Baby Got Back

I had an unexpected break from work today.  People were sick and cancelled their appointments, so I looked at my afternoon and wondered what to do with myself.  My husband is out of town for work.  My kids are at school and basketball games.  I spend much of my time tending to others’ needs, so I usually have to get my magnifying glass to find pockets of minutes in my iCal to do something just for me. But St. Valentine just dropped a big block of hours in my day.  I felt pulled to the mall. I never go to the mall.  In fact I don’t like it, but today it felt like where I was supposed to go.  I needed jeans, but I hate shopping for them. I decided to "try on" a new perspective, and it was so healing. I realized today was about loving my body.

The relationship I have with my butt is an ever-growing (no pun intended) connection.  I started “filling out” at the age of 11 – but not where I wanted to. I had to wear these really tight pants as part of my uniform at my first job at McDonald’s, and a trucker said to my 16 yr old self, “You fill out those pants real nice, darlin’.” I felt disgusting.  A family member told me I needed a wide-load sign on my butt.  True story.  It was said as a joke, but a 14 yr old girl does not find this funny.  I began to make my own big butt jokes, because hey, I want to put myself down before you do.  I started diets…or just didn’t eat. My face and waist were bones, but that backside kept her curves.  She wasn’t budging.  When Sir Mix-A-Lot came out with “Baby Got Back” I felt like it was my anthem.  I acted like it didn’t bother me when someone said about me, “Isn’t she a little too thick to be Miss Teen of Oklahoma?” But I died inside. And I quickly responded, “It was a scholarship and recognition pageant – you have to be SMART to win!”  I thought I was somehow putting him in his place, but really I was just agreeing I was thick but had other qualities to cover up for it.  In a singing competition I was told not to wear jeans on stage because, “You’re a little too curvy.” I’ve got more stories like this. And the thing is I WASN’T EVEN OVERWEIGHT! But my butt and people’s opinions of it made me feel like I was as big as Texas.  Even as I write this I am crying a little for that young beautiful girl in me who thought her ass was her identity and that it was too much.

Shopping for jeans was the absolute worst. I suspect it is for many females. But when you are 5’3” with an hourglass figure, there are a variety of problems. The waistline sticks out, you have to hem them for your short legs, if the waist fits then your butt looks giant…er.  As an adolescent I would cry at the Buckle store every mother-loving time.  I just went in and self-proclamied, “I need jeans for a big butt.” Here’s what happened today.  I walked right in and proudly asked for help  and said, “It’s always been so hard for me to find jeans for my body shape. I have a small waist and these really rocking curves. Can you help me?”  She smiled and was so excited.  She brought me 10 pairs to try on. I felt like a queen. She just kept bringing jeans and asking me what I thought about them.  I did not put my body down one time. I said things like, “these don’t accentuate the right spots.” I didn’t blame my body. I blamed the jeans and put those back.  And I found my jeans. I danced in the mirror. I celebrated this booty-ful woman I saw.   

Those stories from men in my past told my little girl self a story about her worth and beauty.  I grieved with her.  I showed compassion to her. And now I am telling her a new story – that I am a grown-ass woman who has her back now.  I won’t let those stories be hers anymore.  We do what highlights our beauty. We ask for help. I don’t hide her or shame her.  I put her in new jeans and remind her that even these clothes and how she looks in them aren’t a measure of her worth. When I changed perspective, I found the jeans.  I rescued her. I found mySELF.

Emergency Landing

The baby is sick.  Your mom is dying.  A child is in the hospital. A relationship has failed. You did not get pregnant. You lost your baby. Your adoption failed. You were abused.  You were bullied.  You don’t know your biological parents. You watched someone take her last breath.  You survived a tornado or earthquake, but your home or friends did not.  You just found out you have cancer. You are changing jobs. Again.  You are moving homes. Again.  The plane is crashing.

These are only a few examples of traumatic experiences.  My father is a pilot, and he has told me stories of landing a plane in an emergency – “If you feel, you die.  You just have to stay calm and do the next right thing.” As a therapist I talk a lot about identifying, honoring, and expressing our feelings.  I believe in this wholeheartedly.  Yet in crisis, most of us are not stopping and saying, “I feel scared right now.” We are stuffing that down so we can get to the work of landing the plane.  And this has its critical place in our lives.  We have to land.  If my father had let his fear take over, he might have lost his ability to rationalize through getting that 78K pound hunk of metal on the ground. But think about if we are in constant crisis – landing the every day planes of our lives – but not ever turning to someone and saying, “I’m scared. This is hard.  Can I tell you my story?” We lose connection – with others, our lives, and most importantly ourselves.  We go numb from all the crises when there isn’t time to share the experience.

AFTER WE LAND, WE MUST SHARE THE STORY.

Another woman has lost her baby and needs to feel your tears with her.  Another man has lost his wife and needs to know you understand the loneliness too.  Another family has experienced so much loss and sickness and needs to feel like someone else gets it. Yes, they need your casseroles and donations, but more importantly they need your eyes to look right into theirs and let them know you feel their pain.  Even if you don’t know what it’s like to go through their exact situation, you know pain. You know need.  You know what it’s like for your heart to be ripping out.  You know what it’s like to feel so much shame you can’t face someone or ask for help.  And if you don’t know these things, then look deep inside your heart for all those stories you have stuffed down while landing your plane. They are in there – gifts waiting for you to unwrap and share with others.

No matter where we live or who we are, it is universal to feel sadness, shame, guilt, fear, anger, hurt, loneliness, and gladness.  We may not feel them for the same reasons, but we feel them.  And when we honor those for ourselves or others, a beautiful connection happens. We connect to the loving spirit inside of us and we connect to other people. My white American woman heart actually looks the same as my brown Haitian boys’ hearts.  When I tell them, “you guys, mom is sad today, and I’m sorry I am not able to decorate for Christmas today like we hoped,” I am met with love, kindness, forgiveness, and a chance to connect deeper.  If I had not told them that and hid my sadness instead, it would have shown up as frustration that the decorations weren’t “perfect” or the stockings were hanging crooked.  We may have all got wound up in the freaking lights yelling at each other.  But instead we all shared our grief, hugged, and actually got those decorations up anyway.

As I look at my nativity scene I’m reminded of Joseph and Mary’s emergency landing in a little stable.  Hope began here.  Hope for you and me.  Hope for the world.  We are not without crisis or pain.  But we can connect our hearts in it.  We can show up like shepherds and wisemen to bring gifts of love and healing.  We witness the story of the crisis and connect in the landing. 

~If you are in an emergency landing, give yourself so much grace for your quick action and courage.

~Remind yourself it’s okay to be a little bit numb emotionally in the beginning as you are searching for the answers and a safe place to land. 

~After you’ve landed, share your story with yourself. Share it with a safe loved one.  Be honest about how you feel and what you’ve experienced. 

~You did a good job – the best you could do.  Honor your feelings.  Tell your story. Rest your weary souls.

  

Dead End

I take the same route on my walk just about every day. I know it’s the safer street with less traffic, it’s nice flat land, and I have it timed out so I know exactly what gap in my day I can fit it in.  It is predictable. There is the same yippy dog that screeches at me, the same neighbors in their yard, and the same cul-de-sac I turn around in that tells me I’m halfway done.  Most days I feel proud of my little controlled path.  And then one day I realized I pass a DEAD END sign every day. 

This wasn’t just a real street sign to me.  It was a life sign.  Every day I’m on a dead end.  I know exactly how it is going to go, because I do my best to keep it that way.  But then I have to turn around and go back, and my perfectly controlled "walk" doesn’t lend itself to any surprise, mystery, or exploration.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I am making it a writing habit not to shame myself when I have these discoveries.  I am using it for my good. I am waking up and learning.  I know this precise trail has been my constant in the middle of chaotic schedules and uncertain life stressors. So, I’m actually really proud of myself for finding a rhythm that worked in the middle of disorder.  And on this particular day, I wanted a new way.  I realized there are things in my life at a dead end, and if I want a new way, I have to face a new path.

I took off down a road in my neighborhood that everyone says not to take because “so many cars speed and can’t see you.” That sounded scary enough, so I was in. At first the hill I was climbing was brutal. I was already hating this road.   And then I realized I was on top of the hill.  I made it, and it wasn’t that hard.  So I kept going into the unknown.

I passed a yard with a dog who must have some kind of anti-bark device on her. She barked at me, but it was just muffled. I felt sad she had no voice.  I’m sure someone didn’t like her bark, and maybe she scared people, but I found myself angry that she had been silenced.  I discovered a little bit of myself in her, and I was thankful to have witnessed her struggle.  I told her I was sorry for her loss and to keep on trying to speak anyway, and on I walked.

As I rounded the corner, there it was. A beautiful scene of a quiet curvy road surrounded by the trees touched by Autumn and a bit of sunshine poking through them. The light was there just for me – I’m sure of it.  I felt the cool breeze on my face and felt thankful that even on a scary new path there is light to guide me and hope to lean into.

As I made my way back, new neighborly faces nodded at me. I saw a home under construction, and it felt like my heart. I identified with the pain of my insides being exposed but the promise of new shelter and warmth.  I could feel the hurt of the brokenness and the hope for fresh joy all at the same time.  I took a deep breath and found my way back home. Even scary paths lead home.

I needed to try this new way.  The dead end wasn’t life giving anymore. I’m sure I’ll take that dead end road on days when I need certainty and a little flat land.  But the beauty is that even on my new path I know a few things to expect – discovery, pain, joy, hope, and the promise of Light. 

~What dead end road are you walking?

~How has it served you?

~How does it no longer serve you?

~What keeps you from trying a new road?

~After you’ve tried a new road, what did you experience? What gifts did it have?

Whale Watching

On a recent trip to Maine, I went on a whale watch tour.  I jokingly, but with some honesty, said to my husband, “If we don’t see any whales today I want my money back.”  Maybe 10 minutes later the marine biologist came on the speaker to welcome us on our voyage and remarked, “Please remember, we are going into the whale’s natural habitat.  We may or may not encounter them. They are not in a tank at Seaworld.  This is nature, and we can’t control it.”

My heart both sank and lept for joy with those words – “This is nature, and we can’t control it.”  The sinking is because I really want to control it. Don’t you?  I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s so real. And if I break down my need for “control,” what I really want is something I can count on. I don't want the shock or surprise of pain and disappointment.  So I work hard to maintain a needed outcome. I write a lot about my self observations with some sense of shame, and I really want to point out this time that I am human and offer grace to myself in this awareness of control. Of course I want to control things - my past story tells me that chaos is always coming, so I must do my best to avoid it.  I must avoid the conflict and pain.  If I do a, b and c, then I won't have to suffer the hurt or disappointment.  I can give myself lots of compassion for feeling that way and also be aware I want another way.  So when the biologist said those magic words, I  felt released from the burden that “it’s all up to me.”  What freedom there was here on this sea knowing I didn’t have to say, do, or fix anything to make whales appear.  I don’t have that power. I can just sit, watch, wait, hope. I could also trust I would be okay if they didn't appear. But you know what, they did show up. 

I’m thinking about this in all areas of my life – how hard I work to fix, take care of, pursue, achieve, etc. to get a desired outcome and to tackle issues that feel as big as whales because I believe it's all up to me.  What if I pause? What if I wait in hopeful anticipation? What if I rest while the “whales” are swimming through their own forces of nature?  What if I could trust that process?  

We also learned that for every “blow” a whale gave and the number of times they surfaced, when they finally took their dive below, they would usually be under water for about 1 minute per blow they took.  So 5 blows = about 5 minutes under water. This is their breath – the needed oxygen they need to take the plunge and search for food.  They store it up as resources to do their work.  Everything in nature knows breath is the key component for life.  We rest to work.  We receive oxygen to use it.   I have been missing some breaths. I am taking plunges without breathing first.  And I’ve been coming up gasping for air most days. Again, I have compassion for myself in this. I've taken on a lot as a new mom of 3 at once, and I just want to do everything well and keep everyone okay.  It's normal to feel that way.  And it's also exhausting.

I am learning when I sit back and don’t try so hard, that’s when I take a breath.  The more breaths I take, the longer I can function.   I’m aware of my need for control and short temper with my kids when I haven’t gotten enough oxygen.  My body can’t draw on any reserves for compassion and patience.  It’s as if my demand for order is really my body’s demand for rest.  When I frustratingly ask my kids “Why do I have to tell you so many times to ________,” I’m really asking, “When can I get some rest” or “When will I get a break?” And here’s the thing – they can’t give that to me. I HAVE TO BREATHE.  I HAVE TO REST.  That’s up to me – not them.  And I can’t keep expecting myself to take a dive under water if I haven’t stored up oxygen. I’m just drowning.

On our way back to the pier that day, we encountered an unexpected whale surface.  The biologist excitedly shared how uncommon it was to see a whale in this part of the sea.  We were all just enjoying our boat ride back and were given nature's gift of one more sighting.  There is so much joy to experience after resting, waiting, breathing.   I am keeping those whales close to my heart to remind me of my own beauty – that with my breath I can truly see myself and others, and I have more to offer those I love.  I’m not powerful enough to pay money or achieve all the tasks in the world to make a whale appear, keep life predictable, or keep everyone I love free of pain and disappointment. Nature tells me I must breathe before diving, and that I must trust the process of life. It’s not all up to me.

Whale Watching

On a recent trip to Maine, I went on a whale watch tour.  I jokingly, but with some honesty, said to my husband, “If we don’t see any whales today I want my money back.”  Maybe 10 minutes later the marine biologist came on the speaker to welcome us on our voyage and remarked, “Please remember, we are going into the whale’s natural habitat.  We may or may not encounter them. They are not in a tank at Seaworld.  This is nature, and we can’t control it.”

My heart both sank and lept for joy with those words – “This is nature, and we can’t control it.”  The sinking is because I really want to control it. Don’t you?  I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s so real. And if I break down my need for “control,” what I really want is something I can count on. I don't want the shock or surprise of pain and disappointment.  So I work hard to maintain a needed outcome. I write a lot about my self observations with some sense of shame, and I really want to point out this time is that I am human and offer grace to myself in this awareness of control. Of course I want to control things - my past story tells me that chaos is always coming, so I must do my best to avoid it.  I must avoid the conflict and pain.  If I do a, b and c, then I won't have to suffer the hurt or disappointment.  I can give myself lots of compassion for feeling that way and also be aware I want another way.  So when the biologist said those magic words, I  felt released from the burden that “it’s all up to me.”  What freedom there was here on this sea knowing I didn’t have to say, do, or fix anything to make whales appear.  I don’t have that power. I can just sit, watch, wait, hope. I could also trust I would be okay if they didn't appear. But you know what, they did show up. 

I’m thinking about this in all areas of my life – how hard I work to fix, take care of, pursue, achieve, etc. to get a desired outcome and to tackle issues that feel as big as whales because I believe it's all up to me.  What if I pause? What if I wait in hopeful anticipation? What if I rest while the “whales” are swimming through their own forces of nature?  What if I could trust that process?  

We also learned that for every “blow” a whale gave and the number of times they surfaced, when they finally took their dive below, they would usually be under water for about 1 minute per blow they took.  So 5 blows = about 5 minutes under water. This is their breath – the needed oxygen they need to take the plunge and search for food.  They store it up as resources to do their work.  Everything in nature knows breath is the key component for life.  We rest to work.  We receive oxygen to use it.   I have been missing some breaths. I am taking plunges without breathing first.  And I’ve been coming up gasping for air most days. Again, I have compassion for myself in this. I've taken on a lot as new mom of 3 at once, and I just want to do everything well and keep everyone okay.  It's normal to feel that way.  And it's also exhausting.

I am learning when I sit back and don’t try so hard, that’s when I take a breath.  The more breaths I take, the longer I can function.   I’m aware of my need for control and short temper with my kids when I haven’t gotten enough oxygen.  My body can’t draw on any reserves for compassion and patience.  It’s as if my demand for order is really my body’s demand for rest.  When I frustratingly ask my kids “Why do I have to tell you so many times to ________,” I’m really asking, “When can I get some rest” or “When will I get a break?” And here’s the thing – they can’t give that to me. I HAVE TO BREATHE.  I HAVE TO REST.  That’s up to me – not them.  And I can’t keep expecting myself to take a dive under water if I haven’t stored up oxygen. I’m just drowning.

On our way back to the pier that day, we encountered an unexpected whale surface.  The biologist excitedly shared how uncommon it was to see a whale in this part of the sea.  We were all just enjoying our boat ride back and were given nature's gift of one more sighting.  There is so much joy to experience after resting, waiting, breathing.   I am keeping those whales close to my heart to remind me of my own beauty – that with my breath I can see truly see myself and others, and I have more to offer those I love.  I’m not powerful enough to pay money or achieve all the tasks in the world to make a whale appear, keep life predictable, or keep everyone I love free of pain and disappointment. Nature tells me I must breathe before diving, and that I must trust the process of life. It’s not all up to me.