Today I want to write about falling down.
I fell down ten days ago, struck with a sudden and severe case of vertigo that brought me to the floor, then kept me in bed, unable to lift my head.
When I was able to open my eyes, I scrolled through Facebook and watched a few videos. One was of a woman talking about giving herself permission to fall apart. Another was a Ted Talk about allowing girls to fail.
I need your help. I am the parent of a teenage girl and lately it’s been hard work teaching her to ignore the voices of the world—voices that say act like this, look like this, think like this; be better, brighter, thinner, smarter!
How do I teach her to listen to the whisper from within when outside voices are so loud and persuasive?
I’m an April baby. And I’ve always thought spring is a great time for a birthday. Who wouldn’t want to come bursting into the world accompanied by birds chirping and flowers blooming?
I think of spring as a time of renewed energy, purpose, and possibility. It’s a time to get moving again after the impatient, closed-in feeling I get as winter winds down.
I’m at the coffee shop, head down over my laptop, wearing a look of concentration that makes everyone around me think I’m being productive when, in fact, I’m berating myself for my absent-mindedness.
I left the house without my cell phone and had to drive back to get it. It was already an hour past when I meant to leave and I have no idea where that hour went. As I got back in the car for the second time in ten minutes, I looked in the rearview mirror and chided myself.
You sure are spacey.
It’s been a long-time dream of mine to have a team of people supporting my publishing career. Maybe it’s common to every writer who spends years down the rabbit hole churning out words that may never be read. The idea of having someone else believe in you enough to say “let’s share this with the world” has got to be the best feeling ever.
I’m about to find out.
Don’t you hate it when you have to follow your own advice? When writers tell me that they’re stuck, I always point them toward the present moment and ask:
What’s happening right now that you can use?
What is the conversation you’re already having that can be transferred to the page?
So when I was stuck this week about what to blog about, I grudgingly asked myself the same questions. And I didn’t like the answers.
I admit I’ve never read Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven, but I’ve been thinking of it anyway because of five people who taught me an important lesson this week.
I was in a complete funk, stressed out and shut down in the face of a problem that seemed to have no solution. I had a decision to make—one that would require not only a financial investment but also would force me to step into a bigger, bolder version of myself.
Last night, when I went to kiss my 12-year-old daughter goodnight, she burst into tears.
“Why can’t I see them more often?” she wailed. She was talking about her friends, the triplets, who had been at our house for a sleepover.
My daughter met the three sisters several years ago at a family summer camp, and the four of them have remained friends despite the 70 miles between them. They had a wonderful visit, crammed with movies, make-overs, homemade cake pops, and late-night giggles—the stuff of memories. But none of that stopped her from sobbing in grief.
I’d been looking forward to the visioning workshop for a few weeks. It was an annual event hosted at my spiritual center and would be held after Sunday services. The day of the event I made all the necessary arrangements to be gone all day: I scheduled a dog walk, made a lunch, and took an Uber so my son could have the car for the day. I was ready to vision my new year!
What I’d forgotten to do was pre-register. As the church service was concluding, the pastor announced that the workshop was sold out. I felt myself caving with disappointment, followed quickly by outrage. It can’t be sold out! I’m supposed to go!
Here we are, smack in the middle of the holiday season, and I’m waffling on how much good cheer I plan to spread. Too much will spread me too thin, and too little will make me feel crusty and crotchety. I’ve already told my kids that I don’t feel like buying a tree this year. “Jeez, mom, why not just cancel Christmas?” my daughter said.
See? There’s pressure everywhere to be jolly and generous, to shine brightly, to bake and shop and make polite chitchat. It’s the time of year for white elephants—the kind that come in wrapping paper or as 2-ton grievances that crush the joy out of family gatherings.
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