untethered—free as a bird, popular, and a very big fish in a very small pond.

Except… he isn’t wild and free. He is tethered to the depth of his own pain, to his sense of unworthiness and his tendency towards heeding the call of spirits, gambling, and showing the world just how tough he really was. He was feisty and stubborn, to say the least.

Norman is the square older brother who follows the rules. He’s the writer—the one who tells stories on paper, the one who goes away to college, the one who seems… quieter. Not as shiny. More sensible, and therefore more boring.

I have always felt a deep connection to the story. To the lyrical turn of phrase in Maclean’s writing, to the sentiment behind loving family without fully understanding them, to feeling constantly misunderstood and under-estimated.

I watched the movie version of this story today, in hopes of finding a deeper understanding of what my friend is currently going through, or possibly a different way to connect with him that might be more helpful.

Instead, I found myself in a pile of tears as I realized another layer of understanding of my own family, my own sister, and my own appointed role in it all.

It hit me that Wendy was much like Paul. She defied the rules of our parents with a ferocity and unapologetic glee that I rarely see depicted in books or on screen. And I, of course, am like Norman...

In one scene of the movie, Paul, Norman, their mother, and their father (a preacher, played by Tom Skerritt) are sitting around the dinner table. They all turn to Paul and ask him to tell a story. Instantly, my mind flashed back to the tales Wendy used to tell—dramas about her kids, her man, her work. Or maybe something about the fire chief, a fire the community rushed to put out, or maybe another story about another animal that had found her.

I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell.

Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and he softly says that he’d been offered a professorship at the University of Chicago. A moment of deep pride shown on his face as for once—Norman took the spotlight in his own family.

The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt).

The look of pain and unworthiness in his eyes is incongruent with the loving smile that has crept across his face: a genuine mix of disappointment in himself and pride for his brother’s hard work and good fortune.

I know that look.

I know it all too well.

But there is another layer to this story.

Towards the end of the movie, Paul, Norman, and their father go fly fishing. Norman and the preacher sit high on the banks, tired from catching their own trout, as they watch Paul scope out the river and finally spot a fish he wants to try and capture.

They watch in silent awe as Paul artfully sweeps the fishing line out across the water. It lands inches away from the fish, and it latches on—taking Paul for quite the ride down the sharp rocks and rushing waters of the Big Blackfoot River. That fish is so big, so strong, that it’s all Paul can do to simply hold on to the line as he’s whisked downstream.

Eventually, the water calms, and Paul comes up for air. He captures the fish, reels it in, and proudly holds onto it as Norman and their father look on with amazement.

Norman narrates, “At that moment, I knew, surely and clearly, that I was witnessing perfection. My brother stood before us, not on the bank of the Big Blackfoot River, but suspended above the earth, free from all its laws, like a work of art. And I knew just as surely, just as clearly, that life is not a work of art and that the moment could not last.”

Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.

“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.
We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?

(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)

I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.

I saw the way she fell head over heels in love with motherhood. Not with her older children, but in her later years, when she had Kasey. I’d never seen such awe, such patience, and such flowing love in my sister as I did when Kasey came into our lives.

My sister’s perfection was a bright shining beacon in that brief time. She had darkness. She had pain. But Kasey opened her heart in a way she’d never been open before, and when that happened, I knew I was witnessing magic. And that magical love spilled over onto her other children, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that these beings had shaped her, changed her, and defined her in the best possible ways.

I’ve been missing Wendy a lot lately. I realized earlier this weekend that I can’t quite remember the exact color of her eyes, and what they looked like. I can see them in pictures, of course—but when I close my eyes and picture her face… the details have started to fade.

I miss my family.

And I often feel like I’m supposed to live this huge life to make up for my mom’s and sister’s lives being clipped so short. As if I owe them, or my family, or myself, or some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here.

I know that isn’t logical.

But grief never is…

“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.”

“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”

A Visit from Mr. Bee

As I approached my car this morning, I reached to open the front door, and then, as usual—I reached to open the back door so I could put my lunch bag in the back seat.

Except, I spotted a honeybee hanging out on the back door, perched near the handle.

I stood for a moment, gazing at him. He was just… resting. I leaned in a little closer to make sure I was seeing an actual honeybee, and his stillness struck me. He turned a little, as if to look back at me.

Huh, I thought to myself. I wonder why he’s here?

“Well, hello Mr. Bee. I don’t want to disturb you, but I am going to be driving here in a minute.”

I slid into my driver’s seat and closed the door.

Mr. Bee was still perched in the same spot.

I put my car in gear and very slowly, I pulled forward out of my parking spot.

I smiled and watched as Mr. Bee flew off, and I thought it was odd. And yet—his presence on my car felt purposeful. It felt like he greeted me with intention, whether it was to remind me of the promise of spring, to bid me good morning, to wish me a good day, to bring me a good omen, or simply to say hello from my mom.

Mr. Bee made me think, though—of how afraid I used to be of honeybees. I am allergic to their sting, and I’ve been stung a few times. And each time, the reaction is exponentially worse.

I made peace with honeybees in September 2010, when I traveled to Maine at the onset of my divorce. While there, I pulled over to step through an old cemetery. I still can’t explain why, it was just something I needed to do.

It was teeming with honeybees, buzzing by my head, close to the ground, and everywhere in-between. Their flight was slow and methodical, their patterns making them appear to be floating, rather than flying. Clearly, they were on a mission to gather nectar.

I said a prayer to the bees then. I asked that they leave me alone. I said I was going to trust them not to sting me. I let them know that I meant them no harm or threat. I told them that I needed to be there, and that I didn’t understand why, but I asked that they let me be, so that I could grieve.

And then, I watched in wonder as the bees slowly moved away from me and on to other parts of the cemetery where I wasn’t walking.

I have had a soft, gentle space in my heart and a healthy respect for bees since that day.

Now, when I come across one or more honeybees, I approach with a sense of wonder, respect, and curiosity. I always speak to them. They are intricate and beautiful creatures, and we very much need them on this planet.

When I think of how I used to approach them—with fear, irritation, and judgments—I wonder how many interactions I have tainted in my life because of the attitude I used to have.

And, I wonder how this ties to my approach to other beings, including humans… I wonder if Mr. Bee’s visit this morning was just to remind me of what’s important today (and every day).

Breathe.

Just be me… and be present in the moment... and the rest will come.

Breathe.

Thank you, Mr. Bee, for your timely reminder… even now, as I finally type this blog, tears stream down my face.

Perhaps Mr. Bee’s real reminder wasn’t meant to hit me until just now.

Perhaps Mr. Bee’s presence was a message straight from God—oh, how delicate and flimsy my faith has been lately. But in this moment, all I can think is:

All is well.

All is well.

All is well…

2013: A Year I'll Never Forget

Just how resilient is the human soul?

I suppose you only discover that answer when you are pushed past the brink of all you thought you could handle, about to catapult over the edge of the Grand Canyon, hanging on by a thread, your heart throbbing in your stomach, feeling yourself about to fall—

Only, you don’t fall.

You somehow find footing.

You somehow find a solid place.

Sometimes it’s God. Sometimes it’s the people who come to you in your time of need. Sometimes it’s the spirits of those who have past. Sometimes it’s something from so deep within that there are no words, there is only action.

Sometimes it’s all of the above.

And then, you realize that your legs aren’t broken… and that you can stand on them. And if you aren’t ready to stand—you can sit.

I am looking forward to writing “2014” starting tomorrow. I will never forget this year—how could I? But I poignantly and purposefully remember what I have learned, the gifts I have received, and what I am capable of now that I wasn’t capable of one year ago:

Learning how to sit still with grief and to allow it to wash over me at times that anyone would consider to be inconvenient—that is a gift I got from 2013.

Yes—I have these grief-driven blips of time where I feel all emotional growth and maturity just vanishes—and I’ll say stupid things or have episodes of feeling incredibly needy and downright panicky—but then I come up for air…
And I return to me.

Learning what it feels like to return to me, and to practice it—a priceless gift from 2013.

Learning how to stand up for myself, even when it’s hard—that’s another gift I received.

Learning exactly how strong I am, and exactly how resilient my soul is—another gift.

Learning what radical acceptance feels like—of my body, of my soul, of my state of mind, of my attitude, of my life and world and emotions and everything—yes, yes, yes… a very precious gift.

Learning that I’ve chosen worthwhile people to be in my life, because those people came to me in my most desperate times of need instead of running away from me—a huge gift, indeed.

Learning just how brave I am, how absolutely fearless I have become, and how the fears I have remaining do not rule my world—they are just a part of me, woven into the fabric of my soul. I acknowledge… I accept… and I keep moving forward…

Learning how deeply and how fully I love—just thinking about it overwhelms me. Before 2013, I had not realized my capacity for love.

I love with my whole heart. I love with every fiber, every cell, every atom my soul occupies.
And that includes loving me, too.
I love myself.

I [finally] trust myself.

The grace I have received in 2013 is something I can never thank God enough for.

I have learned how to forgive myself.

I have learned that I am basically a happy and optimistic person, and even though I have been through the worst hell of my life this year… returning to me means returning to a general state of positivity and happiness.

I am grateful for this life.

I am braver than I thought.

I can do conflict—and I can actually do it well, and with solidarity.

I am a dancer. And sometimes, dancing helps me express what words cannot.

Yes. It was—unquestionably—the most difficult year of my life. I never expected any period of time to be as hard as the last 365+ days have been.

But…

2013 showed me who I really am.

My word for the year was love.

I didn’t have to think very hard about my 2014 word.

In the fall, I experienced a special class with powerful women. In that class, we identified our top 5 values (from a list of about 185).

That’s harder than you might expect.

And your values drive—or should drive—every behavior, every habit, every interaction, every relationship—every piece and part of your life.

So, it’s meaningful to get it right.

I narrowed my list down to 13, and then I really got stuck. It turned out to be an eye-opening experience, because I realized that believing my values were really that broad actually caused me to lose focus on what is actually most sacred to me.

My list of 13 did not include one that’s actually in my top 5.

There are probably many reasons why (that I could explain ad nauseum)—but here are my 5:

1. Love
2. Gratefulness
3. Serenity
4. Joy
5. Freedom

As for the one that wasn’t in my original “top 13”?

Joy.

(Seriously?!)

(Yes. For real.)

No more!

I am choosing—from the deepest vibrations within me—one very special word for 2014. Because 2014 is going to rock. It is going to be full of happiness, peace, and most importantly—

Joy.

I have learned to let in moments of joy, even when I was sobbing seconds before. I have felt deeply joyful moments when an instant before, I felt intense grief.

I understand joy. I get it.

But to actually welcome joy into my life, to invite it—

That’s different.

And so…

Joy…

I am rolling out the red carpet for you in 2014.

Come on in.

You are welcome here!

My Christmas Wish

So, I was at the salon on Saturday, and while I had my head leaned back in the sink, the fantastic assistant (she really IS fantastic, and her name is Amanda) asked me if I was excited about Christmas.

It's an innocent enough question... except in my case, and except for this particular year. I was honest but polite.

I said that I would be glad when it's over—and that I was ready for 2014. I quietly said that 2013 was the hardest year of my life.

The woman next to me piped up and started rattling off tragedies she's been through and how next year was going to be a banner year for me. She said that life "resets" every 7 years or so. Neither Amanda nor I had ever heard that... so we asked her to elaborate. She said that every 7 years, the cycle of life resets. She cataloged her own life and found it to be true. She said that if one year was especially hard, the next year was destined to be great.

As she bubbled over with her chattering, trying to guess at the hard year I'd had (she listed off things like car accidents, surgeries, kids gone missing, job loss, etc.), tears streamed down my face in rapid succession.

Amanda silently placed a towel on my chest and smiled. I kept crying, and I didn’t bother wiping the tears away at this point. There was no point—it was a constant stream.

Finally, I spit it out. That I had lost my mom and sister.

The woman next to me didn’t miss a beat. She said she was so sorry, that she couldn’t relate exactly (thank you for SOMEONE saying that… for real), but that she could only try to imagine how painful and difficult it is.

She sat up and smiled at me. She didn’t back down from my rawness, from my openness. And she said she would add me to her prayers, and God bless me, and that 2014 was going to be my year.

As she walked away, she turned around, smiled, and said, “It really will! You’ll see!”

And with a flit and a flutter, off she went.

I hope she is right.

I need a really good year.

That, my friends, is my Christmas wish.