Thank you, HRC

Dear Secretary Clinton,

Our society has been long been marked by heroes (female or male) who win a prize, a title, or a competition against another person. In short, heroes are victorious- as a Google search will inform you- because one has defeated an “enemy or opponent in a battle, game, or other competition.”

I am writing to thank you for reminding all of us that victory is not always defeating someone or something. Victory is also inspiration. It is motivation. It is ‘the after.’

In a nation where our attention is quick to focus and even quicker to forget, a true mark of victory is sustainability. Sustainability encompasses inspiration, motivation, and ‘the after.’ It is not a short-lived four years, but rather a lifetime. It is millions of people coming together to promote ideals that never cease to exist- love, hope, and humanity. It is the inspiration to spread love. It is the motivation to provide hope. It is the ability to see humanity in ‘the after.’ These are the victories for which people will invariably strive. These are the victories of heroes.

Let’s face it, no good story has the hero winning right away. There is always a challenge. A struggle. A test of endurance. And so the hero challenges; the hero struggles; the hero endures.

And so the hero emerges. 

Thank you.

Thank you for challenging.

Thank you for struggling.

Thank you for enduring.

The Clothes Make the Man

At work the other week, we were asked to complete our self-evaluations. I sat down to complete my evaluation and realized that I felt like I was walking on a wire. On one side–the way I see myself. On the other side–the way others see me. And although this wire may bisect these two sides, I also realize that there is an intersection- and more likely, there are many intersections- of where these two sides meet. My curiosity, however, lies within the idea about which I often wonder– the juxtaposition between the person we see ourselves as and the person others see us as. Why do many of us see ourselves so differently than others see us?

To this, our lives are often woven with the threads and materials of our liking. Within these threads, patterns materialize and our stories are told. These patterns reveal kindness, mean streaks, creativity, compassion, self-doubt, fearlessness, fearfulness- a tapestry of the soul. It is our ‘self’ which emerges. Through this surfacing of self, we see others. Others see us. We see us.

And yet, even when supplied with the proper material- picking my own threads and weaving my own story- I have faced the reflection of dressing my story incorrectly. Why does the pattern I see reveal a stubborn heart, yet others see me as kind? Why does the pattern I see reveal a free spirit, but to others see a Type-A personality?

I know why our patterns are different to our own eyes. It is not because we see a different reflection. It is that we know ourselves best. We examine these patterns closely. We have seen them at their best and have worn them at their worst. I am sure we are our worst critics, but it is because we have a day-by-day comparison of our best and worst versions. Other people have a glancing overview of the life within-a glance into the house while the curtains are open. It is we, the people on the inside, who know of the dust in the corners, of the month old magazines on the table that haven’t been touched. And this familiarity is what obstructs our view of who we truly are.

   

So next time someone mentions how motivated you are and the pattern you see is procrastination, just remember- we all know the power of a great outfit. I’m willing to try a few on. ;)

Death Defies Her and Defines Her

It is easy for us to treat the future and time as luxuries which we take for granted both individually and simultaneously. This mindset furthers our ability to place them on the shelf of “present, but not requiring attention.” Unfortunately, the future is known to be a feckless delinquent (particularly in the presence of plans), and time is a relentless victor when achieving its mission. Yet many of us continue to interact with both as if one is a concrete, fair player, and the other is ever-available.  

I work in a place where, on a daily basis, both of these luxuries are brought to the forefront of people’s lives, and both reverse roles to become a sine qua non of the present. The future- suddenly a stranger; time- of the personal sense- limited in quantity. Sadly, this is often what it takes for time to become abundant in quality and for the future to be taken advantage of in the present.   

On this note, when time and future are placed in peril, we often see who we truly are. At no small observation- and at no small surprise or wonder- the removal of luxuries often reveals the stark nudity of our own truth- a bare soul sans a shred to hide behind; a life donning its birthday suit. With nothing left to hide behind, we are left only to examine what is patently present. We are left to wash our emotions over the threaded-together-events that form the story of our lives.

I’ve seen people experience this baptismal wash at all ages-from those just a few breaths in, to those thousands of days out. I’ve seen people have to experience it in all forms- from losing a child, to losing a parent, to facing his or her own death. Sometimes it is a lone bathing; other times it is communal. What I’ve seen most, particularly at a hospital where time and future all-too-often don’t play by the rules of life we come to expect, is the beauty that lies within so many of us when we are left with nothing to hide behind. I started this blog with the thought of, “It shouldn’t take the ugliness of death to make us realize the beauty of life and of living.” I’m now left thinking, “Perhaps the beauty of life that death reveals is a reminder of why we live in the first place.”

And with that thought, I am off to go live life. To share it with others, to chase a dream, to find laughter hidden in little places, to reconnect with loved ones…to just live. I encourage you to do the same.

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I have frequently observed that human beings tend to think within two polarized spheres- hot or cold; light or dark; together or apart. We overlook the middle ground. We over look warm; we overlook dusk; we overlook connected.

Since we overlook this middle-ground, many people feel trapped in the unfortunate situation that if you’re not on my side, then you must be on the other. If you’re not right, then you must be wrong. If you’ve posted about the shootings, you’ve chosen a side. If you’ve posted about police officers, you’ve chosen a side. There are two mutually exclusive sides, one cannot exist within the realm of the other.

And from this line of thinking, I am reminded of another observed tendency of people- we can live as a pack of thieves, stealing ideas from each other. We rummage for answers through rubbish and buy into the idea that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. And when there are only two sides from which to steal, there often is no treasure.

At least to me, one truth remains- we cannot ignore these canaries in the coal mine. The Altons, the Philandos, the Brents, the Lornes- these canaries all carry the same prophetic warning. The world is speaking and the state of the Union is in focus. Tumultuous, explosive danger looms ahead. Do we stop? Do we turn around? Do we forge ahead?

I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure who does. I know it’s not a single answer. I know it’s not a simple answer. I know it will take time; I am sad to admit that I don’t think I will see the change in my lifetime. I know I hope I am wrong. I’m know I am willing to contribute and to try. I know I am confused and heartbroken and I am standing in the middle when society begs me to choose one of two sides. And I am holding firm to the idea that maybe there isn’t a here or there. Maybe we’re together. Maybe there isn’t a right or wrong. Maybe there is just a different. And maybe we can be different from the polarized thinking that plagues our society. And although it’s the notion of different that began shredding us apart, I also painfully hope that different can bring us together- a different way of thinking, a different course of actions, a different dialogue. I hope different be a catalyst for creating, impacting, and imparting a different future.  

Centering

I enjoy that events are so fluid within the shape of our lives. One minute, they are the center, consuming all but the edges, leaving little room for anything else. Eventually, they move to the margins, finding a spot and hugging the edge. The important becomes peripheral and a new tenant occupies the center.

I think back to college when going out to bars and getting drunk with friends on a Saturday night consumed my center, and now it sits in the margin, occasionally making an appearance. I think back to graduate school when grades consumed my center, and now that GPA is barely present within the margins, clinging to its last breaths. The power of their influence vanishes; sure, it nudges and it reasserts itself, but typically the influence stays within the parameters of the edge, unless we choose otherwise.

I’ve observed that often, without even the slightest hint of a challenge, we allow what belongs in the edge to influence the center, providing prime real estate to an undeserving tenant. It begs me wonder, who are we on the edges of ourselves that we allow to define the whole? How often do we betray our whole with the bladed sides of an edge?

I’m not sure if we betray ourselves often, but I’ve done it to myself and I have seen others do it to themselves too many times to consider it atypical.

The thing is, that edge sneaks up on you and it paints with a broad, bold stroke that covers all inconsistencies and convinces you of its validity. What should be marginal becomes dominant. When this occurs- when the edge cuts into the center and attempts to overthrow the rightful owner- suddenly there you are, being only one thing, only one-dimensional, having only one edge, one definition. This edge convinces us. We are only the GPA; we are only the drinking college student; we are only the Type A personality; we are only the affair; we are only the lie we told; we are only the funny girl; we are only the big nose that we hate; we are only the mistake we made.

It can be so difficult to see or be anything else because all you have is that single edge, and while it will sever anything which threatens its own existence, it will never sever itself. And so we struggle. We redistrict ourselves. We re-draw the parameters of our centers. We rebuild; we restructure; we re-evaluate; we redecorate. We figure out how to cut ourselves loose. We do one of the most difficult and scary tasks we will do as a human being- we take control of what seems uncontrollable. To take what you are convinced is your center, your core, the definition of yourself, and to challenge it…that is no small feat. I’ve challenged the cutting, defined edges of my center on more than one occasion. I’ve challenged myself through time, reflection, distance, discussion, acceptance, forgiveness, and a plethora of other tools. Sometimes, I succeed; my center cracks and a new occupant seeps into the space. Sometimes, I just barely dent the center’s periphery, and the challenge continues. Either way, I always come to the same conclusion- the fluidity between the center and the edge is a great asset and a sly enemy, as is with so many pairings in our lives. To understand this relationship is the first step to appreciating the balance between the two.  

How to Fill Up

I have started examining the relationships in my life and the complexities, the differences, the similarities, the overlaps, the distances, and the utter awe of them. There are corkscrew curls, linear paths, and hairpin turns creating carefully crossed angles a web of connected communities which humans so badly desire and need.

The relationship-web which scares me the most is the one which I tend to weave myself, and it is the labyrinth of my relationship with my insecurities. It’s where the spirals become dizzying, the lines are deceitful, and the angles suddenly sharp. It’s where my insecurities are throwing only shadows but I am catching punches:

I’m not smart enough, so I’d better decorate myself with degrees and accolades, success and high grades. I’m not funny enough, so I’d better blanket that behind a barrage of jokes and an abundance of broad smiles. I’m lazy, so I’d better paint the portrait of constant work and a fully penciled-in schedule.

And so these decorations, these barrages, these portraits- they all act as Matryoshka dolls, as shells safekeeping the empty, dark shadows of an insecurity. They also carry an unforgiving weight and an unfortunate fate. Their very existence to hide my shadow-insecurities creates the opposing effect; the livelihood of the insecurity is brought into the light and quickly identified by the very shell which encompasses it.

Perhaps this is a truth for all of us. We present our Matryoska dolls to each other, hoping no one will sense the hallowness residing within. We can package our insecurities so well that others have no idea that the gift we provide is nothing but a falsified representation of what seems to be. 

Here’s the thing about those dolls, though. We coat the outside with those accolades, those smiles, and those penciled-in schedules. We spread a veneer so thick that we consider the insecurities hidden, and to the outside world, they may seem nonexistent. The veneer brings comfort. The veneer brings courage. It coats the vulnerability. We trick our self into thinking the veneer is strong and shatterproof, showing not a single chink and conceding to not a single crack.  We bravely and foolishly play cards that our hands do not hold; it’s that veneer that convinces us. We don’t see the chinks, don’t acknowledge the cracks, and we ignore the small starts of detrimental endings.

But maybe when that veneer cracks and peels away, and maybe when the shell which attempts to disguise our insecurity is without the protection of falsehood, the Matryoshka doll starts to crack and chink and chip and peel. And through these small starts, there are inspirational beginnings. We begin to fill the shell and eliminate the hollow.   

The filling up part is difficult; those hollow insides resist. It is by far easier to put more veneer on the cracks and chinks, to work from the outside rather than from the inside. And confronting shadows of insecurities can mean admitting that what once stood so permanently is in fact an illusion. Suddenly, the solidified definition of what ‘was’ evaporates, and we are left empty-handed and blindsided. We must admit that we have fooled ourselves for years. But, oh! We relied so heavily on those doll shells, and their shelter was vast and comforting, always inviting. Now, if we are confronting our insecurities, what will be our cover? How will we prove we are smart enough without the degrees and letters behind our names? How will we know we are funny enough without the confirming laughter of others? How will we know we are busy enough without a day which provides too few minutes? How will we know we are enough? When confronted with these heavy questions, we must fill ourselves. We must fill ourselves with just being enough.

Silence is Golden

I think we often re-introduce our self to ourselves, sometimes fully aware, other times gleefully ignorant of our own presence within. We don’t hear the ‘hellos’ of an inner strength; we are surprised when we remind our self with a tap on the shoulder, whispering, “You can do this!”, and too often we quickly grab the hand and invite in the part of us that breeds doubt.

I started nurturing these thoughts of ‘missed meetings with myself’ at some point in the recent past. I'm not sure when it started, or how, or under what pretense, but I realized that (overall) I’ve really enjoyed getting to know myself for the past year. Meeting and inviting in these new guests wasn’t always easy or enjoyable, and providing the right space and harmonious tension for re-introductions to occur was- at first- difficult to create and sustain.

 

Where I have found these spaces and this tension is in the silent spaces between my thoughts. We all have these silent spaces, and they are easily overlooked, ignored, and often a forgotten place to explore. What I’ve realized is that in these silent spaces between our thoughts, there are parts of our life quietly waiting to arrive. Those parts that are waiting so quietly, so patiently? When invited to arrive, to show up, to perform- they do not fail.

Silence can quickly be pushed out by other noises competing for our attention. The background noises that are normally denied our attention, suddenly see their opportunity for recognition, seize it like Cesar. Although these noises typically know their place in the background, they are well-trained to dominate the forefront when the leading noises are sent offstage. We often train silence to be a feeble understudy, labeled as useless and unnecessary in the acts that construct the plays of our lives. For me, I re-introduced myself to my inner stage mom, and silence was quickly directed as the lead for the spaces between my thoughts.

Within this casting, silence can become its own noise; deafening and reverberating like an airplane. Oddly, this silence can consume our ear space most loudly, and it can consume our ear space with such density that nothing more can get in. It acts as an innkeeper, and often doesn’t leave any rooms as vacanct. Luckily, silence can eventually simmer and actually silence itself. It can switch roles and become an embrace, a welcoming touch, a presence. The silent spaces in-between, in fact, can become the part that silences our self. The in-between spaces become small opportunities. This is where the present stops, the future stands tall, and where we are free to explore our inner “me’s.”  

Within my own silent spaces, I encountered tangled webs; seemingly endless free falls; and cold, unforgiving rock hard bottoms. In a space of silence without borders, boundaries, or bylaws, it can be easy to get lost. Getting lost within yourself when you are your own guide is one of the most terrifying types of lost that exists. When you finally coordinate where you are, it can be easy to deny an embrace from the silence between your thoughts; it can be easy to run from it; it can be easy to get scared, to panic, to sit in an emotional state of harm rather than helpfulness.

For me, these spaces of silence are a vacuum void of color, saturated by a deafening black. When there isn’t any light being shed on anything, though, everything becomes a possibility. This, in fact, may be the beauty of a complete, silent darkness- a space of endless possibilities.

So that little silent space between thoughts- so tiny, yet so encompassing of endless possibilities, that small vacuum that we so often and so easily overlook- I encourage everyone to embrace it. The silence offers a sweetness that goes unparalleled and unrivaled by other aspects of life. Once discovered, it cannot be savored enough.