Seek Like a Child

Dear you,

Today is the last day of my twenties. I would like to tell you that I’m handling it well, and for all I knew up until last week, I really was handling it well. Everyone knows that the thirties are way better than twenties. Things come easier because you’re older and wiser enough to figure the answer to a question faster. There is no #adulting, there is only an adult.

And I have wanted to be an adult for so long. To be that older, wiser person. To have the hard won answers. I have wanted to be an adult so much so that I aggressively jump into every adult To-Do item like I won’t have time to do it tomorrow. I handle my and my husband’s budgeting, retirement accounts and investments, our health insurance and life insurance (yes, we do actually have life insurance because I am unsurprisingly not unconvinced that one of us will drop dead tomorrow), and I inventory the food and amenities in our house at the drop of a hat to make sure there is always enough, always something there to catch us should we run out of cash and need to eat mac and cheese for a few weeks. (No, this hasn’t quite happened yet; most times I just eat the mac and cheese cause it’s mac and cheese, but I always replace the box because you never know when you’re going to need cheap mac and cheese.)

I was this way in Texas and it’s only worsened in Nashville. Like survivor-level worsened. I am learning to preserve food like my life depends on it and yes, it really upsets my day when we throw away something we could have eaten but let go bad. I am hoarding books on what to do in case of emergency. (What emergency? Any emergency. First aid? Check. Economic collapse? Check. Fall of civilization and war-level conflict? Check and check.)

I could blame all this on He Who Must Not Be Named, and certainly the fault of a portion of this anxiety does lay at the feet of a government that’s done a 180 in six months, the collapse of the concept of truth, and a feeling that the world at large is getting ready to hole up and get theirs, others in need be damned.

But the uncertainty was here before January, before last August when we moved. It was here in 2009 when I was fresh out of college, freshly unemployed, and fresh into experiencing my first major economic recession. It was here when I was twelve and everyone around me was convinced that the computers weren’t going to know one year from another causing the world to collapse into chaos at the stroke of midnight. And it was here when I was a little girl and was told that good people went to a good place after they died and bad people went to a bad place and you better believe I fretted over what would be considered good enough to be loved and what could be bad enough to be unloved.

The uncertainty has been here all my life. It was here before me and it’ll be here long after me. But I guess, for some strange reason, I simply thought that uncertainty at thirty would be far easier than uncertainty at twenty. The reality is that it’s not; it’s the same and sometimes even feels worse because there is less time and more to lose.

For whatever reason, perhaps the ticking clock of my birthday, the fact that my birthday also now symbolizes a full year spent in this city, or we could simply blame it on the heat — all of this came to a head this past week. It was a rough week, so to speak, and by the end of it, I just wanted to be in silence.

So I went for a hike. The beautiful thing about this city is that there is no lack of trails set in large forests with climbs and views. There are so many that it’s easy to find a trail where no one else will be and, thanks to Nashvillians believing that 90 degrees is “hot,” there weren’t too many other people there this Saturday when I went into the forest.

I have a hard time with hiking trails and day hikes. Growing up in prairie and forest, a good hike to me means bushwhacking through brush and seeing what hasn’t been seen before. A hike on a trail maintained by a state park department means following an easy path and seeing nothing new. I much prefer backpacking where you can get away, have the phone out of service, carry everything you need on your back, really have to be careful or you really may not survive. (And if you’re wondering why I have to make everything so hard for myself, I wonder that too on a daily basis.) But I went because I figured I should, because I figured it would get me close to what I was looking for.

I followed loop after loop to extend the trail as long as I could until the last leg of the trail stopped in the middle of the forest. At the end was a clearing and three rotten wood benches in a circle. I took off my pack and lay down, feeling no more strong or fragile than the branches above me. There was something to this silence and this solitude that was comforting, something I had been missing. But it wasn’t the silence or the solitude itself. There was something underneath it and I searched to name it. But the airplanes were still flying overhead and a motorcycle could be heard in the distance, and after forty-five minutes of quiet meditation some other hikers holding loud conversation approached so I packed up and left.

It wasn’t until the next day that I put my finger on exactly what it was I missed. I spent the morning in solitude and in silence (as close as it’ll get in this city) and worked over what this rush of uncertainty could all be about. What was it that made me hoard safety in the form of a firm budget, preserved food, and insurance payments? I thought of the forest and how begrudgingly I took the day hike, how part of it didn’t feel real until I sat alone under those trees and thought about the quality of strength.

And then I thought: Perhaps I am having a crisis of faith.

I can hear my mother now yelling, “Go to church!” But it’s not church that I’m missing. The crisis of faith had to do specifically with the idea that I had always believed everything would turn out okay. No matter how bad anything gets, it’ll end up the way it’s supposed to. It will end, essentially. The fear and uncertainty will end, the same way Job’s suffering came to an end when God revealed it was all a bet with the Devil.

The work I do, the way I have always lived my life, has always been built on the foundation of people are good, the world bends toward kindness, you are not alone. I have to be able to believe that I am of service to whatever positive energy is out there and that that same positive energy will be of service to me. But being in this new city, grappling with this new world, it has been hard to feel the positive energy under all the discomfort.

Fear and uncertainty have been with me as long as I have been me. Continually leaning into discomfort seems to have become a recent pastime. I needed to go somewhere safe. The forest came close. But real safety came in the form of a meditation group I joined that morning.

I have been practicing meditation for a few years now but I’ve certainly fallen off this year. Of course, the time when quiet contemplation is most needed is the time it is the hardest. I know this and yet I still wasn’t taking my quiet time seriously. But as someone who has always kept a path to spirituality in whatever form it may take as a priority, it suddenly became very clear where the fear and loneliness came from.

So I went to the group, fear of lost faith far outweighing the fear of the unknown. We sat in meditation, we walked in meditation. We clustered ourselves wall to wall into a small room and took in each other’s presence. And then we talked. I was not the only one feeling a loss of faith, a lack of safety, a fear of something that cannot be named.

But we sat with it, together. We looked each other in the eye and acknowledged that what makes us afraid. And in that discomfort, we found faith in each other.

Being an adult feels like it should mean knowing the answer, being responsible, doing the right thing. But the world is hardly so clear cut. What worked before doesn’t always work again; there is always the need to evolve.

Sometimes, being an adult means never forgetting the little things learned in childhood. Every day features a new thing to fear and it’s easy to focus only on that one black hole in the vision. But there are so many occasions for grace. I learned long ago one need only seek like a child.

 

When The Buffalo Come

 

Dear You,

I grew up on acres of open country, split three ways between the pastures of my parent’s house, the utopic gardens of my grandparent’s land, and the river bottom twenty miles west where we set the cattle to graze. When I think about my childhood, the image that comes up first is that of grass, tall and yellow, waving above my head. There was something about being on the ground enveloped by the grass that made me feel safe. I would crawl along my belly, my hands clutching at the ground, as I pretended that the grass was a roof over my head and that it held me the way it held any other animal.

I remember believing that I spoke the language of the nature around me. I was more comfortable in a tree than at the dinner table. I could approach any animal like an old friend. If I asked kindly, it almost seemed the wind would blow on my request.

My grandparents were cattle ranchers and the operation was small and family-worked. A doctor in the city owned the animals; we did the day-to-day work and shared profits. Outside of that, my grandmother operated a small pecan-selling business. We would nose our feet around the crunchy leaves and test the weight of the pecans in our hands. Heavy was good, light was bugs. We would collect as many as we could carry and scatter them over a table laid out in Granny’s garage where we would pack bags and weigh them to scale. I could eat however much I wanted if I could crack them open, which I couldn’t. Granny could crack two pecans open just by squeezing them in her palm. I remember bruising myself trying to do the same.

I mentioned the garden as being utopic; it was, at least by my memory of it. There were beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, watermelon, tall rows of corn stalks that begged to be run through with hands out, and fruit trees at the end. An herb garden lined the far fence. Every morning, I would take out scraps for the compost and crunch each egg shell half at a time under my foot.

It seemed everything could be found out in that garden. Every Wednesday, Granny made a stew out of the beef and vegetables raised, tossing the clean, thick vertebra of T bone to whatever lucky dog got to it first outside the kitchen door. It stuck with me, how anything a person needed could be got from the earth so long as they took the time and the care and only what was needed.

The grown me takes stock of herself often and the things in which she places her priorities. I would like to be a priority of mine to live as my childhood self believed all people lived — within means and with gratitude and joy. But I have spent the past two months upending my life and breaking it apart and putting it together one little piece at a time. Before we left for Tennessee, I knew so much of myself. I was exercising. I was meditating. I was staying present with my friends and family and taking steps to minimize my impact on this world. I was feeling whole, or at least approaching whole.

Moving has obviously put a flux on our lives. It has upended me in a way that I feel at times has set me back years on my work on myself.On the harder days, I try to make it a priority just to be present and fail often at that. Lately, I have to squint just to recognize the smallest slice of myself. Worst of all, in my discomfort and in an attempt to assuage the low-level anxiety throbbing just underneath the surface, I have lowered my guard on what I will and will not do for this world. Impact? What impact? I’m lonely.

Last week, I came across a video from the protests in Standing Rock. A young man was being interviewed at the front lines. He kept his eyes on the police standing in front of him and he spoke with a pleading voice that broke your heart and an exhausted tone that was recognizable in more ways than one. “They’ll never understand,” he said. He braced himself on the barbed wire fence. “This land means everything.”

I remember thinking the same thing — they’ll never understand — when our little town’s fracking ban was overturned by the state. But then his eyes lit up and the people around him began screaming in joy — just over the hill, a herd of buffalo were stampeding their way.

I have always been a magical thinker. I’m not ashamed of it. I would rather believe that the universe passes along messages like folded notes in the form of signs and symbols, or that the whole fabric of our life force is knit together firmly in love, than believe that anything one human does is irrelevant to the rest of the world. I believe in science, of course. But I also find value in that which is just beyond science’s reach.

Seeing that herd of buffalo running full force toward the protest site — it felt as if the universe reached a hand back and popped me upside the head. Remember now, it insisted. The world wants to care for us, cradle us.

I said a quick prayer for the water protectors and acknowledged my presence on the earth with gratitude. I took a few actions of support for the #NoDAPL movement. I cried for all the ways I am continually reminded that we are no more and no less than the breath in all of our lungs. That weekend, my husband and I travelled hours to be at the wedding of two dear friends. And I danced and laughed and cried with as much joy as my heart could take.

Weakness comes and goes and brings darkness with it. It likes to slither in when it knows it will not be met with much resistance and can find an easy home. It likes to tempt when it knows you’ll give in. Just lay here for a moment, it says. Just go to sleep and pay no mind.

But this week, I am just that much closer to peace. I can find it in the small moments of my day. I imagine it as a small light, tucked in between my heart and stomach, that glows when noticed. Darkness will always have a home here, but so will this light. I imagine myself sitting by its fire, warming my hands, as I wait again for the buffalo to come.

To learn more about the #NoDAPL movement and stand with Standing Rock, visit StandingRock.org. 

 

 

Allowing the Subconscious to Speak

Dear you,

I have spent the last two weeks writing as if it was National Novel Writing Month. For those who are not aware, National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is where writers commit to putting 55,000 words of a novel to a page in just one month’s time. A complete novel for an adult audience usually reaches 80,000 to 100,000 words total but the goal is to just write fast without second-guessing and to prove to those second-guessers that yes, you do have time to write your story so just go do it, damnit.

I have never participated in it before and have really never had the desire to. All power to people who can finish whole drafts of novels in just a few months time. But I have always been a slow writer. I like to take my time with things and let the story unfold naturally, even in a first draft. I have found that when I write too fast, I leave intuition behind and shove myself into a corner that then has to be dug out with a buck knife.

Outlining a first draft has always been anathema to me. It’s a paradox I can never shake out. What happens to a character in a story is based on who the character is and who the character is is based on what happens to the character in the story. How else could I discover who these people are unless I just let them loose on the page for a bit? It takes sketching; your subconscious has to be allowed to speak.

But I am gleefully on a second draft. The subconscious has had literally two years to speak at length and I am now at the let’s do this, git-r-done stage of I just need to finish this fucking thing. 

So when I reached 50k last month and felt appropriately overwhelmed and then read Writer’s Digest’s latest article on the benefits of Nano-ing, the thread found its hole, the bullet its target and I thought: This time, I will good god damn do it. I have my outline. I know where the story needs to go. I just need to cut out the procrastination and just get it there. Advanced blessings to the people who have agreed to read this harried mess.

So I have spent the last two weeks writing at what I consider an unsustainably speedy pace. I get up two hours before I go to work, and because I am still a slow writer by nature, I usually have to finish up the word quota when I come home. I have neglected to wash my clothing. I have neglected to wash my hair, which has actually been a positive side effect (thank you curls.) I walk through rooms of my house in circles because I can’t ever seem to remember what brought me to the room in the first place. I have cried. I have argued with my poor husband who’s just trying to keep up.

All of this combined with the fact that I am doing this alone right now. NaNoWriMo takes place on a single month so that writers across the nation can make the pact together, check in with other, cheer each other on. And official NaNoWriMo is actually next month. Being the true stubborn person I am, it’s no surprise that I chose to take on this kind of word count without the benefit of thousands of other people who can appreciate the sheer torment of this goal.

Torment aside, there have been some big positives. I am moving through the story without doubting the intuition that gave me my outline in the first place. Every time I pass a monumental word count, I remember that I will finish this draft just like I finished the draft before it and the stories before that. I remember that if I just trust the process and stay the course, I will get to my own personal promised land. And sooner rather than later, thanks to this nutty goal.

But my subconscious is screaming. If I want to stay this course and stick with this discomfort, then it’s time to make some necessary adjustments.

Self-care during drafting is easily lost in the rubble of trashed pages and tears. We want to push forward, to get it all out, to finish it finish it finish it damnit, just finish the damned thing. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. And maybe we don’t want to think about anything else. But mid-way through this month, I feel as if I have reached the end of my words. Each day they get harder and harder to come by.

So I am renewing my commitment to self-care. Nothing demanding; let’s not walk into that trap. But simple things. I will stretch. I will make my bed. Eat some vegetables and decline the donuts that some demon from hell keeps putting in the work breakroom. Even a simple morning meditation has the power to recharge the most exhausted minds.

So future fellow Nano-ers: Make your outlines but don’t underestimate your need for rest. Check in with yourself. Feel the ground under your feet. Live with love in every breath. Allow your subconscious to speak. And when it speaks, listen closely.

 

How to Get the Good Back

Dear You,

You in this letter who may also be me. You, the person feeling disappointed in the world, grieving for the way we treat ourselves. I feel much the same.

Today, I sat and breathed with my hand over my beating heart, just so I could feel a realness within me. I listened for proof that I existed, that there was blood still flowing in my veins. Because in the midst of this violence, of this clearing dust, I felt small and swallowed and wholly un-real and wholly helpless. For a moment, I was afraid I disappeared completely.

There are things we can all commit to doing.

We can speak out against injustice, big or small, when we see it happening in front of us.

We can write to our leaders and demand our rights and the rights of others and fair and equal treatment under the law.

We can stand with our brothers and sisters, peacefully, when they are in need. 

Those are things we should all be doing on a regular basis, knee-jerk reaction, no hesitation when we are faced with the moment. That is how we define our lives — how we make ourselves real.

But when the moment is not before you. When you are alone, or working your regular job, or passing people on the street, or just lucky enough to be carrying on with the mundanity of every passing day of your life, everything blissfully soft and silent as you do nothing more than shop for your groceries — does the commitment still stand? When you are no longer in the eye of the moment, how do you make yourself real?

When tragedy is before us and we are all riled and ready to go, necessary action is easy to come by. But action does not have to end with the passing of the week.

Let us honor the tragedy by committing each and every moment to mindful loving kindness.

No agenda. No conversion. Just straight up, pure as hell love for our fellow selves. Compassion for those who are hurting. Compassion for those who have hurt because surely they have seen the depths of pain as well.

Cutting each other down, whether in actions or words, even a passing comment on the street or online, only serves to cut our entire human body down.

Not one of us succeeds when we continually stab ourselves in the back.

We will bleed out. 

Justice is a funny thing — a thing with which I sometimes struggle to see the value. Seeking justice in a vengeful manner will always leave the scales unbalanced. You took something from me and hurt me and my own; now I take from you and hurt those you love.

Of course, evil cannot go unchecked. It cannot be allowed to fester and grow under our skins. But this old idea of an eye for an eye screams of a time we have long evolved past.

How to check evil? How to replace evil intention with good? Right the wrongs you see without an expectation of retribution.

Good deeds done with an expectation of a trade-off are not good deeds after all. Justice sought with the intention of destroying the other party is no kind of justice at all.

The truest good is done without hesitation, without the hope of a payoff. It is done simply because it is right.

So here’s what I commit to do today, all day and everyday, to the best of my very human ability:

I resolve to walk through this world with kindness in each step. I resolve to look mindfully at my world and stay awake to my choices and actions, and to make choices and act in ways that bring positivity and compassion to this grieving world. I recognize what I can and cannot control and what we can all control is how we react, both in the face of adversity and in the face of our every day, grocery-shopping lives.

I commit to living each moment as a fundamental tribute to loving kindness.

I have no expectation of doing this perfectly. But I will try.

Let us grieve. Let us be kind. Let us love.