Meaning Mondays: The Purposelessness Edition

I’ve come up against it. And there’s no denying: I simply want more play in my life.

So far, my Meaning Monday activities have been fun, but they haven’t always felt like play. Because there’s a difference between fun and play, I’m discovering.

Of course, meaning making doesn’t hinge on either fun or play. It could, but that’s not a requirement. In fact, it can be anything we need it to be, from deep philosophical conversations to satisfying work to a day at the zoo.

But the operative word here is “need.” And it’s become clear to me that I need to up my play quotient in order to experience more meaning in life.

As I set about to explore this, I uncovered an unexpected truth: I get confused about what constitutes work and what constitutes play. They tend to get mixed together, creating a moderately tasty soup, but one that’s still lacking some key ingredients.

With that in mind, I decided to pick up my tools (paper and pen) and explore further by making a few lists.

First, I made a list of the things that always feel like play:

• Listening to music
• Playing board games and cards
• Going out to lunch or dinner
• Watching a movie
• Singing
• Dancing
• Being in, or simply looking at, nature (or even just the garden out my door)
• Reading a book (not work related)
• A trip to the ocean
• Hanging out; talking with friends (a small group)
• Soaking in the hot tub
• Poking around small towns and back roads
• Going to coffee
• Rambling along a wooded path or a city neighborhood
• Spontaneous adventures – trying something new
• Culture: museums, concerts, plays, talks, the symphony
• A drive in the country
• Playing with the cats
• A quick nap in the middle of the day
• Visiting arboretums, public gardens, and nature preserves
• Sitting by the fire

Next, I made a list of things that sometimes feel like play and sometimes feel like work:

• Cooking
• Walking
• Gardening
• Yoga
• Sewing
• Meditation
• Writing

Finally, I made a list of things that seduce me into thinking they’re play, but rarely are:

• Shopping
• Surfing (not the ocean kind)
• Television

Okay. Good enough. But once I finished the lists, I was still missing a piece of the puzzle. Something hadn’t quite clicked into place.

And then, by pure luck (and perhaps a touch of serendipity), I came upon this quote from Dr. Stuart Brown, founder of the National Institute for Play:

I give myself over to at least three or four hours a day of…spontaneous free play. It could be reading or what I would call extremely low-quality rogue tennis, hiking, playing with grandchildren. But, you know, if a day goes by and I haven’t…had some sense of timelessness and freedom and purposelessness, I’ll probably be kind of ratty by supper-time.

Ah ha! That was my eureka moment. I jolted to attention. Maybe you picked up on it too? Did you hear this phrase?

GIVE MYSELF OVER.

And these words?

TIMELESSNESS.  FREEDOM.  PURPOSELESSNESS.

Look up purposeless in the dictionary and you will see another word: aimless. How often do we give ourselves over to aimlessness?

As a matter of fact, how often do we equate meaning making with purposelessness? I’d venture to guess almost never. We tend to think of meaning and purpose as two inseparable twins.

But what if the opposite was true too? What if meaning required both purpose and purposelessness? And what if that constant striving for purpose had pushed out a key ingredient of meaning: PLAY?

Oh, after I read this my world (and those lists I’d made earlier) were spinning. No wonder I’m drawn to choose more often from the purposeful list that blends both work and play.

No wonder I find it more difficult to give myself over, to surrender, to the purposeless activities on the first list.

Yep, I’ll be the first to fess up to that. You too? Come on, admit it. I know I’m not alone here. Scads of books have been written about how adults don’t play enough.

Well then. Here’s my new mantra for the month: PURE. PURPOSELESS. PLAY.

Not all the time, mind you. But I can definitely start with at least an hour a day, and work my way up.

What about you? How do you pick your way through the jungles of work and play, purposefulness and purposelessness? And if you’re one of those people who are gifted at purposeless play, please share your secrets here!

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Getting Comfortable With I DON’T KNOW

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

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Let’s flash back seven years. It’s 2003. I’ve decided to take a coaching class.

What is all this clamor about coaching, I wonder?

So it’s the first day of class. We’re in the midst of an activity, walking around the room, and the instructor randomly chooses students and asks a question.

When it’s my turn, I respond, “I don’t know.”

Suddenly, the group is silent. Movement halts, all eyes trained on me. I freeze. And the instructor informs me:

“You can’t answer that way. It’s a cop out.”

Huh? In the space of a minute, this charming man has labeled me a quitter, a dodger, an excuse-maker. And I’m totally confused.

Thus began my checkered history with those three little words: I DON’T KNOW.

Up until that point, I’d never thought much about them. Afterwards, they seemed to follow me around like a hungry cat at dinner time, howling and rubbing up against my legs.

They followed me into a class I was teaching, where one day the conversation settled on the topic of how to engage clients who don’t know what they want. One bright student announced that she knew exactly what to do:

“Just ask them this question,” she said excitedly. “Ask them – If you did know what you want, what would it be?“

And not long after, the three words followed me into my office. A client shared that a therapist once told her that replying with “I don’t know” was akin to dropping the f-bomb.

Finally, they followed me all the way to a wake-up call, when a few years ago another client immediately pulled back her “I don’t know” and sheepishly said, “Sorry, I know you don’t like it when I do that.”

Ouch!

Apparently, all the demonizing of this oft-used phrase had attached itself to me, stealthily working its way in. So much so that I was actually judging people who used it, without even being aware of it.

Uh-oh. Red flag. Time to open my eyes and consider what it meant.

The first thing I noticed was this ubiquitous message: YOU MUST KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING. It’s almost inescapable; at each turn there’s another admonition that if we don’t know, we will be lost. So better get a five-year, 10-year, 20-year plan. Goodness, I’ve even seen 50-year plans touted.

Second thing I noticed was that I certainly had internalized this belief. And as I unpacked it, I came face-to-face with its absurdity. I mean, most people, looking back five or ten years, will tell you they’re surprised, (often pleasantly), about the way things turned out. But it wasn’t necessarily what they planned.

Fact is, we’re not very good at envisioning the arc of our lives. And as Daniel Gilbert notes, we’re even worse at predicting what will make us happy.

I sure haven’t been accurate. Recently I unearthed some yellowing papers from a workshop I took 10 years ago. In it we were asked that old chestnut: where do you want to be, professionally and personally, five years down the road?

Let’s see. I had my eye on a community college counselor job. Among my peers that was the holy grail – good pay, great benefits, summers off. I also anemically speculated that I might want to venture into business for myself, but figured if it did happen, it would be far in the future.

Bet you can finish the story for me.

I never set foot on a community college campus, but instead started my business just six months later. And the rest of it? The dog I wanted? Nope. (My friend Deb got a dog though). Yes, I did get it right about the kitchen redo; I failed to see, however, that home improvement projects replicate like viruses, and that one minor kitchen update was merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

And as I rolled around in these revelations, something new began to take shape. The possibility that “I don’t know” was not about being lost, but rather about being an explorer. An invitation instead of a rejection.

You see, I’ve come to understand that “I don’t know” opens the door for discovery and experimentation. A trip onto the side roads. Those less traveled. Because sometimes it’s okay not to know exactly where we’re going.

If we stick to the main highways all the time, we’re likely to miss out on the wonders that are deep in the forest.

Yet, I do appreciate that “I don’t know” can also be a bumpy road. So now, when clients present me with it, or I’m wrestling with it myself, I gently, very gently, loosen its hold by exploring what’s underneath.

So if you’re feeling the weight of “I don’t know,” I encourage you to consider that there is deep wisdom lurking beneath it. And while it can’t be forced, there are some questions you can play with on your journey through it:

• What kind of energy do you experience with the I don’t know? Stuck? Curious? Anxious? Relaxed? What does that energy need from you right now?
• What stories occur to you as you experience it? Write or talk about them. You may find that these stories move you from not knowing to knowing.
• What does the I don’t know look like? Find or create an image that represents it to you.
• What does the I don’t know want to tell you?

By the way, this week over on Wilma’s Blog, Wilma has written a beautiful post about her own experience of not knowing. Not only is it a story of getting comfortable with “I don’t know,” but it’s an inspiring reminder that not knowing can actually open us up to lives we never imagined we could lead. So go, check it out.

Well, now it’s your turn. What don’t you know?

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Meaning Mondays: The Singing Blog Edition

All deep things are song. It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!

~Thomas Carlyle

Those of you reading here last week left much joy and insight with your messages about story. You captured the galvanizing impact that story has had on people for thousands of years. And you made me think more about all the different kinds of stories that speak to us.

Memoir. Fiction. Biography. History. We all recognize those.

But for me, and possibly you too, there’s another kind of story that’s equally captivating: SONG.

Often a song tells a tale like nothing else can. A bewitching concoction of story (lyrics) and music (melody). Poetry in motion, urging us to pay attention.

I’m sure you’ve experienced it. You hear a song. Stop what you’re doing. Stillness. A rush of feeling. Perhaps a memory. Maybe even a long forgotten urgency that wants to be remembered.

Or just the opposite: some internal muscle awakens that you didn’t even realize was there. And before you know it there’s a chain reaction of muscles moving and you’re way past the toe-tapping stage. You’re up. Jigging. Twisting. Rocking. Hopping. Tripping the light fantastic.

Such goodies we get from song! And yet, there’s even more.

I happen to believe that song tells us who we are.

Yes indeed, I stand by this, even though it may sound a bit weird. But you know I’m quirky. My ideas have always been a little odd, and this one in particular? Well. People do occasionally raise their eyebrows when I tell them about the activity I’m previewing here today: My Life in Song.

Probably because they think it’s just a nostalgic trip down memory lane; a survey of all the songs they’ve liked over the years. But it’s actually much more than that. It’s about the songs that possess us. Those that hold us tight and won’t let go.

I bet you know what I’m talking about. A few (or more) times in your life, along came a song that you were compelled to listen to. Again. And again. Up went the volume, full blast.

You just had to learn the lyrics too. In fact, you couldn’t not learn the lyrics. And if you’re like me, you sang the song. Raised your voice. In your car. The shower. To your lover. Or maybe just for yourself.

Looking back, I realize that those were the times that taught me to sing. Literally and metaphorically.

And last month, I made a comment about singing on Sara’s site, A Sharing Connection. Not only did she pick up on it and ask me why I don’t sing on my blog, she then wrote a beautiful piece called Music Love. In that one she graciously included me among her singing friends, even though she’s never heard me sing a note!

So with Sara’s encouragement, (I can feel her warm hands pushing me ever so gently), I’ve decided to sing.

A little. I’m hoping it will illustrate my wacky theory that songs tell us who we are. I can’t think of a better project for Meaning Mondays.

But here’s the deal: this is raw stuff. No accompanist. No sound studio. Just me and my I-Pod. So you’re gonna hear some breaths, movements, rattling. The faint meow of a cat (don’t know why but they love to be serenaded). Each song is short, though, just a snippet (except for the last one).

And you’ll no doubt notice that half are Broadway tunes. What can I say? Although I love many kinds of music – jazz, classical, rock, to name a few – I’ve repeatedly found deep inspiration from the Great White Way. It may not be your cup of tea, but you get to pick your own hit list when you do your life in song.

MY LIFE IN SONG

1. Something’s Coming. I was 17. I’d escaped California for a stint at Arizona State. I was living with my dad in an itty-bitty house with a swamp cooler. The upside: the property owners let us swim in their pool, and you could steal away into a broad expanse of desert. That was good, because I needed the space to sing and dance my heart out to this song.

Could be, who knows, there’s something due any day…

If I’d known how to listen then, I’d have realized it was the siren song of the seeker. Telling me I’d always be anticipating that elusive something that was just around the corner. Showing me my curiosity would be both a gift and challenge. And later in life all that seeking would wear me out until I grasped that I needed to turn it inward and look at meaning. Funny, isn’t it, that my tag line is, “Adventures in Meaning Making?” At some point most seekers understand what they’re truly after is a deeper relationship with the life itself.

2. Celebrate Me Home. I’ve returned to California and it’s been a few years since my mom died, but I’m still sad. I hear this song on the radio and go out and buy the album immediately (yes, we’re back in the days of vinyl). It comforts me, and I get all warm and cuddly from it. Family, friends, love.

Whenever I find myself too all alone, I can sing me home…

But the deeper message eluded me. Little did I know a few decades later I’d be fascinated by the subject of home, even write about it extensively. The seed was there all along; the song was pointing the way. I just didn’t notice at the time.

3. Corner of the Sky. I’ve taken my leap of faith and landed in a cramped apartment in a Brooklyn brownstone. Dave’s by my side, parceling out subway tokens for the week. There’s a revival of Pippin, and it’s filmed for television. This song captured me like no other. Filled me to bursting. Another seeker song. Enough said.

I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free…

Yes, there was more. The earliest inklings that my life’s work was going to be about helping people to define their dreams, and live with satisfaction, zest, and gusto. But darn it! I didn’t pick up on that until several years later, when I was living in San Francisco. The city itself sung its song to me, and opened me up.

4. The Road You Didn’t Take. Somehow the circuitous road that I’ve taken has led me to Madison, Wisconsin. A lovely town, but not my town. I’m in my thirties now and getting awfully close to the existential wall of midlife. Who am I? What am I doing? Why am I here? Just then I discover this song from Follies. It fits my mood perfectly.

One has regrets, which one forgets…

Surprise! The song foretold a deeper tale. It was alerting me that although I was good at cheering people on to lead fulfilling lives, it wouldn’t be quite enough for me. I was being called to dive into the in-between spaces of life. To shine a light on those mysterious places in myself and and others. But again, I didn’t figure this out until much later.

5. Pure Imagination. We’re five years down the road now. I’m back on track. I’ve returned to school. Bought a house. Put down roots in Sacramento. And this song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory gives me a thrill. I do believe I can change the world. Bring it on!

If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it…

Not so fast, Patty. The song was actually predicting the rebirth of your creativity. But you couldn’t see that you were poised at the entrance of a playground of imagination. If you’d paid attention, you might have guessed it was an invitation to create: a business, a garden, a home. To play with color and fabric, return to performing, begin writing, and bring expressive arts into your work with people. For all that, though, it was also a cautionary tale: that the world of imagination was so vast, and at times overwhelming, that you could (and would) get lost in it. (Like right now, with this blog post).

6. Here’s to Life. Whew! We’ve made it to present day. I suspect every woman of a certain age wants to sing this song by Phyllis Molinary. Shirley Horn’s version is legendary and I’ve always loved it. But about a year ago I heard Eartha Kitt’s rendition, shortly before she died. And that’s when it put me in a trance. I had to learn it. Give voice to it. In fact I couldn’t stop singing it.

May all your storms be weathered, and all that’s good get better…

And you know what? I finally get it. Right now I can tell you the deeper message of this song. It’s a story about how we do the second half of life differently from the first. And it’s pointing me toward the next chapter: life lived in the moment, the way of joy, making peace with regrets. The song heralds a blossoming of community, love, and connection. A balancing of inner and outer life. Oh, the adventurous seeker still comes out to frolic, but she’s not running the show anymore. She’s found harmony with all the other parts. And if I can be singing this song when I’m in my 80’s, like Eartha Kitt, then it will have been a good run.

No doubt by now you get where I’ve been going with all this. Each time a story grabs us so ferociously, whether it’s a short ditty or a three-inch thick novel, it speaks to us almost like a dream.

When we’re seized in this way, our job is to translate the images, metaphors, symbols, and patterns. Decipher what they say about who we are and who we’re becoming. We’re not very practiced at that, though, so we tend to stick with the surface meaning. Even so, most of us have inklings along the way that something deeper is asking to be seen. And if I’d caught on sooner, I would have bypassed a heck of a lot of confusion and uncertainty. But hey, no regrets. Right?

WHAT ABOUT YOU?

Care to share a song that put you in a trance? Let’s put the collective power of storytelling to work, right here, right now!

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Why Self-Help Bores Me

Tell me a story.

In this century, and moment, of mania, tell me a story.

Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.

The name of the story will be time,

But you must not speak its name.

Tell me a story of deep delight.

-Robert Penn Warren

On my desk sits a stack of books. It’s been there for the better part of a year, growing larger each month. First it was merely a small manageable pile; now it’s a precarious Leaning Tower of Pisa, threatening to collapse at any minute.

Now and then I stop in front of it, pick up a book (or two), thumb through it, perhaps opening it to a page and letting the words rise up to meet me.

But almost as soon as I’ve opened the book, it quickly finds a way back to its spot on the pile.

This puzzles me. Here I am in a helping profession, one which, according to Wiktionary, “nurtures the growth of…a person.”  It makes sense that I have a stack of books that promise insight, life improvement, self discovery, professional enrichment, and personal development.

So why don’t I read them? Why do I feel a creeping apathy each time I pass these books?

I’ve been pondering these questions for a couple of months now, and a few things have occurred to me along the way.

The most obvious is that there’s not much that’s new. Many self-help authors have been around the block a few times; they have a track record, and lots of them have ascended to celebrity/guru status. That’s often what gets a book published these days. But I’ve noticed the theme of the first book can be strangely similar to the second, or fifth. It’s just that they’ve been fitted with new party dresses, and sent to the ball.

Of course, I do know that we need to read and hear things over and over. We human beings usually don’t get it the first time.

But the redundancy can be awfully dull.

Just the other day I heard one such author proclaim the discovery that creativity was inherent in all of us (we’re born with it), and allowing ourselves to experiment and make mistakes actually increases creativity.

Is it true? Yes, absolutely. Is it new? No, not at all. Does it enhance our understanding in any way? Probably not.

Maybe that’s because it shows up looking more like advice than insight.

Frequently, I get the feeling that self-help is talking at us rather than to us. A bequeathing of the king’s knowledge to us, his hungry subjects. A sense that this person has arrived. A slightly arrogant suggestion that they have their act together, and if we’re very good, (and follow the prescribed remedy), we can get our acts together too.

I know. You might be thinking, “I WANT to get my act together! I WANT the advice!”

But do you really? Isn’t advice like a prescription? A one-size-fits-all for what ails you? And when you think about it, are you really sick?

I don’t think so. I think most of us are just fine. But looking for something quite different. And I say that not just because recent research suggests that some self-help may actually do more harm than good, but because we’re more complex than the self-help industry would have us believe.

My take is that what we’re yearning for is not so much the quick fix of a medicine, but rather the gradual inspiration of a muse.

Which is exactly what the wisest teachers have been doing for generations, by speaking the language of story.

They understand that story allows us to take what we need, what is particular to us. Story softens us up, giving us air to breathe below the surface. Guiding us to our own inspiration. Surely lighting the way, but letting us carve out the path on our own. Helping us get comfortable with paradox, by reminding us that the more we know, the more we don’t know.

Plus, telling me a story does one more amazing thing: it creates a relationship between us.

It’s how I know that you’re not just talking at me, but actually listening to me. Because through story, we connect. It’s a marvel of two-way communication, even if I’m not in the room with you.

And that, my friends, is what’s missing for me in much self-help: story and wisdom and connection.

No wonder I’ve lately looked to art, poetry, music, and fiction for instruction on how to live life. In fact, I’m currently re-reading Jane Austen. Although it may seem like a huge leap to consider Pride and Prejudice a primer on personal development, there is abundant wisdom to be found there.

In fact, it’s a compendium of how to’s:

How to stay true to yourself in the face of adversity. How to be independent and unique when others expect you to conform. How to be healthy and vibrant by walking vigorously each day. How to find humor and joy in life. How to refrain from making snap judgments about other people. How to forgive yourself when you make mistakes. How to advocate for people and ideas you most care about. How to get excited at the prospect of dancing.

All that from a book that was written in 1813. Who knew?

So I’ll stick with Jane for the time being.

But about that stack of books on my desk? I’m sure I’ll get to it one day. Although if I could, right now, I would appeal to those who wrote them:

Please, tell me a story.

Tell me what it means to you to be real.

Tell me as much about your doubts as your certainties.

Tell me how your world has been rocked by love and fear.

Tell me of both delights and disturbances.

Tell me that we’re in this together.

Tell me a story.

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Meaning Mondays: The Hummingbird Edition

It was shaping up to be a ragged week.

As much as the parched California landscape needs the rain, and as grateful as I am that El Nino has purportedly arrived, the onslaught required a period of adjustment for me. And of course, the first storms of the year brought with them the minor aggravations that first storms of the year often do.

A few client drop-outs, calling to reschedule appointments.

The garbage can coldcocked by a menacing gust.

Scattered tree branches that left the lawn looking like a miniature wooden sculpture garden.

All told, nothing out of the ordinary.

But by midweek, I was ragged as well. Too little sleep. Not enough exercise. Cranky. Stiff. A bit overwhelmed by the “list.” (Maybe you have one too? Sometimes I look at mine and feel like I’m swimming through mud).

So that was my background music last Wednesday. Standing at the sliding door looking out at the gathering storm.

For a few fleeting moments I considered going out in it.

Now that, I figured, would be an experience to write about.

Oh yes, in that instant I wanted so to be the woman who creates a meaningful moment by traipsing out into the storm. I imagined I’d walk for several miles. Skirt the tree branches. Sway with the wind. Do some puddle jumping. Watch the river rise whilst I heartily embraced the downpour, arms extended like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain.

What a good story it would make!

Yeah. I wasn’t feeling it though. Better not to force this meaning making thing, I reasoned.

And then, as my reverie was loosening its hold, along came a red-breasted hummingbird, on his way to the feeder. Very small, as hummingbirds are. And very wet. But determined to suck up some of that lip-smacking-good sugar water.

This little guy knew what he was doing. After several seconds at the feeder, he’d fly under the eaves to perch on the string of patio lights hanging across the back of the house, remnants of warm summer evenings. He’d bolster himself with a few deep breaths, a fine ruffle of feathers. Then back for more nourishment.

I stood and marveled at his rain dance for several minutes.

Just as I was about to walk away, he gifted me with an unexpected encounter. He broke his flight path and hovered, right across from me. In that instant, we connected. Two living things, sizing one another up through a rain-streaked pane of glass. I see you. I acknowledge you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Exactly enough.

And in that small moment of meaning making, both my day and my week turned.

Sometimes, when I’m concentrating on consciously creating meaning each day, an event takes place that becomes a leitmotif. A through-line. It stays with me and enhances each subsequent meaningful experience.

The hummingbird was like that.

He sat on my shoulder as I purged closets and drawers, filling five bags with stuff to give away. He landed on my sewing machine as I made a paisley duvet. He flitted around the dinner table as I savored Dave’s home-cooked meal.

In fact, although you probably can’t see him, he’s here now, helping me to remember (again), that life doesn’t have to be difficult. That we can get out of its way. And sometimes, all it takes to do that is a quick look out the window.

How about you? What’s been meaningful for you this past week? I’m in such a mood to hear about it, so please share. And if you’d like to participate more fully in Meaning Mondays, check out these questions I’ve been using to amplify the small meaningful opportunities that are everywhere:

JUST FOR TODAY…

• What is inspiring me?
• What needs to be enjoyed?
• What am I seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, smelling?
• What am I feeling?
• How can I make meaning?

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WHY NOT START NOW?

The Kindness of Strangers

Last week when I was writing about the hallway of transition an unexpected visitor arrived at my imagination’s door, unbidden. Without calling ahead, Blanche Dubois aimlessly wandered across my visual landscape in her rhinestone tiara and yellowing ball gown, looking forlorn and rather lost.

And then, back in the real world, I serendipitously discovered that Cate Blanchett recently played Blanche, and in fact toured the show to New York in December.

So I figured I better trust this bit of coincidence, and let Blanche intrude a little here.

POOR BLANCHE.

If ever there was a fictional character who had more than her share of transition, she’s it.

I mean, consider her story.

A high school English teacher, unlucky in love (her young husband killed himself). She’s the last one standing at Belle Reve, the family home, left to bury her few remaining relatives after generations of drunkenness, debauchery, disease, and death.

Of course, she can’t hold on, and the old plantation slips through her fingers.

So she’s forced to live in a series of seedy, low-rent hotels. And finally, when her nerves and grasp of reality are at the breaking point, she boards the bus for New Orleans and moves in with her sister, Stella, and Stella’s brutish husband, Stanley Kowalski.

It’s enough to put any fading Southern belle on edge, don’t you think? But wait, we’re not finished yet.

Stanley? He doesn’t cotton so much to Miss DuBois. His animal magnetism mixes with her genteel flirtiness like oil and water. Yet for all that, there is a promise of something better. Stanley’s friend, Mitch, likes Blanche a bunch. And she sees a future there. A way out of the in-between space of her life.

Leave it to Stanley, though, to mess things up.

He goes hunting for dirt about Blanche and hits the mother lode. No prim and proper lady is she, it turns out. As a matter of fact, she seems to have a proclivity for too much Southern Comfort and too many dalliances with very, very, very young men. So much so that she was, quite literally, run out of town.

All hell breaks loose when Mitch finds out. Screaming ensues, and a rejected and dejected Blanche descends into a pit of delusional despair punctuated by the entrance of Stanley.

As these two opponents circle for their final encounter, it’s sadly clear who will win the battle.

And when Stanley overpowers her and carries her off to the bed, we all know that Blanche is doomed to be a shell of her former self.

At the final curtain, we see Blanche leaving for the state-run psychiatric hospital (probably called an insane asylum back in those days) that will likely be her final home. Yet in that most bleak moment, she reaches for light, when she confides to the doctor leading her away:

Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

And with those words, she reminds us that kindness, or at least our confidence in it, may be found in the most unlikely places. That it shows up when we least expect it. And sometimes we have to ask for it.

Kindness. Yes. Now I know why Blanche wanted to linger awhile in my imagination.

Let’s hope none of us will ever be knocked around by life as much as Blanche. Or retreat to such depths of desperation. Actually, I suspect most of us look at Blanche and see a rather foreign character, someone not much like us at all.

As strange as it may seem, though, one of the reasons this character is so enduring is because she is familiar to us.

Consciously or unconsciously, we recognize deep archetypal patterns or stories in her.

We will all have our bottom of the barrel experiences. Sometimes when we’re in transition. It comes with the territory. And during those darks nights we’ll be fragile, just like Blanche. But will we know enough to reach out for kindness?

I wonder. Because we can be so very hard on ourselves.

Believe me, I know about this. I’m really good at picking up on thinly veiled self-rejection. And not just in my clients or myself, but in friends, relatives, acquaintances. I don’t know why, maybe I’ve got good radar or something. Or people feel comfortable talking to me.

Whatever it is though, we certainly do chastise when we don’t think we have it together. We compare ourselves to others. We should ourselves into a stupor. We ask the most hurtful questions: What’s wrong with me? Why haven’t I got it all figured out?

We are often strangers to being kind to ourselves.

But Blanche, I think she had that one figured out.

Well, okay, maybe her way through the dark was also a lemon coke with chipped ice and a shot of bourbon. My beverage of choice is a little different though…

Mix equal parts of deeply nurturing yourself and noticing the sweetness surrounding you that needs to be enjoyed right now, shake well, then top off with a splash of reflection, asking: what am I tolerating and where am I settling in life?

I call it the be extra kind and good to yourself cocktail.

Sip slowly. Listen. Sincerely listen to yourself. Listen to what you truly need.

Listen as if your life depended on it.

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WHY NOT START NOW?

P.S. After I finished this I made a visit to Glenn Berger’s Blog, Finding the Lost Heart. There I discovered a beautiful, inspiring piece about having all you want in life (with a somewhat tongue-in-cheek title). In it, Glenn talks about the importance of listening. Another lovely serendipity. He encourages us to practice what he calls the four listenings. Here’s a snapshot:

1. Listen to Yourself: Introspection, Heart, Body, Emotions, Imagination
2. Listen to Nature: Patterns, Growth, Harmony, Sustainability
3. Listen to Culture: Art, Philosophy, Film, Poetry, Architecture, Science, Technology
4. Listen to Others: Connection, Intimacy, Encounter, Relationship

Go read more if you get a chance. I can’t think of a better way to be kind to yourself today.

Meaning Mondays: The Mask Edition

A person is least of all himself when he talks as himself. Give him a mask and he will tell the truth.

-Oscar Wilde

I stumbled upon mask making quite by accident. Early in my career, I was fascinated by the intersection of creativity and personal growth. (Still am, actually.) And since I had a background in theatre, I often fooled around with activities that drew from that world: dialogues, monologues, life scripts, the “stages” we play our lives upon, and especially, our inner characters.

The power of those inner characters unexpectedly knocked me over years ago when I was teaching a class on creativity in counseling.

It was the ideal place to try out new stuff, thanks to a game group of students who were all for experimentation. So one evening I asked them to draw the face of an inner character. They finished up by expanding the character through a writing activity – an inner stream of consciousness monologue.

Several brave students wanted to share their character faces and monologues with the rest of the class, and I will never forget the silence in the room as one young women spoke these words:

I am Anya, the artist. I sit staring out the window, watching the world pass me by. My paints and pencils are locked up. There’s no room for them in this life. There’s no room for me.

With that, she started to cry. And clearly something profound had happened for her (and me) in that classroom.

Only later, when I began to study depth psychology, did I begin to understand that this process brought life to deep, soulful, archetypal energies. That below the surface we each had a bounty of wisdom about what needed to be lived. Joys, sorrows, dreams, risks. And unbeknownst to me, I had found my way to a version of Carl Jung’s active imagination.

As my interest grew, so did the activity, which expanded into a full-on form of mask making. I remember workshops where rooms of people, tentative at first, took materials for their masks. As they eased into the rhythm of choosing, arranging, and gluing, their energy changed and it was apparent that this was a resonant experience of meaning making for them.

As a result, I’ve gathered a merry little band of masks over the years, my own and others.

For a time I had some on the wall in my office. And I absolutely loved it when people would walk in and say, “Oh, you work with children.” Nope! I couldn’t help but smile.

It affirmed for me the innocent simplicity of mask making, the door opening to a colorful realm of imagination and insight.

Later, when I moved to a bigger office across the hall, the masks came down. Stowed in a closet. Temporarily, I thought. I always meant to do something with them. You know how that is? And the truth is as much as I adore them, masks made of glue, glitter, yarn, ribbon, rocks, shells, moss, twigs, crepe paper, beads, and the like will begin to break down and eventually disintegrate.

Thankfully, along came Meaning Mondays. What better time, I reasoned, to photograph them in all their fading beauty? Which, I am happy to say, I have done!

I thought you’d like to see some of them, now that they’re recorded for posterity’s sake. I’ve even included two of my own in the mix. See if you can guess which ones they are…

MASK NUMBER ONE

MASK NUMBER TWO

MASK NUMBER THREE

MASK NUMBER FOUR

MASK NUMBER FIVE

MASK NUMBER SIX

MASK NUMBER SEVEN

MASK NUMBER EIGHT

I know, this is a repeat. But I thought you might like to see the hat from a different angle.

Well, what do you think? Did you sleuth out mine? Leave your guess in the comments, and on Thursday I’ll spill the beans.

And just in case you’d like to step into my world and create your own mask, I’ve pasted the instructions in below.

Oh, and one final thing: What do you experience when you look at these masks? What do they say to you? Please share your thoughts in the comments.

UPDATE: THANKS, EVERYBODY, FOR GUESSING. MY MASKS ARE #3 AND #5. SUZEN THOUGHT #5 WAS MINE. GOOD JOB, SUZEN.

BUT DON’T FEEL BAD IF YOU DIDN’T GET IT RIGHT. ACTUALLY, SEVERAL OF YOU POINTED OUT THAT YOU WERE PICKING YOUR FAVORITE MASKS. THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT WE DO. ALL PERCEPTION IS PROJECTION, MEANING WE PROJECT OURSELVES ONTO PEOPLE, THINGS, ETC., AND PERCEIVE THROUGH THAT LENS. SO BY PICKING THESE MASKS, YOU ARE ACTUALLY HAVING AN EXPERIENCE OF YOURSELF!

A FINAL WORD ABOUT THE ARCHETYPAL ENERGIES THAT EACH MASK MAKER FOUND WITHIN THE MASK:

1. An Inner Warrior
2. An Inner Caregiver
3. An Inner Magician
4. An Inner Creator
5. An Inner Seeker
6. An Inner Ruler
7. An Inner Sage

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WHY NOT START NOW?

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MAKE YOUR OWN MASK

Please note: No particular artistic ability is needed for this activity!

Masks can be powerful. They can open us up to the depths of meaning that lie within.

Of course, there are different kinds of masks. You might be most familiar with masks of concealment, the kind children wear at Halloween. We adults wear masks of concealment too, the metaphorical kind, when we play roles that feel false and conceal our true nature.

This activity, however, is about masks of enlightenment: masks that open a door to our deeper selves, that reveal rather than conceal, that create an exchange between our inner and outer lives. Masks that are playful and fun to make, but also lead to serious insights.

So for this experience, you need materials to make a mask. You can use almost anything you have around the house or yard: string, ribbon, twigs, leaves, buttons, glitter, paper clips, stamps, dry beans, rice, tissue paper…you name it. But if you don’t want to use common household items, you can also go to a crafts store and buy an array of materials.

Whatever materials you choose, there are two things you will definitely need: a paper plate to form the facial structure of your mask, and glue/tape to attach your mask making materials to the paper plate.

When you have collected your materials, put yourself in mask making frame of mind by going to a calm, quiet place and completing the following:

Remember a time or a moment in your life when you felt wonderful. When all was well. When you were at peace. When you were safe, strong, wise, and perfectly comfortable with yourself. This could be a peak experience or a simple, rich moment in life. Allow yourself to experience this memory deeply, and get an expansive sense of it. Use your sense memory to take you back in time. When you are fully in the experience, pay attention to the words that come up for you. What words convey the essence of this experience for you? Complete the sentences below with one or two words that embody your experience.

I am _________________                I am ________________

When you are ready, start creating a mask that reflects this essential part of you. Let your materials guide you, and trust that whatever you create will be right.

When you’ve finished, study your mask and get to know it. Does it have a name? Why is this aspect of you important right now? What messages does it have for you?

If you’d like to go further, step into the world of your mask and write an inner stream of consciousness monologue for it, reflecting its interior thoughts and feelings. This is easier if you start with the words, “I am…”

FOR ANY OF YOU WHO DO THIS ACTIVITY, PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU SHOOT ME AN EMAIL AND LET ME KNOW HOW IT GOES!

In the Hallway of Transition

When one door closes another opens but all too often there is a long hallway in between.

-Rick Jarow

It was a welcome surprise. The unexpected email arrived in my inbox earlier this week, from two former students. I haven’t seen them in well over a year, and in that time they’ve graduated and moved on to new and exciting experiences.

They sweetly shared that they’d been thinking about me, and asked if I’d like to meet for dinner. “Of course!” I thought to myself. What fun it will be to catch up and hang out with them.

Why then, did I hesitate to answer the email? Why let three days pass before responding?

Because I’m in the midst of a doozy of a transition.

WHAT IS TRANSITION?

People often believe, understandably, that transition and change are one in the same. But it doesn’t quite work that way. Change is like writing a short essay. Simple. We change our clothes or hair color or the route we take to work. And voila, it’s done.

But transition? Not so much.

Transition is more like the novel we’ve worked on for a year. Complex. And even though we talk about changing our relationships, thoughts, health, feelings, dreams, finances, work, habits, etc., in truth we’re embarking on a transition when we set such a course.

We also tend to think that transition is the result of external circumstances and events. As in, it’s either something we choose, like getting married, or something thrust upon us, like the unexpected loss of a dear friend.

But transition is a shape-shifter, with the ability to take on another altogether different form. It may show up, unbidden, when nothing out of the ordinary has happened in our external world. Just when life seems to be chugging along as it should be – SCREECH! We arrive at a stop sign that wasn’t supposed to be on this route.

So with that we begin to question the most basic constructs of our lives and that which gives us meaning.

Perhaps we even face our mortality for the first time. And even though it may appear that nothing is happening externally, quite the opposite is true. As Nancy Schlossberg says, “Everything is changing internally – that is, the person’s assumptions about competency and identity are gradually shaken.”

Sounds challenging, right? But there’s a lot of help out there.

One of my absolute favorite books about transition has been around for a long time: Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes, by William Bridges. For me, it’s a classic. Leave it to a former English professor to poetically explore the three stages of transition:

1. The Ending. Letting go of an old way of life. Disengagement. Disidentification. Disenchantment. Disorientation.
2. The Neutral Zone. A moratorium. Can feel aimless, ambiguous, empty, and unproductive. Nothing feels solid anymore. A time for being rather than doing.
3. The Beginning. Subtle internal signals that we’re ready to move towards something new. An experience right at the lower edge of consciousness. A half-formed daydream that bubbles up and begins to take shape. Renewal.

THE HALLWAY OF TRANSITION

Yes, this is where I’ve been spending much of my time lately. With clients and with myself. Bridges calls it the neutral zone. Hudson has named it cocooning. And in the quote at the beginning of this post, Jarow refers to it as a hallway.

Personally, I just like to think of it as the in-between space.

One of the reasons this transition of mine is a doozy is because it’s happening in multiple areas of my life: work, relationship, finances, wellness, location, spirit.

In short, I’m in the midst of an internal, existential transition, questioning almost all of the basic constructs of my life. Trying to become my truest self in the world.

But here’s the funny thing about the in-between space of transition - even though I may feel aimless, unproductive, and empty at times, I don’t mind it. In fact, I know it’s essential for my evolution as a human being. As Bridges points out:

The reason for the emptiness between the stages of the life journey is the perspective it provides on the stages themselves. The neutral zone provides access to an angle of vision on life one can get nowhere else. And it is a succession of such views over a lifetime that produces wisdom.

SO WHY DON’T WE LIKE BEING IN THE HALLWAY?

As wonderful as that wisdom is that Bridges talks about, many of us want to minimize our time in the in-between space. Rush to the new beginning. Granted, in-between can feel surreal, like being in the funhouse staring at the crazy mirror too long. More than that, though, I think it scares us.

What will we find there?

If we stop and shine a light on all the dark corners of the hallway, might we be called to actually shake up our lives beyond what we ever expected?

So instead, we ambush ourselves, and others, with a barrage of questions:

• Of the empty nester we ask: “What are you going to do with the extra room now that your kid is gone?
• Of the newly published author we ask: “What’s your next book going to be about?”
• Of the laid-off employee we ask: “When are you going to start looking for a job?”
• Of the recent retiree we ask: “How do you plan to use all your free time?”
• Of the first year college student we ask: “What are you going to major in?”
• And of the seeker who’s temporarily stopped in the existential parking lot of life, we ask: “When are you going to actually DO something?”

WHAT WE EXPECT OF OTHERS IN TRANSITION

We desperately want people to know the answers to these questions. We want them to have their acts together. We get impatient when we hear, “I don’t know.” Because when it seems like they don’t know, well, that changes everything.

I mean, if this person whom I thought had it all figured out doesn’t, then what does that say about me and MY life?

No wonder being in the hallway can lead us to isolate and turn inward. We’re wobbly. Unsteady. We leak out around the edges. Our vision’s a little blurred. Oh, it can be fun too, but it’s more like mucking around with mud pies rather than cutting out paper dolls.

And the world at large, for the most part, doesn’t want to deal with that kind of strangeness.

No surprise, then, that I momentarily questioned my upcoming dinner date with my former students. I’m not the same person I was when last I saw them. But I want to fully live all the glorious parts of my transition, messy and otherwise. So meet them I will, even if that means I’m leaking out around the edges a little.

What about you? What’s been your experience of transition? Let’s share our stories and learn from each other.

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Meaning Mondays: The Teapot Edition

This is the story of a small, gently used teapot.

It came into my life three years ago, a gift from my husband. Claimed from among a ragged family of fiestaware at an antique store. And like the friskiest puppy in the litter, it called out: pick me, pick me!

“A real find,” Dave proclaimed, after I’d unwrapped it.

Yes indeed, a treasure. Nary a scrape or scratch, save for a slight blemish on the knob of the lid. I wouldn’t even have noticed it if Dave hadn’t pointed it out, and I loved it immediately.

But not just for its looks. Or the image in my mind of Dave haunting local antique stores (not necessarily his favorite thing to do) in his quest to bring me this perfect present. As wonderful as those things were (and are), I also loved it because it spoke to me about my life. It said:

Use me, Patty. That’s what I’m for. Take me off the shelf and enjoy me. I’m here to open the door to a new experience.

I imagined an experience that consciously added meaning to my life by stopping each day to center myself with a pot of tea. Where I truly lived during this in-between space, rather than frittering it away on distractions and mindless amusements.

Alas, it was not to be. Even though I’ve always loved the idea of tea – everything from the British custom of afternoon tea to the beautiful artistry of the Japanese tea ceremony – the little pot stayed on its perch most of the time.

Looking good, for sure.

But silent. And pining to be filled with hot water and aromatic tea.

Until a few weeks ago, that is. Because after I wrote about Kung Pao’s affinity for rituals, I realized that it was high time I got on with it: no more shilly shallying!

And now, I’m loving my personal tea time ritual. Around about 5:00 each afternoon, if I’m home, I fill the kettle. I like the feel of its increasing heft as the water flows in.

After I set it on the burner, I grab the teapot and tea. Nothing fancy, just Trader Joe’s Earl Grey. I choose a cup, most often persimmon colored, because I like the contrast with the turquoise of the pot.

While I’m anticipating the soon-to-be steam that will rise from the kettle’s spout, I go about gathering a few necessary partners for my tea: fruit, perhaps a handful of nuts, maybe even a square of chocolate.

Finally, the moment arrives! The water squeals its readiness to me, and I splash a cup or so into the waiting pot, gently swirling it around to ensure tea of just the right temperature. After a few seconds, out goes that first splash, in goes the tea, then a fresh dose of hot water almost all the way to the top.

And surprisingly, here’s one of my favorite parts. Wrapping the pot in a well worn dish towel, kind of a like placing a little shawl on its shoulders to keep it warm.

Once the tea has steeped, I’m almost there. I fill my cup with the piping hot liquid, giving it a sprinkle of sugar and a whisper of milk for good measure. And as I carry my cup to the table, I cradle its warmth in my hands. Smell its flavor even before I taste it.

THEN TASTE IT I DO. AH. BLISS

What I’ve discovered these past few weeks is that the making of the tea is as pleasurable as the drinking of the tea. A full-on sensory experience, from start to finish, that’s becoming a body memory for me.

And as joyful as this is, there’s more. Something I hadn’t bargained for. Something that taps into one of our most elemental human needs. The need to be welcomed. To be greeted upon arrival.

You know how it is when you walk through the door and someone’s already there? When they stop what they’re doing, notice you, say something? And depending on the relationship, maybe they offer you a warm embrace and a sweet kiss?

Even animals do it. In my home, I see that acknowledgment play out every time one cat passes another. A quick touch of noses. Hello. Good to see you.

Well, we need that too. Of course, I know we don’t always get it. Sometimes we live alone. Or arrive first. Or the person waiting doesn’t look up.

So at its simplest, my tea making has become a kind of greeting that I give myself. A cheerful hug to look forward to each day.

But at a more complex level, it has changed things for my husband and me. Because when Dave rolls in at 6:00 PM, not only do I give him a hug and a kiss, but now I ask, “would you like some tea?” It’s still warm in the pot, and I’m ready for a second cup. And as we sit down to exchange notes about our day, I understand implicitly that two cups of tea is just right.

How about you? What kind of small meaning making have you been up to lately? You know I want to hear about it!

(By the way, if you’re wondering what the heck Meaning Monday is about, click here for the full story. And if you’re ready to fire up the meaning in your own life, go visit Belinda at the Halfway Point. Her post about simple things that add meaning to everyday, is, quite simply, beautiful.)

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WHY  NOT START NOW?

Old Newsletters and Silt

To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful.

-Agnes De Mille

This week I’m in clean slate/fresh start mode, purging old files and documents. And in the process of digging through my hard drive I’ve unearthed some old newsletters that I wrote in years past.

Yes, back in the day I used to send out a quarterly newsletter, two-sided, on colored paper no less. Every three months my husband and I would meet at the dining room table for a folding, labeling, stamping party. We’d turn up the music and get a groove going. After a few hours we’d be rewarded with a healthy stack of newsletters, all ready to go to the post office. That was our final destination of the evening, and it was always thrilling to feed my little babies into the mouth of the big blue mail box.

As fun as those times were, I’m extremely grateful for the technology that now allows me to share my thoughts immediately, with the press of the “publish” button. In fact, it’s made me wonder – are there blogging business owners who also send out newsletters?

I’ve played with the idea of adding a monthly newsletter, but I’m somewhat baffled about how to differentiate it from my blog. So I’d love to hear from you if you have any clues, or even thoughts on the type of content that would be newsletter-worthy. You can leave a comment here, or email if you’d prefer: bechtoldlifework@sbcglobal.net.

Anyway, back to my main point. I dug up a newsletter I wrote five years ago that seemed to hit a note at the time. That got an unexpected response. So I figured, why not bring it over to my blog? Read on…

SILT SYNDROME – WINTER 2005

Recently I spent a weekend kicking back, catching up with a few movies I’d been meaning to see. One of my selections was Shall We Dance? I’d seen the original and was curious about the remake. In this incarnation of the story Richard Gere plays John Clark, who, according to the film’s synopsis, “has all he could ever ask for, including a successful career and a loving wife. Even so, he can’t find true happiness.”

So he decides to sign up for ballroom dance classes, and by the end of the movie feels a whole lot better about his life. But not before a few missteps, chief among them failing to tell his wife that the reason he’s out so late is because he’s learning to rumba.

Halfway through the movie I realized that Gere was embarrassed to share his growing love of dance because he was suffering from what I call I-Should-Be-Happy-With-What-I’ve-Got Syndrome, also known as Shouldn’t-I-Love-This? (SILT Syndrome, for short). I like the SILT acronym because silt is a sedimentary material that builds up and causes obstructions.

Similarly, when we’re in the grips of SILT syndrome we obstruct our own growth or movement.

How do we know if we’re a casualty of SILT syndrome? We might feel bored, restless, blah. Perhaps we even find ourselves thinking, “is that all there is?” But we compensate for the internal discomfort by telling ourselves one of the following:

1. I’m really lucky compared to a lot of other people
2. This is the life I used to want so I should still want it
3. I have to learn to be content with this because change is just too hard at this point.

And with that we manage to derail the yucky feeling and shut it down. Those words we repeat during a SILT episode are certainly comforting; they console us and keep our world intact, sort of the adult equivalent of making a scraped elbow better by kissing it and moving on. But then we find ourselves needing to kiss that elbow more and more often, and the scrape just isn’t going away, is it?

No wonder Richard Gere was freaking out a bit in the movie.

You may be too, if you’re in the grips of SILT. But you’ll be glad to know that you’re in good company. Millions have gone before, millions will come after. In fact, millions of words have been written about what you’re experiencing. And the wisest words seems to point to this as a time to seriously pay attention to the deeper you – your core, substance, spirit, inner self, soul, marrow, essence – whatever you choose to call it, and truly allow that part of you to live in the world.

In many ways the journey, if you allow yourself to take it, will ultimately bring you home to yourself.

And yes, it might be hard, because, well, because change is hard. But as one of my friends says, it will be “good hard.” And in the words of author James Hollis, “Just when we have achieved a measure of stability, we may be undermined from below and called to a new direction.”

Paying attention to that new direction and taking small steps toward it is one surefire way to conquer SILT syndrome, even if that means taking ballroom dance lessons.

BACK TO PRESENT DAY – WINTER 2010

So what do you think? Ever been sidetracked by SILT?

I’m laughing, at myself, upon realizing that I’m wading through it right now. Do you think that’s why I was moved to reprint this? I’m reminded of that old adage – you teach what you need to learn.

Here’s the deal: As much as I love my home and garden, I’m almost ready to move on. I need to downsize my life and simplify. Reduce my carbon footprint. I don’t need so much space, and I want out of suburbia. I’m longing for a smaller town with a big heart and sense of community. A walkable neighborhood (I’m shooting for a Walk Score over 90), near public transit and within shouting distance of some of my favorite places.

Seems lovely, doesn’t it? And yet, the SILT keeps coming…But look what you’ve created here! But you used to love this! But why shake up your life! But you have it so good!

Then I remember. I can live my life with gusto right now. Enjoy every day that I’m here. Extract as much meaning as I can from it. And when the time comes to move in a year or two, there will be no SILT left to stop me. There will just be me, dancing my way to a larger life.

How about you? Any of this sound familiar? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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WHY NOT START NOW?