Retracing My Steps

Thomas Wolfe famously said: “You can’t go home again.”

And yet, I have a recurring daydream where not only do I go home again, but I stay for a few months. Three months, to be exact.

I don’t know why, but three months seems like the right amount of time. I plucked it from the air, without much thought, when this particular reverie started.

And then came Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat Pray Love, in which she sets out on a journey to reclaim herself and her life by visiting three locations – Italy, India, and Indonesia – for three months each.

When I read that, I figured there must be something in the wind about this three month time frame.

Of course, my imaginary journey takes me back to old places that I’ve known before rather than new places that I’ve yet to discover. In fact, in my mind I set out on a quest to revisit several of my past “homes.”

I RETRACE MY STEPS.

As you read this you might be wondering, “Why? What is it she’s looking for?” I’ve certainly asked myself those questions.

Is it about unfinished business? Getting closure? And what meaning could I possibly make from this?

I don’t have firm answers to these questions, but something has revealed itself to me about what would happen if I put my musings into action:

IT WOULD MAKE A GOOD STORY.

There’s a universality about it. I know this because when I share the “retracing my steps” idea in workshops, people perk up. They sit up straighter. Join the conversation. And they do so no matter if their memories of home are agreeable or unpleasant.

And if people are in a time of transition in their lives, then the idea of going home is particularly poignant.

So, if I was queen of the world I would give everyone who wanted to the chance to go back for at least one night to the place that most fully represents their original home.

I actually did this. Well, okay, I didn’t go for three months. I didn’t even get to spend the night.

But I did go back. I walked the streets of the neighborhood and was amazed at how close everything was – the park, the school, the corner grocery.

And I was struck by how small the house was, tiny by today’s standards. But that didn’t seem to matter way back when, because somehow we managed to fit everyone in. Mom. Dad. Brothers. Cousins, aunties, uncles, grandma, grandpa.

People everywhere. Comings and goings. Yes. That’s what I remember most about that house. Comings and goings.

When I stood in front of the house, entranced, rooted in place, the people who live there got a little suspicious. But they relaxed when I told them who I was, and very graciously invited me inside.

As I crossed the threshold, I felt equal parts familiarity and strangeness. In some ways I still knew that house, in other ways I didn’t. And walking through it, I found myself looking at the rooms from a misty, far-off place:

• The living room where I practiced my first dance steps: A faint echo of Beatles’ music reverberating around the walls.
• The dining room where we all squeezed in on holidays: The memory of crawling beneath the table and laughing.
• The kitchen where I did my homework: Flashback – will I ever understand fractions?
• The bedroom where I plotted my escape: A hazy phone conversation - Guess what? I got accepted to college. I can’t wait to get out of here!

And that’s exactly what I did when I was 17. I got out of there.

But years later, going back seemed important. And as I retraced my steps through that house that I grew up in, I realized that the past changes. There’s not one set version of it. It depends on what we bring to it and the perspective from which we view it.

Which puts me in mind of a quote from John Ed Pearce:

Home is the place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to get back to.

I do think we all have some sort of homing instinct. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but maybe it does show up more when we’re in the second half of life. And my hunch is it’s there to help us rejuvenate some essential part of ourselves that got interrupted by the rush and routine of adult life.

So how about you? If I was suddenly anointed queen of the world, and I offered you the chance to go back to your original home for one night, would you take me up on it?

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WHY NOT START NOW?

The House of Belonging

WHAT IS HOME?

Clearly it’s a place. A spot on the map. The door opening. A warm bed. Somewhere we can retreat to and find sanctuary.

For some, of course, home is meant to be left, gotten away from. As soon as possible. A repository of pain and difficult times.

But whatever our first experiences of home, we all are called in adulthood to construct a home in the world.

Yet, what is that, really?

Poet and author David Whyte writes:

This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.

This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.

There is no house
like the house of belonging.

Whyte implies that home is more than just a place to hang our hats. It’s as much inside of us as outside in the world.

For several years, I’ve been bewitched by the paradox of home.

And somewhere inside of myself I knew that my recurring dreams about houses, my yearning to return to my roots, my image of a cottage near deep blue ocean and towering redwoods, all of it, was about more than just the outer world.

It was inner. It was me. My deep waters. My essence. My core.

Finding the depth of the ocean and the roots of the redwood tree inside of myself. Coming back to my own house of belonging.

So during this week of Thanksgiving when many are making their way home, or welcoming others into their homes, I thought it fitting to ask: What is your own house of belonging?

It doesn’t matter if it’s outer or inner, real or imagined, actual or symbolic.

Share it with us and we will all be nourished by each other’s stories of home. And know that you have time, because I won’t be posting again until next Monday. After Thanksgiving.

And by the way, I want to give thanks to you, for stopping by this little online home of mine. In your honor, I raise my glass. In fact, let’s all raise our imaginary glasses together. CHEERS!

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Thirteen Tips to Transform the Story

Earlier this week I wrote about fear and a common story that often gives it juice: The Orphan story.

If this is your first time here and you’re in a rush (gearing up for Thanksgiving and all), you don’t need to go back and read my last piece. Nope, you can think about the story another way: The Scarcity story.

You’re probably familiar with the scarcity story. It’s located in the part of the psyche that tells us, “I’m scared, it might not work out, it could be the wrong choice, I could fail, I don’t know what it will be like, I won’t like it.”

Now, having these thoughts is not a recipe for disaster. Actually they’re quite normal. But if they keep you stuck and paralyzed and unable to move forward, well, then the story has got you by the neck. And you’re self-orphaning. Which means it’s high time to consider this question:

HOW CAN I STOP COOPERATING WITH THE STORY?

Today I’m bringing you a grab bag of strategies to do just that. And since I’m no stranger myself to the fear story, I can tell you I’ve practiced all of these at one time or another. And I’ve seen them work for others too.

Also, I deliberately chose the number thirteen, since it has a reputation for striking fear into our hearts. I don’t buy that, though, and this is my small way to stop cooperating with the story today and change its meaning.

1. Create a healing circle with others whom you trust, a place where everyone can feel safe sharing their stories and giving support.
2. Design and carry out a ritual that transforms the story. It could be as simple as lighting a candle each day, pondering the story for a few minutes, then blowing out the candle while imagining the fear dispersing through the air. It could be as complicated as finding an object that represents the scarcity story for you, then burying it. By doing so you signify that you have moved into another stage of life where this story has less pull for you.
3. Bring compassion to the story itself. Recognize that although it hinders you, it does have a positive intent: to keep you safe.
4. Draw, paint, or collage the story. Find some way to create an image of it.
5. When you have the image, start a dialogue with it. Welcome it and speak to it as if it is another person. Tell it what you see there. Quietly listen to anything it has to say back to you. Ask it what understanding it needs from you. You may be surprised to hear that it has a desire to be in partnership rather than in conflict with you.
6. Explore further dialogues with it through Active Imagination. A great way to learn it: Inner Work, by Robert Johnson.
7. Ask for guidance from the rest of your inner cast of characters. Do you have a powerful magician who wants to name the fear as something else? Perhaps you have an adventurous seeker who wants to use the fear to start a journey into the unknown? What about a savvy ruler who knows how to manage, and can bring in some discipline and control? Or a wise sage who can step back and be very objective about the fear? And of course, there’s always the fun loving jester who knows that the story can’t help but transform when you bring in play, joy, humor, and life lived in the moment.
8. Read a book that will bring your inner cast of characters to life. A good place to start: Awakening the Heroes Within, by Carol Pearson.
9. Practice centering activities, such as meditation, yoga, guided imagery, etc.
10. Let nature in. Every day bring it into your home, a handful of fallen leaves, a rock, a stick, a flower. Notice what looking at it does to the fear story.
11. Walk out into the world. Be among others. Participate.
12. Get a helium balloon. Write on it: scarcity story, fear, whatever you like. Tell it you want it to see more of the world. Gently let it go and watch it float away.
13. TAKE A RISK. This is my favorite on the list. Sometimes we confuse fear with risk. But they’re not the same thing. Fear is an emotion; risk is an action. So take a risk and take a step toward your fear.

Some of the wisest words I’ve read on this topic come from author James Hollis:

Daily confrontation with these gremlins of fear and lethargy obliges us to choose between anxiety and depression…This archetypal drama is renewed ever day, in every generation, in every institution, and in every decisive moment of personal life. Faced with such a choice, choose anxiety and ambiguity, for they are developmental always, while depression is regressive. Anxiety is an elixir, and depression a sedative. The former keeps us on the edge of our life, the latter in the sleep of childhood.

Ah, anxiety is an elixir that keeps us on the edge of life! That keeps us moving forward.

And the depression he talks about? He doesn’t mean clinical or biological depression. Rather, he’s talking about existential depression, the depression that comes with scarcity thinking and self-orphaning.

So go ahead, choose anxiety and fear. At first the elixir may be hard to swallow, but the resulting transformation will be nothing short of magical.

What do you think?

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WHY NOT START NOW?

A Large State of Fear

Loads of words have been written about fear. Enough to fill pages and pages. In fact, I suspect that if you laid all those pages end to end, they would span the highways and byways of a small state. Like Rhode Island. Maybe even a really big state. Texas perhaps. I don’t know.

Geography aside, it’s fair to say it would be a very large state of fear.

Which is exactly why I’ve been reluctant to write about it. I mean, what could I possibly add? I threw caution to the wind last week, though, and went and cracked open the door.

I began by spilling the beans about a few of my own experiences with it.

Then I introduced the F – E – A – R acronym: False Evidence Appearing Real. Well, I didn’t exactly introduce it; I know some of you have heard it before.

But I didn’t stop there. No. I asked my savvy readers to comment on the fear acronym. To consider if it could really work to make a person feel less fearful. And everybody who chimed in seemed to agree that as nifty as the acronym is, a longer conversation is required to fully understand the depth and breadth of fear (many thanks to Sara, Wilma, Belinda, SuZen, Eric for playing along with my somewhat unusual movie moment).

So there you have it. The door is no longer cracked open, it’s wide open. Beckoning. I’ve come this far, and I figure I might as well walk through and put my two cents in.

WALKING THROUGH THE FEAR DOOR

Okay. FEAR. Have you noticed the words we tend to partner with it?

Defeat. Overcome. Conquer. Master. Destroy. As in: How To Defeat, Overcome, Conquer, Master, and/or Destroy Your Fears in Three Easy Lessons.

Think about it for a minute. Those are fighting words. Warrior words. In fact, we’re channeling the warrior archetype when we use them. But the thing is, the warrior isn’t usually skillful enough to slay the fear dragon.

Because it can be a very BIG dragon. That even an army of warriors couldn’t bring down.

And at some level, I think we know that. So we try a different tactic. A whole new set of words: discard, eliminate, get rid of. And my personal favorite: banish.

Mmm, banish. If fear were a Shakespearean character, the king would proclaim, Fear…you are ban – uh – shed from the kingdom.

Don’t you love how Shakespeare livens up that simple two syllable word?

BAN – UH – SHED! (Say it fast).

Yet even with the extra syllable, we’re still left wanting. Because no matter how powerful the king, fear will find its way back into the castle. Maybe it’ll have to swim across the moat, but trust me, it will persevere.

Does this seem depressing? I don’t want it to. I’m just trying to make the point that fear can’t be beat down or kicked out.

There was a time, though, when I was in the camp that believed you could do just that. If a client told me they wanted to be rid of fears, I’d enthusiastically sign on. I reasoned that if I could just discover the right tactic or strategy (do you hear my warrior words?), the fear would be eliminated.

I WISH.

Maybe I clung to that notion because of some unwanted companions during the first half of my life: anxiety attacks. I suppose I didn’t want anyone to experience the dark shadow of fear if they didn’t have to. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time one of us helping types unwittingly tried to protect when instead we should have been encouraging a form of capitulation.

Luckily I caught on. And over the years many wise teachers have helped me to understand that there is another way with fear. A more life affirming option that allows us to change its meaning.

CHANGING THE MEANING OF FEAR

At its most basic, changing the meaning of fear requires acceptance. Admitting that it JUST IS. It’s an emotion and we’re going to feel our share of it. It’s rarely a good idea to deny or refuse emotions, because if we do they come back to bite us in our collective butts. (That said, if you experience paralyzing fears or panic attacks like I did, it’s time to get help).

Usually, however, allowing ourselves to feel fear lessens its grip. And since many smart people have written about this, I won’t belabor the point.

But a curious thing happens when we simply choose to accept fear. We’re able to open our eyes and look beneath. We can see the story that breathes life into it.

THE STORY BENEATH THE FEAR

It’s an ancient story, the one about the orphan. The abandoned child; the lost and vulnerable waif. Who, no matter how hard she or he tries, can’t make their way in an unforgiving world.

If you think this isn’t part of you, think again. Because each of us confronts the existential inevitability that we are ultimately alone. Even in spite of our families and friends and connections, we’re the only ones responsible for our lives.

Tag, we’re it!

And if that’s not enough to throw you, to leave you feeling overwhelmed and insufficient at times, and yes, occasionally fearful, then I don’t know what is.

So, nine times out of ten this is the gas that makes fear go. This primitive story is in the driver’s seat when we say things like, “I’m afraid I won’t measure up” or “I fear making a mistake” or “Why bother, it won’t work out.” The story tries to convince us that we’re not up to the task, that basically, we’re not enough (like the orphan). And if we try to go for it, we’ll be overwhelmed, abandoned, and confused.

Now, mind you, the orphan character doesn’t normally sit on us every morning and tell us to pull the covers over our heads because the world is such a big, hard place. Rather, it operates at a pretty deep level in our psyches.

Nevertheless, as much as we might not want to admit it, we’ve all got it, no matter if life to date has been a comedy or a tragedy or something in between. And that’s actually a good thing. Isn’t it comforting to know that we’re all in this together? That this archetypal story stretches back far beyond our individual histories and experiences?

I think so, because it is exactly this communal experience of the story that gives us the gumption to step back and locate it outside of ourselves. To make it less about our personal problems and more about the story itself, thus changing the meaning of the fear.

LOCATING THE FEAR STORY OUTSIDE OF OURSELVES

Are you still with me? If you are, then you probably recognize times when the orphan story has been operating beneath your own fears. And you’re willing to consider that it’s a universal story as much as a personal story. Just making that leap gives you breathing room to start a dialogue between the story and yourself. You can begin by asking yourself a key question:

How can I stop cooperating with this story?

At first glance this may seem like a simple question. In some ways it is. But putting it into action is quite another thing. So I’m going to sign off for now and give you a chance to ponder it. Even take a stab at answering it, if you like. And then I’ll continue the conversation next time.

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WHY NOT START NOW?

False Evidence Appearing Real: The Movie

The Scene: With Vivaldi’s Four Seasons as background music, the camera pans across a college campus on a fall afternoon in late 1999. The trees are almost bare and the ground beneath is covered with leaves. Students walk quickly to class, bundled up in bulky sweaters that suggest winter is not far off. The camera settles on one student, Patty, and follows her progress along a pathway up to the door of a brick building, which she enters. She climbs the stairs to the second floor, and walks quickly down a long corridor. At the end of the corridor she turns left into a small seminar room where three other students, Maya, Korinne, and James, have recently arrived. Greetings are exchanged, sweaters removed, notebooks unpacked, soda cans popped, snacks ripped open, and almost as one the group of students moves to take their seats. As the music fades out, we find them all seated around a small table.

MAYA: Oh man, I am so tired. I was up all night trying to finish my theory paper. I’m counting the days until my orals next week.

KORINNE: Aren’t you scared? I mean, I’m freakin’ out about going up in front of Dotson. They say he asks super tough questions.

MAYA: No, I mean, come on, remember what we talked about last week? About fear? And we’ve worked really hard to get to this point. I don’t think Dotson is going to make or break us.

KORINNE: Yeah, I guess so. But still…

JAMES: (Yawning and overlapping Korinne’s sentence). Hey, you’ll be fine. Dotson’s bark is way worse than his bite.

KORINNE: Easy for you to say. You’re done with orals. (At this point Korinne looks over and notices Patty, who’s smiling but hasn’t said anything yet). So what’s up with you? You seem uncharacteristically quiet. And why the big grin?

PATTY: Well, I’ve got some news…I finally finished my thesis. Got the last approvals. Turned it in. Fini, as they say in France! Can you believe it?

(This new information brings high fives all around, back pats, whooping, laughter, a few yippees).

MAYA: Okay, okay, you guys. Don’t want to bring the party down, but we have got to get serious. Dr. Amendola said to do at least one case today, and I have to pick up Skye at 6:00. So since Korinne and I are brain fried, how about one of you take the lead?

JAMES: (Whining a bit). Oh, please, please, please, not me, I’m brain fried too. No, make that brain mush. My kid was up all night.

PATTY: Hey, I respect that. And I’m feeling good today. No problem, I’ll take it.

KORINNE: Great, go!

PATTY: Yeah, okay. So, remember the client I told you about three weeks ago? The woman who’s been having all these insights about her life?

JAMES: I remember. You’re still working with her?

PATTY: Yes, and she’s come even farther. Done a bunch of soul searching and now actually knows what she wants. We figured it out…her calling is to be a veterinarian. And I’m absolutely certain she’ll be great at it. She’s got the grades. I think she can get into vet school. She’s even started doing the research, visiting animal hospitals, all of it. Oh, and her family is super supportive. I mean, it’s so right.

MAYA: Cool!

KORINNE: Awesome!

JAMES: This rocks!

PATTY: (laughing in delight at her friends’ spirit and support). Yeah, it’s fantastic. But there’s a little wrinkle.

MAYA: What?

PATTY: Well, when I saw her yesterday she told me she’d changed her mind. I could barely get her to talk about it. But basically she said she felt too old, like she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the younger students. And she teared up and admitted how scared she is.

KORINNE: Oh. Fear.

MAYA: Yeah, (spelling it out), F  -  E  -  A  -  R.

JAMES & PATTY: Huh?

MAYA: You don’t know what that means?

PATTY: Well, yeah, I know what fear is.

KORINNE: But do you know what it stands for?

PATTY: I’m not getting it.

MAYA: It’s an acronym: False Evidence Appearing Real!

KORINNE: (getting excited) Yes! Isn’t that cool? Maya told me about it when I was in a panic last week about orals. Like, fear tries to make you believe what’s not true. Makes you see a false reality, but fear is never reality. Don’t you get it?

JAMES: (starting to zone out) Sort of.

PATTY: (a little puzzled) Maybe.

KORINNE: So, just tell your client what F -E – A – R  stands for. Explain the acronym to her.

PATTY: You think that’ll make a difference?

MAYA & KORINNE: YES!

JAMES: (has slumped in his chair) Mmmmmmmmmm.

(The three women chuckle)

MAYA: Okay, dude, you’ve got to get home, and I’ve got to get downtown.

PATTY: Right, me too. We’re going out tonight to celebrate.

MAYA: Will you think more about what we said?

PATTY: About fear? Sure.

KORINNE: Promise?

PATTY: I will.

The students get up to gather their belongings and the music starts again. The camera follows them as they descend the stairs and exit the building into the night. They hug good-bye and separate, each walking out into the night as the scene fades away. THE END.

Okay, readers, now it’s your turn. What should Patty do? Should she take their advice? Will it make a difference? Your wise comments are much appreciated!

(By the way, as you’ve probably guessed, this is a slightly dramatized version of a true story that happened ten years ago, just as I was beginning my career as a counselor).

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Education: A Good Thing

I almost decided to skip posting this week because I’m immersed in a boatload of new learning experiences: relationship coaching with Lisa Kramer; Gottman Institute level I training for working with couples; and dream/archetypal pattern analysis teleseminars with Michael Conforti at the Assisi Institute.

My studies take me through to the early part of next year, and at that point I’ll probably continue with more classes. I’ve also decided to complete some professional certifications in the coming months.

So clearly, I love learning. You probably picked up on that. It’s one of my top values, and doing it brings meaning to my life. But there’s more to it.

Bottom line, I know it’s a smart move. Statistics tell us that education is almost always a good thing. Not only in terms of income, mind you, but in job security too. And these days job security is as much about developing your talent, skills, and savvy as it is about keeping your spot on the company payroll. Because as tough as it is out there, those who have planted their professional gardens with perennial learning and development seeds are reaping the bounty right now.

Of course, as a business owner, job security means something a little different to me. And after ten years I definitely get it. It’s one thing to bring in clients; it’s another altogether to keep them. And have them leave with good experiences that they want to tell others about. I’ve learned that business is built by enthusiastic clients, so I’ve got to keep learning. Growing. Staying on top of my game.

Actually, at its core, it comes down to ethics and integrity.

I can’t, in good faith, fly by the seat of my pants and give good service to clients. And because I’m in a period of professional transition, letting go of certain things and taking on others, it’s vital that I carve out opportunities for more education, training, and credentials.

Which brings me to the deeper point of this ramble (I know, I know, that took some time). I’ve noticed something interesting in my online travels lately. Something that looks a little like a devaluing of education, training, and credentials.

It might be my imagination, but I don’t think so. I’m usually pretty good at picking up on these things. So when I read words like, “I never went to college and I’m glad I didn’t” or “I have no credentials for the service I’m offering but all that’s just bunk anyway,” I begin to wonder what’s going on.

Maybe it’s because the virtual world is a lot like the Wild West right now.

Rip roarin’ and gun totin’. A slew of modern-day forty-niners who can’t be bothered with the learning curve on gold mining. No siree, they’ve just gotta forge ahead and get as much of the good stuff as they can, as fast as they can.

And I can appreciate that. Sort of. I mean, some people, like Peter C. Whybrow, have suggested that this drive, this pursuit, this race forward, is genetic. Hard wired within us. No time for the new breed of forty-niner to stop for a little book learning.

But when it comes to the slightly cheeky dismissal of education that I’m picking up on, I have to wonder if there’s something more going on. Like, dare I say it: FEAR.

Yes, fear. Because, you see, I’ve been there. It took me 15 years to get my bachelor’s degree. I started college when I was 17. Dropped out three years later, when my mom died unexpectedly. I was rudderless. Floating. And I sure couldn’t handle getting myself educated. But I did make another failed attempt at 23. Still another at 28. And then finally, at 30, it worked. I stuck with it and graduated.

But oh, how I railed during all those years leading up to it: What a waste of time! That’s stupid! I don’t need it! Who are they to tell me I’m not qualified just because I don’t have a dumb piece of paper?

And with each attempt and subsequent failure, I got more scared. I feared I’d never get this thing I wanted so badly, and I almost gave up. As a result, my bluff and bluster grew exponentially.

After that experience, you might think I learned my lesson. But no, I didn’t. In fact, I repeated the same story (just a little different version). I sat on the fence for five years before I decided to jump down and go for my master’s degree. And again I railed: Why do I need this? So I waited. And then waited a little more, because I didn’t know for sure that it would get me what I wanted. Which is just another way to say that I was afraid.

Finally, though, I came to understand this story. In my second year of grad school I took a job as a career and academic advisor, working with adult reentry students at a local university. Most of my advisees were in their thirties, forties, and fifties (although one of our students graduated at seventy). During my time there, I heard countless versions of why these adults couldn’t and shouldn’t return to school. I held their hands, I listened, sometimes I even had to tell them to stop yelling at me, because I wasn’t the one who decided they needed a math class to graduate.

And somewhere along the way I realized what was underneath the false bravado. The proclamations of not needing an education. The anger. All of it. What lived beneath were two most universal fears: the fear of not being enough, and the fear of being overwhelmed.

On graduation day, though, I saw those fears float away, like a bouquet of helium balloons let loose all at once. I saw other things, too: doors opening, connections made, promotions offered, salaries increased. And best of all, I saw the burst of confidence. Self esteem. Realizing that you are indeed enough.

Because that’s what education provides, inner and outer growth.

Now I’m not saying that everyone should go out and get a degree (or another degree). Absolutely not. But we do need to get good at what we do. We need to educate ourselves, traditionally or non-traditionally. And we can’t just say we’ve read a lot of books, so that’s that.

Nope, we simply can’t do it alone. Think, for a minute, about the most talented artists. The singer who takes voice lessons once a week. The dancer who’s in class regularly. The novelist who meets with his writing group. The painter who attends the yearly retreat. All of them understand that they need mentors and teachers. They know they must continually work at their craft. And being the best takes effort and ongoing education.

So here I am, gearing up, at a time when some of my peers are winding down. Maybe it’s because of all that railing I did, and I’m making up for lost time. I don’t know. But one thing’s for sure: I still have much to learn.

How about you? How important is education? And what’s been your most valuable educational experience?

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WHY NOT START NOW?

Dancing Around the Living Room

Today finds me dancing around the living room. Just a little. A few twirls. A slide across the floor. A kick here and there.

And it’s all because of the frisky little orange button you see to your right.

You know, the one that says, “Subscribe in a reader.” Yes. I finally got my RSS and email subscriptions active. Because try as I might, I couldn’t figure it out on my own.

So I tracked down Jeb over at websiteorblog, and I’m sure glad I did. He got me hooked up right away. And did it in such a gracious, charming, helpful manner that I’ll be using his services again down the road. His rates are eminently reasonable, so go, check out his site if you’re in need of technical tutoring.

Ah, it’s so nice to be part of the club now. When I started poking around other people’s blogs, only to discover that everyone had this subscription thing going, I began to feel a bit like the only kid in class who hasn’t figured out the math problem. But I’m very thankful to those of you who actually asked me about it; without your interest and nudge, who knows how long it would have taken me to get going on it?

So here it is. Go nuts. Subscribe away! (I had to try it out myself and I believe I am my own first subscriber).

All good reasons for my exuberant little dance around the living room, don’t you think? But, truth be told, I’m skipping the light fantastic not just because of my subscription feeds.

No, I’m also in a dancing mood because I recently watched Every Little Step.

Not only does the movie chronicle months of grueling auditions for the recent Broadway revival of A Chorus Line, but it also explores the incredible birthing of the original production.

When I think about how the show came to be, I get goose bumps (the good kind). A group of dancers gather in the wee small hours to tell their stories. A bottle of cheap wine provides the lubrication. Their words flow. And then art is made from those stories.

Stories. If you’ve read my about page, you know that I’ve always loved stories.

They enchant me, and I have an ongoing urge to collect and retell them. To use them to entertain and inspire. Because human beings are meaning makers, and one of the primary ways we do that is by telling and hearing stories.

And what better way to listen to a story than through the work of an artist?

I’m reminded of a quote from The Courage to Create, by Rollo May:

When we appreciate a creative work, we are also performing a creative act. When we engage a painting we are experiencing some new moment of sensibility. Some new vision is triggered in us by our contact with the painting; something unique is born within us. This is why appreciation of the music or painting or other works of the creative person is also a creative act on our part.

When I think about my experience of A Chorus Line, it does indeed feel like a creative act. My cousin and I sat mesmerized in a theatre in San Francisco during the original production’s first tour. When the character of Diana sang “Kiss Today Goodbye,” we held hands and wept, because it was so moving.

Thirty years later, I found myself again in a San Francisco theatre (maybe even the same one), this time with my husband by my side. Watching the revival before it left for Broadway. And once more, living, laughing, crying, striving, and growing through the stories of these same characters.

I remember countless other times when I engaged with works of art and was taken to that place of vision that Rollo May talks about in the quote above.

Paintings. Sculptures. Photographs. Concerts. Symphonies. Plays. Books. Solo performances. Duets. The list goes on.

And I am better for it. All of it.

What about you? What’s your most memorable experience of engaging with a work of art? Let’s share those stories here and enrich each other’s lives by telling them.

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How Do You Sustain Meaning In Life?

This past weekend proved to be one of those glorious Northern California wonders, and happily, I was in just the right place for it: Western Sonoma County. A perfect fall episode.

Brilliant Sun. Dazzling blue sky. Towering redwoods. Shimmering waves. An almost full moon.

And I mustn’t forget the charming little villages. Brigadoon-like places you stumble upon after driving a winding country lane. They seem to appear almost magically, popping up among the surrounding hills and trees. It’s not a big leap for me to imagine they’ve been asleep just in that moment before I arrived. And are ready to embrace me fully, insisting I stay with them for another hundred years.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I had a marvelous weekend! A weekend full of meaning.

It’s easy for me to create meaning in a place such as this, because when I’m surrounded by so much beauty, I am fully in my life. Walking on trails that pass through fields and vineyards. Having long soulful conversations with my husband while looking at the sea. Cooking simple meals.

Sometimes, though, daily life makes it difficult for me to sustain meaning. So I thought it rather serendipitous that on this sparkling, meaning-filled weekend, I actually had some insights about this, thanks to Eric Maisel.

Maisel is an author, therapist, and coach who works in the areas of creativity, meaning, and purpose. And lately I’ve been listening to his podcasts on The Purpose Centered Life.

One of Maisel’s most interesting assertions is that those people who place an exceptionally high value on meaning making are also the most at risk for meaning crises. In other words, if I have a great desire for a life filled with purpose and meaning (and I do), then it’s likely I’ll suffer more than my share of angst because the expeditious world around me will often seem meaningless.

I think Maisel is right. I also think I’ve experienced what he’s talking about. But I never could put it into words. And although I work with others to create more meaningful lives, as well as write about meaning, it had never fully registered with me that some of us must actually work harder at making meaning.

Because if we don’t we’re in danger of falling, and the resulting injuries may be more like deep cuts than skinned knees.

In particular, Maisel discusses how creative people tend to face this challenge of meaning. As I sift through these ideas, though, I recognize that I’ve noticed this in others who might not claim the role of artist or creative. I’m talking about people who are highly sensitive, emotionally attuned, spiritual seekers, and the like.

So for all of us who hold meaning in high regard, it’s not enough to ask, “How do I create a meaningful life?” We must also explore how to sustain the meaning we’ve created. How to solidify it and continue to hold it close in the face of life’s quirks and quandaries.

As always, I would love to have you join in the conversation about this topic:

• Do you believe that some of us have to work harder to create a meaningful life?
• How do you personally create and sustain meaning in your own life?
• What actions do you take if you experience a crisis of meaning?

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Imagination Quiz

Come with me, take my hand, to a world of pure imagination…

-Leslie Bricusse & Anthony Newley

I adore every aspect of imagination. In fact, if there was such a thing as an imagination groupie, I’d be one.

Like Willy Wonka says, I’d spend my days in a world of Pure Imagination.

That world, that planet of imagination unleashed, is heady indeed. Not only does it provide a powerful agent for making meaning in life, it’s also the pipeline between the conscious self and the deeper self. And when that pipeline is open, it surely does take us by the hand and lead the way to sublime experiences of flow.

But there are times when the old pipeline gets clogged and we have to call in the plumber.

Once in a while I work with someone who’s given up on their imagination. Who thinks it’s truly gone for good. But I never believe that. Okay, I’ll admit it can get a tad sluggish. Yet it most certainly is still there, because everyone is born with the inherent gift of imagination.

So I’m intrigued by those times when it gets blocked. What kind of gunk builds up? How come it sometimes seems impenetrable?

I have a few hunches percolating. And today I’ve put together an Imagination Quiz to test them out.

Want to help me do that? Great!

Just respond to the statements that follow with “yes” or “no” to get a quick snapshot of the state of your imagination.

1. I am often bored and my energy is low
2. I’m so busy that I barely have time to stop for a minute
3. I think imagination is a waste of time
4. I’m experiencing a lot of stress in my life right now
5. I don’t get out and about, seeing and experiencing new things
6. I check out in front of television (or some other medium of choice) more than four hours per week
7. All my problems would be solved if could just hit it big, like winning the lottery or inheriting a large sum of money or being suddenly “discovered”
8. Most of my major life decisions are based on fear and worry
9. I rarely read fiction or stories that are “made up”
10. I don’t like fantasies and fairytales
11. It’s been a long time since I cut loose and “played” at anything
12. I have no hobbies, or those I do have are unsatisfying

If you said “yes” to three or more statements, there’s a good chance your imagination is in need of an experienced plumber.

So, how’d you do?

What do you think of my quiz?

And if you (or someone you know) needs an emergency imagination unclogging, what one thing could you do RIGHT NOW to get it flowing again?

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Creative Inspiration From Stephen Sondheim

In the past I’ve written about my love of shows like Man of La Mancha and Les Miserables. Actually, I’m a fan of ALL types of theatre, but one man consistently rises to the top for me in the musical theatre genre: composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim.

For years he’s been on the cutting edge. Just consider his body of work: West Side Story, Company, Gypsy, Follies, Sunday in the Park with George, Sweeney Todd, Into the Woods, Pacific Overtures (and that’s certainly not all of it). Invariably, his words and music cleverly pull me into some new insight about life that I wasn’t expecting.

So it was with much anticipation that I sat down in a full-to-the-brim auditorium on Saturday night to hear Sondheim, near-80, reminisce about his journey from there to here.

The stage was bare except for two chairs and a small table with glasses and a water pitcher. Simple. Add a spotlight and the interview skills of Peter Stein, and it made for a lovely talk.

Although some of Sondheim’s stories were familiar, it was fun to hear him tell them in person. And as I settled in I realized the evening was shaping up to be agreeable but not particularly riveting. Until about the halfway point, that is, when I found myself sitting up a little straighter.

Sondheim started riffing about his approach to creative work. To make his point, he mentioned a book by Isaiah Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox. In it Berlin proposed there are two types of creatives: hedgehogs, who burrow deep into a creative idea and revisit it again and again, and foxes, who sniff around among many different ideas and continually experiment with new forms and processes.

The curious fox, noted Sondheim, is without a doubt his alter ego, bounding from one creative burst to another.

How well I understood! And as neat as it was to discover a kindred spirit in Sondheim, I also recognized that my curious creative fox often leads me down a path toward overwhelm. There are simply too many goodies to explore in the forest. Too many delicious nooks and crannies. And I easily get lost in them.

Just then it occurred to me that Sondheim certainly doesn’t appear to face this challenge. So how, I wondered, does he allow the fox to roam but still get the work done?

In the next moments he told us, and I was struck by the brilliance of his method: once he chooses a project, he erects a substantial structure around it, with limits and restrictions. He elaborated:

It doesn’t make sense to people, it seems paradoxical, but it’s actually the constraints that lead to creative freedom.

Aha! I had one of those flashes of understanding. He forces a choice (yes, I’ve got to get better at that), and then allows the fox to meander, but only up to the fence line. And it is within this confined space that his creativity soars.

I’m entranced by this notion today. And eager to hear from you about it:

• As far as your creativity goes, are you a digging hedgehog or a roaming fox?
• What’s your mode of creativity: unrestrained or within boundaries?
• What would it look like if you approached your creative work with Sondheim’s method?

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