We've made it through the Lenten period. That means I've officially reached my blog-writing goal.
I thought when I came to this point I would have a clear sense of what comes next for writing and/or for this blog. But I find that the future still looks fuzzy. I think I need to free myself, at least for now, from the obligation of writing every week. That may mean that I continue to post on here more frequently than I think I will (playing the piano happened that way - when I stopped lessons and practicing for recitals, I actually played more). But it could also mean that I'll post infrequently. I'm just not sure. If you subscribe to the blog (see button at top right) you can receive an email with my most recent post, regardless of how frequently or infrequently I write.
If you are reading this, I do want to thank you for following along. The whole point of this goal was to start writing again AND to start sharing my writing with other people. I would love to have any feedback. Was there a post that "stuck" with you? Was there a post that frustrated you? Would you be glad to see the blog continue? It's not too late to contact me via email or by commenting here. I'm always encouraged when someone takes the time to respond.
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Since I'm already posting, I'll tack on something personal. The last week or so, I've been feeling pretty discouraged about my daughter's progress toward walking. She's so close, and yet it could be weeks or months until she finally decides to take a step. I'm feeling really impatient. Really tired of feeling like I need to keep pushing her toward the goal. And afraid to share how discouraged I am because: 1) when I start comparing (always dangerous to do) this "problem" to what others are facing, it seems pretty insignificant; 2) I think I should have a better grip on my emotions, more patience, more steadfastness, etc.
I'm afraid of judgment, pretty much. And I question myself - should I be doing more, or perhaps less (just let go)? Or is it really not about me, at all? I wish I knew. In the meantime, I wait. Because, at the end of the day, that's the only option I have.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Resurrection
I had a dream last night. It wasn't a nightmare, but I woke up feeling uneasy. I stayed in bed a few extra minutes and thought about my dream . . . that's what I do when I need insight.
In the first part of the dream, my husband and I worked for a large, unknown corporation. What I remember from the dream was the maddening difficulty of accomplishing anything in that company. People would quit, I presumed because the tasks were difficult and also meaningless, and yet no one was willing to change the order of things. There were outdated procedures and lots of obstacles to freedom and productive work. But it continued. Over and over again, day after mind-numbing day.
I'm not sure what to do with this dream except to think about how it relates to tomorrow (or today, if you are reading this via email subscription). Resurrection Sunday. If ever there was a day that upended the supposed order of things - getting rid of obstacles and the dull comfort of meaningless routines - well, this is the day.
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The second part of my dream involved the sport of field hockey. I was playing it, enjoying it, and determined to try out for a team. And then, in my dream, I remembered that field hockey practice involves lots of running. And just like that, still in my dream, I lost my resolve.
Then I woke up.
While I was puzzling over this part of the dream, I had a sudden flashback to my 8th grade year of junior high. I played field hockey in 8th grade and I loved it. I would even say I was good at it. But something kept me from trying out for my high school team, and that something was running. I figured I couldn't do the running that a high school coach would require and I was too scared to even try. How funny, and quite amazing, that this snippet of my history should come fleeing out of the shadows of memory this morning. It sort of washed over me that I'm standing at the exact same crossroads of that memory, except now I need to run for a 5K (one of my goals for the year) and not a field hockey team. Back in eighth grade, I made a judgment call - a judgment of myself - based on fear. This time, I need to make a different decision about who I am.
I need a resurrection.
In the first part of the dream, my husband and I worked for a large, unknown corporation. What I remember from the dream was the maddening difficulty of accomplishing anything in that company. People would quit, I presumed because the tasks were difficult and also meaningless, and yet no one was willing to change the order of things. There were outdated procedures and lots of obstacles to freedom and productive work. But it continued. Over and over again, day after mind-numbing day.
I'm not sure what to do with this dream except to think about how it relates to tomorrow (or today, if you are reading this via email subscription). Resurrection Sunday. If ever there was a day that upended the supposed order of things - getting rid of obstacles and the dull comfort of meaningless routines - well, this is the day.
*************************************************************************
The second part of my dream involved the sport of field hockey. I was playing it, enjoying it, and determined to try out for a team. And then, in my dream, I remembered that field hockey practice involves lots of running. And just like that, still in my dream, I lost my resolve.
Then I woke up.
While I was puzzling over this part of the dream, I had a sudden flashback to my 8th grade year of junior high. I played field hockey in 8th grade and I loved it. I would even say I was good at it. But something kept me from trying out for my high school team, and that something was running. I figured I couldn't do the running that a high school coach would require and I was too scared to even try. How funny, and quite amazing, that this snippet of my history should come fleeing out of the shadows of memory this morning. It sort of washed over me that I'm standing at the exact same crossroads of that memory, except now I need to run for a 5K (one of my goals for the year) and not a field hockey team. Back in eighth grade, I made a judgment call - a judgment of myself - based on fear. This time, I need to make a different decision about who I am.
I need a resurrection.
resurrection [rez-uh-rek-shuhn]
the revival of something: a resurrection of an old story
Friday, April 11, 2014
The Still, Small Voice
I have a confession. I'm still afraid of God. And it's not "holy fear." It's the plain, no-frills version of being scared. I've had a growing awareness of this fear lurking in the shadows, and it has surprised me. Surprised me because I remember places of fear and not trusting and I look back on those times - they are not part of who I am now, I believe. But, still, there are little pin-pricks telling me that all is not as it could be.
As I've listened to those pin-pricks - honed in and tried to REALLY listen - I've realized what I'm really afraid of. I'm afraid of God's voice. I'm afraid of what that voice might say to me. What it might ask me to do or say or not do or not say. I have told myself that listening to it might come at the expense of self - I might not be able to do what I want to do or be who I truly am. And, perhaps because I'm afraid, it's easy to let other voices drown out the small, quiet voice of the Spirit of God. Because there are lots of other voices and they clamor for my attention. I want to listen to them because they are louder, familiar, comfortable, and deceive me into thinking they won't require anything of me.
But here's the thing. I'm not new to the whole Christian experience. I've got some powerful stories and experiences notched on my belt. So the fact that I still want to listen to the crowd of other voices grieves me. It means that I still don't hear the voice of God as the voice of love. This despite years of knowing God's voice as exactly what scripture professes it to be: patient, kind, never forcing its way upon me, always hoping, never ending.
As I pondered all of this today, a "what if" question started to take shape in my thoughts. What if listening to the smallest, quietest voice meant not the death of self but rather the way to a life that was free and authentic and flourishing? What if?
I need to sit with that question. I've wondered sometimes what it would mean to take a couple weeks or months or even a year and go to a place where my main occupation is listening to the still, small voice of God. Listening for that voice is a discipline, I remind myself. Like any discipline, it takes practice. But maybe, with practice and care, it becomes more familiar. Comfortable. Home.
All fear is but the notion that God's love ends. ~ Ann Voskamp
For whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. ~ Matthew 16:25
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Walking Is a Process
My 17-month-old daughter Eve is not walking yet. As an infant, she would not put weight on her legs, as infants normally do with ease, and until her first birthday she spent most of her hours in a sitting position because she didn't know how to do anything else. Once we figured out what was hindering her from movement (low muscle tone in her legs and feet) and got help from a physical therapist to strengthen her leg muscles, we saw an amazing transformation. She began to crawl almost immediately and in the past three months has progressed to the very tip of the final frontier - walking without assistance. She's almost there, but not yet.
My husband and I have discussed at various times what an accomplishment walking is. Such an amazing coordination of brain activity and muscle movement. Our first child started to walk without any assistance from us, and so we took that milestone for granted. However, working with our daughter has revealed some of the complexities of developmental milestones, and we now understand that walking is really the culmination of a long process. Before they walk, a child must (in many cases) crawl, kneel, learn to pull one leg up and bring themselves to a standing position, learn to pick up their feet and side-step along objects, maintain their balance, and finally, WALK!
I've been inspired by Eve's accomplishments in recent weeks. And I've drawn all kinds of helpful parallels between my daughter's journey and my own. Here are three of them.
Fear hinders movement.
At times, Eve was physically capable of performing a movement before she was mentally or even emotionally ready to do it. So we had to do some coaxing and motivating to get her to attempt it, and then we had to help her do each step repeatedly until the action became part of her brain and muscle memories. I've thought about points in my life where I have needed to do or say something new - repeatedly - to gain confidence and create a fresh memory that overrides the fearful one. (Public speaking is just one example.)
If the big goal seems insurmountable, start with baby steps.
I've already written about all the little steps a child needs to take before they can walk. So it is with me, an adult. Big changes intimidate me. But I don't want to avoid them, or avoid the adventure and growth and perspective that come with change. Breaking down the big goal breaks down the fear too.
Movement, however small, is progress.
When I'm afraid or overwhelmed, something funny happens. I don't move. I get lost in thought. Procrastinate. I've been amazed to discover in recent months that sometimes the best way to get unstuck is to move, be it a walk around the block or tackling an item on my to-do list, even if the movement has nothing to do with the issue at hand. It's forward motion, and it helps the mental fog to dissipate. And Eve...well...if you could see how much we rejoiced over the smallest movement, you would know that her little movements represented progress!
The day my daughter walks will be glorious. I'm sure I'll shed some tears. But today I'm celebrating all the little accomplishments that will help her to get there.
My husband and I have discussed at various times what an accomplishment walking is. Such an amazing coordination of brain activity and muscle movement. Our first child started to walk without any assistance from us, and so we took that milestone for granted. However, working with our daughter has revealed some of the complexities of developmental milestones, and we now understand that walking is really the culmination of a long process. Before they walk, a child must (in many cases) crawl, kneel, learn to pull one leg up and bring themselves to a standing position, learn to pick up their feet and side-step along objects, maintain their balance, and finally, WALK!
I've been inspired by Eve's accomplishments in recent weeks. And I've drawn all kinds of helpful parallels between my daughter's journey and my own. Here are three of them.
Fear hinders movement.
At times, Eve was physically capable of performing a movement before she was mentally or even emotionally ready to do it. So we had to do some coaxing and motivating to get her to attempt it, and then we had to help her do each step repeatedly until the action became part of her brain and muscle memories. I've thought about points in my life where I have needed to do or say something new - repeatedly - to gain confidence and create a fresh memory that overrides the fearful one. (Public speaking is just one example.)
If the big goal seems insurmountable, start with baby steps.
I've already written about all the little steps a child needs to take before they can walk. So it is with me, an adult. Big changes intimidate me. But I don't want to avoid them, or avoid the adventure and growth and perspective that come with change. Breaking down the big goal breaks down the fear too.
Movement, however small, is progress.
When I'm afraid or overwhelmed, something funny happens. I don't move. I get lost in thought. Procrastinate. I've been amazed to discover in recent months that sometimes the best way to get unstuck is to move, be it a walk around the block or tackling an item on my to-do list, even if the movement has nothing to do with the issue at hand. It's forward motion, and it helps the mental fog to dissipate. And Eve...well...if you could see how much we rejoiced over the smallest movement, you would know that her little movements represented progress!
The day my daughter walks will be glorious. I'm sure I'll shed some tears. But today I'm celebrating all the little accomplishments that will help her to get there.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
On Writing
Writing for this blog is hard work. And I've been wondering why.
When I set out to do this, I imagined that writing a blog post would be something like writing in my private journal. And journaling has never been difficult for me. I think about something, emotions surface, ideas form, and the words come to the page without too much intervention. It flows. But blogging has been a different animal. I write. Stop. Think a long time. Write some more. Change what I wrote and start over. Try to find the right word to convey my thought. Write. Attempt to conclude. It takes a loooong time, especially with the normal interruptions of my daily life. It reminds me of my college days, where writing was painstaking but necessary (I wrote lots of papers as an English major). And I dreaded it then. I don't want to dread it now. But I haven't hit a stride like I thought I would and that leaves me feeling discouraged.
Why is my blogging different from my journaling? I was prompted in two conversations today to think that the main differentiator is the fact that I have an audience here. I want my writing to be meaningful for readers. So I am still writing for the crowd, still not fully vulnerable in the way I would like to be. It feels uncomfortable to be in the awkward teenage years of writing a blog. And to know that others see my awkwardness. I tell myself that surely all the writing practice of my college years should put me further down the road of experience.
*************************************************
I think writing - or any act of creating - must take lots and lots of practice. I'm not sure why that revelation surprises me. I certainly didn't learn to play the piano without spending many hours on the piano bench. But it seems un-artistic, somehow, to put creativity and work in the same sentence. I've always pictured the great artists painting or writing with ease. Maybe my inability to think of those things as two parts of the same whole is part of my problem.
Work has never conjured up pleasant thoughts for me. I don't like to think of it as drudgery, because having activity for my hands and mind and heart is a concept I want to embrace. My husband, wise man that he is, has often told me that I need a paradigm shift when it comes to the subject of work.
In some ways, this is where I see what I'm made of. Where the good feelings end but I keep going and push through the awkwardness because I know this is something I need to do. Even if it doesn't come together or flow as I thought it would or should.
When I set out to do this, I imagined that writing a blog post would be something like writing in my private journal. And journaling has never been difficult for me. I think about something, emotions surface, ideas form, and the words come to the page without too much intervention. It flows. But blogging has been a different animal. I write. Stop. Think a long time. Write some more. Change what I wrote and start over. Try to find the right word to convey my thought. Write. Attempt to conclude. It takes a loooong time, especially with the normal interruptions of my daily life. It reminds me of my college days, where writing was painstaking but necessary (I wrote lots of papers as an English major). And I dreaded it then. I don't want to dread it now. But I haven't hit a stride like I thought I would and that leaves me feeling discouraged.
Why is my blogging different from my journaling? I was prompted in two conversations today to think that the main differentiator is the fact that I have an audience here. I want my writing to be meaningful for readers. So I am still writing for the crowd, still not fully vulnerable in the way I would like to be. It feels uncomfortable to be in the awkward teenage years of writing a blog. And to know that others see my awkwardness. I tell myself that surely all the writing practice of my college years should put me further down the road of experience.
*************************************************
I think writing - or any act of creating - must take lots and lots of practice. I'm not sure why that revelation surprises me. I certainly didn't learn to play the piano without spending many hours on the piano bench. But it seems un-artistic, somehow, to put creativity and work in the same sentence. I've always pictured the great artists painting or writing with ease. Maybe my inability to think of those things as two parts of the same whole is part of my problem.
Work has never conjured up pleasant thoughts for me. I don't like to think of it as drudgery, because having activity for my hands and mind and heart is a concept I want to embrace. My husband, wise man that he is, has often told me that I need a paradigm shift when it comes to the subject of work.
In some ways, this is where I see what I'm made of. Where the good feelings end but I keep going and push through the awkwardness because I know this is something I need to do. Even if it doesn't come together or flow as I thought it would or should.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
The Other Side of Frustration
The other day, I happened to read a blog post that had some words of wisdom for me.
"I believe that when we're frustrated, it doesn't have to be for nought. It doesn't have to stop short. . . . Frustration can be the first burning sparks of holy desire." (from The RunaMuck.com, January 21, 2014)
I've always been frustrated by frustration. The very emotion of it gets under my skin and becomes an itch that I can't seem to scratch. Perhaps part of my irritation with frustration is that I have never really believed it was leading me anywhere.
Until I read that blog post.
I was actually frustrated on the day I read the blog (about what, I can't remember). But I DO remember having an instantaneous shift in my thinking when I read that part about burning sparks. Suddenly, my frustration wasn't just a meaningless exercise in itchy irritation. It was the spark of a holy desire. And when I saw it that way, the frustrated emotions began to retreat and grace entered the scene. It was a powerful moment. Because, see, my frustration is often rooted in powerlessness - by my feeling powerless to change something, ensnared by my own indecision or by someone else's choices. Grace lifts my feet out of the frustration muck and gives me a bird's-eye-view of the situation. So maybe my frustration with my husband's attitude has a holy desire behind it - a desire to see him come to a place of rest. Or maybe my frustration with my neglect of this blog last week can open my eyes to an unhealthy need for approval (and a very healthy need for grace).
I think this post is about more than the emotions of frustration. I think this post is also about the power of a shift in perspective and what that can do for a person's soul. So keep your eyes open for a holy spark - it could show up in an unlikely place.
"I believe that when we're frustrated, it doesn't have to be for nought. It doesn't have to stop short. . . . Frustration can be the first burning sparks of holy desire." (from The RunaMuck.com, January 21, 2014)
I've always been frustrated by frustration. The very emotion of it gets under my skin and becomes an itch that I can't seem to scratch. Perhaps part of my irritation with frustration is that I have never really believed it was leading me anywhere.
Until I read that blog post.
I was actually frustrated on the day I read the blog (about what, I can't remember). But I DO remember having an instantaneous shift in my thinking when I read that part about burning sparks. Suddenly, my frustration wasn't just a meaningless exercise in itchy irritation. It was the spark of a holy desire. And when I saw it that way, the frustrated emotions began to retreat and grace entered the scene. It was a powerful moment. Because, see, my frustration is often rooted in powerlessness - by my feeling powerless to change something, ensnared by my own indecision or by someone else's choices. Grace lifts my feet out of the frustration muck and gives me a bird's-eye-view of the situation. So maybe my frustration with my husband's attitude has a holy desire behind it - a desire to see him come to a place of rest. Or maybe my frustration with my neglect of this blog last week can open my eyes to an unhealthy need for approval (and a very healthy need for grace).
I think this post is about more than the emotions of frustration. I think this post is also about the power of a shift in perspective and what that can do for a person's soul. So keep your eyes open for a holy spark - it could show up in an unlikely place.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
The Gift of Order
I have a particular character trait that I am learning to appreciate. I'm not entirely sure what to call it - the best word I can think of is "orderliness" (dictionary definition: observant of or governed by system or method). On the surface, it doesn't seem to be an exciting trait. Much more rigid-sounding than "free-spirited" or "creative." So in my twenties, I resigned myself to my personality fate. I couldn't doubt my penchant for order. And I couldn't, I reasoned, have the more exciting traits if I happened to be an orderly and organized person.
Or could I?
I am beginning to uncover a gratifying connection between orderliness and freedom: order provides a framework where freedom can flourish.
Freedom, in my thinking, is the ability to dwell fully in the present without regret for the past or impatience for the future. It is understanding that there is, as the writer of Ecclesiastes so beautifully put it, a "time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." And orderliness is the vessel that arranges a time and a place for the people and stuff and events that make up my little world. When I bring order to my day, I provide a place for my priorities to dwell, which in turn leaves room for the unplanned events and spontaneous whims of the day.
Order for the sake of order is stifling (otherwise known as control). But order for the sake of freedom...well, THAT'S something I can get excited about.
NOTE TO THE READER: Take heart if you don't count orderliness among your personality traits. Perhaps I am doing you a disservice by attaching it to personality because, frankly, I think orderliness is learned more than felt. Take heart, too, if you are in crisis or survival mode. There is a time for everything, and sometimes just getting by is enough.
Or could I?
I am beginning to uncover a gratifying connection between orderliness and freedom: order provides a framework where freedom can flourish.
Freedom, in my thinking, is the ability to dwell fully in the present without regret for the past or impatience for the future. It is understanding that there is, as the writer of Ecclesiastes so beautifully put it, a "time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." And orderliness is the vessel that arranges a time and a place for the people and stuff and events that make up my little world. When I bring order to my day, I provide a place for my priorities to dwell, which in turn leaves room for the unplanned events and spontaneous whims of the day.
Order for the sake of order is stifling (otherwise known as control). But order for the sake of freedom...well, THAT'S something I can get excited about.
NOTE TO THE READER: Take heart if you don't count orderliness among your personality traits. Perhaps I am doing you a disservice by attaching it to personality because, frankly, I think orderliness is learned more than felt. Take heart, too, if you are in crisis or survival mode. There is a time for everything, and sometimes just getting by is enough.
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