“Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it” – Simone Weil
Enjoy you weekend everyone!
xox
I was going to write about what a very alright, really great day I’m having.
How last night I dreamt of witches and Donald Sutherland and the vague memory of my dog offering me a pork chop and donut smoothie.
About how I had the stamina, not just the stamina, the desire to put on the false eyelashes and leave the house. (If you know me at all you know that if I’m rocking the eyelashes I’m firing on all cylinders.)
That fact that I drove myself somewhere BY MYSELF for the first time in ten days without falling asleep at the wheel, ricocheting off other cars or hitting puppies and babies in crosswalks.
Then I got a parking space right in front of my destination (which came in handy because I’m still walking like a toddler with a full diaper.) Not only that, the meter still had and hour and fifteen minutes of time left on it which always leaves me in a state of awe and wonder when I see it—like someone has just pulled a diamond out of their ear.
That’s all good and well but while I was sitting and waiting in a bright blue linen chair that was too deep for me to dismount in any kind of elegant way, I read this.
This.
This beautiful essay by Anne Lamott that sums things up. Big things. Little things. All things. Government, hopelessness, getting gutted by a well-meaning doctor…Every damn thing.
“I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.”
I’m not tired of hearing it, Anne. I needed it. Like a mango margarita on Taco Tuesday.
I Love you, Anne. I Love you guys. xox
“I have been traveling around the country for nearly two weeks on book tour, and without exception, my audiences have been filled with lovely bright people who feel doomed. In New York City they were too sad to be ironic, just devastated, and in the Deep South, where they pet me and give me home baked cookies and pocket crosses, and where I develop an accent, their eyes tear up.
People do not feel “anxious” or “frustrated,” or doomed-ish, in a mopey Eeyore kind of way.
They feel cursed, cut down, scared to death, like during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s as if we’re all waiting for biopsy results for someone we love. We try to be brave.
No one has a clue how we are going to come through this fever dream. They come to my events because I am usually a cranky optimist who believes that if it seems like a bad ending, it’s not the ending. They hope I have found some spiritual, political or psychological tools to cope and transcend.
Yeah, right.
I think they are a tiny tiny bit tired of hearing me say that grace bats last, and that in the meantime, we practice radical self-care, pick up litter, flirt with old people. They’re probably sick of hearing my secular father’s Golden Rule: Don’t be an asshat. And above all, listen. Listen. Listen. Hear each other.
I think they are tired of me repeating that the only things that ever help are Left, Right, Left, Breathe.
I think they are tired of me saying around Easter that the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans. The following Monday, Caesar, and Herod were still in power. The chief priests were still the chief priests. (And meanwhile, in a tucked-away corner, the 12 were transformed. And some women, too.)
It’s amazing to stop pretending that things are not as bizarre and dire or hard as they are, in the marriage, for your grown child, in the nation. To be where your feet are, and to feel it all: the swirl of doom, of gratitude, of incredulous fear, of wonder, of hate, judgment, love.
Doctorow nailed it when he said writing fiction is like driving at night with the headlights on–you can only see a little ways in front of you, but you can make it through the whole journey that way. That is true about every single aspect of life. Maybe people are sick of me quoting that, too, but it’s true.
It doesn’t make sense to stay fixated on what we don’t know–say, hypothetically, whether we will nuke North Korea over our special friend’s feelings getting hurt, or who turns state’s evidence first, or what crazy scheme might save the mountain gorillas from extinction. We only know now. We have all been through long stretches of feeling truly doomed–deaths, divorces, breakdown, failure. They call it the abyss because it’s pretty abysmal.
Maybe the Obama years were like this for you. Whatever.
But we know the precious community that kept us company. We know sacrifice, mercy, the arc toward justice. We know that the love and solidarity were real and profoundly, eternally true; and it is now, where your feet are, abundantly.
And hey, Hallelujah, y’all.”
Dearest brave ones,
All I can say is that after the past six months—for almost everyone—including me—and tens of my friends—this could not feel more relevant.
Carry on,
xox
I found this a while ago…somewhere…I can’t remember.
I’m sure I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.
I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t even…there are no words.
This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe all of our souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox
“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.
The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.
You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.
This is survival mode. And it will be okay.
Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.
The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence, and rebirth.
No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.
He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.
Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.
Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.
Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.
Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.
Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.
The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.
It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.
But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.
Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread, and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.
All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”
Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}
You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com
Hi you guys,
Below is my latest Huffington Post. You see, after the election,once I stopped reeling, after I gave up on politics and put away the raw cookie dough, I decided to write to the girl/woman who will most certainly become our first female president.
Carry on,
xox
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/an-open-letter-to-the-fir_b_12903170.html
Dear Future Madame President,
I find great solace in knowing you are out there.
Selfishly, for the sake of my eighty-year-old mother who was emotionally invested in this past election for reasons that are obvious, I hope this finds you occupying a seat in a college classroom, a non-profit, the senate, or some other adult occupation at which you excel–and not a bouncy seat at a pre-school.
If you’re currently a millennial well, I suppose that’s okay seeing that makes you tech savvy enough to never get yourself caught up in any kind of email kerfuffle.
By the way, watch those selfies and delete your Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat accounts–they may come to haunt you.
That being said, a long and arduous path was cleared for you this year with the nomination of a woman by a major political party, so you can cross that milestone off your list. But don’t worry, many more lay ahead.
It will be my great honor to call you Madame President. You are clearly a badass and I am humbled after witnessing the journey it took to get you here.
Just know, you have some pretty big heels to fill young lady. My wish is that you have the intellect of Hillary, the sass of Elizabeth Warren and the authenticity and oratory chops of Michelle Obama. I know this is a tall order but I think you’re up to the task.
A few more things: Be unapologetically smart. Go ahead. We can take it.
But practice humility and for god sakes learn how to say “I f*ed up, I’m sorry, I was wrong.” It forgives a myriad of sins and is even more rare than hearing the truth in Washington.
Please. Remain a student of history so you can learn from our mistakes.
We got so close this year and the loss still stings. Maybe we were overconfident. Maybe it just wasn’t the right woman. Maybe we underestimated the level of misogyny in our country. Perhaps we dropped the ball… Bigly.
You will bridge the divide. Without being perceived as harpy, bitchy or scary. YOU will be the “better angel of our nature.”
Most importantly, what history and the next four years will come to show is that you can’t keep women down. Numerous indignities have been heaped upon us over time and what did we do?
We got stronger. And we came back. With a vengeance.
Madame President, I trust you have had enough setbacks in your life to smooth out any rough edges–but not enough to put out the fire in your belly.
In closing, I wish you the winning trifecta of wisdom, intellect and wit–and the confidence to display them all in equal measure.
Most of all, and I’m sure I speak for women all over our great nation–I wish you grace.
May grace be your superpower and your co-pilot as you take on the Herculean task of being the most powerful woman on Earth.
Rest assured you have my unapologetic admiration and support until the day we finally meet.
With great anticipation,
J.B.
If you’re like me, I can bet that you’d just as soon forget some dances from your past.
I engaged in some pretty sketchy moves. I did. I may have tangoed with a few men, a rose held firmly in my frozen grin, who I realize now were not the best dance partners for me.
But I have to admit—it was fuuuuun.
I, the woman with two left feet, may have attempted Bob Fosse choreography at the age of fifty-four, and I cringe every time it comes to mind.
Which is never.
I never need to remember that.
Right?
But I danced with a chair. And the chair had better moves.
And I’ve never laughed so much in my entire life!
What about all of the partnering that has danced me to where I’m standing right now?
The collaboration and the joy?
Just thinking about it makes me smile.
And cringe.
But mostly smile.
Life is a dance. We make it up as we go along and it is stunning in its complexity.
A beautiful series of fast footwork and sidesteps, backwards motion and even a few graceful leaps into the air that carry us where we need to go—and nobody, NOBODY—can take that away from us.
Not even ourselves.
Carry on,
xox
Hi All,
This is from a year ago January, but I was feelin’ it today.
Carry on,
xox
I had coffee with a friend this week and she mentioned the blog, Hala! and God bless her.
She was particularly triggered by the post I wrote about paying people compliments, and the fact that we can be pretty stingy with our admiration.
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/5123/
“You know why I don’t get compliments?” she asked me, apparently not expecting an answer because she didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.
“Because I deflect them. I’m like a superhero with a shield. They make me so Goddamn uncomfortable that my face and chest get bright red, and I either start laughing or I tell the person to shut up.”
Did I hear that right? I’d seen her blush, maybe even giggle, but the shut up part…
She could tell by the expression on my face that her statement needed further clarification.
“I just did it the other day, the guy at the car wash complimented my choice of vehicle and I ran away. Like a nine-year-old. But before I did, I told him to shut up. It was completely unintentional, a reflex, a hit and run, I just blurted it out…Shut Up!” she was clearly mortified but on a roll.
“Hey, you have nice eyes. Shut up! Fuck you, Perv!” Now she was acting it out, with hand gestures and everything.
“Nice job on that report. Shut up! Asshole! It wasn’t that great! Raise your bar! You need higher standards!
“Oh My God what is wrong with me? It’s like I have Compliments Tourette’s.”
We were both laughing, yet at the same time, I realized that what she does is more common than we’d all like to admit.
Why can’t we take a compliment gracefully? The key word here being: grace.
I used to be AM terrible at it too. I stare at my feet and mumble a hurried thank you, when all I want is for the perpetrator of the abomination to fall through a trap door in the floor.
Insecurity I suppose. Feeling unworthy? You betcha.
Back in the day, people used to compliment me on my big, white teeth, (now thanks to Crest White Strips they are a dime dozen) and it made me cringe. I had done NOTHING whatsoever to earn those teeth. Okay, maybe I’d worn braces and brushed, but honestly, they were just the luck of the draw, like having good hair. So it never felt like it was right to say thank you.
Now I do. I jump at the chance. Sure, God and my parents gave me great teeth, but I’ve maintained them and appreciated them EVERYDAY. Plus after fifty, you’re just so grateful when someone says anything without prefacing it with for your age.
These days I also chase that good feeling you get when you give a compliment.
I give out compliments like Tic Tacs. Because people deserve them. AND it gets me as high as an addict with a drug.
“Oh but wait” my friend warned, holding her palm up to face me, “It gets worse. If you don’t hate me already, you will after this!”
“Well Okay – Don’t leave a sister hanging – spill it!” I teased, playing along with her game of ‘true confessions’.
“I don’t pay ANYONE a compliment, doesn’t matter what they did, even if I’m thinking it, I don’t say it because I want to save them the humiliation that I feel.
That’s fucked up…right?”
I wouldn’t dare judge her. That actually made perfect sense to me and it possessed more altruistic overtones than not wanting to make a fool of yourself, which was the most common reason I used to come up with for not complimenting the people who deserved them.
We had a laugh, a damn good cup of coffee…and cake. But it really got me to thinking…
What do you guys think about this?
Are you like my friend? Is it all just too humiliating for words?
Does that humiliation override how good it feels to give or get a compliment? Or have you become so grateful, like me, when someone throws one your way that you can’t say thank you fast enough?
Have you developed grace or are you still searching for it, like my friend? How did it happen for you?
I’m curious. Tell me in the comments.
xox
I found this a while ago…somewhere I can’t remember. I think I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.
I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t…there are no words.
This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe your souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox
“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.
The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.
You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.
This is survival mode. And it will be okay.
Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.
The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence and rebirth.
No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.
He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.
Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.
Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.
Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.
Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.
Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.
The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.
It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief, or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.
But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.
Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.
All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”
Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}
You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com
GRACE
ɡrās/
noun
1. Simple elegance or refinement of movement.
“she moved through the water with effortless grace”
synonyms: elegance, poise, gracefulness, finesse
2. (In Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.
verb
3. Do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one’s presence.
“she bowed out from the sport she has graced for two decades”
synonyms: dignify, distinguish, honor, favor
“Go out into the world and be a source of Grace for people.”
~ Caroline Myss
Shit. That’s a tall order, right? I can’t do that. Be a source of Grace? What does that even mean? I read the definition and I’m still not sure.
You guys, are we out in the world being a source of grace — or are we a part of the problem?
The first definition made me blanche. It does not apply to me AT ALL.
My movements are as far from refined as I can be without calling too much attention to myself. Remember how Elaine danced on Seinfeld? That’s how I move through the world. Every step is void of poise, there is not a drop of elegance to be found, and as far as finesse goes? — forgetaboutit.
So…Am I the source of grace in that respect? No, no I am not. I am definitely part of the problem.
As far as definition three goes, well, I feel like when we can, when the stars align and we have some free time — we show up for people. We do our best.
Actually some of us drop everything and Grace certain people or places with our presence TO OUR DETRIMENT, or at least I used to. Now a days I’m super picky about to whom and where my Grace gets distributed.
So again I suppose I’m part of the problem, except…Just like fucks given, Grace can be depleted (in my opinion, the studies are inconclusive) — you can over extend, you can run out, and you only get what you get.
But unlike fucks, Grace CAN be replenished by other people bestowing their Grace upon YOU.
So there you have it, there’s what I think Caroline Myss meant by being a source of Grace for people.
Sprinkle it around, like fairy dust, like a tall drink of water to the parched masses.
Replenish each other.
You know the people in your life that need a re-fill.
And you can recognize them on the street.
They look pale and hollow eyed, over tired, over wrought, over stressed and more than likely over weight. In other words they are just plain over it.
Wait. I’m so confused. Blah, blah, Grace. Blah, blah, replenish each other. So how do we do that?
And there’s where definition number two comes into play.
Bestow your blessings.
Being a source of Grace is about bestowing your blessings, and blessings, unlike fucks and Grace, come in an unlimited supply.
Blessings look like volunteering yourself for babysitting or dog walking.
Blessings look like filling the refrigerator of a workaholic.
Blessings are about picking up the check or leaving a thirty percent tip.
Blessings can hold open a door, clean up a mess, fold laundry, hold a hand, drive carpool, give a foot message and bring the wine (two bottles please).
Blessing are bountiful.
Blessings are bottomless, and in my humble opinion, blessings and the bestowal of them is what being a source of Grace is all about.
So easy peasy, right? Not such a tall order after all.
Whew! Sometimes this spiritual shit sounds SO undoable.
Whatcha think? Any more ideas for being source of Grace for people? I’d love to hear from you guys!
Carry on,
xox
“As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than wrong with you”
-Jon Kabat-Zinn
How did you feel when you read that?
Did you want to reach through the computer and strangle me…or give me a hug?
You know that says a lot about you…but no judgement here, I’ve been there and I totally get it.
If you’re in the thick of it you want to kill me. If you’ve survived you’re more inclined to hug a fellow survivor.
Believe it or not I hate clichés and saccharin sayings that leave that bitter/sweet taste in your mouth.
But you’ve got to agree — if you’re still breathing, well, that’s half the battle… that is unless you have a migraine, then even breathing hurts.
Or unless you’re grieving, in which case you keep sighing not really breathing per say — long mournful sighs, at least that’s what I did.
Or you’re struggling with a broken heart, mind numbing stress, chronic pain, or Spanx that are one size too small. All of those things facilitate short, shallow breathing which doesn’t really count because little or no oxygen gets to your brain and you walk around in a kind of half conscious stupor.
A bit of advice because I’ve experienced all of these: You will regret any decisions you make at this time – so don’t.
Are there more things right with you than wrong in that moment?… that’s debatable.
I could argue this ad nauseam because I’ve had years days where I felt as if breathing wasn’t such a gift, and if you had asked me to compile my lists of things going wrong and the ones going right, — the former would be a mile long and the latter would have one word…breathing…I’m fucking breathing.
But you guys, if you are breathing, which I’m presuming you are, then there’s always tomorrow.
Not to sound too callous here, but if breathing is annoying you go make yourself a sandwich and take a nap — otherwise known as the Universal Reboot.
“Despair — The belief that tomorrow will be just like today.”
~Rob Bell
Ask anyone who’s having their best-day-ever if tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Hell no, I wish, will most likely be their answer.
It’s just the way the world works — so keep breathing, there’s more right with you than wrong.
I swear.
Hey, hands off the neck…
Deep breath…and Carry on,
xox
*Below is a recent essay by Anne Lamont. I love her writing. A lot. And I think this piece is one of her best, or at least it pierced the hard candy shell that sometimes surrounds my heart and got into the chewy, caramel center.
I love that she reminds us that words can be dangerous, they can gut someone faster and more efficiently than the sharpest Ginsu knife. Let’s all be careful with that.
And Horrible Bonnie. God I love that!
Can I be your Horrible Janet you guys? Reminding us ALL that everybody gets to be free?
Anyway…I though this would be a great piece to start your week. ‘Cause I love ya!
Carry On,
xoxJ
“Nearly twenty years ago, I arrived at a fancy writer’s conference, in what were some of America’s most majestic mountains, where I was looking forward to meeting a great (and sexy) American director, who’d given a lecture the day before. But he had already left.
There was, however, a letter from him, to me: to not-all-that-well-known me. It began well enough, with praise for Bird by Bird, and gratitude for how many times it had inspired him when he got stuck while writing screenplays. He singled out my insistence on trying to seek and tell the truth, whether in memoir or fiction, and my belief that experiencing grief and fear were the way home. The way to an awakening. That God is the Really Real, as the ancient Greeks believed. And God is Love. That tears were not to be suppressed, but would, if expressed, heal us, cleanse up, baptize us, help us water the seeds of new life that were in the ground at our feet.
Coming from a world-famous director, it felt like the New York Glitterati was stamping its FDA seal of approval on me, and my work.
Unfortunately, the letter continued.
He wrote that while he had looked forward to meeting me, he’d gathered from reading my work that many of my closest friends and family members seemed to have met with traumatic life situations, and sometimes early deaths. So basically, he was getting out of Dodge before I got my tragedy juju all over him, too.
I felt mortified, exposed. He made it seem like I was a sorrow-mongerer, that instead of being present for family and friends who had cancer or sick kids or great losses, I was chasing them down.
And I flushed in that full body Niacin-flush way of toxic shame, at being put down by a man of power, that had been both the earliest, and now most recent, experiences of soul-death throughout my life.
My clingy child was drawing beside me, What did I do? You can’t use your child as a fix, like a junkie. That’s abuse; plus it won’t work.
Well, duh–I fell apart, on the inside, like a two dollar watch.
I had stopped drinking nearly 15 years before, stopped the bulimia 14 years earlier, and so did not have many reliable ways to stuff feelings back down. Also, horribly, my young child, two thousand miles from home, upon noticing my pain, clung even more tightly. I wanted to shout at him, “Don’t you have any other friends?”
What I did was the only thing that has ever worked. After finding a safe and stable person to draw with my son, I called someone and told her all my terrible fears and feelings and projections and secrets.
It was my mentor, Horrible Bonnie.
She listens.
She believes that we are here to become profoundly real, and therefore, free. But horribly–hence her name–she insists that if we want to be free, we have to let every body be free. I hate and resent this so much. It means we have to let the people in our families and galaxies be free to be asshats, if that is how they choose to live.
This however, does not mean we have to have lunch with them. Or go on vacation with them again. But we do have to let them be free.
She also knows, and said that day, that Real can be a nightmare in this world that is so false. The pain and exhaustion of becoming real can land you in the an abyss. And abysses are definitely abysmal; dark nights of the soul; the bottom an addict hits.
And this, she said, was just a new bottom, around people-pleasing, and the craving for powerful fancy people to approve of me. It was a bottom around my psycho doing-ness, my achieving-ness.
She said that because I felt traumatized, and that there had been so much trauma in my childhood, and so many losses in the ensuing years, that the future looked like trauma to me.
But it wasn’t the truth!
There was a long silence. (Again: she listens.)
Finally, I said in this tiny child’s voice, “It isn’t?”
Oh, no, she said. The future, as with every bottom I have landed at, and been walked through, would bring great spiritual increase.
She said I had as much joy and laughter and presence as anyone she knew and some of this had to do with the bottoms I’d experienced, the dark nights of the soul that god and my pit crew had accompanied me through. The alcoholism, scary men, etc.
She said that what I thought the director had revealed was that I am kind of pathetic, but actually what I was getting to see, with her, and later, when I picked up my luscious clingy child, in the most gorgeous mountains on earth, was that I was a real person of huge heart, laughter, feelings and truth. And his was the greatest gift of all.
The blessing was that again and again, over the years, we got to completely change the script. Thank God. We got to re-invent ourselves, again.
But where do we even start with such terrible days and revelations? She said I’d started when I picked up the 300-pound phone, told someone the truth, felt my terrible feelings. Now, time for radical self-care. A shower, some food, the blouse I felt prettiest in. Then I could go get my boy and we could explore the mountain streams.
Wow. We think when we finally get our ducks in a row, we’ve arrived. Now we’ll be happy! That’s what they taught us, and what we’ve sought. But the ducks are bad ducks, and do not agree to stay in a row, and they waddle off quacking, and one keels over, two males get in a fight, and babies are born. Where does that leave your nice row?
I got about five books out of the insights I gleaned from our talk. I still have a sort-of heart-shaped rock my son fished out of a stream later. Sadly, this director’s movies have not done well in the last twenty years. Not a one. And all of his hair has since fallen out. Now, as a Christian, my first response to this is, “Hah hah hah.”
But Horrible Bonnie would say, Now you get to tell it, because then it will become medicine. Tell it, girl– that we evolve; that life is stunning, wild, gorgeous, weird, brutal, hilarious and full of grace. That our parents were a bit insane, and that healing from this is taking a little bit longer than we had hoped. Tell it. Well…okay. Yes.”
-Anne Lamott
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