On Wisdom and Reflection

Reflection on Wisdom 

Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

Sunday, June 24, 2012

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If you prefer an audio version, click on the link below.

http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2012/20120624reflectionCbergante.mp3

We all have stories. Things happen to us every day, big and small. If we make time to think deeply about these stories, to chew on them as we go through our day, we often discover that our stories contain wisdom. I like to use journal writing and blogging to reflect on my experiences. Here is one of my stories.

When I was offered the job as a Vocational Assistant for students with severe disabilities, I almost didn't accept it. In the interview I learned that the young adult students I would be working with were non-verbal and some were aggressive. They needed intimate assistance in the restroom, and there would be some lifting of wheelchair bound students. And I would be one on one with these students at job sites out in the community. Oh boy. I left the interview thinking, I hope they don't offer me the job. I'm not cut out for this. But they did and, with some trepidation, I accepted.

When I walked in the classroom the first day, there were six students, the teacher and two classroom aides. After about ten minutes, the teacher took me outside and gave me the rundown on each student, warning me about one in particular. Helene (not her real name).

Helene is nineteen years old. She has severe autism. She does not speak, but she understands. She is slow moving, but outweighs me by many pounds. When frustrated, she is prone to self-injurious behaviors such as hitting and biting herself, along with screaming and hitting or grabbing staff members. The teacher told me that I should ignore these behaviors if they occur. I should not express sympathy or concern or she would target me, increasing the frequency of her maladaptive behaviors. Back in the classroom I kept my distance from Helene, not daring to even make eye contact with her, certain that she would smell fear and come after me.

In the coming weeks I got to know the students a bit and I witnessed Helene scream and grab a staff member. The other staff members assisted Helene with all of her tasks, including the restroom. I was never alone with her. I noticed that other staff members were not very warm with Helene. And I supposed that detachment was what was called for in working with her.

Finally, my time came. The other female staff member went out on disability leave with a bad back and I, green as I was, became the senior female staff member in the classroom. This meant I would be the one taking Helene to the bathroom.

Well, the bathroom was one of the places Helene had the most trouble with. And it wasn't long before I got trapped in a stall with her screaming, biting her arm, and eventually grabbing the front of my shirt in a tight grip while slapping at me with her other hand. Foolishly I had let her get between me and the door, so it took some careful maneuvering to get myself out of the stall. Helene continued to scream and bite her arm while I waited outside, my heart racing. When she calmed down I helped her back to the classroom, shaking, but feeling like I had survived a rite of passage. I could do this.

That was two years ago. Through presence, patience, and persistance, Helene and I have built a strong relationship. We walk arm and arm when we go to her recycling job. I fix her hair and look at fashion magazines with her. After she completes her job, I give her hand massages with sweet smelling lotion. We listen to music together in the car and she smiles and rocks while I sing along. Although she is pretty much non-verbal, she does let out a good humored expletive on occasion. (This is considered “inappropriate” behavior, so I turn my head when I smile.) I compliment her on her clothes and tell her that if her green cowboy boots were in my size, she'd have to worry. I give her choices whenever I can, because she has so few in her life. I even know what type of guy she likes (it's all about muscles for Helene). She still has outbursts, but not as many as she used to. And when she does, I do not ignore her behavior (and neither do other staff in her new classroom). I assure her that she's OK. I tell her that I'm not going to let her hurt herself. And I tell her that I'm not going to let her hurt me either, because we are friends. I wait her out.

Helene does not talk, but I am learning to listen. And she has taught me a lot about about what it means to be fully human. Here is some of the wisdom she has imparted, all without uttering a single word (except for the occasional expletive):

• Everyone wants to be seen, really seen, and accepted for who they are. Pity only tells someone there is something wrong with them. As the author Temple Grandin, who also has autism, says, “I am different. Not less.” Aren't we all?

• Everyone wants to be heard. We want people to listen when we are upset, angry, sad, happy, confused. If we are having trouble expressing these emotions, we want someone to take the time to help us figure out what we are trying to say. Temple Grandin says, “I can remember the frustration of not being able to talk. I knew what I wanted to say, but I could not get the words out, so I would just scream.” I can't begin to count the times I have wanted to scream (and occasionally actually have screamed) when I just couldn't get the words out or did not feel heard.
  
  
  
• Everyone wants to be touched sometimes. Remember that when you are around someone who is maybe not immediately loveable and cuddly. A gentle touch on the hand can go a long way. How many times has a touch or a hug or a back rub been your saving grace on a bad day?
  
  
• Patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person. Slow down and just be present with someone, fully present. And be persistant. Don't assume that what other people say about them will be true for you. Every relationship is a new beginning.

I am grateful to Helene and the other students I work with for reminding me of these things every day.

Wisdom can come from many sources, some more obvious than others. But whether it comes from a sage or from a young woman who cannot speak, I believe it's impossible to fully embrace wisdom without reflection. THAT particular piece of wisdom is something I have learned time and time again from so many people and experiences right here in this place. We all have stories. And in every story, there are truths and wisdom just waiting to be uncovered. Be present. Be patient. Be persistant. And take time for reflection.

Tangles

Hair is a great way to try on different identities. My own hair has been colored, permed, and cut into many shades and shapes. I know first hand, that no hairstyle is fatal. But when my twelve year old daughter, Frances, came to me and said she wanted dreadlocks, I was not prepared. Dreadlocks? Really? I stalled. Would she consider tiny braids? No, it had to be dreads. She argued that I'm always on her case to brush her hair. With dreads, she claimed, there would be no more brushing. I tried to explain that getting cute, non-rodent nest looking dreadlocks required more than simply tossing away your hairbrush, but she was adamant.

I'm not opposed to dreadlocks. In fact I like them when they're small and tidy, maybe with a few beads. One of the cashiers at my local Trader Joe's has tiny little dreads that she wears piled on her head in an artful knot. Some of her dreads are dyed magenta. She looks terrific. And I'm a huge fan of writer Anne Lamott who looks lovely and wise in her dreads. She describes them as being “like snowflakes, each dreadlock is different, has its own configuration, its own breadth and feel. It's like having very safe multiple personalities.” Still, it took consultations with many trusted friends before I took a deep breath and said yes.

Frances made me watch a Youtube video from a hair salon in Canada that specializes in dreadlocks. The stylist spent something like five hours on this guy's hair. And then went on to explain that it took up to a year for dreads to really take. Until then it was a matter of constant teasing and waxing the dreads. Frances asked if I would help her with this project. Hmm. Did I really want to spend the better part of a weekend ratting up my daughter's hair, only to have her yell at me that I'm not doing it like the video?

I was visited by two different visions of Frances as an adult. In vision one, I allow her to get dreads, but do not help with the process. In this narrative she remembers a mom who let her take a few risks and deal with the consequences. She is a stronger person for it, though not terribly appreciative of my maternal wisdom. In vision two, I eagerly help her with the dreadlocks. We spend the whole weekend locked in the bathroom with combs and beeswax. We tell each other secrets and laugh together. It's a bonding experience that she never forgets, a story of her mother's love and devotion that she will tell her children and grandchildren.

Call me lazy. I went with vision one. I purchased beeswax for her and sat in the living room while she teased her hair and became increasingly frustrated by how long it was taking. I helped a little bit with the hair in the back, but not enough to inspire memories of love and devotion and stories for grandchildren.

She worked on her hair for several days, spending way more time ratting it than she ever had brushing it. When I picked her up from school each day, moms would come up to me and offer sympathy. I developed a new mantra which I shared with anyone who would listen: It's not sex. It's not drugs. It's not tattoos or body piercing. It's only hair. Hair can be cut. Hair grows back.

After a couple of weeks of teasing, waxing and complaining, it happened. The dreadlocks actually started to look kind of good. And I had to admit they fit Frances' vegetarian, outdoorsy personality. She was a girl who played in the mud, climbed trees, hiked for miles, and was not afraid to get dirty. She was passionate about animal rights and shopped at the thrift store. The dreads were working for her. Some moms started telling me that she looked cute. They admired her self expression. Her friends thought she was cool and gutsy for getting dreads. Maybe this was a good idea afterall.

And then she got lice.

We were no strangers to lice infestations, Frances and I. Talk about a bonding experience. We had already logged many hours of “nit picking” during previous infestations. But lice AND dreadlocks? That was uncharted territory. Anyone who has ever spent any time wielding a lice comb knows that they have very fine teeth. There is no way a lice comb could make it through the tangled mass of a dreadlock. I didn't know where to begin, and Frances was devastated. There were tears and the sad realization that the only way out of this mess involved scissors.

Well, you can't just waltz into a salon and ask for a haircut when you have lice. You will be shown the door very quickly. And I have zero talent when it comes to hair and scissors. So I got on the phone to my Aunt Edna who owns a hair salon. She explained that she could lose her license for knowingly cutting lice infested hair in her salon. But she would meet us at my grandmother's house after work to see what she could do.

Later that day, after a lice shampoo, we gathered at my grandmother's house: Frances, her mother, two great-aunts, and her 96 year old great-grandmother. Aunt Edna took a good look at Frances' hair, lifting and examining the dreadlocks. As a stylist it must have taken an incredible amount of self-restraint not to pass judgment on what Frances had done and I had allowed. But whatever her thoughts, she kept them to herself. Slowly and carefully she began to cut. One by one she snipped the dreadlocks and Frances and I watched them fall silently to the ground.

But then Edna began to work real magic, shaping those jagged cuts into a stylish layered haircut. There were sighs of relief and gratitude. This was a good moment. We were a family, a gathering of women helping Frances on what will be a life-long journey of self-discovery. There will be other knots to untangle as she grows up. I will be able to help her work through some of them, but not all of them. This is one of the hardest lessons of parenthood: Letting go and trusting that your child will be ok without you. Hoping that she never finds herself alone with a knot too big to untangle.

When she was a baby, I held her tiny fingers in my hands and helped her take one awkward step after another. When I sensed she was steady enough, I let go. But here's what I hope she remembers. When she fell, there was always someone to help her up. She was surrounded by people who love her. All she had to do was reach out.

At age 14, Frances says she is glad she got lice before a more drastic haircut was required to remove the dreads. 

Half Full

“Some look and all they find
Are problems and alibis
But my cup is one sixteenth full
I'm getting there, but the getting's slow.”

Glen Phillips

Released

Just the other day I looked at the glass, and I saw that it was half full.

This may not seem like earth shattering news, but for me it is life changing. For as long as I can remember I have been a glass half empty person. Even as a child. Even before my parents divorced, tearing a hole in my safety net, I looked at life from a small cautious place. I've always been a worrier, and on the obsessive side. If I were offered a free trip to Paris, I would immediately start worrying about how many pairs of shoes to pack and if I owned a warm, yet stylish, jacket. Lately though, I find that I'm a tad more buoyant. When I look at the glass, it is no longer half empty. Most of the time it is at least half full.

When I was in kindergarten I spent afternoons at our neighbor Martha's house, waiting for my mother to get home from work. Martha was a nice woman. She made my birthday cakes and, let me tell you, that woman worked magic with frosting. I especially remember the princess cake with the doll standing in the middle, adorned in a full length floral gown made entirely of sugary sweet icing. Once, she helped me decorate a cake that won first prize in my elementary school cake baking contest.

Yet my memories of kindergarten afternoons at Martha's are small and tight. I remember waiting anxiously for my parents. Of trying to sneak down the street to my house where my father, who worked the night shift as a deputy sheriff, was sleeping. Wrapped up in my longing for my dad to wake up and my mom to come home, I was unable to make something joyful out of those afternoons. I do not remember drawing or looking at books. I have no memory of bouncing a ball or playing with neighborhood kids. Only of waiting and longing. When my mom got home and my dad woke up, THEN my life could resume. It would be that way for a long time. For years I waited for someone or something that would enable me to really start living.

When I was in college I wanted a pair of low heeled red pumps. With a limited budget, I began haunting the Macy's sales racks, just waiting for the perfect pair of shoes to go on sale. I imagined how my life would be better somehow if I could walk through it in just the right pair of red pumps. Like Dorothy's ruby slippers, these pumps would take me where I wanted to go. I developed a rich fantasy life, one where I met the perfect boyfriend who accompanied me to art museums and cafes, my red pumps leading the way down that yellow brick road to happily ever after. My friend Laura began referring to these mythical shoes as the “life perfecting red pumps” as the weeks of my search carried on. When I found them, a pair of size 8 Nine West, low heeled red pumps, on sale, my heart soared and my feet were beautifully adorned. But, alas, my life was not dramatically altered.

It's a silly story, but those red pumps became a metaphor for me. I began to see that I was a person who waited for people or things to come along and fill me up. When I met the right man, I'd be happy. When I found the right job, life would be good. If only I had better hair or the right clothes, THEN everything would fall into place. I wasn't able to take even the first step toward joy until someone came along and put ruby slippers on my feet. But, of course, ruby slippers are only found in Oz. I had to learn to live in Kansas (well, California actually) without the help of a wizard whose magic is only smoke and mirrors anyway.

I don't long for ruby slippers anymore. I prefer to walk barefoot, my feet touching the ground, feeling the sweet wet grass and the occasional sharpness of a rock on my sole. And I am no longer waiting for my parents or prince charming to make me happy. Instead I am looking, really looking, both inward and outside of myself at what is already there. I have gifts to share and amazing people in my life. And damn if there isn't love and beauty all around me. I swear I did not trade in the life perfecting red pumps for a pair of rose colored glasses. I know that terrible things happen to good people every day. In fact, I am better equipped to really see the tragedies and injustices of our broken world now. You see, a few years back I began to focus on gratitude as a spiritual practice and I think it's starting to take hold.

To really practice gratitude, you have to be present for what is happening in your life right now, not looking ahead to the future. You also have to turn off what writer Anne Lamott calls radio station KFKD (yeah it's what you think). That's the station inside your head that tells you how misunderstood you are in one ear, and raps about what a loser you are in the other. When I can do those two things (no easy task), it's amazing what I find to be grateful for. In his book, Simply Pray, Erik Walker Wikstrom says, “Spending some time each day in Naming prayer – naming and noting the ways in which the sacred is moving in your life and reminding yourself of all you have to be thankful for – might just tip the balance toward seeing the glass (at least) half full.” I think he's right.

So, gratitude. Who knew that's what it would take to fill my cup? I keep asking myself if there is anything I can do to help my kids learn this so they don't have to wait until they're in, what my husband calls, their extremely late mid-forties to figure it out. I hope so. I want them to know that bare feet are far more comfortable than ruby slippers. And when they're thirsty, there's a big old glass right in front of them,and it's more than half full.

Thank you Father Mike

Father Mychal Judge was a Franciscan friar and a chaplain to the New York City Fire Department. On September 11, 2001, he rushed into the first World Trade Center tower along side the firefighters he had ministered to, supported, and comforted over the years. On 9/11 he earned the unfortunate distinction of becoming the first recorded death of that tragic day.


This morning, as I drank my coffee and packed school lunches I listened to an NPR story about Mychal Judge, or Father Mike as he was known. He was described as a devout and irreverent priest with large comforting hands, colorful language, and a huge heart. He was a man who remembered small details about the lives of the many people he encountered and who always made time for them when they needed him. He was once quoted as saying  " I don't need a thing in the world. I am the happiest man on the face of the earth. Why am I so blessed? I don't deserve it." He touched the lives of many New Yorkers, 3,000 of whom paid their respects at his funeral.


As I listened to the story, I was filled with tenderness and awe for the people Father Mike left behind. It was their stories, the personal truths each of them pulled from this tragedy, that touched me so deeply this morning. Each of the people interviewed drew their own meaning from Father Mike's death and it has shaped the way they live their lives.


This need, this ability to search for meaning, to question, to try to understand, is one of the most beautiful traits we humans share. Some believe our life paths are the product of divine intervention. Others steadfastly believe that there is no rhyme or reason to life. And still others choose to understand life experiences as the consequences of our choices and actions. What touched me about the stories from Father Mike's survivors, was not what each of them believed or how they came to that belief, but rather that each of them sought to understand and find some truth in Father Mike's death. 


Bill Cosgrove, a retired police lieutenant, was one of the people interviewed. He became the subject of an iconic 9/11 photo. In the photo he and several firefighters are carrying  Mychal Judge's body out of the wreckage. It is a powerful image to be sure. Lt. Cosgrove had never met Judge, but literally stumbled upon his body as he rushed in to help when the first of the World Trade Center towers was struck. He says of Father Mike:

"He's always been on my mind ever since then, because it's my firm belief that the only reason I'm here today is because of him. I know that sounds weird, but everybody you see in that picture was saved. And I'm sure had he not been there, I would have been trying to look for other people. And when that North Tower fell, I would have been right in the middle of it, just like the rest of the firemen were, and some of my cops. But nothing was going to happen that day. At least, not to me."

Craig Monahan, a firefighter who knew Father Mike and barely survived that day, believes that his death was a fitting end to his life.

"I think he wouldn't have had it any other way. It was as if he took the lead, all those angels, right through heaven's gates, you know. That's what it seemed like to us. And I guess if any of those guys were confused on the way up, he was there to kind of ease the transition from this life to the next."

Father Michael Duffy, a Franciscan brother and long time friend of Father Mychal Judge had many fond memories and stories of their long friendship. He delivered the eulogy at Judge's funeral.

"Mychal Judge's body was the first one released from Ground Zero. His death certificate has the number '1' on the top. Of the thousands of people who perished in that terrible holocaust, why was Mychal Judge number one? And I think I know the reason. Mychal's goal and purpose in life was to bring the firemen to the point of death so they would be ready to meet their maker. Mychal Judge could not have ministered to them all. It was physically impossible — in this life."

I believe the important thing about seeking truth and meaning in our lives is, not so much the answers we find, but what we do with them. How do the truths we find inform our lives and guide us in how we live them?  The losses of 9/11 would be far more tragic than they already are if we did not attempt to understand them. There are as many truths to be found from that day as there are seekers. The questions we must ask ourselves are, what do we do with these truths? How do we use them to guide our lives? As a nation it is imperative that we ask these questions. 


As significant as 9/11 is in our national history (it is one of those days that everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing), we should not limit our search for truth to events of great tragedy or joy. We have the opportunity to find meaning in our lives every day if we only take the time to look. Our own small lives are full of stories. And if we begin to pay attention to these stories, we begin to see the wisdom they hold. And from there, we might begin to see the direction our lives should take next.


These are the truths I found in the story of Father Mychal Judge and those who knew him: We are all seekers. We all have the ability to find truth and meaning in the events of our lives. Even if we share an experience, my truth may not be the same as yours. We do well to use the answers we find to guide us in our lives. I find it awe inspiring that, not only did Mychal Judge touch the lives of thousands of New Yorkers in both his life and his death, but ten years later he touched the life of a woman from California who hadn't even heard of him until this morning. Thank you Father Mike.


To read or listen to the NPR story about Father Mychal Judge visit http://www.npr.org/2011/09/09/140293993/slain-priest-bury-his-heart-but-not-his-love

Wells of strength, some hidden

"just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are - vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth - and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we can honor this beauty that owes us nothing."

-Muriel Barbery

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

book I read while backpacking

Standing waist deep in a small, chilly Sierra Lake I listened. All I could hear was the wind rustling the pine trees and my dog sniffing out treasures in the bushes. I looked around. This small lake was cradled by mountains on all sides, snow capped and jagged. The sky was cloudless and deep blue. I breathed in clean, fresh mountain air. As the wind stopped to catch its' breath,  I plunged my head under the clear water of that mountain lake and broke the surface refreshed. This was a peak experience if ever there was one. This was a baptism.

I have only been backpacking twice in my life: Once last summer and once this summer. The grand total of miles I have hiked with a 30 pound pack on my back: About 10. Total number of nights spent away from running water and electricity: 5. But I am hooked now. After years of hiking and car camping, I have found the joy of camping with less stuff and fewer people in more remote places.

I never thought I would enjoy backpacking. I didn't think I had the guts. I've always loved to hike, but not with a heavy pack strapped to my back.  I'm afraid of bears. The prospect of a bear sniffing around my tent in the night sent chills down my spine.  And there's all that darkness and quiet at night. I didn't think I could survive without a lantern and the sound of other campers chatting around their campfires. Finally, what about bodily functions. I truly hate pit toilets, but digging a hole and, well, you know. Not for me thanks.

Then my friend Chrissie, a woman who is fearless in the face of physical challenges and has backpacked with Grizzly bears in Alaska, got it into her head that we should tack a couple of nights of backpacking onto our annual week long car camping vacation to June Lake.  I looked at her as if she'd just suggested we walk on hot coals while juggling flaming torches.  The problem was, I was the only one giving her that look as we sat in our camp chairs drinking cold beers on the June Lake shore. Other friends were seriously considering this prospect. Some of them were downright enthusiastic.

Shannah, another woman eager for adventure,  took this crazy idea and made it into an actual plan for the following summer. Picking dates and obtaining permits, she got the ball rolling. Tammy, the consummate organizer, started making supply lists and planning backpacking meals. To make matters worse, my kids were all for it, assuring me that I would never be forgiven if our family missed out on this adventure. And my beloved husband Paul, who can always be depended on for the skeptical response, was  game to give it a try. I had no choice.

E-mails circulated for the better part of the year containing packing lists, backpacking tips, permit information, meal planning, trail information, and weather predictions. We began looking for packs, tents, bear canisters and backpacking stoves to borrow. The planning and preparations wore me out. On top of that, I still had to prepare for our regular "luxury" car camping trip to June Lake. Whose idea of a vacation was this?

Finally the day of our departure arrived. It was clear and warm. We had spent a week at June Lake, elevation 7,500 feet. We gathered at Mosquito Flats, elevation 10,000 feet, departure point for Little Lakes Valley. Our destination, Chickenfoot Lake, was less than three miles away with little elevation gain. We were to camp for two nights. Wearing borrowed packs, we were less then comfortable on the hike. Four people and a dog crammed into a small tent did not lend itself to restful nights. Our borrowed stove proved to be temperamental, and our meals were boring. But the views along the trail were breathtaking, Chickenfoot Lake was postcard perfect. We were with good friends. The kids eagerly embraced the freedom they found in the wilderness. The dogs (5 on that trip) were leash free and loving it. There was booze at happy hour. And we had perfect weather. OK, maybe I CAN do this.

This summer we returned to Chickenfoot Lake for three nights. Having invested in packs of our own, we were much happier along the trail. Two small tents allowed for more comfortable nights. And our food was tastier and more varied. The kids and dogs were again free of leashes. The happy hour drinks were better (or at least stronger). And we were with some of our closest friends in one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

As we hiked out on the last day I knew I was hooked on backpacking and I was filled with gratitude for how I had gotten to this place. I am part of a community of friends who challenge me to try new things, test my courage, step out of my comfort zone and embrace life. I am blessed with friends who lift me up, watch my back, laugh with me, cry with me, muddle through the day to day with me, listen to me, talk to me, inspire me, and create moments of beauty and joy with me. How lucky am I? What an amazing source of strength they are.

And on that hike out I also realized that I am stronger than I think. I left my fears and reservations at the trailhead and found that I am capable of carrying a heavy load, sleeping in the dark, and living without certain comforts of home, at least for a few days. I had it in me all along. Sometimes it just takes the right people and the right moment to tap into a well of strength we didn't know we had. How many other wells are just waiting to be tapped? This is what it means to grow.

Why Don't We Just Start?.

Beloved educator and children's musician, Tom Hunter, begins one of his recordings by asking his fellow musicians, "How to begin?" After a moment of guitar noodling he answers his own question. "Why don't we just start."


Why don't we just start? I designed this blog many months ago. I searched for the perfect title, the perfect photos, just the right quote. I did everything except actually write. This turn of events was not surprising. My life's history is littered with ideas, dreams, and plans that never materialized, largely due to my own inaction. So why don't I just start?


It's tempting to say that I'm afraid to fail, or even afraid to succeed. And both of these are true. Existentialists might conclude that I'm afraid of death, trying to fend off the inevitable by not really starting to live. (If you don't live, you can't die, right?) I suspect there is some truth in this as well. When I was nine years old my dad turned 32. He winked at me and announced that that was it for him. He would remain 32 forever. I thought this was a fine idea and agreed to live my life as a nine year old. It was our deal. And in spite of all evidence to the contrary: the continuation of birthdays, the onset of puberty, college, marriage, two kids and a body that keeps on aging, part of me still tries to maintain my end of that deal. 


But I don't think that's the whole story either. For as long as I can remember, one of my dreams has been to sing. When I was in high school I would come home after school and stand in front of a mirror singing along with Carole King's Tapestry album over and over again. I had every nuance of every song down pat. And when I went to brush my teeth at night, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror imagining myself on the Merv Griffin show. Merv would ask me questions about my amazing voice and my meteoric rise to fame. And I would dole out wise and witty answers like they were candy. Ah success.


In real life, however, I mostly sang in the privacy of my bedroom. Painfully shy and terrified of failure and public humiliation, I chose to keep the dream of singing largely in the realm of fantasy. But along with fear, there was disconnection with the process of becoming a singer. I wanted to be Carol King being interviewed by Merv Griffin. I didn't really want to practice. I didn't want to grow and progress slowly. I wanted to be loved by all immediately. Anything short of that smacked of failure. And where was the sparkle and glamour in practicing scales or learning to play bar chords on the guitar? I didn't want to put time and energy into the process; I wanted success. Now.


I suspect I am not alone. As a culture we are taught to be goal oriented, to set our eyes on the prize and do whatever it takes to get there. Some of us plow on ahead to great success. Others are afraid to try. There are huge costs in this kind of living. We are not taught to live in the moment, to relish the journey, to find wisdom in the process, and joy in the ordinary. When we narrow our life's focus to reaching goals (or not), we don't really live our lives. We miss out on our days. We don't value the feeling that comes from just sitting down and spending an hour writing, even if we never publish anything. We forget that setting the table for a family meal is an act of love, that  there is beauty in the ritual of making a cup of coffee, tenderness in wiping a child's face clean. We don't notice the shifting light outside, or breathe in the quiet moments of early morning. We forget to go for a walk, just because. 


What is our life, if not the day to day living of it? And how can we do what we love or love what we do if we are not present for it? There is a quote I keep tucked away in the back of my mind. Unfortunately, I heard it second hand and never learned the original author. But the words are wise just the same: "Perfection is the enemy of excellence." What if being a singer just meant singing, and being a writer just meant writing? What if being human just meant showing up and really being there? What if we tried to live with presence and love and gratitude in everything we do? Why don't we just start?