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For many years I have lived after the wisdom of the great and powerful Mary Poppins when she taught,

“Well begun is half done.”

In other words–much like the Banks children when compelled to clean their messy nursery–I needed a game, a spoonful of sugar if you will in order to get tasks done.

Thus the 5 minute mambo was born.  Oh blessed 5 minute mambo how do I love thee?

The 5 minute mambo simply states that I only have to stay focused on cleaning for 5 minutes in any given room before I can break free and begin a new 5 minutes of cleaning in a different room.

Apparently I have commitment issues or a fear of being trapped or whatever else one might call it. But it’s okay. Because I have found salvation in the 5 minute mambo.

Depending on the day and the state of my house, the 5 minute mambo may require several rotations before it is completed.  But throughout the course of those rotations the entire house begins to look all spiffy and shiny and loved instead of only one room getting all of the glory.

It pleases me.

So during this the season of resolutions, when many of us rise up in remembrance that we were created for greatness, I (having little desire to work toward that greatness) presented a plan to my non-committal, fear of being trapped, feeling blah about greatness self and said,

“What if you were only required to commit 5 minutes a day to your greatness goals?  What if your entire life could be a series of 5 minute mambos?”

What if indeed?

Thus the 5 minute success was born.  Oh blessed 5 minute success how do I love thee?

Because

take this morning for instance…

“I’m not working out today.”  Is what my morning self said.  “I don’t have time and frankly I don’t want to.  So there.”

But after completing my 5 minute yoga stretch and my 5 minute meditation my morning self said, “Well, I guess it is only 5 minutes.”  Leading me to complete a whopping 5 minutes of pushups and crunches. Which some might say is pointless though I would argue that 5 minutes toward greatness is a whole lot better than 5 minutes toward nothing special.

Besides

it’s all about well begun is half done after all…

and oftentimes–but please don’t tell my inner Banks child this–I get so caught up in the work of my 5 minute mambo and 5 minute success rotations that I forget about time all together.

Which leads me to believe that in time–with a few of these small commitment successes under my belt–I’ll be back to my, “Look what I can do with my bad self.” self in no time.

It pleases me.

“Curiosity only does one thing, and that is to give.  And what it gives you are clues on the incredible scavenger hunt of your life.”  ~Elizabeth Gilbert

It all happened so fast that I’ve scarcely had time to think it through.  But my curiosity has been piqued and–though I’ve tried many times to talk myself out of it–there’s no turning back.

The statistics I had heard on the Ted Talk about the feeling of low self worth among women, because of a negative body image and a doubt in their own beauty, lingered in my mind as I drove to pick my kids up from school.  “What would life be like if we had no mirrors?”  I wondered.  “If I couldn’t see my image what would I look like to myself?”

I looked out at the landscape before me, the only image I could see at that time and thought, “Without a mirror, I would look like these beautiful trees that line the road.”  A thought that seemed to pull me into the trees, filling me with a sense of oneness that brought a peace and familiarity to my spirit.  Without a separation of self I felt a deep connection with the trees and the world around me.

“It’s difficult to believe in yourself because the idea of self is an artificial construction.  You are, in fact, part of the glorious oneness of the universe. Everything beautiful in the world is within you.”

This connection–this encounter with wholeness–left me with a desire to further explore, “What would life be like if I had no mirrors?”  So intrigued was I by this question that I soon had a plan in place.

After honing in on a very simplistic hair and makeup routine that can be done without looking at myself, I decided that today–November first–would be the beginning of a month long journey of discovery.  The beginning of my “30 days of reflection without my reflection”.

Though I am filled with anxious anticipation going into this journey (a simplistic hair and makeup routine that can be done without looking at ones self leaves a lot to be desired) I am powered forward by the memory of the brief glimpse into oneness that I felt while connecting with the trees.

It is my hope that by stepping away from self I will be able to step into an even deeper oneness, connecting more fully with my spirit, my world, to those with whom I share this world, and with Him who created all.

Oh man, this should be interesting.

 

 

Easton has been telling me for over a week now that she had a science fair project due. Since I never saw a paper about it I kept brushing it off, thinking that I would help her with it as soon as I got the information. She kept saying, “Mom I think my project is due on Friday.” I said I didn’t think so because Friday is a half day. Well this morning I was going through some papers on my dresser when low and behold I found a paper that said science fair project due Thursday March 13. Oops!

I felt so bad because it was clearly my fault that she didn’t get it done. So I ran out to the kitchen and said, “Somebody think of a really quick science project!” Landon came up with the idea to test the differences between the heartbeats of a person, a dog, and a guinea pig. I grabbed some colored cardstock and told Easton to quickly draw some pictures of Landon, Jack (our dog), and Clover (our guinea pig).

While she did that I ran around looking for something that we could use for the display board. Jackpot! We still had the large cardboard box from our new dryer. I cut off a chunk of it and folded it into a board. Landon helped Easton check all of the heartbeats then we typed up her findings, printed them out and slapped everything on the board with some doublestick tape. Whew! We did all of this, including getting everyone ready for school, in about 30 minutes. Can anyone top that procrastination story?

Five in the morning is when my subconscious mind decided to wake me with this gnawing reminder, “You did something stupid yesterday.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock then tried to roll over and fall back to sleep when, “Oh wait!  I did do something stupid yesterday!”  And with that I was wide awake and ready for the day.

Though my subconscious mind’s mocking words were meant to scare and protect me from ever doing anything stupid again, what she didn’t know is that she was playing right into–what I like to call–my “defusing my stupidity” plan.

Allow me to explain.

After making the stupid decision to get bangs yesterday… Bangs.  I love bangs on others which is what got me into this predicament in the first place–dadgum you Pinterest–but I had forgotten how much I hate them on me.  Ugh.  Anyway after I returned home, no longer drunk on Pinterest dreams, I took a sober look at myself and thought, “Okay, well now what?”

Coming up with the plan to wear my hair pulled up with a headband securing my bangs against my head for 3 maybe 30 months seemed reasonable enough but I never expected it to change my entire life!  Ok so that might be a little dramatic but also kind of true.

Allow me to explain.

For four months now.  Four long months.  I’ve been begging myself to start working out again, every time receiving the same Scarlett O’Hara response, “I can’t think about that today.  I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

But for some reason my ponytail, headband plan awoke a memory in me that left me wanting to shout, “Down with tomorrows! I’m working out today!” My ponytail, headband plan reminded me of when I was a workout beast, proudly sporting that ponytail, headband look everyday.  And I wanted that back.

One of the sayings posted on my kitchen’s vision wall tells me that,

And I guess the same can be said about a powerful hairdo (or whatever else makes one feel powerful) because today–after four long months–with ponytail and headband in place, I got up and did my workout.

But shhh.  Don’t tell my subconscious.  Her mocking, scornful words wake me up so much more efficiently than my alarm ever could.

And she doesn’t have a snooze button.

(Bobby pins and buns will also be playing a significant role in my 3 maybe 30 month plan)

 

 

Once upon a time a little boy decided to color his mommy’s carpet with mascara just as they were getting ready to go upstairs to play guys and blocks (the little boy’s favorite game).

So the mommy said, “Now I can’t play guys with you because I have to clean my carpet instead.”
The little boy, feeling very bad, retreated like a turtle inside of his 3 big shirts (he wanted to wear 3 of daddy’s shirts yesterday (?)).

When the mommy finished cleaning her carpet, which wasn’t easy let me tell you, she turned to the little boy and said, “If you want to tell me that you are sorry then we can go play guys.”
But the little boy lay silent and still.

So the mommy covered the remaining stain on her carpet with an area rug, looked at her preciously adorable, 3 shirt wearing turtle boy sleeping so peacefully on her floor, and smiled as she thought, “Well if having a 3 shirt wearing sleeping turtle boy means that I must also have stained carpet, then I’ll take it.”

It’s a small price to pay.

“For those who are not ready to say #metoo out loud, we love you”

I’ve seen this message again and again lately, leaving me to think to myself, what if we never want to say #me too?  Why should we have to say it, especially on social media?

And then a song rose up in my heart, “Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…”  and I cried.

Growing up, something always felt a little off inside of me but I could never quite pinpoint it.  Until at 23, truth walked toward me in my dark bedroom.  It was actually my husband I saw that night. He had turned out our light and was coming to bed but his silhouette walking towards me in the darkness awoke a fear in me that I felt in my very bones, sending a guttural cry up from the core of my soul and out into our quiet room, “Help me.”

I had perfected conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know so well that I had become a stranger even to myself.  An oddity that I still don’t fully understand.  But I like to think that perhaps my Savior stood between me and the darkness of that trauma,  covering me in His light.  Until, when I was old enough and in a safe place, He stepped aside and let me see.

He didn’t step aside because He wanted me to feel pain.  He stepped aside because He wanted me to FEEL.  And He knew that in order for me to do that in the highest most perfect sense I had to open those parts of me that had been closed off for so long.

He wanted me to share in His understanding of Love, His understanding of truth and His understanding of me.  He wanted me to reclaim me–all of me–for me.  And, though I do not wish to sugar coat my journey in anyway because often times I felt lucky to come out of it alive, I am awed by it.  “Seeing” has been and continues to be one of the most intense yet magical journeys I have ever experienced and through this experience my Savior has been able to open the windows of heaven and flood me with His teachings.

So why #metoo?  Why now?  Because I know that my silence is sending a very dangerous, damaging message to that little girl inside of me.  My silence is telling her that she is wrong.

She, that little girl inside of me, showed me this at my recent writer’s conference when–during a simple writing assignment–she began to share with me the secrets of her heart.  I wrote them freely, without question until my tears flowed so intensely that I–in fear of making a spectacle of myself–pulled away. I pulled away and began to question whether I, that little girl, was just being dramatic.  “Perhaps you’re just imagining some of this.  Making it bigger than it really is.”  I told her.

“You don’t believe me either.”  The words filled every part of me.  “How will I ever feel safe if you don’t even believe me?”

So I write this now.  I say #metoo.  And I say to that little girl inside of me, “I do believe you and I will believe everything you tell me from now on without question.  So please, take my hand and join me in this beautiful journey called life, the journey that you were created for.  I promise to keep you safe.”

“but how can you keep me safe when you are still so very afraid?”

“I am afraid but I am strong.  I learned that from you.”

 

 

I didn’t write at all last week.  Nope not one word.  I didn’t write because I find it difficult to write without hands and my hands were full of these handsome nephews of mine.

I also didn’t go to the Depeche Mode concert with my sister last week.  I told her I wanted to go, she bought the tickets, then–remembering my commitment to watch the precious BBs–I backed out, sending my daughter Paige in my stead.

Paige loved the concert and had fun picturing me watching Depeche Mode back in the 80’s when I and they were young. And when she reminded me of some of their songs that I hadn’t listened to in years I had fun picturing me back there too.

Listening to their music transported me back to a time of concerts and clubs, freely dancing into the early morning hours, wearing my perfect 80’s outfits and Aqua-Net hair.  It was good. So good that I heard my younger self begin to whisper, “Aren’t you envious of me?  Don’t you wish you could go back?”

And for a moment I thought that maybe I did feel a touch of longing and envy for what had been. Until I remembered the words spoken by Morrie Schwartz, from “Tuesdays With Morrie”, when author Mitch Albom asked him a similar question saying, “You know we live in a culture that worships youth. How do you keep from envying me my youth?”  To which Morrie brilliantly replied,

“Age is not a competition.  Inside me is every age I’ve ever been, 10-year=old, 20-year-old, 37, like you.  But also a 50-, 60-, 78-year-old man.  So why should I be envious of where you are?  I’ve already been where you are.  You should be envious of me.  I’ve got 40 years on you.”

Hearing Morrie’s words I’m able to tell my young self that we are not in a competition with one another.  I don’t have to be envious of those days because I already lived them.  I can close my eyes and remember being a PYT on the dance floor but along with that I also know what it is to be a newlywed and a woman who has been married for 27 years.  I’ve been a mother with babies, and a mother who is now experiencing the joy of watching those babies grow into the most extraordinary adults. I have struggled, I have thrived and I have lived.  Really lived.  I have 30 years on my young, dancing self.  30 years of wonderful.

And with my 30 years of wonderful I look to those who have a few extra  decades on me and wonder, with quiet anticipation, about the secret they seem to hold just behind their smiles.  It’s a secret that cannot be shared, a secret that must be earned.  And while I may have not yet earned it, I think I can feel the corners of my own mouth turning up–ever so slightly–even now.

 

When I meet people that I admire, people who are doing with their lives many of the things I desire to do in mine, I like to sit at their feet and learn.  Which is why, at my writer’s conference, I attended a class taught by Marsha Ward.  The Marsha Ward.  The very founder of ANWA (American night writers association) Marsha Ward.  I may or may not fan girl over Marsha Ward just a little bit but that is beside the point.

The point is, I knew Marsha’s class would be filled with treasure but I didn’t know that, picking up one simple coin from her mounds of gold would transform my way of thinking.

“I believe there is danger in thinking our work is “special” it puts tremendous pressure on us to come up with the “perfect” manuscript and takes all the fun out of writing.”                                                        ~Marsha Ward

What a relief!  My work doesn’t have to be special.  And the very fact of the matter is that my work is not special.  Before you fear for the state of my self esteem and begin showering me with thoughtful affirmations let me reassure you that this statement has empowered, emboldened and enlightened me like none other before.

Because “special” is very subjective and “perfect” is impossible, believing my work should be either of these things was all the fuel my critical voice needed to stop me in my tracks.

“The only purpose of critical voice in creative writing is to stop you.
It’s a protective mechanism that will keep you from making a fool of yourself by doing anything as risky as producing a literary work and sharing it with the world.”                                                                                  ~Marsha Ward

With this new understanding I can now quiet my critical voice by assuring it that I in no way would ever dream of trying to create something special.  “Nothing special is going on here.”  I tell it .  “I’m just having a little fun.”  And freed from it’s constant negative chatter, I am having fun.  So much fun.

But the best news–the very best news–is that this understanding is not limited to creative writing.  This understanding has helped to hush my critical voice in so many other areas of my life.  Tweaking Marsha’s quote from earlier, I think it’s safe to say that…

There is danger in thinking life must be “special” it puts tremendous pressure on us to come up with the “perfect” life and takes all the fun out of living.

I see now that my critical voice loves it when I demand “special” and “perfect” for my life.  With these ideals at the forefront of my goals I am easily stifled from taking risks or sharing myself with the world.

But guess what critical voice, “special” is no longer my thing and it’s about to get real up in here.  So look out.  This girl’s about to have some fun.

And there’s no telling where that will lead me.

 

I cried unto the Lord in prayer.  Cried with all of the energy that was in me.  “I want you to teach me to swim.” I said.  “Please help me to enter the water.”

Ending my prayer, I followed a prompting to turn on the television. I opened Youtube and–clicking the first video I saw on the home screen–I was transformed.

“You have to be willing to inconvenience yourself.”

These words spoken by motivational speaker Lisa Nichols pierced me and–sobbing–I knew what I had to do.

Fear had stopped me from signing up for the writer’s conference and with it being just one day away, I had convinced myself that maybe this just wasn’t my year.

But now, with my palms opened to the Lord, He showed me that though He is willing to give me all that He has, I must first be willing to step out into the water to meet Him.

I needed to be willing to take the leap. The leap into the writer’s conference.  I pulled up the registration form onto my computer then–before I could even enter my name–I walked away.  Terrified.

The problem is that I have panic attacks.

Panic attacks that are filled with the same irrational, primal fear that sends wildlife running head on into the headlights when they are normally keen for survival.

If you were to ask me today, my feelings on where I’ll go when I die I would answer, “To be with my Lord, my family and friends in the most peaceful place imaginable where I will feel more love than I have ever known.”

If you asked me the same question during a panic attack it would go something like this, “Listen! I’m about to disappear into a dark abyss of nothingness! I need you to promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to bring me back! Promise to get me out of the staticky TV! Please! Get me out of the staticky TV!”

Because panic attacks strike whenever they want, wherever they want, for whatever reason they want, the three hour drive to the conference–with its middle of nowhere stretches, sporadic cell phone coverage and no one around to get me out of the staticky TV–seemed like an impossible price to pay.

Unable to muster the strength to commit to the conference on my own, my husband gave me a blessing wherein the Lord revealed His promises to me– promises about my writing–once again.  He revealed the importance of the conference, what I would learn there and what it would mean to my life.  In short He invited me to take the leap.  He invited me to swim.

So powerful were His promises that they left my husband to say, “Well, now you have to go.”  at blessings end.

I flopped back on my bed and, staring at the ceiling I said, “Except I really don’t.  We never have to do anything.  He invites but we always have the power to say no.”

Taking that part of me–that screaming, flailing, fighting part of me–that still wanted to say no, I went before the Lord in humble prayer and again asked for His help.  “Please lend me your peace, lend me your courage until I can gain my own.” I cried.

Then with borrowed strength I dove deep into the water and I swam.  I swam toward healing. I swam toward courage.  And I swam toward killer answers to every plot question in my novel that has plagued me since the beginning of time.  Seriously.  Every one.

I love to swim.  I mean, I really love it.

 

The Lord beckons me to come into the water, “I want to teach you to swim.”  He says.

I remember the terror of swimming lessons as a young girl. I remember hiding in my bedroom closet hoping that, exasperated, my mom would be forced to take my siblings to their lessons, leaving me behind.

It never worked.

I also remember my dad teaching me to swim.  I remember my resistance and the rigidity of my body as I desperately clung to his.

Desperation, resistance, fear and rigidity.  These are what my Lord invites me to leave at the shore.  “I want to teach you to swim.” He calls.

I return to the backyard swimming sessions spent with my father.  Go back to the moment when I softened in his arms, surrendered to the water and lost myself in its weightless embrace.

I learned to swim.

Had I chosen to give into my fears and run away from the water my life would have been okay. It really would have.  My dad’s love for me and mine for him would have remained the same.  And unaware of the joys of swimming, I’d never know what I was missing.

And so it is with my Lord’s invitation.  If I refuse to soften, refuse to surrender, refuse His call to come into the water, His love for me will remain unchanged.  And I, cocooned inside of my bubble-wrap of certainty will never know what I am missing.  My life will be okay.  It really will.

But the thing is, I love to swim.  I really love it.

And I can’t help but wonder if maybe–just maybe–untold joys and unfathomable opportunities await me if I’ll but walk with my Lord into the water, softening in His arms, as He teaches me to swim.

As He teaches me to fly.