Living from a Softer Place

Mar 16, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

For as grateful (and amazed) as I am that I’ve completed my book, it is an incredibly odd thing to place it in someone else’s hands, to know it is no longer in my own. I’ve been writing its words and pages and stories in some way, shape, or form for nearly two decades and so, without it, I feel a bit wobbly, out-of-sorts, and slightly disconnected from myself.

I am rhetorically and repeatedly asking what I’ll do next, what I’ll create, what writing will yet be mine.

No answers come.

It’s not only about the writing. It’s also about time. What do I do now? What do I not do now? How do I fill up the empty space? And with what?

Still no answers—at least not any that are immensely helpful, generous, or grace-filled.

And so, as one does, I turn to Google.

I thought about asking “what to do with extra time” or “how to manage a slightly existential crisis” but both of those felt just a tish too broad. Instead, I asked, “what to write when you don’t know what to write.” There are lots of helpful tips and techniques to be found but none were quite what I wanted to hear. So, I looked at the books on my shelf, thinking maybe something would inspire me. Nope. Then I got out a deck of cards I’ve had for a long time, but rarely use: Writing Down the Bones Deck: 60 Cards to Free the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. I thumbed through the first ten or so, and came across this one:

” . . . there’s nothing you feel like writing about. Don’t pop up or pull a different card. Sit there for ten minutes, feeling your breath. Allow everything to be as it is. Just now I’m asking you to be.”

Hmmmm.

On the back of the card, she says this:

“Now write what you can accept with no judgment, no criticism . . . What else can you accept? The more we accept what’s around us, the more we can accept what’s in us and what comes out on the page. Let’s face it, we are all a little odd, maybe demented. From another angle, delightful. For our ten minutes of just sitting, we can put our arms around it all and write from a softer place.”

We can put our arms around it all and LIVE from a softer place. 

That sounds lovely, doesn’t it? To live from a softer place.

If you’re at all like me, you are immediately looking for the how-to manual. Apparently, Natalie Goldberg anticipated this:

  • accept what’s around you
  • accept what’s in you
  • no judgement, no criticism

Deep breath.

I have a hunch that were I able and willing to do this—accept, accept, accept—my writing, creativity, time, and life itself would, indeed, be softer. 

This is what I want.

*****

There’s an ancient, sacred story told of two sisters. One was busy with all the details connected to hospitality: cooking, cleaning, serving. The other sat at the feet of their guest and soaked up everything he had to say.

The striving one complained, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”

Their guest responded, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

There’s plenty I chafe at in this story. But at least in this moment, I’m accepting the wisdom it offers: to live from a softer place is the better choice.

The better choice—and—in my lived-experience, the harder choice.

It is easy for me to stay busy. I know how to work hard. I am actually quite comfortable with efforting and striving, thank you very much. *sigh* What is not easy, what I do not know how to do, at least as well, is to let go, to wander, to wonder, to sit still, to accept what is, to be.

It strikes me that my first step is accepting even this. Allowing it to be as it is, me to be as I am. Putting my arms around it all. Taking another deep breath. Letting these ambivalent places between work and rest, striving and ease, knowing and unknowing, even writing and not writing, be a softer place to land . . . and live.

How about for you?

Whether you are a writer, or not, it is well worth your while to spend some time with pen and paper (or, like me, keyboard and screen) and these questions. No urgency. No wrong answers. Allowing. Embracing. Soft, remember?

  • When you look at your circumstances, your surroundings, your relationships, your work, your world, what is yours to accept? Not accede to, but name honestly with deep breaths and no stiving.
  • Where, when, and with whom do you notice your tendency to strive, to effort, to push, to labor? What if you didn’t, even for a time?
  • What yet longs to be accepted within you? How can you put your arms around it all?
  • What would happen if you let go of judgment and criticism? How would you feel? What would change?
  • If there were a softer place to land and softer way to live, what can you imagine that would look and feel like in the most specific of ways?

And for us?

Imagine a world that is not endlessly embroiled in arguments, political tension, and seemingly constant fights over gun-violence and abortion rights and same-sex marriage and racism and ableism and sexism so much more. Acceptance does not mean we look the other way where injustice is concerned; rather, it means we see and name it for what it is. We respond from a place that is clear, succinct, and even devoid of judgment and criticism. It means we are compelled by courage, desire, and hope. And collectively, that would create a softer place for us to live—together.

Deep breath.

May it be so.

Letting go of what no longer serves

Jan 20, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Sovereignty, Women's Wisdom

A few weeks back I posted a quote from Adam Grant’s book, Think Again on IG and FB:

“. . . let go of the knowledge and opinions that are no longer serving you well . . . “

Let’s start with three questions:

  • What are some of the things you learned (often like the back of your hand) that are still present in your mind and heart but really don’t “fit” anymore?
  • What are some of the opinions you inherited and imbibed from your family of origin, from the culture, and about yourself, that sit within you unchecked and undisputed?
  • What are the precepts, doctrines, even rules you took in (and took on) over the years that, when you look closely, are things you don’t actually believe or follow anymore?

Until we honestly name the knowledge, opinions, and beliefs that have shaped us, we can’t hope to let them go. Four personal examples (of many) that I grew up with:

#1:
Knowledge: a clean house is imperative.
Opinion: anything less is unacceptable.
Belief: my worth is connected to, even measured by, not being messy (yes, in my home and other spaces; but more, in life).

#2:
Knowledge: vote “yes” for any and all tax increases.
Opinion: not voting “yes” for tax increases is ignorant and wrong.
Belief: intelligent people vote the same way as me.

#3:
Knowledge: thin is healthy and desirable.
Opinion: not thin is lazy and irresponsible.
Belief: my weight determines the quality of my character (and others’)

#4:
Knowledge: attending church every Sunday is the right thing to do.
Opinion: goodness is equated with discipline and devotion.
Belief: my value (and eternal security) is based on my obedience.

*sigh*

So, if I do not name these specific things — the knowledge, opinions, and beliefs that have shaped me — it is dangerously easy to wander through life believing that:

  • my worth is connected to perfection
  • people who aren’t like me are stupid
  • if I’m not thin, I’m not a good person
  • unless I’m devout and faithful, I’m doomed

But when I do name them, I can see them for what they are and intentionally let them go.

  • my worth is a given, no matter what
  • difference is respected
  • my weight has nothing to do with anything
  • my value is intact and inherent; religion has nothing to do with it

I already know these four things, of course. Over time and in so many ways I have “let go of the knowledge and opinions that are no longer serving [me] well.” Still, to see them in black and white — where they came from, how they were reinforced and interpreted, and then intentionally releasing myself from their grip? Mmmmm. Good stuff!

Then there’s this: I can reverse-engineer this same process to discern and affirm the knowledge, opinions, and beliefs that I WANT to hold onto, even develop and deepen:

  • What is the belief that I want to hold?
  • What opinions / thoughts would support that belief?
  • What knowledge would support that opinion and thought; what can I learn?

[For the record: I grew up with lots of knowledge, opinions, and beliefs that I still value and cherish. I’ve chose some very obvious and overly-blatant examples here in order to make my point.]

Let me add a final example by way of a story:

I believed in my heart-of-hearts that divorce was NOT the right thing to do. I had a whole truckload, a whole lifetime, of opinions and “knowledge” to back that up. So, when I found myself in the hardest seasons of my marriage, I could not let go of that belief. I argued with myself (and others) from every angle, trying to see a way clear, a way through, a way out, but because that belief was so deeply entrenched, I stayed cemented in place for a very, very, very long time.

I was unable to let go of the knowledge, opinions, and beliefs that were no longer serving me because I didn’t ever consider the possibility that I could! Was such a thing even allowed? They felt like they were in my DNA, in my bloodstream, part and parcel with who I was.

I remember waking up early one morning to a thought that had never crossed my mind:

Maybe, just maybe, my value and worth were not defined by me-as-couple. Maybe, just maybe I was of value and worth because I was me, period.

I know! This sounds so obvious when I type it out. But I’m telling you: it was a radical idea for me, given the knowledge, opinions, and beliefs I’d grown up with.

To consider the possibility that I could change my mind, change my beliefs, and let go of those that were no longer serving me felt radical and shocking. But once this new thought had taken root, I could clearly see what was NOT serving me. I couldn’t not see! And it wasn’t too much of a leap from there to consider that maybe, just maybe, divorce wasn’t right or wrong at all. Maybe, just maybe, it was a way to honor myself and even my husband (though he wasn’t quite as convinced of this) because I would be honest, in-integrity, and whole.

When I let go of that belief, I was finally able to hold onto myself. I have so many stories like this one, so many experiences of becoming aware of a belief that was so deeply embedded and reinforced that it didn’t occur to me (until it did) that a) it was definitely not serving me; and b) I could actually let it go.

I’ve listened to thousands of stories from women over the years and witnessed the same: seemingly poured-in-concrete beliefs (often about self) that, once exposed, can be released — allowing for freedom, strength, and sovereignty. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I wonder what stories have come to mind for you today. I wonder what knowledge, opinions, and beliefs you hold that no longer serve. I wonder what you might let go of in order to hold onto yourself. And I hope that you will do just that.

May it be so.

If my writing resonates, I’d be honored if you’d subscribe to A Sunday Letter. A long-form email every week, from my heart to yours. Learn more.

Three Illusions Worth Shattering

Jan 13, 2023 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Wisdom

I received an email from one of my current book coaching clients a few weeks back that included an attachment with words by poet, David Whyte. It more-than captivated and provoked me.

Whyte speaks to three illusions that keep us from fully inhabiting the pilgrimage that is our life, that keep us from living fully.

  • The first illusion is that I can somehow construct a life in which I am not vulnerable.
  • The second illusion is that I can construct a life in which I will not have my heart broken.
  • The third illusion is that I can somehow plan enough and arrange things that I will be able to see the path to the end right from where I’m standing, right to the horizon.

Let’s begin by acknowledging that David Whyte is right: these three things ARE illusions.

Let’s also acknowledge that despite our awareness of just how obvious these illusions are, we keep trying to outwit them.

We don’t want to be vulnerable. We don’t want to have our heart broken. And we do want to plan and arrange everything so that we can see the end from the beginning.

*sigh*

I could talk about WHY we are so determined to outwit these illusions, but I’m guessing you know the answer(s) as well as I do. Instead, what I’m curious about what it looks like, instead, to acknowledge them as true and thereby, to Whyte’s point, inhabit the pilgrimage of our own life and live fully.

I am vulnerable.

My determination to remain impervious to vulnerability has been one of the biggest sources of pain in my life. In an effort to keep a stiff upper lip, believe that “all things work together for good,” and not let anyone see me as broken or imperfect, I have kept myself from grieving, from acknowledging harm, from extending myself (and others) grace, from believing that I am enough and not too much.

It took me a long time (and lots of therapy) to trust myself enough to be vulnerable. Ironically (and of course) it was giving myself permission to cry, to feel, and to let go that invited a life that finally began to resemble something full, instead of compartmentalized, cold, and exhausting. I was, for one of the first times, whole and present and raw and alive and honest and “real” in my own life.

I still struggle. Years of conditioning are hard to undo. A culture that demands (and promises) happy faces and silver linings is hard to argue with. And the fear of being hurt even more by choosing tenderness, honesty, and openness (translate: vulnerability) remains.

But these days, I far prefer the wisdom and graciousness of vulnerability over the disconnect and weariness I felt in protecting myself from such.

I will have my heart broken.

I have been heartbroken many, many times. Certainly in the context of my marriage (which, in many ways, ended because of my vulnerability), in other significant relationships, and by a world that is more broken than I can bear. I cannot possibly construct a life in which heartbreak is not a thing. Nor would I want to.

Like vulnerability, heartbreak is what tenderizes and softens us. Heartbreak is what invites deep and true wisdom. Heartbreak is what generates resilience and strength. Heartbreak is what makes room for more love (not its absence, which is what we too often fear).

When I look back (which is really the only way to have any perspective whatsoever), I can see that the things, people, and circumstances that have broken my heart have been the very things that thankfully shattered the illusions I was determined to perpetuate: that all was well, that the good would outweigh the bad, that I was too much, that my silence was safer than speaking out…

Heartbreak opens me to what is true, to a life that is full and honest. Not all at once, not once and for all, but heartbreak by heartbreak, over and over again.

I cannot plan and arrange everything (maybe anything at all) in order to see the end from the beginning.

I am a planner. Lists. Pros and cons. Spreadsheets. Goals. Tracking apps on my phone. A countdown calendar. As a “J” in the Myers-Briggs world, I want everything ordered, organized, and nailed down. “A place for everything and everything in its place.” You get the idea (and can imagine what this was like for my girls when they were growing up). So this one? The illusion of thinking I can plan and arrange everything in order to predict and make possible the ending I desire? Aaaaaaugh!

It’s actually the two illusions above — both shattered — that have helped me with this one the most.

Vulnerability has slowed me down, kept me from demanding that everything (and everyone) go to plan, and invited (sometimes forced) me to live my life in a place of unknown, of mystery, of not demanding answers. I’ve learned (with some reluctance) that spreadsheets are not applicable, helpful, or even needed when tears and grief and honest emotion is present.

Heartbreak has been a reminder, time and again, that I’m not in control the way I think I am. No matter my attempts to resist it, to protect myself from it, to pretend in the most brilliant of ways that all is well, it crashes in anyway.

At this point in my life, closer to its end than its beginning (which is a very odd thing to realize and say), I have far fewer ideas or demands about how everything is “supposed” to work out anyway. Most days I am appreciative of this — glad and grateful to loosen my grip on making things happen and planning for every contingency and trying to outwit and out run the unknown.

Deepak Chopra is right: “Most people talk about fear of the unknown, but if there is anything to fear, it is the known.”

And Anne Lamott: “The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.”

It’s a lot to think about. Actually, maybe a better way of naming all of this is to NOT think quite so much and instead let ourselves feel . . . vulnerability, heartbreak, and the reality of the unknown.

May it be so.

 

If my writing resonates, I’d be honored if you’d subscribe to A Sunday Letter. Long-form, from me to you, every week. Learn more.

About Fall, Writing, and Letting Go

Nov 4, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

 

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

Once upon a time and a hundred years ago a woman typed away on a laptop as she sat in a gray chair in the living room of her condo in the city of Tacoma in the state of Washington in the United States of America in the Western hemisphere of the world as she knew it. She typed what you are reading now. And she wondered if anything she could possibly say would have relevance in the future.

Then she began to wonder if anything she had already said, already written, already created had any relevance. “Probably not,” she realized. So she pondered whether any of her labor or struggle or questioning of her work and voice in the world had been or was was worth it.

“For if, after all, 100 years from now, no one recalls or even cares about what I did and said back then, does it matter?”

She realized, even as she asked it, that it was an existential question, one that made her want to pour another glass of wine and think less and watch back-to-back dramas on Netflix. But it was only 10:30 in the morning. Wine and mindless entertainment weren’t timely choices right now. So instead, she sat with the question, mulled it over in her mind, and stared out the window. She saw the sun streaming through the lingering leaves: all browns and yellows now – the green faded and gone. They clung to the branches as long as
they could before fluttering to the ground. She knew they would eventually disappear – raked up into piles and scooped into big black plastic bags and taken to some distant destination for disposal and decay. It all felt related somehow, timely and true.

But the longer she looked at those leaves and thought of their pre-determined demise, she realized that after Winter, Spring would come again and new leaves would grow, that Summer would arrive with green-in-glory, that Fall would return; the cycle repeating itself over and over. And all of this without her effort, without her intention, without a bit of her labor or
concern.

She wondered if maybe, just maybe, the same might be true about her writing, her words, her life.

Maybe all she needed to do was be the leaf,
to allow the sustenance of the roots to be unfurled through her. No effort but that which naturally came forth. No intention but being right here, right now. No labor or concern, but that which turned her face toward the sun, or drank in morning’s dew, or huddled in chill at first frost, or sought shelter in the storm.

Nothing required except to finally loosen her grip and gracefully, willingly, let go.

“Yes,” she thought, “just let go.”

She wondered if in 100 years there would still be leaves and trees and seasons, if there still would be women writing, never mind if they were reading anything she had written or said.

And she realized that she could not, would not let go of this – what mattered most of all:

women’s words still bursting into bloom and thundering forth in greens and reds and oranges, becoming the very substance that fertilizes those that are yet to come.

So she turned back to her laptop and typed some more…

There has always been something beautiful and miraculous about one solitary leaf as it lingers then slowly, finally dances toward the ground. Glimpsed by few, maybe by none, but no less gorgeous, no less significant, no less real or relevant.
~ Ronna Detrick

 

Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf.
~ Albert Schweitzer

Letting Go and Holding On

Jan 4, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Wisdom

Living through years of infertility taught me an invaluable lesson. And truth-be-told, I continue to learn it just as, if not more profoundly as a parent:

Much that happens (or doesn’t) is not in my control.

The strength of my desire does not alter this reality one iota. The endless spinning in my brain to understand the “why” does not change what’s true. My dissociation and/or denial does not mitigate surrender’s incessant demand. But still I fuss and fight! I desire more. I visualize and dream and plot and plan. I think harder. I analyze everything. I labor and strain.

Nothing moves. Nothing changes. At least not in the way I want.

I am required to loosen my grip, to let go.

 

Not of my dreams or desire and never of hope, but of the outcome, the timing, the particulars, my certainty, my dogmatism, my stubborn belief that I am in control.

This is the challenge, yes? To do good work without guarantee of impact (or income). To write without demand of publication (or perfection). To be creative without fear of critique. To love without requirement of its return. To dream and dream and dream without promise of its waking-fulfillment. Yes, this is the challenge…and… it’s also our deepest calling.

We must let go and hold on at the same time. It is the tension between the two that is the nature of our journey, that does – endlessly and always – compel our growth and transformation, that is the incontrovertible evidence of the sacred in our midst.

How else are we to understand our capacity to hope in the midst of despair, to find light in darkness, to get out of bed despite overwhelming grief, to see beauty and hear music and feel wind and drink coffee and eat chocolate and ever, ever laugh? How else are we to explain the fact that we have survived, that our hearts have continued to beat, that still we continue to dream and desire and yes, love?

In admitting that there is much over which we have no control, we do let go. And in letting go we realize that there is much worth holding on to, even more, that we are worth holding onto.

It is in letting go that we are able to hold on to ourselves. And that, amazingly enough, we can control!

May it be so.