About South Stars

Feb 10, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I was talking with a client a few weeks back who can honestly and confidently state that she is strong and powerful and capable and competent. She’s 100% right about this!

Still, she is dealing with some things that have her feeling weak and wobbly and incapable and incompetent. She knows better AND she feels what she feels. It’s a conundrum, a paradox, a truth, a lie. And much like me, this has her spiraling a bit, feeling bad, berating herself, acknowledging her own ridiculous shame spiral.

I could attempt to talk her out of what she’s feeling. I could tell her what we’ve all heard a gazillion times: talk to yourself like you would someone you love. I could encourage her to see that she’s being overly critical, that self-compassion is deserved. (And of course, I could do all of this with and for myself, as well.)

Here’s the thing:

Our doubts and insecurities, our wounds and seen-patterns, even the negative thoughts that are completely contradictory to who we KNOW ourselves to be, are very, VERY good news! They point us to what matters, to what we care about most, to what we know-that-we-know-that-we-know.

IT’S OUR VERY FRUSTRATION THAT SERVES AS A COMPASS, A FORM OF DISCERNMENT, A MARKER OF TRUTH.

When my client tells me she feels weak and wobbly and incapable and incompetent, these very pains and irritants serve as irrefutable evidence of what matters to her, what she cares about most, and what she most definitely knows is true about her.

It’s uncomfortable to feel and name the contradiction, but it serves as a generous reminder of what is more true.

  • If we don’t allow for the fact that we feel heartbroken and hopeless, we won’t see that compassion and hope are, in fact, qualities and characteristics that we hold dear and do, in fact, have…in spades.
  • If we don’t allow for the fact that we feel lonely, we won’t recognize just how much we value relationship…and that we are more-than worthy of such, no compromising or compliance allowed.
  • If we don’t allow for the fact that we care about how we are perceived by our co-workers, our boss, our kids, our significant other, then we won’t see (sometimes with excruciating clarity) that we must speak our mind, stand up for ourselves, and unswervingly value all that we offer and bring.

Our most uncomfortable feelings are often profound gift and grace.

*****

I once heard someone explain the idea of a “south star.”

We know what a north star is: a concept, belief, or inherent truth by which we set our course, that keeps us focused, that points us in the right direction. A south star is just as powerful. It shows us where NOT to go and what is NOT true.

  1. What are your south stars?
  2. Think about some recent situation in which your internal response was almost immediate self-contempt or irritation.
  3. Write out what you felt, the self-talk that poured forth.
  4. Now, for each of those things you just wrote down, name their exact opposite. An example: I am so lazy. It’s opposite: Intentional. Contributing. Present.
  5. So, “lazy” is the south star that points you toward and reminds you that, in fact, what matters to you is being intentional, making a contribution, being fully present. And I’d be willing to bet that you already ARE all these things!

Worth stating again:

Our doubts and insecurities, our wounds and seen-patterns, even the negative thoughts that are completely contradictory to who we KNOW ourselves to be, are actually very, VERY good news!

They point us to what matters, to what we care about most, to what we know-that-we-know-that-we-know.

*****

As my client talked to me about feeling the opposite of who she knows herself to be, she was able to use those emotions to name the exact conditions that often lead her down that path. She could see how those circumstances a) almost always bring about the same result, and b) are actually possible to avoid and eliminate. Honestly naming what she felt (her south star), even though hard, guided her back to remembering who she truly is.

I hope the same for you!

As caveat, let me say that not every painful or frustrating emotion can be *simply* converted into a south star that leaves us feeling better about ourselves. I do not mean to paint some kind of patina over the hard and excruciating things that happen in our lives. And believe me, though I am a profoundly hopeful person, I am not one who looks for the bright side or seeks out silver linings.

I am, however, a woman who believes deeply in the wisdom inherent in every emotion we have — admitted, expressed, or held tenderly within. Sometimes they are south stars. And sometimes they are veritable craters into which we fall. Either way (and everything in between), I am committed to allowing them in myself and others, to giving them ample and generous spaciousness and grace, to trusting that they will not overwhelm, but will, eventually and at last, walk us home to ourselves.

May it be so.

*****

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About the Ocean and Anguish

Aug 12, 2022 | Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I’ve spent a lot of time at the beach lately. As soon as we arrive, my 9-year-old niece Grace, runs to the water, her dad not far behind. And there she stays — for hours — letting the waves carry her or crash into her; she doesn’t care which. All she wants is to be as “in them” as much as she possibly can.

Me? Not so much. I’m more of a shore girl. I position my reclining chair just so — making sure I directly face the sun. I rummage through the huge bag I’ve brought with me for a towel, sunglasses, my Diet Coke, and maybe (sometimes) the sunscreen. It’s hot and I’m restless. I get out my phone, but the glare of the sun is too bright to read the screen. I dig for the book I brought, but then decide that the white pages are going to hurt my eyes. So I watch Grace — out there in the water — while I try and sit still in the sand. 

I wonder about this: the chosen “safety” of the shore, the restlessness that sometimes overwhelms, the seeming-inability to just be, to let the waves carry me or crash into me, to let myself feel all of it. (I’m not talking about the water or the beach anymore; rather, about emotions.)

This business of “being” with our emotions — whether they carry us, crash into us, or both — is hard. 

Life is hard! And right now? When everything feels out of control, when bad stuff happens to good people, when wars persist, when Supreme Court rulings are overturned, when school shootings occur yet again, when the NRA meets anyway, when the most paid-attention to news is about a celebrity…it is WAY easier to think about all of these things than to feel them. 

Our emotions are overwhelming. Too much, even. We don’t know what to do with all that we feel, so not feeling seems a better and maybe even safer/saner alternative. It’s like picking the beach chair over the waves. Slightly more stable. A bit easier to control. A known entity.

Still, those waves, the power of the ocean, being small in something so very big, letting go…It pulls at me sometimes. Like the tide.

When I first began working with a therapist, it wasn’t long before he asked, “When do you grieve, Ronna? How do you rage?” (Notice: not “if,” but when and how!)

“I don’t.” 

“But so much of what you’re telling me deserves those emotions, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know how to do that. And I’m afraid that if I start, I’ll never stop. The people in my world cannot handle me falling apart. I would be way too much.”

Over time (and with extreme patience), he began to suggest ways to let go of those set-in-stone beliefs, let go of my tight grip on NOT letting myself feel. It felt incredibly dangerous, tenuous, like a tidal wave about to crest, certain havoc. But I trusted him and tried. It was hard. It was scary. And shockingly, the world did not come screeching to a halt, nor did anyone drown (both of which I was certain would occur).

These days, things are incredibly dangerous, tenuous, like a tidal wave about to crest — barreling down on us. How are we to take it all in? What are we to do? What can we do, really? It all feels so hopeless. And we feel so helpless. 

In Atlas of the Heart, Brené Brown describes this as anguish. (It’s a long quote, but well worth reading.)

“Anguish is an almost unbearable and traumatic swirl of shock, incredulity, grief, and powerlessness…The element of powerlessness is what makes anguish traumatic. We are unable to change, reverse, or negotiate what has happened. And even in those situations where we can temporarily reroute anguish with to-do lists and tasks, it finds its way back to us. 

“…we can convince ourselves that we’re okay and keep ourselves upright by hanging our crumpling anguish on rigidity and perfectionism and silence, like a wet towel hanging on a rod. We can become closed off, never open to vulnerability and its gifts, and barely existing because anything at any moment could threaten that fragile, rigid scaffolding that’s holding up our crumpling selves and keeping us standing.” 

As I read her words for the umpteenth time, I think that maybe, sometimes, it’s OK to let the scaffolding fall, to step into the waves and let them carry us and crash into us. It’s OK, even critical and healing and transformative, especially during these times, to let ourselves grieve and rage, to feel everything.

May it be so. 

I Feel, Therefore I Am

Feb 22, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

In both college and graduate school I took classes in which the work of Rene Descartes was discussed – the “Father of Modern Philosophy” best known for his statement, “I think, therefore I am.” And though I’d hardly pin all responsibility directly on him, this emphasis on thinking, at least as superior to feeling, has gotten us into trouble.

What if we understood and believed this, instead? “I feel, therefore I am.”

Without going too deep into the history of philosophy, Descartes larger work was in response to the Scholastic Aristotelian tradition of his time; one that was, at least from his perspective, prone to doubt given a reliance on sensation as the source for all knowledge. He wanted and created certainty; irrefutable and almost mechanistic ways of understanding ourselves, God, and the larger, existential questions of life. And though I’m hardly advocating a return to the world of Aristotle, still…

What if sensation and our hearts were understood, undeniably, to be the source of all knowledge? NOT our thoughts?

*****

I had a long, tearful conversation with my eldest daughter a week or so ago. We were watching the end of Season 2 of Downton Abbey when one of the main characters died of preeclampsia. She cried and cried and cried. As she began to breathe a little slower and feel a bit more calm, I said “It’s not really about the show, is it Emma?”

“No, mom. It’s not.”

“What’s it about?”

“I just don’t like it when good people die.”

“Of course you don’t, sweet girl.”

Her head in my lap, our conversation continued. In the midst, I heard a 16-year old girl struggling with the recent death of her aunt, with a haunting sadness over strained relationships with friends, with an ever-waxing-and-waning sense of self worth, with a deep-and-angry awareness of life as unfair. But I also heard the incessant hiss of an inner voice; one that was giving her a good talking-to: “I’m too emotional. I feel out of control. I’m not OK. My feelings are too much.”

*****

Every now and then I hear the word, “think” and am immediately transported to my own teenage years. I can remember my dad saying, “Think, Ronna Jo!” and it’s palpable. I cringe internally, just the slightest bit. I feel edgy and insecure. Sometimes a lump even forms in my throat. All over one little word. He was, undoubtedly, trying to teach me something or get my help with a particular task and, like all parents are wont to do, would get impatient. Truth-be-told, I’ve heard myself say the same words to my girls a time or two. And I cringe yet again . . . 

I wonder what it would have been like to hear him say, “Feel, Ronna Jo!” Will I offer the same to my daughters?

*****

These, whether blatant or not, are the predominant truths we’ve learned, internalized, and lived by:

  • Think instead of feel.
  • Trust thoughts over feelings.
  • Thoughts = logical. Feelings = illogical.
  • Thoughts are safe and feelings are dangerous.
  • “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9)

Yes, I am aware that nothing is either/or, black/white. But as a parent, as a woman, as a human being, I wonder: What if feelings were allowed, given room and air to breathe, were seen as guide and source of wisdom, and even took the lead? Would our thoughts then stop fighting us and fall in line behind our hearts?

In my own experience, it is an endless wrestling match. The rational part of my brain tells me what I should think and even what I should feel – objectively, logically, even obviously; but my heart will not comply. And sadly, too many times, the way I’ve “managed” this and let my thoughts win is to shut the feelings down.

Even typing that last sentence makes me want to weep, scream, and shout; to stand on a soapbox or a mountainside and call all Feeling-Beings to me, assuring them that what they feel is good, that what they feel can be trusted, that what they feel is the source of a wisdom-before-the-dawn-of time.

There’s no shutting feelings down – mine or yours. They are a strong, dauntless, and beautiful force-to-be-reckoned with (thank goodness). They wait, often in the shadows, and catch us unaware – sometimes when we hear a particular word or watch a TV show (last night: the heartbreaking end to Season 3). But no matter what prompts them or from whence they arise, I am learning to let them speak to me. “I see you. I hear you. I feel you. You will not be hidden. You will not be silenced. You will not be ignored. You are welcome here. You are honored. You are true. What do you long for me to know? What do you long for me to understand? And what do you long for me to allow or receive?”

The case could probably be made that much of this is inherent in gender; that women struggle with this duality in unique and potent ways, far more than men. And of course, to some degree that would be true. But I think feel that men have their own pain around all of this – enculturated to not express their feelings; to build, develop, and trust their thoughts; to distrust their emotions and their heart. All of us are less for such – as is our world.

I’ve been asking myself a particular question for days: “What do I know, with certainty, right now?” And as I ponder the words, the scenes, the list itself, I recognize one common thread: where even momentary certainty resides, my head and my heart are aligned. More, please.

So I take a deep breath. I sit a while longer with my daughter(s). I enter back into the fray of my own anxieties and heartaches. I laugh. I remember. I cry. I hope. I pray. I doubt. I love. I hurt. I wonder. I worry. I trust. I drink champagne. And I give myself permission to feel, to feel, to feel.

This I know, with certainty, right now: My thoughts are in service to my feelings; my head is in service to my heart. Not the other way around.

I feel, therefore I am.

Yes, this.