Learning to let go...

If you’ve been reading this blog for any period of time, you’ve probably surmised that I write about three kinds of lessons:

1. Those I have already learned (usually the hard way)
2. Those I am in the process of learning
3. Those lessons I desperately need to learn, but with which I am struggling.

Today’s post is about that third kind of lesson – one that eludes me at every turn.

Holding On vs. Letting Go

Ironically enough, I was just listening to the Glee soundtrack in my car and am now humming “Keep Holding On…” (originally performed by Avril Lavigne, but beautifully interpreted by the cast of Glee). [end of tangent]

“Holding on” can be a powerful and positive thing when it comes to:

• Our values
• Having hope in the face of tragedy (like a difficult medical diagnosis)
• Our steadfast love for our families and friends
• Our ability to smile and giggle and enjoy the little things in life, and
• Our belief that the world is essentially good, and that we deserve peace and health and happiness.

The ability to hold on to the things that really matter is often what keeps us grounded, sane, and able to contribute meaningfully to relationships, communities and organizations.

But “letting go” is also a virtue. One only needs to look around at the clutter in the average American home or to consider the emotional baggage that often keeps us from living happy, healthy lives to know that we have an epidemic of “holding on” to the negativity around us.

What I’m Holding Onto

They say that the first step in conquering a problem is admitting that you have one in the first place. So the very fact that I'm writing this blog about my need for this lesson must mean I’m on the right track – even if I’m very far from my destination.

My baggage is physical and emotional (though, it’s all essentially emotional in the end – even the pile of old clothing or love notes from relationships gone by).

Here’s what I’m holding onto – what’s weighing me down:

• Anger and frustration about my health (the “why me?” attitude that sometimes rears its ugly head, asking unanswerable questions about why the universe would saddle me with a rare blood clotting disorder, an autoimmune disorder, liver disease, and a stroke).


• Sorrow and anger regarding the hurtful things people have said and done to me in the past.


• Musings of dreams deferred and opportunities lost.


• Memories of bad breakups, ugly family fights, and asshole bosses whose criticisms are still taking up space in my head all these years later.


• A black, wrap-around miniskirt (size 6) that closes at the waist and hip via Velcro rather than zippers or buttons, and that carries with it very fond memories (but that also makes me feel like a failure for not still being that small, sexy, carefree girl).


• A closet full of regrets and guilt. I’m holding onto clothes in the following sizes: 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24 (no, I’m not kidding). It’s a Goldilocks wardrobe – most items too small or too large, and some just right. About 70% of the contents of my cavernous walk-in closet is not about the now – about my reality. This means, of course, that every morning, I traipse into the closet to feel badly about myself – though sometimes I get a momentary thrill by musing my way through memory lane (that black, scoop-neck shirt I was wearing on that special day…those tiny denim shorts I bought at Old Navy before the dot-com bust ended my career in high-tech journalism).


• Books. Oh, boy – the books. Thinking of letting them go makes me cry. We have a library in our house, and I think of my books as friends and artifacts of my life – sometimes I think of them as trophies (particularly the really difficult fiction and ancient literature I read while working on my graduate degree in English). Ironically, while the books themselves might be holding me back, I’ve read many books about letting go.

Read These Books

• Clutter Busting: Letting Go of What’s Holding You Back, by Brooks Palmer. (I’ve worked with Brooks, once in cleaning my corporate office, and once at our home. What an incredible experience. I can hear him now, asking in his calm way, “Can we let it go? Is it serving you?” If you have a clutter problem, call Brooks. You might still have enough neuroses to blog about later – like me! – but I promise it will change your life.)


• Enough Already! Clearing Mental Clutter to Become the Best You, by Peter Walsh. (In my opinion, not as powerful or inspired as the work of Brooks Palmer, but an interesting and valuable read if you’re feeling emotionally stuck – particularly in your relationships.)


• The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle. Amazing. I intend to read this book a second time, to let it really sink in. If you’re not really living in the present moment, this book is for you.


• The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien. A book about a platoon of American soldiers during the Vietnam war. The three books mentioned above are self-help books, while this one is a novel. But it will leave you with a palpable sense of what it means to have physical and emotional baggage – how where we’ve been and what we’ve carried (physically and mentally/spiritually) can change us forever.

To their credit, without those authors, I wouldn’t be self-aware enough to even write this blog post. But I need to read them closely, and then read them again.

Public Service Announcement
I feel (worry?) that my readers who don’t know me personally or who have never visited my house must be thinking I live in a wreck. Not the case at all. Sure – I’ve got closet contents that don’t serve me, and I’ve got a stack of papers and Post-it notes strewn across my desk, and I haven’t sorted through my junk mail in over a week so it’s piling up on the island in the kitchen. But I’m very lucky to have plenty of good storage spaces in my house, so the real clutter is well hidden (from visitors, and – more importantly – from myself).

Back to My Point
I want to let go of the past, as well as my worries about the future, so that I can focus on now. Intellectually, I understand the value of making this mental shift. I just can’t quite get there.

There are perhaps three things we should all consider releasing: pipedreams (the kind that we know, deep down, won’t come true – like getting drafted to the NBA), negative emotions, and worries about what we cannot control.

At a recent conference, I heard the speaker advise the audience that we have three choices when we are presented with a situation that we don’t like:

1. Accept it
2. Change it
3. Leave it.

Simple, but powerful. Take a less-than-affectionate boyfriend or a demotion at work, for example. We can accept the change (learn to love the boyfriend for who he is and get the affection we need from puppies and friends, or accept the new role at the office as an opportunity or at least not the worst thing that could have happened). We can change it (work though the relationship problem – perhaps with the help of a therapist – or work hard to deliver results at the office before negotiating for a new opportunity at the company). Or we can leave it (pack our bags – or the boyfriend’s bags – or resign from the company and start over). But ultimately, those are really our only choices. “Holding on” to the negative emotions about a situation that we don’t like won’t help us move past it – it won’t help us create acceptance or change the situation or walk away.

Hmm. Prophecy by PowerPoint. Who knew?

So, I’m going to begin letting go. It will take work (and perhaps a lifetime), but I think it’s a worthwhile endeavor. Maybe by loosening my grip on what doesn’t matter, I can more firmly grasp what does.

(But I’m keeping the Velcro skirt.)

Learning to nurture and to be nurtured...

This is not a blog post about sweet, sappy love stories. It's not about puppies or butterflies or summer romances. It's about the basic human need to be nurtured, and the reciprocal need to be someone who nurtures others.

I will, without doubt, irritate or offend people with this post. Because I am going to posit that -- despite my status as a non-parent -- I have some legitimate insights about what good parenting looks like. So here goes...

A Soft Place to Fall

Everyone needs a soft place to fall. Not just when you're six years old (though probably especially when you are six years old). Workaholic, control-freak types (as my friend Scot calls me) are sometimes the most in need of that person with whom -- and that place where -- they can be vulnerable. All day long, I make decisions on behalf of colleagues and budgets and my organization. So, when I get home, sometimes (gasp!) I need my husband to decide what we'll make for dinner or whether we'll be getting a contract for TruGreen lawn service. And I always need a long hug. I need, at the end of it all, to feel safe. To feel at home.

I don't like to admit that I need to be vulnerable. I've spent most of my life trying to be achieve parity when it comes to salary or respect in my professional world. But I cry when I watch Oprah, and I sobbed when I read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. And, at 36, I'm starting to feel less "weak" when I admit that.

We All Nurture and Accept Nurturing Differently

If you haven't read The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman, you owe it to yourself and your spouse/partner to do so. We recently had the opportunity to read this book in the company of a group of couples we met at a local church. What a wonderful experience it became for us. Without recapping the book in a way that doesn't do it justice, I'll just say that there are multiple ways in which we can love and be loved. It turns out that my primary love languages are "acts of service" and "physical touch." That shouldn't even surprise YOU as blog readers -- you've witnessed me writing about how much I value little acts like Robert toasting me a marshmallow for the perfect s'more, and how important a great massage or backrub can be.

Robert's love languages? "Words of affirmation" and "quality time." And now that we know each other's languages, we are loving each other in the best way possible -- that is, the way we want and need to be loved.

Children

I love them, but I don't want to give birth to them; not this year, and maybe not ever. I don't think that makes me less of a woman, nor do I think it means I don't have a keen understanding of what good parenting looks like. I fulfill my desire to nurture through my marriage and my friendships and my obsessive love for my dogs.

Robert and I are also fortunate enough to have wonderful children in our lives -- two nephews (and a third on the way), two nieces, and friends who have the most amazing children who we have become "honorary" aunt and uncle to. And I never cease to be enraptured by the experience of spending time with them. Even at the youngest of ages, they impress me with their intelligence. I am in awe of their curiosity and their trust in the world around them. And I am humbled by the love they give to us.

Here is what I have learned from these children -- and what I sometimes worry that their own parents don't always see.

1. They are as impressionable as wet cement. What you drop on them will leave an impression. Forever. An unkind word or a harsh hand or a raised voice or an indifferent demeanor -- especially in repetition over a period of months or years -- teaches children to believe that they deserve to be treated poorly. Who suffers in the long run? The children. The parents. Those children's future spouses, who will someday struggle to understand how to heal those scars and who will likely flee.

2. A full closet and a photo album full of contrived smiles during over-scheduled outings does not constitute a happy childhood (nor does it cover up for poor parenting). Children don't need Xboxes or Gymboree clothing or 27 trips to DisneyWorld for family photo opps. They need time, and love, and security. Most of all, they need to be listened to. I recently went for a walk with a 3-year-old, where I focused on being 100% present. We collected pine cones and talked about everything we saw along the way. We laughed and wondered and took our time. She never once asked me why I wasn't buying her a present or asking a video game to babysit her.

3. Every temper tantrum -- no matter how frustrating it is to witness -- is rooted in real, legitimate emotion and need. I once saw a little girl screaming at the mall, doing that whole "my legs won't work so I'm going to collapse on the floor, right here at Sears" trick. And instead of dragging her by her arm to the car, making a scene (and a fool of herself), this girl's mother did something that I will never forget. She stopped. She got on her knees, right there in the doorway between the department store and the rest of the mall, and she looked her daughter in the eyes and said "Honey, tell me why you are so upset. I'm listening." Turns out that this little girl had been promised an ice cream cone, but then Daddy called and needed them to come home right away. The whole interlude ended something like this: "Sweetheart, I know you're disappointed. I promised you ice cream. I wanted ice cream too. But Daddy needs us to come home, so we have to leave now and we won't be able to get the ice cream this time. Do you understand? But we'll go out for ice cream soon. Just not tonight. How about we take a deep breath and stand up, and go see Daddy?" To which the sniffling little girl rubbed her eyes, stood up, took her mom's hand and smiled. Alas, she had real emotion (disappointment, anger) and she wanted to be heard. She wanted to know that her mother understood that she was upset. That's all. In the end, it wasn't about ice cream at all. Whether we're 4 or 44, what we ultimately need and want is to be acknowledged.

4. Children won't be little forever. At some point, it's too late to nurture them in the way they need you to. My first husband's sister has two wonderful daughters. They're college students now. But when I met them, they were both in diapers. As they got older, we got closer. They loved me and I loved them; they lived just three blocks away and I saw them almost every day. They put my hair in crazy braids, and we went adventuring to the zoo and to the museums. We spent every holiday together for 11 years. When the older of the two got sick, I would pick her up from school. And then my marriage came to an end. Those little girls got caught up in the "he said, she said" of what happened to their aunt and uncle. And today, I have lost them both. I love them now as much as I ever did, but when they really needed me, I failed them. They are adults now, and I blew it. It has been a painful lesson.

5. Children have "love languages" too. I'd like to buy a copy of Chapman's book about how to love children for every parent I know. Newsflash: If you have two or three children, odds are that they have two or three different love languages. And it's also very likely that they don't express and receive love in the same way that you do. As their parents, it's your job to figure out how to love them best -- and then do it. (Re: #1 on my list, this is especially important for children whose love language is "words of affirmation." #2 is a reminder that most children don't have "receiving gifts" as their top love language. #3 is all about quality time. Etc.)

Talk about It

If you've never had a long conversation (not an argument or an accusation-fest) with your spouse/partner, sibling(s) or parents about how you need to be nurtured, there's a huge opportunity awaiting you.

It's never too late to teach people how to love us (and for us to learn how to love better and more deeply). When I was a teenager, my dad didn't know how to say "I love you" to me. So I started saying it first, and I kept saying it (through all the awkward silences and fumbled responses) until he learned to say it back. Now, he usually says it first. Old dogs, new tricks. It's never too late.

Try starting sentences with "I've probably never told you this, but I really feel loved when you..." You might discover that there are little things you can do (or keep doing...or stop doing) that make a world of difference in the heart of someone important to you.

I've committed myself to doing this with my husband, but probably haven't taken full advantage of the practice with parents or siblings or friends. For example, I'm not sure that my brother knows that, in all my years, he gave me the most meaningful Christmas gift I've ever received. I'm a word geek, and he is not. So imagine my surprise (and delight) when I found out that my brother took several hours out of a vacation to stand in line to get Gwendolyn Brooks (former US poet laureate) to autograph a book for me. He took it home and wrapped it and waited for Christmas. And while that package sat awaiting its presentation to me, Gwendolyn Brooks died. When I opened that book on Christmas morning, I was floored. Not that I was the owner of an autographed volume from a poet I admired. But by the humbling discovery that my brother -- despite any tough-guy exteriors -- knew me well enough and loved me deeply enough to stand in line for hours for something he probably didn't value for himself but that he knew would mean a great deal to me. That was many years ago, and I still cry every time I tell (or write) that story.

Knowing Who You Are -- As a Couple

Two weeks ago, I was quietly attending to household chores while my husband was out of town. All the Colbert pets were sleeping and the only sound in the house was the gentle humming of the furnace fan, doing its 24/7 work of cleaning our air through its allergen filters.

I was washing dishes, slowly and deliberately. Not in the rushed way that tends to be my style -- but peacefully and in absolutely no hurry. I was taking the time to enjoy the feel of the warm water, the surprise when a soap bubble escaped the sink and went floating into the living room, the sound of the water running across ceramic and glass and silver.

Our kitchen sink has the most beautiful view. It abuts a v-shaped breakfast bar so the washer of dishes can see the entire heart of the house -- the living room with its cushy couches and curio cabinets, the breakfast nook with its windows facing the pond, the hallway leading to my office with its welcoming French doors, and just a hint of the family room with its afternoon sunshine and the piano that has belonged to my family for generations.

I have no idea how many minutes I spent washing those dishes -- those special or pesky items that don't go into the Whirlpool dishwasher. What I do know is that while I was accomplishing my task, I enjoyed a special kind of meditation. I let my eyes ponder each detail within view, remembering its significance. Every wall in our house has a story and, next year -- there will be more stories yet.

Robert and I built this home together in 2007. And it was a labor of love. Visitors see drywall and furniture and artwork. But I see collaboration, and adventure, and passion. I see the colonial white trim around the powder room door, knowing that beneath it is a 2x4 piece of lumber with Sharpie marker handwriting -- announcing the date upon which our house passed its electrical inspection. I see the ceiling fan that was hung with care by Robert and my cousin Paul. I see the ceramic tiles that create the fireplace face, and that were selected by my sister-in-law, who served as our interior designer. I see wall colors inspired by our love of vineyards and our desire to visit Napa (which we did -- on our first anniversary). I see all the decisions and musings that made this house possible. I see two people who believed that building a home together could be the beginning of their life's story.

Until very recently, I thought the expression "our life's work" referred to a person's career or their avocations or the volunteer work about which they are so passionate. I would have told you that my life's work involves helping other people (and organizations) advance their missions through the strategic use of words and other communications tools. But that's not my life's work. It's my career's work -- which is just part of my life. This house -- and what it stands for -- is "OUR" life's work. The combined efforts of my husband and me. And a marriage is not just the merging of two people's interests -- it's the creation of something that isn't possible without the two of you together. It is greater than the sum of its parts.

I've been married twice, and have had a colorful dating history. I've loved well and deeply. I have chosen mates who taught me much. But I've never before shared my life with someone who made me understand that being in a relationship should have a purpose. (And I've never been ready to learn that lesson until recently.) Beyond the abeyance of loneliness, the creation of excitement, or the strategic merger of two bank accounts, a relationship should hope to serve the world in some way.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I've never thought about this. I always thought a relationship was simply about falling in love. I'm even more embarrassed to admit that what got me thinking about it was a recent interview on Oprah with Will and Jada Smith. They suggested that a marriage should have a mission and vision -- just like a business. It should have a reason for being.

Hmm. That just makes good sense. So what's the master plan for my marriage? In the end, it's pretty simple. Robert and I have joined our lives so that we can create peace. So that we can share a gentle energy with others in a way that makes us -- and the people around us -- feel good. We've promised to help each other eradicate drama and anxiety. And we renew our dedication to this every day. It means our house is typically very quiet. That it's filled with books and comfortable napping spots.

How will we know if we've achieved our goal? Pretty simply, I think. We'll know we've accomplished much if children (nieces, nephews, neighbors and friends) are happy in our home. If visitors sleep deeply and at length in our guest bedroom. If the hours around a backyard fire are less about the s'mores than they are about losing track of obligations and anxieties, and enjoying the pure music of a loved one's laughter as it floats over the pond and disappears into the trees after sunset. If holiday traditions are created and kept within these walls. If visitors, too, can get lost in the sound of the furnace fan or find themselves mesmerized by soap bubbles floating over the sink and popping on their journey toward the sun-soaked living room.

Little bitty lesson: Being lazy is painful

Yesterday, I went to the spa (courtesy of my husband) for a 90-minute massage. By all accounts, it should have been a luxurious way to spend an afternoon. But, alas, it was torture.

Why? Because it had been three months since my previous visit to the massage therapist and my muscles were in need of some serious untangling. Yes, I admit it -- despite the aromatherapy and the relaxing music, there was agony. I teared up and gritted my teeth.

When I got home, I was thinking about what the lesson had been in that experience. For some people, it would have been "don't go to the spa again." But I'm smart enough to know that Shelbie at Arvasi is talented beyond imagination, and that her knowledge of the muscles makes her like a human MRI, seeking out the damaged and injured spots and giving them the attention they need.

The lesson yesterday was two-fold. 1: Don't wait 3 months between appointments. (I have piriformis syndrome, which means my legs require special attention if I want to live a tolerable life.) And 2: Being lazy is painful.

My muscles don't get tangled and injured because I'm running marathons or doing too much pilates. I'm a mess because I never move. My average day consists of 2 hours in the car, 10 hours (or more) in front of a computer or at a conference table, an hour or so puttering around the house doing chores and cooking, a couple of hours sitting on the couch talking to my husband or watching TV, and another 8 hours sleeping. And maybe once a day, I'll think to reach my arms over my head for a good stretch. Wow -- the very definition of sedentary. Is it any wonder that the muscles in my back and hips are all out of whack?

Being lazy isn't luxurious -- it's painful. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not lazy in the way I use my mental energy for my career. Shelbie never needs to squeeze lactic acid out of my gray matter. But my body is paying the price of "all work, no play." I need to move. Any suggestions for how to get started?

Learning to cherish the little things...

My husband Robert makes the perfect s'more. Two divinely toasted marshmallows -- their outsides patiently warmed to a sugary light brown candy crust, their insides warm and gooey in just the perfect way. He places them atop three little sections of Hershey's milk chocolate and sandwiches it all between two gluten-free graham crackers, serving it up on a dessert plate.

Sometimes, it's the little things that pleasantly startle us back into consciousness -- into appreciating our lives and all its wonders. I can't toast a marshmallow; I burn them. It's not that I'm not patient enough (though that's part of it); it's that I don't have depth perception, so I either get too close to the fire (and set my shmallows ablaze) or stay too far away (and get frustrated when they are still cool and raw five minutes later). So, for the perfect s'more, I need Robert.

I don't suspect that Robert knows how much I love it when he makes me a s'more (over a fire pit in the backyard or, more commonly, over the flame of our kitchen stove). To him, it's probably just a little cooking task. But for me, it's pure love. He's patient and attentive in his work, and the end product isn't just a yummy dessert. It take me back to childhood, remembering Girl Scout campfires. It's a warm, gooey treat that I get to eat with my hands. And it's somehow more enjoyable than any fancy flourless chocolate cake that could be served up by an accomplished pastry chef at a Zagat-rated restuarant.

It's Memorial Day weekend, and I've decided to take time to cherish all the little things. Here's just a sampling of the things that have brought me wonder and delight these past two days:

• An impromptu lunch with an old friend yesterday


• Organizing my piles of paperwork at the office and leaving with a sense of accomplishment


• Petting my dogs this morning, whose fur was warmed by the sunshine coming through the windows


• A pleasant 30-second interaction yesterday with a man in line at Target, who dropped a penny that I retrieved from under my cart


• The realization when I woke this morning that there will be one more day off before the work week begins


• Musing about something cute to wear to a family picnic this afternoon


• Making plans to attend a Memorial Day service at the Kenosha Harbor tomorrow -- a little gesture for the huge sacrifices that have been made in the name of freedom

You might not like s'mores, but I'm guessing there is something small and pure and sweet that reminds you how to live in the moment. I encourage you to find it, and build it back into your life, deliberately and with zeal. What little thing will you appreciate today?

Little bitty lesson: Dating isn't for single people

For those of us who are married, the word "dating" brings up all kinds of memories, horror stories, laughs, the rolling of eyes, and maybe even regrets. I catch myself sometimes saying "I'm so glad I don't have to date anymore!" And I think that sentiment of disdain comes from the stress that came from seeking and not finding, and of trying to put my best foot forward without being disingenuous. It's hard enough in this life to answer the question "Who am I?" But to add that identity crisis to "Who am I when I am with this other person?" makes life sometimes impossibly challenging.

Kissing frogs became tiring and I'd all but given up by the time I went on that one date that changed my life -- the night I met Robert.

Tonight, 19 months after our wedding day, Robert and I are going on a date. I bought a new dress, and we're going to a wonderful restaurant, and we'll be cuddling up at home later on to watch a funny movie. Dating is more fun when you're married -- it's less stressful, more controllable, and infinitely more meaningful.

If you're in love with someone -- perhaps someone you married 20 years ago -- I urge you not to think of "dating" as something that precedes and then ends with marriage. Take your spouse out on a date tonight. And do it again next week. Dating, in its most beautiful incarnation, isn't really for single people at all. It's for those of us who already know the warmth of holding each other's hands. And it's for those who know that a "date" isn't about a day, or a season. It's about a lifetime.

Little bitty lessons: Bite-sized blog posts

There are two kinds of blogs that I really value: Long blogs and short blogs. I've always been drawn to the long, languid blogs -- the ones that are deep and thoughtful musings about large issues, with multiple links and anecodotes. These are the kinds of blogs I like to read on a Sunday afternoon, and to talk about with my friends. When I started blogging, this is the kind of blog series I wanted to write.

But there is also another great blogging strategy -- short and sweet. I like those kinds of blogs too. Like Seth Godin's blog, which is usually no more than two or three paragraphs of insight (but is occasionally indulgent).

So I've decided to have my cake (gluten-free, of course) and eat it too. Once a week, I'll post a longer piece -- the kind you've come to expect from me; those pieces will always have titles that start with "Learning to ..." On a more frequent basis, I'll post bite-sized blog posts, and will call those "Little bitty lessons."

Today's little bitty lesson?

Cake is not just dessert. It's family, and hospitality, and love.

Yesterday, my husband baked a two-layer yellow cake with fudge frosting. It made me feel loved. And for those of us who don't eat gluten, this is a special treat thanks to companies like Betty Crocker. But beyond the sugar rush I enjoyed, I realized that cake has a special power. The beauty of it, on display under a classic glass dome, perched on top of our kitchen island, inspires many things. It made me want to be a better neighbor, and to clean the rest of the kitchen to rise to the occasion. And it made me breathe more deeply today, in hopes to catch another waft of that heavenly, buttery smell in the air.

I had two friends visit today, and I offered them both cake. They happily obliged my hospitality. My second visitor stopped by unexpectedly, so I felt particularly pleased with myself for being ready to welcome her with home-baked goodness.

This past December, my grandmother passed away. She always had a cookie jar (appropriately shaped like a big smiley face), brimming with treats for her visitors. And while I don't know if I'll ever be someone's grandmother, I hope to bring that same kind of simple joy to others.

Grandma had a cookie jar and I have a cake dome. And those simple gestures could quite possibly make the world a better place.