The little things.

Today, I bought a wedding dress.

It's one of those things that's supposed to make you happy, fill you with glee, make you giddy and joyous all over because - heck - you've made it! You hit the jackpot! Every girl's dream, right?

And it was a sweet moment, sure. I did feel some lift of excitement. There was smiling involved.

And yet.

Lately, post-anxiety attack and in the midst of some ongoing health issues, I've been feeling pretty beat up and bruised, and my usually buoyant spirit subdued. Everything makes me sad, hurts my heart, throws me into fear. It seems as though my sensors for all the sadness in the world are on high alert. As I walk past people and look into their eyes, I sense their pain, their sorrow. And this makes me more pain-filled and sorrowful.

Needless to say, I'm super  useful these days.

In the midst of all this sadness swelling, this hyper-awareness to all that ails the world, I feel a bit guilty for wanting to just be happy about the simple things. What does this pretty beading on my dress matter if people are in danger around the world? Why do I care what food will be served or what my hair will look like when my friends and neighbors are at risk of being deported, when so many are sad or lonely or hungry?

And yet.

This is not a particularly helpful disposition. The world can be a sad, hard place, if not for the efforts of the buoyant, the brave, the optimistic. I'm not much use to anyone if I'm wallowing all the time.

And it's a little insulting, right? When I'm serving meals at our church's community dinner, my heart hurts for the people coming in out of the cold, who are suffering from illness or addiction or who knows what else. But while compassion is certainly in order, pity is not. Wallowing and over-identifying and seeing only sadness and despair does not do justice to the incredible resilience and strength of people. It diminishes them, dehumanizes them, reduces them to their hard places. It refuses to tell the whole, complex story of a person, it glazes over their triumphs, their potential, their dignity.

I was recently reading something by Thich Nhat Hanh, and it said something to the effect of "see and experience enough of the world's suffering to increase your compassion, but don't take in so much that you become overwhelmed with despair." (I've totally butchered that). And I think there is some truth there. Empathy is helpful, in that it reminds us that other people have feelings. Our identification with the suffering of others compels us to action. This is a good thing. And yet too much identification with suffering incapacitates us. It fills us with fear and loathing and means that we are incapable of taking action.

This is me, lately.

I'm grateful for my own struggles over the last month, because I truly believe that it is teaching me. My pain reminds me that I'm vulnerable. I'm not perfect. I'm not indestructible. Pema Chodron said that compassion is not a relationship of the healer and the wounded, but rather a relationship between equals. Suffering is quieting my "savior syndrome." Nobody needs my saving any more than I do.

And yet.

There is something about the over identification with suffering that is troubling to me. I want to believe that there is good in the world. I want to remain hopeful.  I want, so deeply, to take joy in small things. In dogs and babies and weddings. In listening to music or growing a tomato or shaking my hips to a Beyonce song. I want to believe that there is purpose to these small joys, too. That I am allowed to be happy, sometimes. That I don't always have to be sad, just because sadness exists.

Because that's how they get ya, right? That's how they win. The people in power create a world of sadness and steal your joy. To which I say, emphatically...no. No! No to joy stealing. Joy is motivating. Love is motivating. Beautiful dresses are motivating. These small things are not everything, but they are something. In a world of materialism, certainly we rely on things too much for our happiness. And yet just because materialism exists and can be destructive, doesn't mean that there is anything wrong with taking the occasional joy in the things of this earth. Right?

And so that's my prayer. To find some joy. To be happy when I see something silly. To relish in feeling beautiful once in awhile. To smile at small things. And in doing so, to find deep meaning and motivation to keep going, to keep trying, to keep acting. Because truly, for all those suffering in the world, all I wish for them is the same thing I wish for myself: the ability to love and be loved. To rejoice at small things. To feel the sun on their faces and smile with the heartbeat of the universe.

Love and hugs to all. 

Raindrops Redeux


Well, it happened. Long story short, on the evening of my 33rd birthday, I had what the doctor in the ER said was a panic attack. I won't go into the details of the sordid event, but let's just say, it's left me shaken.

I knew this was coming, I suppose. I've been tired for a long time, tired and a bit melancholy, my heart of love a dull beat under exhaustion and busyness and my incessant people pleasing.  I spent a lot of time pleasing people other than myself, saying yes when I should have said no, backing down when I could have stood up, squashing and squinching and pushing aside the still small voice inside of me.

Now much of this came from a good place. I love people, and I also hate perpetuating harm. So sometimes, when I disagreed with someone, rather than start a fight, I would try to see if from their perspective, try to listen, try to be open minded. The trouble is, sometimes I'm  so open to the minds of others that I forget another important mind and opinion: my own. Sometimes I get so lost in absorbing the hurts and fears and anger of others, diffusing it, forgiving it, trying to contain it, that I lose myself.

And that's not ok, right? If I believe (and I truly believe) that each person is sacred, that each person should be heard, that each person is uniquely loved and loveable, and at the same time, integral to the health of all humanity, then I need to extend that same belief to this guy (two  thumbs, pointing at me).

And yet this is a harder pill to swallow.

Sometimes, I reject the whole "self love, self compassion" thing. There is a part of me that believes it is selfishness, that in order to truly love  others, we must put down our own lives for them.

And yet, there is selfishness built into this rejection of self compassion. The truth is, some people on this planet love me. They love me dearly and deeply, and my pain does not serve them. It hurts them. They would want nothing more than to see me healthy and happy and thriving, with my voice in full, maybe even getting mad every now and again, if it meant my voice was being heard. I know this because I feel this way about all  the people I love. I think about my nieces.  Do I want them to become small, self-loathing people? People who do and say what others think is best, simply for the "benefit" of the other?

HELL. TO. THE. NO.

This is my nightmare, that these sweet babies would be anything other than their fully expressed and wonderful selves.

So back to me. 

What good does it do the world if I shrink? Nothing. I am here for a purpose. I don't always know what that purpose is, but I know I was made for something. My health is integral to the health of all humans.

I think of it like this: if the human family is a body, then all parts are important. The health of each single cell is important. If I'm  sick, I make the cell-buddies next to me sick, too. If I heal, my healing impacts and heals those around me. So as I heal, you heal. As you heal, I heal. Like it or not, we're in this together.

So I think this is my battle today and probably forever. I can't give up.  I need to heal. And I need to do so both gently and fiercely. Gently, I hold my tiny infant girl self. I hold her and I love her and I tell her she is loved and safe and wanted. Fiercely, I hold that same girl, and I help her get up when it's hard. I help her get out of bed when it isn't easy, to face the world and not hide in shame.

And frankly, I can't do this alone.

A little while ago, I asked God/the universe: hey. So, if you're out there and if you have a purpose for me....would you please let me know?

Of course, I expected a gentle voice. A quiet wind. A warm and happy feeling in my heart.

And instead I got this: panic. Existential anguish. A real and true fire in the belly and spirit.

God is telling me something, so I'm trying to listen.

And I'm trying to do it both gently and fiercely. Because ultimately, this call comes from love. It comes as a reminder. I cannot continue to live as I was living, with life as a blur, with my voice silenced and sad. That is not what I was made for. And it took a big shift, a big moment, to knock me out of it.

So  in this time, community, I ask for your help. For your support. For your wisdom. For your love. For your patience, grace and prayers. I am so grateful for each and every one of you.