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Redefining Ordinary

Jan 14, 2019 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

The desire, temptation, and lure to live an extraordinary life is strong; to figure out our “one thing;” to do, create, be, achieve, rise up, astonish, accomplish, shine.

It’s exhausting, really.

And it’s a relatively new phenomenon. Far before pressing existential (and advertising-inducing) questions like “what is my life’s purpose,” everyday choices were shaped by survival and perseverance, seasons and hours, shelter and sustenance, tribe and family.

Ordinary life took precedence. And somehow, in the midst of such, extraordinary lives were lived.

A few examples from my lineage of stories:

  • Hagar: a slave who was forced to bear the child of her master and then banished to the desert with her young son, Ishmael – the eventual patriarch of Islam.
  • Ruth: a too-young widow who took care of a bitter mother-in-law. Hungry, she stole gathered wheat left behind by the harvesters. Eventually found out by the wealthy owner of that land, he married her. Their great-grandson was King David.
  • Mary: an engaged girl trying to make sense of an unexpected pregnancy became the mother of Jesus.

Their stories (and so many more) are of ordinary life lived. Like us, they were wives and mothers, daughters and cousins, sisters and friends. They knew desire and choice, tears and trauma. They birthed and nurtured, fed and cleaned. They spoke and sang, laughed and loved. They were fertile and barren, healthy and ill, strong and less-than, brave and afraid, named and unnamed. They lived ordinary lives that changed the entire world.

What if we redefined “ordinary”?

Parenting. Paying bills. Grocery shopping. Brewing coffee. Fixing meals. Cleaning. Driving. Writing. Working. Having conversations. Drinking wine. Sleeping. Waking. Laughing. Grieving. Being alone. Being together. Living life.

Maybe it’s only me, but I still feel the incessant and insipid pressure to do more, be more, achieve more, accomplish more.

Those internal and external messages have the wily ability to take front-and-center stage in my mind and heart. And when that happens, all the day-to-day aspects of my life get shoved into the shadows; the ordinary becomes drudgery in the illusive pursuit of the extraordinary.

BUT THAT’S NOT HOW IT (actually) WORKS!

It is in living an ordinary life that we are profoundly extraordinary. Not because we are trying. Not because we are striving. But because we are surviving and persevering, even thriving – day-in, day-out. Good and bad. Easy and hard. Joyful and excruciating. Wins and losses. Gifts and hassles. People and places. Normal, everyday stuff.

Our choice to be ordinary, to simply be awake and present to what is happening around us, is what enables an extraordinary life.

Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.

If, in the mix of all that we write a book, or stand on a stage, or build a successful business, or raise an amazing family, or keep a marriage together, or leave one entirely, or (you fill in the blank), it will only be because we have – in obvious and ordinary ways – taken the next step, done the next thing, walked through the next door, lived through the next day. NOT because we have pushed and prodded and persuaded ourselves to be more amazing and incredible than we already are.

Follow the lead of Hagar and Ruth and Mary. They did not spend one moment trying to figure out how to be amazing and larger-than-life and phenomenal and extraordinary. They lived ordinary lives – focused on what mattered most, on the things about which they could not remain silent, on the work they could not not do.

Believe that you are enough…and not too much. And then live your ordinary life. That is extraordinary.

So are you.

May it be so.

Easter 2017

Apr 16, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I will not be attending Easter services today.

I will not witness the rows of shiny, white patent-leather shoes, frilly dresses, and uncomfortable neckties. I will not gasp when the black shroud is dramatically pulled down from the cross. I will not hear the Hallelujah Chorus. I will not see the lilies.

I will drink coffee. I will reflect. I will probably write. I will enjoy the Mason jars filled with orange tulips on my kitchen table. And later, I will decorate Easter eggs with my daughters. I might even open a bottle of champagne.

I’ve been pondering all of this; what it means and feels like to be disconnected from this Sunday’s tradition, but still umbilically tied to its rituals, its in-my-DNA tug and influence. I’ve pondered even more of how Easter is not exclusive to the church; how if it offers meaning, if it matters, then its value remains and must be made known in ways that are rich and relevant for me.

And oh, how rich and relevant it’s been.This whole week, has been rife with symbol and sign (as all weeks are, really). This Holy Week (as all weeks are, really) has called me to story; to death and darkness, to sadness and loss, to questions without answers, to a can’t-see-how-it’s-gonna-happen-but-still-I’m-gonna-trust kind of hope, to perseverance, to risk, to courage, to voice, to confidence, to places and people who call me to more. This whole and holy week has called me to life; to my life.

And isn’t this, above and beyond all else, what Easter is about – church, religion, or no?

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” asked Jesus when he encountered Mary in the graveyard. Indeed.

My holy and whole life (and yours) is to be found and experienced where life dwells: in deep breaths and coursing blood, in muscle and bone, in earth and water, in conversation and silence, in laughter and tears, in  friends and foes, in facing fears and choosing love, in the sacred stuff of every day.

So breathe in and rise up. A new day dawns. Light gleams. Stones move. The earth quakes. Buried, silenced, and shrouded ends. Tombs are emptied. Veils are torn. Angels appear. Graveclothes are shed. Death does not have the final say. Song breaks forth. Miracles occur. And resurrection always comes.

[I first wrote this post for Easter of 2014. That’s astonishing to me. Seems just as, if not more relevant today.]

Living an Ordinary Life

Aug 17, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

The desire, temptation, and lure to live an extraordinary life is strong; to figure out our “one thing;” to do – create – be – achieve – rise up – astonish – accomplish – shine.

It’s exhausting, really.

And it’s a relatively new phenomenon. Far before pressing existential questions like “what is my life’s purpose,” everyday choices were shaped by survival and perseverance, seasons and hours, shelter and sustenance, tribe and family. Ordinary life took precedence. And somehow, in the midst of such, extraordinary lives were lived.

A few examples from my lineage of stories:

  • Hagar: a slave who was forced to bear the child of her master and then banished to the desert with her young son, Ishmael – the eventual patriarch of Islam.
  • Ruth: a too-young widow who took care of a bitter mother-in-law. Hungry, she stole
    gathered wheat left behind by the harvesters. Eventually found out by the wealthy owner of that land, he married her. Their great-grandson was King David.
  • Mary: an engaged girl trying to make sense of an unexpected pregnancy became the
    mother of Jesus.

Their stories (and so many more) are of ordinary life lived. Like us, they were wives and mothers, daughters and cousins, sisters and friends. They knew desire and choice, tears and trauma. They birthed and nurtured, fed and cleaned. They spoke and sang, laughed and loved. They were fertile and barren, healthy and ill, strong and less-than, brave and afraid, named and unnamed. Ordinary lives that changed the entire world.

Lately, I have been fixated on the idea of living an ordinary life.

Parenting. Paying bills. Grocery shopping. Brewing coffee. Fixing meals. Cleaning. Driving. Writing. Working. Having conversations. Drinking wine. Sleeping. Waking. Laughing. Grieving. Being alone. Being together. Living life.

Still, underneath and throughout it all, I feel the incessant and insipid pressure to do more, be more, achieve more, accomplish more. Those internal and external messages have the wily ability to take front-and-center stage in my mind and heart. And when that happens, all the day-to-day aspects of my life get shoved into the shadows; the ordinary becomes drudgery in the illusive pursuit of the extraordinary.

BUT THAT’S NOT HOW IT (actually) WORKS!

It is in living an ordinary life that we are (actually) extraordinary. Not because we are trying. Not because we are striving. But because we are surviving and persevering – day-in, day-out. Good and bad. Easy and hard. Joyful and excruciating. Wins and losses. Gifts and hassles. People and places. Normal, everyday stuff.

Our choice to be ordinary, to simply be awake and present to what is happening around us, is what enables an extraordinary life. Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.

If, in the mix of all that we write a book, or stand on a stage, or build a successful business (and maybe all three!), it will only be because we have – in obvious and ordinary ways – taken the next step, done the next thing, walked through the next door, lived through the next day. NOT because we have pushed and prodded and persuaded ourselves to be more
amazing and incredible than we already are.

Follow the lead of Hagar and Ruth and Mary. Of Louisa May Alcott and Sojourner Truth and Audre Lorde. Of Golda Meir and Mother Teresa and ___________ (fill in the blank of your favorite extraordinary woman). They did not spend one moment trying to figure out how to be amazing and larger-than-life and phenomenal and extraordinary. They lived ordinary lives – one day at a time – focused on what mattered most, on the things about which they could not remain silent, on the work they could not not do.

Believe that you are enough…and not too much. And then just live your ordinary life. That is extraordinary. And so are you – already!

May it be so.

 

[A version of this post appeared on my blog just over 3 years ago. It feels just as true today…]

Get Out of that Kitchen!

Dec 15, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

There is an ancient sacred story told of two sisters – Mary and Martha. It goes as follows:

As Jesus and the disciples continued on their way to Jerusalem, they came to a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. Her sister, Mary, sat at Jesus’ feet, listening to what he taught. But Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing. She came to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me.” But Jesus said to her, “My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.”

I can hear Martha’s voice yet today and now, speaking directly to me – maybe even to you.

“So desperately I wanted to sit and listen at Wisdom’s feet as she did; to play and dance and dream. Everything in me wanted to run free and speak up and laugh endlessly. My very cells were shouting. My body was all but moving. And I knew that if I let go, I would propel myself forward with force beyond imagining. But I held back. Worse, I critiqued her.

“You know this scene, don’t you? Like me, you’re standing in the kitchen, seeing all the “work” that needs to be done, and keeping yourself from all that you long for, the person you most want to be.

“You hear the same voice, don’t you? ‘Dear Martha, you are worried about many things. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.’”

“No shame. No scolding. Just invitation. Listen:

“Dear One, you are worried about many things. Choose the better part and it will not be taken from you.”

The better part. Playing. Dancing. Dreaming. Reflecting. Listening. Sitting at the feet of Wisdom.

The better part. Loving yourself. Seeing your beauty. Writing with abandon. Loving with passion. Letting effort go. Letting tasks go. Letting fear go. Letting restraint go. Letting decorum go. And going forth. From the kitchen and into your world. From the trap of responsibility and must-do’s and duty to a place of freedom and creativity and love.

The better part. Not a call to obedience or doctrinal adherence. No, this is a call to trust a Wisdom that is older than time. This is a call to trusting your wisdom, your knowing, yourself.

The better part. It will not be taken from you.

“Get out of that kitchen. It is not the place you are destined to stay.”

May it be so for me – and maybe even for you.

The perfect way to stop a woman.

Oct 18, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

“I’ve seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write…. and you know it’s a funny thing about house cleaning… it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola
Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

“Perfect way to stop a woman.”

Ouch.

For me, this is not about the cleaning. It’s about the metaphor: all the things that keep me from doing what I say I most want to do. All the seemingly important tasks that clamor for my attention. All the distractions. More to the point: all the inhibitions and insecurities that crowd and clamor and consume.

I’m not naive, nor am I an idealist. There are things that need to be done. Responsibilities that beckon. Important work that is required. But for me, those tasks, burdens, and endless lists tend to become excuses, delays, even weirdly-grateful-for hindrances that keep me from the better part.

There’s an old, old story told of two sisters. One day a renowned Teacher graced their home. One of the sisters sat contentedly at his feet while the other scurried about in the kitchen – managing the critical details of hospitality. Eventually the sister in the kitchen complained. “Don’t you care that she has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The Teacher said to her: “Dear woman, you are worried about many things. Your sister has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Ouch!

A few examples of my own stuck-in-the-kitchen reality?

  • I must be losing subscribers because they don’t quite understand me. I should re-tool my “About” page.
  • My social media strategy needs attention, time, and work. Surely, that will help me turn the corner.
  • I need to create some kind of passive revenue stream; something that would be a fail-safe income generator so I can focus on my real writing.
  • Maybe I should craft this blog post in a way that allows everyone to resonate instead of just some. Yes, that seems wise.

This is only the tip of my iceberg. Each of these – and so many more – keep me “in the kitchen” and busy with details that matter on some level, to be sure, but that deflect me from my true desire, true calling, the better part. I grouse about the way things seem to be for everyone else. And I justify lack of movement, avoidance of risk, aversion to exposure, uncertainty, insecurity, and fear. How convenient. How neat and tidy.

The better part. What is that exactly?

  • Doing the hard(er) work of putting myself out there, others’ opinions (and my own self-critic’s) silenced.
  • Trusting that I actually know.
  • Not giving one more thought to “perfect clients” or platform or market share or SEO-optimization.
  • Letting people in, no matter how messy my kitchen, my mind, my heart, my world.
  • Writing, saying, being in ways that might probably go against the grain, but that feel so true, so right, so real, so me.

The better part, the better choice, the only choice, really, is to allow for and invite the messiness, the risk, the passion, the unbridled creativity, the unrestrained voice, the rampant imperfection. The better part is to listen to wisdom within and without. To stop fussing and laboring and yes, cleaning. To come out of the kitchen and sit, stand, and stay in places of meaning and beauty.

The better part is to not be stopped at all, ever, by anything.

Perfect!

May it be so. 

[Deep appreciation to Martha and her story for connecting me to my own. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need
and so love.]