Good morning friend,
I hope that today you honor the passion and truth inside you and bring your actual self wherever you go.
Maybe these three thoughts will help fuel your bravery:
What is that thing you dream of? What if you didn’t give it up?
Why don’t you think it’s good enough?
What if you acknowledged the negative voices and said “but this is still more important”?
Here’s to you, brave soul!
Do your thing.
Non-rational corners of the brain get little respect. We are supposed to be “smart” creatures, do what “makes sense,” “think carefully.” And yes to all that. And also yes to purposefully manufacturing feelings and emotions that access the more primitive corners of the brain and have nothing to do with logic and sensibility.
Here’s what I mean.
“People often say that motivation doesn’t last,” Zig Ziglar points out. “Well, neither does bathing. That’s why we recommend it daily.”
When we plan and think about how to do life day-to-day, we want to grow, stretch, learn, accomplish–and so we tend to put a lot of emphasis on the rationality-stuff, and forget to plan for our emotions.
We are emotional creatures. We do big, brave, beautiful things because we’re having deep feelings.
What gives you those deep feelings? What triggers them? Fuels them? Replenishes them when you’re running on empty?
Reading a good book? Singing along to the Les Misérables score? Discovering a new poet? Getting the biggest, tightest hug? Asking your heart how it’s doing and writing the answer in a journal? Volunteering to help people in need? Laying quietly for an hour by the lake? A phone call to your best friend? Reading a story that deals with death or loss or grief and purpose? Finding a good quote to live by? Gazing at photos of Mount Ida, visualizing yourself, hiking boots, backpack, all geared up, trekking the wilderness? Joining a crowd to dance, sing, cheer, laugh, or some years just seeing a bunch of smiling faces on Zoom? Holding the little hand of your sweet kiddo as they drift to sleep?
We call them “mountain top” experiences, and they change our lives, and then, when the feels wear off, and we’ve been feelingless for a good while, and we got all rational again, and we barely recognize our once-emotional-selves, we remember those episodes and call them “mountain top” experiences again but with a sort of disapproval this time, like we had fallen for something, like how silly to get so high on feelings. Or maybe like we’re just feeling insecure and a little lost deep down now, because we can’t find our way back up the mountain.
So get emotional on purpose.
What gives you those deep feelings?
Do it,
plan it,
schedule it,
repeat it,
commit to it,
obsess over it,
enjoy it,
cry about it,
share it,
keep it sacred,
ritualize it,
commemorate it,
do it again,
do it again,
do it again.
Let’s not undervalue the truly life-changing impact of finding our feelings.
What emotions do you need today? And where could you get them? Go look, find, take them.
There is nothing silly or senseless or worthless about manufacturing vitality-giving emotions on purpose.
We’re creatures with feelings.
Feel on purpose.
I am a world traveler. An explorer. An adventurer.
Salty wind on a gloomy Scottish coast, with an order of fish and chips. Diesel smell from the red double-decker buses.
Giant red Maple leaves painted on the airplanes, a little memory to remind me that I had technically been to Canada, even if it was more through. Little me still wants it to count.
The palpable rush of confidence and swagger as sheltered teen me navigated the Heartfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and caught the MARTA, all by myself, to see my adopted family. Atlanta and its suburbs that, after a few trips, was my emotional stomping grounds, my “real home.”
Restaurants on piers in San Diego, with the loud sound of crashing waves. “Red and white,” a cryptic inside joke that out-of-place teen me and all my fellow travelers in San Deigo laughed and laughed at, though I never actually got it.
Homemade black-bean breakfast burritos at dawn on the road in Arizona with my big sister, and the jaw-dropping, don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it massiveness of the Grand Canyon when I first walked up to its edge.
The carefully-choreographed nonchalance with which I’d swing my backpack over one shoulder (only once accidentally smacking a fellow traveler in the face with the cool maneuver). The “oh yeah, this is my every-day, I’ve got this” demeanor I adopted whenever I had traveling companions, just to prove that yes, I’m a seasoned world traveler at seventeen.
Traveling by greyhound bus. Telling people I traveled by greyhound bus. Cred.
A long, long, long flight to . . . Amsterdam? And then to Frankfurt, where I logged onto an internet kiosk to send a quick love-note and discovered that German keyboards switch the Y and the Z. Struggling to keep my eyelids open so as not to miss my connection to Africa.
And then there was Ethiopia. Addis Ababa. I could write and write and write. The collapsed, seat-belt-less back seat of the taxi with the door that would swing wide open around curves. Ululating funeral processions. Wedding feasts. The way Amharic speakers gasp and raise their eyebrows to denote that they’re still listening. The beautiful Ge’ez script that doubled as code for my secret love letters. Morning prayers over loud-speaker. Blue and white taxis with boys hanging out the door yelling their destinations, and chaotic traffic like you’ve never seen (though YouTubing “Meskel Square” may give you a sense). Outrunning a bull down an alleyway. Beautiful old cathedrals. Getting lost at dusk in a corner of the city I’d never seen. Key Wat. And the streets of Addis Ababa coming alive with runners at 5am.
And Uganda. Kawunga ne ebijanjalo for lunch every day. The dancing, the rhythm. The elephants and giraffes as I rode a massive bus from one corner of Uganda to another. The beautiful landscape. The “oh-yeah-this-is-normal” feel of wildfires in the hot Savannah. The warm, generous welcomes in remote villages from the poorest of people. The python I suddenly notice slithering through the grass two feet away. Jack Fruit fresh off the tree. Roaring waterfalls, rivers with hippos and crocodiles. The several-story shopping malls and glamorous houses that told me that I’d learned only a tiny little version of the truth about Africa.
A dreamlike week in Mezzegra on Lake Como in northern Italy. All the pizza, all the wine, and fresh food from the little shop on the corner, where the deli attendant didn’t wash hands after using them bare to wrap our raw chicken, but like in a this-is-normal way. All the little restaurants serving food fresh from their home gardens. Showing up at the local super market fifteen minutes before the hour, only to see the doors shut and someone explain that they weren’t busy so they went ahead and closed early. Beautiful mountains and towers and villages and trails. An intimate elopement at the Villa del Balbianello with just my adventure buddy, our photographer couple, and the reckless driver of our wooden boat. And gelato, of course. Il dolce far niente.
And most recently, a few years of flying or driving or taking a train or doing whatever it takes to get to any and every gorgeous piece of America (or Canada) we can–from Big Bend to Glacier to the Rockies to the Smokies to Zion. And a weekend wandering Santa Barbara, driving its mountain roads, splashing in its waves, eating authentic tacos, and wishing Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster really lived there.
World-traveler.
That’s me.
That was me.
People still say I travel a lot. I guess I do, when we’re not hunkered down waiting out the coronavirus. But like . . . sort of traveling. I don’t fly on airplanes very much anymore, mostly shockingly long drives (think sixteen hours in one day), and pretty much just in the United States. But I didn’t mean to be a United-States-traveler, I meant to be a World-traveler.
When I left my home country for Africa, I discovered that a big portion of my heart belongs to exploring countries and cultures all around the world.
That just is me.
“But,” I haven’t left the country in five years. When I was twenty, I envisioned this World-traveler me flying off to a new land to explore at least once or twice a year. I knew how to, I learned all about it . . . this was what my life was going to be about, in a big way.
In the ten years since, I’ve flown across the ocean only once. Been to Italy and Canada. In ten years. Not what I envisioned. So . . . am I a World-traveler?
What is something like that for you? Something that is a huge part of daydream-you? Maybe a thing you used to experience, do a lot of, love, dream about, envision as one of the main threads in your life?
Maybe something you haven’t gotten to keep doing quite like you envisioned it?
Traveling? . . . Running? . . . Writing? . . . Drawing? . . . Volunteering? . . . Journaling? . . . Singing? . . . Playing sports? . . . Being romantic? . . . Adopting fur-children? . . .
Have you felt like you’ve had to give it up? Like you shouldn’t claim that title for yourself anymore, because it’s not accurate?
Maybe you used to be a runner, but not really anymore now that you’ve had kids. 13.1 used to be your jam, but now a slow 1 or 2 miles is a major accomplishment, when you even get the time for it.
And you still love “running.” You want it. You remember it. You know it. You miss it. You have your old medals, photos, miles logged on your running app, memories of worn down pair after pair of shoes. You occasionally look at your old race bibs and get very opposite feelings at the same time–happy and sad. . . .
Are you even a runner anymore?
Whatever your big thing is–and maybe you have a few of them–I wonder . . .
. . . why does time matter so much in your identity?
. . . and why can’t you still have it, even if in a more these-days version?
Why do we get so wrapped up in the passing of time when it comes to our identity?
You will always, always, always have the miles you’ve run. You’ll always have the countries you’ve visited. You’ll always have the people you’ve loved. You’ll always have the dances you’ve danced, the songs you’ve sung, the books you’ve read, the letters you’ve written, the rock walls you’ve climbed, the parties you’ve thrown, the puppies you’ve snuggled, and the accomplishments you’ve accomplished.
Why do they count less ten years later?
One day, it will be one hundred years later. And then, which will count as you? The one-hundred-years-ago you or the ninety-years-ago-you? At your funeral, who will be remembered? Only the you of the final couple years? Or the you that has lived a long and vibrant life of twists and turns and adventures and accomplishments and passions and stories and favorites?
Your memories and photographs of 10-year-old dancing you, 20-year-old dating you, 30-year-old running you, and 40-year-old parent you . . . they’re no less real or important or wonderful or YOU than they were 10, 20, 30, and 40 years ago.
Why do we judge ourselves by arbitrary measurements of time when we tell ourselves and others of our identity–of what makes us us? Why don’t we just access our deep down selves, even if our deep down selves haven’t had the chance for many years to show up the way they love to? The love for the thing is still there. The memories are still there. The reality is still there. The identity is still there.
You don’t have to throw back-then-you away. Now-you will also one day be a back-then-you. They all count. Let go of time a little when you know and share yourself. Let you still be you.
And why can’t you still do that thing you once loved and still love? Is it not normal for this stage of life? No problem, be abnormal. Are you not as physically capable of it as you used to be? No problem, do it slower/lighter/easier. Is it too expensive to do as much as you used to? No problem, find (or make up) a cheaper version of it, no matter how unique.
What would happen if we still just did that thing we loved–still love? What would it take?
Among other things, it would take just letting go of the need to be “the best at” or even “good at.” Can we let go of that? If we can, there’s a lot of epic life to be lived.
It would also take accepting the fact that the experience will just be different now. When I was sixteen, I could eat a lot more pizza in one sitting than I can now. And I don’t feel as great the next day as I used to. Okay. . . . That’s okay. And before my concussion, I could run a lot harder than I’ve been able to since. Okay. . . . That’s okay. And exploring and traveling for me looks a little different now than it did when I was nineteen. Now, instead of living on the other side of the globe for the better part of a year, I sneak in a couple quick hiking days into a long weekend bookended by long drives. A little less glamorous. Okay. . . . That’s okay.
So that big thing of yours . . . that thing that holds so much of your identity, but that you feel you’ve lost . . . are you sure you’ve lost it? Won’t it always be a part of you? And could you still find a way to live it and celebrate it some more?
I’m still a World-traveler.
I hope to do lots more actually physically visiting other countries in my lifetime. I’d love someday to do it very regularly. But for now, I take hiking road trips in North America, study languages from places I want to adventure, learn about other cultures through documentaries, and explore those places on Google Maps for hours at a time.
I always will be a Word-traveler. Even when I’m stuck at home for a season.
It’s who I have been. It’s who I will be. And both of those make it who I am.
Who are YOU, “even though” . . . ?
My friend Madonna pointed out this morning that as cities and states across America gradually start opening back up, each in their unique way, we are going to start seeing what the real new normal will look like.
For a long time, many people are going to be living in heightened caution. Wearing masks, avoiding large groups, hugging a little less (unfortunately), and the list goes on.
Massive world-changing events drive cultural shifts. It’s happened time and time again through history. Humanity comes out on the other side of massive events with collective changes: New widespread traumas; Heightened awareness of different issues than before; Increased and even urgent motivation for ingenuity and innovation; Maybe a little more consciousness. . . .
And it leads to new cultural flavors and norms: Widespread increases in security; A change in financial priorities, like saving money; Outspoken support of human rights that were once overlooked. . . .
A couple months in, over the first big hump of crisis and shock and solidarity, we notice that the masks aren’t going away any time soon. And we notice that even after they say “you can be together again now,” people still have this uneasy doubt and confusion over what and where is safest, over whether this or that friend is still too uncomfortable, and over when it’s going to be okay to hug again.
So, as my friend pointed out this morning, it’s sinking in that we are not going back. By the time we even could go all the way back, we’ll be a changed world.
There will be collective trauma. Loss. Fear. Changed priorities. Stress.
But what else will the new normal look like? The long term new normal? The world as it comes out on the other side of this pandemic–what will that new normal be?
Before you answer that, stop and think about two interesting points:
First: How does a trend start? A person does a thing. A weird thing. A new thing. A not normal thing. Quite possibly a brave thing. One person. ONE person. Somebody is the first one to do it. That is how a trend starts. That is how new practices start. That is how a tradition is begun, how a cultural norm is born: ONE person does a thing.
Second: Have you ever lived through a time of such widespread understanding and acceptance of whatever-the-heck-you-have-to-do to get through this? Suspension of judgment about how emotional and mental needs are met. Everyone suddenly getting super creative. Psychologists and non-psychologists all rushing online to say “IT IS OKAY IF YOU NEED TO [fill-in-the-blank] RIGHT NOW.” Or “IT IS OKAY IF YOU CAN’T.” In other words . . . all of a sudden, people are calling foul on “Expectations,” walking away from arbitrary standards of what works and what doesn’t. As everyone’s worlds have imploded, humanity has granted itself a free pass on being “normal.” Normal isn’t a thing right now.
Recap . . . First: ONE person can start a “new normal” thing. Second: All “new normals” are currently being accepted.
Can I just suggest that there could not be a better recipe for cooking up a beautiful new normal?
And that every single one of us gets to help decide how that new normal is flavored?
What are we going to put into the mix?
More friendliness? More vulnerability about things like personal struggles and mental health? More meditation? More conversations? More quiet time and down time? More acceptance? More smiles? More outdoor time? More volunteering? More concern and action for the people who need help or are hurting? More respect? More equality? More generosity? More kindness? More solidarity? More compassion? More diversity? More asking “No really, how are you actually doing?” More love?
What are you going to start doing right now, while everyone is allowing it?
What are you going to stop doing right now, while nobody is counting on it?
You actually get to be a part of creating the world’s new normal.
What’s your first ingredient you’re going to mix in? Message me, comment here, call a friend, post it on your story . . . say it out loud, embrace it, run with it: What are you going to bring to the new normal?
It’s ours to shape.
~
P.S. I’ll start. I’m going to say hi to strangers more and check in on friends more. Love to you all! <3
P.P.S. Thanks for the inspiration to start thinking about our new normal, Madonna, I want to hear yours! ;)
Hindsight is not always 20/20.
It’s hard not to judge our decisions and actions on a situation’s ultimate outcome.
We pick A instead of B, the situation goes terribly wrong, and we think “See? I shouldn’t have picked A. I should have picked B instead.” This hindsight feels simple. But it’s not. It’s fuzzy and confusing.
The world is a massive place teeming with a billion billion little forces. When your best laid plans go wrong (as they will), give yourself the space to remember: “The world is a massive place teeming with a billion billion little forces. Maybe this wasn’t all my fault.”
We have a tendency to judge our own decisions and the decisions of others (think significant other, friend, doctor, boss, teen-aged child, world leader–so many others)–to judge those decisions, after the fact, by what happened in the end. And then we draw powerful lessons. Lessons about what is “stupid” or “silly” or “unnecessary” or “not-worth-it” or “my fault.” Worse, we let others draw those lessons for us and, embarrassed, we quietly accept the lessons deep into our hearts.
A few examples might help . . .
You decide that you should speak up with your co-worker about something you don’t feel good about. Maybe something he’s doing that upsets you. Something that’s making your job harder. Maybe something you feel is unethical or unsafe. It’s such a tough decision for you to make–to speak up–because you hate confrontation, you don’t want to be mean, you’re worried about a putting a target on your back, you might be wrong, you don’t get the workplace politics game well enough. But you make up your mind. You speak up. And it goes terribly. Zero acceptance, zero awareness, zero accountability. By the end of it all, the one co-worker is out to get you and all your other co-workers have heard you’re a tool. . . . So did you make the wrong call?
Or maybe you’ve always been very socially anxious and don’t have a lot of friends. You grew up with too many relationships that went poorly. You never learned to trust that there was good in people. Despite all this, you finally get up the courage to make a friend. You try opening up a little bit. You put yourself out there. And it goes terribly wrong. Turns out he has zero interest in you, only in what he can get from you. He breaks your confidence and ends up shaming you for your personality and you’re left feeling more lonely and anxious than before you ever tried. . . . So would it have been better not to open up?
Or maybe you’ve been struggling for years over what you should do with a toxic family member. You need your own healthy boundaries and she always brings forward so much hurt and confusion for you. But “she’s family” and you do love her. Finally after some therapy and sleepless nights, you make the choice that you can’t have a healthy relationship with her and that you’ll both be happier if you let her go. Her birthday comes around later that year and, knowing how lonely she is, you feel deeply guilty and sad. You miss the idea of having a relationship with her and you feel deep sympathy for her sad experience of life. So much guilt. . . . So does that make the choice you made the wrong choice?
It’s easy to say yes to all these. To see something go “wrong” and immediately feel that your choice was clearly wrong. That it’s your fault. To say, “See? I shouldn’t have done that!” Shouldn’t have signed up for that race. Shouldn’t have reached out to that family member. Shouldn’t have stood up to the bullying. Shouldn’t have applied for that job. Shouldn’t have taken that medication. Shouldn’t have listened to that friend. Shouldn’t have auditioned for that choir. Shouldn’t have opened up to that person about being depressed.
But hindsight is not that simple. Choice-A being followed by Bad does not mean Choice-A caused Bad. And Choice-A leading to Bad does not mean Choice-B would have led to any better. A billion billion little forces. A hundred little choices. We do our best. Our instincts and our experience are helpful. We listen, we try, we leap. And sometimes, life also hurts.
When something “goes wrong,” please don’t jump to the conclusion that it means you never should have tried it. That you’ve made the wrong choices in life. That it obviously would have been better if you’d made the different choices.
And when someone says to you, “See, you shouldn’t have . . .”–please be careful about the shame and guilt you accept from them, and how you let their judgment change you.
Almost every time I’ve ever heard myself tell myself–or someone else tell me–“See, you shouldn’t have . . .” it’s been a very quick take, a very knee-jerk reaction, a very simplistic perspective. It’s been for the sake of putting out a spark, shifting the blame, self-preservation. Yes, sometimes we have to wrestle with whether we’ve made some bad choices or need to make some changes. But in my experience, most of the times we hear–from ourselves or others–that “See?!?” reaction . . . it’s not fair, it’s not realistic, and it’s not helpful.
Stick up for yourself a little. Keep that spark alive, the one you followed, even when you didn’t know how it would end up. Remember the billion billion forces, and make your little choices anyway, as best you can. And then, when life still hurts, let it be life.
Because very, very, very likely, yes you SHOULD have. And you should again tomorrow!
No shame, no embarrassment, no blame, no guilt. Live your life, no matter what they (or you) say when embarrassment sends them (or you) scrambling to explain life’s curveballs. You’re doing great. :)
P. S. After all, what if you just never bothered trying things you weren’t already certain about? . . .
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