There's a scene in the movie "Black Sheep" where Chris Farley slips and starts to tumble down a rocky mountainside, head over heel over head over heel and at one point he lucks out and grabs onto a bit of shrubbery. And he pleads, "hold on, little roots...stay strong!" right before the roots give way and the shrub and Farley continue rolling down the mountain at lightening speed. His bleeding and broken body finally comes to a stop at the base of the mountain and he picks himself up, looks back up from where he came from and exclaims, "what in the HELL was THAT?!?"
I relate.
My rocky mountainside has been a lot of things. Life will be going along as is and then wham! One misstep takes me careening down a brutalizing path of sharp edges and hard knocks. Grace is found in those little roots that seemingly pop up out of nowhere. Sometimes the roots keep us from falling completely to the bottom and other times they just give us a chance to catch our breath but either way, they're a break. That's what grace is: a breather. A break. Respite. A chance at renewal. A bit of healing happens where we can regroup, self regulate, chin up, and keep going.
May your humble little roots hold you for a while, long enough for you to catch your breath, so that even when you find yourself in a puddle at the foot of the mountain, you'll still be able to get back up to see where you came from, and where you are now going.
Happy Easter.
Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Monday, December 9, 2013
Raw in the Middle
Life is full of second, third, fourth chances. Just when we think we have our lives labeled, filed and organized, the label sticker gets ripped off taking our body hair with it. We're left vulnerable and exposed against the elements, completely lost and shivery. But then grace happens, and someone or something comes along and gives us another chance. An opportunity for reinvention, renewal, redemption.
Gump compares life to a box of chocolates and although I can't really argue with him (he's a runner, after-all) I have to add that life is also like a pile of pancakes. The box of chocolates is full of surprises, while the pile of pancakes is full of mistakes.
The first pancake is almost always burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. We learn from the experience and turn down the heat of the pan a bit. We add more water or a little less butter to the pan, and then we try again.
The middle batch of pancakes are usually melt-in-the-mouth fluffy, perfectly browned on the edges. Then the phone rings or someone posts a hilarious video on Facebook or one of the kids runs out of toilet paper. We get pancake-cocky, take our eyes off the pan and wander away for a bit only to jerk back to the sound of the shrieking smoke detector. The last three bits of breakfast are charred and rubbery, almost unrecognizable.
I don't think my purpose in life is to make the perfect pancake. And thank God for that. I can't even toast a pop tart. I believe that my purpose in life is to learn from my mistakes, to do what I need to do to stop from making any more of them, and then forgive myself when I do.
And most of all, to be thankful for my loves who show up at our table for breakfast. We don't huddle around the garbage can grieving the hot mess of pancake batter, but rather we gather together and eat the melt-in-the-mouth fluffy ones, perfectly browned on the edges.
Love kind of does that, you know? It pulls our focus off the garbage and fixes it on each other, instead. And without having had burned a few of my own pancakes, I would never have known this. Because without mistakes, there is no grace. And without grace, there is no love.
Gump compares life to a box of chocolates and although I can't really argue with him (he's a runner, after-all) I have to add that life is also like a pile of pancakes. The box of chocolates is full of surprises, while the pile of pancakes is full of mistakes.
The first pancake is almost always burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. We learn from the experience and turn down the heat of the pan a bit. We add more water or a little less butter to the pan, and then we try again.
The middle batch of pancakes are usually melt-in-the-mouth fluffy, perfectly browned on the edges. Then the phone rings or someone posts a hilarious video on Facebook or one of the kids runs out of toilet paper. We get pancake-cocky, take our eyes off the pan and wander away for a bit only to jerk back to the sound of the shrieking smoke detector. The last three bits of breakfast are charred and rubbery, almost unrecognizable.
I don't think my purpose in life is to make the perfect pancake. And thank God for that. I can't even toast a pop tart. I believe that my purpose in life is to learn from my mistakes, to do what I need to do to stop from making any more of them, and then forgive myself when I do.
And most of all, to be thankful for my loves who show up at our table for breakfast. We don't huddle around the garbage can grieving the hot mess of pancake batter, but rather we gather together and eat the melt-in-the-mouth fluffy ones, perfectly browned on the edges.
Love kind of does that, you know? It pulls our focus off the garbage and fixes it on each other, instead. And without having had burned a few of my own pancakes, I would never have known this. Because without mistakes, there is no grace. And without grace, there is no love.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Lola Lied
I'm not a cook. I know my strengths and weaknesses and I have no
problem admitting that cooking falls into the latter category. Smoke and
oven fires are commonplace, as are the shrill sound of the smoke alarm
and the carcinogenic char stuck to the side of the meat dish.
Lying has never been my specialty, either. I've gone through phases, dabbled in a huge ass lie or two but I quite suck at it. If my extremely guilty body language doesn't immediately give it away then I will surely pay my penance at night when I lay my head down to try and sleep through my guilt. It just doesn't happen. And quite honestly, (he he) in my experience I have found that a) the pain caused by the lie almost always exceeds the pain found in the truth and, b) truth always comes out anyway. It just does. Maybe not the way we imagine it to surface but it does ooze out in some capacity or another and I know that we all know this. So why do we keep doing it?
Because we're human. We have pride, we have excuses, we have perfectly self-validated reasons for lying and now we're so good at it that it would be a shame to stop. It's addicting. It fulfills our need to be something other than who we are. But then it hides who we really are, and all our pride and excuses and reasons and addictions grow larger than life and all of a sudden we've disappeared altogether. And we're alone. We have nobody left around us to lie to.
Freddy reminded me tonight of the time we lost "Lola" our red corn snake. One moment she was throwing down mice in her tank and the next she was gonezo. We went on a snake-rampage, searching every little corner of the house, imagining where a little snakey might hide but we kept coming up with nothing. We eventually gave up. Days passed. Weeks passed.
And then one day I sat down on the floor in the computer room to go through my school binders to find an old assignment and when I flipped open the pages, Lola was found folded, chilling and peaceful along the spine of the binder. I fucking FREAKED. I screamed and jumped and threw the binder in the air. The kids ran over to laugh at me and to collect their beloved pet.
Truth comes out. Lies can hide in cool dark corners but nothing charms them to the surface better than a bit of light. And then once they surface we can let go of all that worry that weighs us down, of when it'll show up, and where, and how much will it hurt? Because once it's out, we're light and free and able to go on living.
Lying has never been my specialty, either. I've gone through phases, dabbled in a huge ass lie or two but I quite suck at it. If my extremely guilty body language doesn't immediately give it away then I will surely pay my penance at night when I lay my head down to try and sleep through my guilt. It just doesn't happen. And quite honestly, (he he) in my experience I have found that a) the pain caused by the lie almost always exceeds the pain found in the truth and, b) truth always comes out anyway. It just does. Maybe not the way we imagine it to surface but it does ooze out in some capacity or another and I know that we all know this. So why do we keep doing it?
Because we're human. We have pride, we have excuses, we have perfectly self-validated reasons for lying and now we're so good at it that it would be a shame to stop. It's addicting. It fulfills our need to be something other than who we are. But then it hides who we really are, and all our pride and excuses and reasons and addictions grow larger than life and all of a sudden we've disappeared altogether. And we're alone. We have nobody left around us to lie to.
Freddy reminded me tonight of the time we lost "Lola" our red corn snake. One moment she was throwing down mice in her tank and the next she was gonezo. We went on a snake-rampage, searching every little corner of the house, imagining where a little snakey might hide but we kept coming up with nothing. We eventually gave up. Days passed. Weeks passed.
And then one day I sat down on the floor in the computer room to go through my school binders to find an old assignment and when I flipped open the pages, Lola was found folded, chilling and peaceful along the spine of the binder. I fucking FREAKED. I screamed and jumped and threw the binder in the air. The kids ran over to laugh at me and to collect their beloved pet.
Truth comes out. Lies can hide in cool dark corners but nothing charms them to the surface better than a bit of light. And then once they surface we can let go of all that worry that weighs us down, of when it'll show up, and where, and how much will it hurt? Because once it's out, we're light and free and able to go on living.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Suzy, I'm Sorry
Andrew, his daughter Kylah and I were chilling on the couch on Friday night watching cooking shows and talking. I can't remember what Andrew had said but it was (jokingly) self-critical in nature, and Kylah and I turned to simultaneously scowl at him. And without any thought whatsoever, the first thing that came to my mind and out my mouth was, "Andrew! Say sorry............to yourself!" And we all burst out laughing. It just sounded so ridiculous. Then we went on to act it out, how we'd apologize to ourselves, which made it all the more comedic.
But if you think about it, saying sorry to ourselves might not be a bad idea. The kids fight, and when they are tearing each other down I will always tell them to stop hurting each other because we all are so hard on ourselves already--we certainly don't need assistance! Makes sense to me. I bet that the million horrible things we tell ourselves about ourselves are way worse than what anyone else would ever say about us. When bullies get sent to the principals office and then forced to scrub floors as penance for their crime, we all feel better that justice has prevailed. But what if we bully ourselves? I think it's time that we march our asses down to the principal's office and spend some time cleaning our own house. Be nice. Play fair. Practice kindness. Say sorry to yourself.
But if you think about it, saying sorry to ourselves might not be a bad idea. The kids fight, and when they are tearing each other down I will always tell them to stop hurting each other because we all are so hard on ourselves already--we certainly don't need assistance! Makes sense to me. I bet that the million horrible things we tell ourselves about ourselves are way worse than what anyone else would ever say about us. When bullies get sent to the principals office and then forced to scrub floors as penance for their crime, we all feel better that justice has prevailed. But what if we bully ourselves? I think it's time that we march our asses down to the principal's office and spend some time cleaning our own house. Be nice. Play fair. Practice kindness. Say sorry to yourself.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Rediscovery
Here is another list in my iPhones notes section written on March 21, 2011 (two years ago!)
I always make lists of things I need to get from the store, but the 6 items on this particular list are incredibly random, and this pleases me. Re-fried beans please me. And then I guess "Bonecracker" and "Kickstart My Heart" are songs that I wanted to add to my running playlist (and never did, which needs to be rectified immediately).
"Retics" is short for reticulocytes, which are baby red blood cells. Freddy has a blood disorder and we keep track of his numbers. His body needs to make way more red blood cells than the rest of us because his spleen destroys them at a rapid rate, which in turn affects his hemoglobin levels.
But my favourite part of this section of notes is the quote from who-knows-where (I think it came from my dad, actually): "You don't always get what you want, but grace grows in the cracks." What a timeless truth. Maybe it's under the re-fried beans, but grace is there, waiting to be rediscovered.
Cat food
Paint and brush
Detergent
Dish soap
Waffles
Re-fried beans
Bonecracker
Kickstart my heart
You don't always get what you want, but grace grows in the cracks.
Retics 307
I always make lists of things I need to get from the store, but the 6 items on this particular list are incredibly random, and this pleases me. Re-fried beans please me. And then I guess "Bonecracker" and "Kickstart My Heart" are songs that I wanted to add to my running playlist (and never did, which needs to be rectified immediately).
"Retics" is short for reticulocytes, which are baby red blood cells. Freddy has a blood disorder and we keep track of his numbers. His body needs to make way more red blood cells than the rest of us because his spleen destroys them at a rapid rate, which in turn affects his hemoglobin levels.
But my favourite part of this section of notes is the quote from who-knows-where (I think it came from my dad, actually): "You don't always get what you want, but grace grows in the cracks." What a timeless truth. Maybe it's under the re-fried beans, but grace is there, waiting to be rediscovered.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Unchained
I believe in hell. Look around us! Hell is the environment that contains the consequences of our bad decisions. Sometimes the burn comes from the fire someone else sets in our path and sometimes we scorch ourselves, but either or, hell hurts. It doesn't just hurt us but everyone close to us.
Divorce didn't just hurt Jason and I, it hurt our kids. We hurt our kids. We did that. Pretending that we didn't totally shit the bed won't get us out of our painful mess and in fact the first step toward healing is acknowledging the pain we created and taking responsibility for it. We could sit in the middle of our beds pointing our fingers of blame at everyone else but at the end of the day we'd still have our own shit stuck to our thighs.
I love this part, though, that we have a choice. Once we acknowledge the hellish mess we are sitting in, we have two choices: to stay or to leave.
Some people stay there, feeling depressed and worthless, punishing themselves in dramatic self-deprecation. If I did that, then my kids would be robbed of a healthy, loving mother. I could stay stuck in my grief and dread my hair and eat sand and chew on my foot callouses. Another way to stay stuck would be to point my fingers and blame everyone else for my current condition. I could take on the whole world with my righteous anger, declaring war on anyone who even thinks about holding me accountable for my mess. I've tried both avenues and I can say that even despite moments of triumph and satisfaction, the peace didn't last and each time, I faced a dead end.
Grace isn't just a term used to rationalize bad behaviour; grace is a gift that is lived through the consequences of bad behaviour. What I mean is, grace isn't our ticket out of hell but our fountain of cool water in the midst of it.
Divorce hurts kids, there is no doubt about that, but that doesn't have to be the final chapter. I refuse to chain my children to my side while I sit in my shit, while I stand in my hellfire. I'll accept the fountain of cool water to drink because I want to share it with my babies. I want them to know that there is respite, that redemption and new beginnings exist, and that life doesn't end at our mistakes.
Divorce didn't just hurt Jason and I, it hurt our kids. We hurt our kids. We did that. Pretending that we didn't totally shit the bed won't get us out of our painful mess and in fact the first step toward healing is acknowledging the pain we created and taking responsibility for it. We could sit in the middle of our beds pointing our fingers of blame at everyone else but at the end of the day we'd still have our own shit stuck to our thighs.
I love this part, though, that we have a choice. Once we acknowledge the hellish mess we are sitting in, we have two choices: to stay or to leave.
Some people stay there, feeling depressed and worthless, punishing themselves in dramatic self-deprecation. If I did that, then my kids would be robbed of a healthy, loving mother. I could stay stuck in my grief and dread my hair and eat sand and chew on my foot callouses. Another way to stay stuck would be to point my fingers and blame everyone else for my current condition. I could take on the whole world with my righteous anger, declaring war on anyone who even thinks about holding me accountable for my mess. I've tried both avenues and I can say that even despite moments of triumph and satisfaction, the peace didn't last and each time, I faced a dead end.
Grace isn't just a term used to rationalize bad behaviour; grace is a gift that is lived through the consequences of bad behaviour. What I mean is, grace isn't our ticket out of hell but our fountain of cool water in the midst of it.
Divorce hurts kids, there is no doubt about that, but that doesn't have to be the final chapter. I refuse to chain my children to my side while I sit in my shit, while I stand in my hellfire. I'll accept the fountain of cool water to drink because I want to share it with my babies. I want them to know that there is respite, that redemption and new beginnings exist, and that life doesn't end at our mistakes.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Grief
Before you go into this, I ask that you read this post with a soft and respectful heart.
There's this quote that Jason and I used to ponder when we were working on what was left of our marriage and it goes like this:
"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results".
We'd come back from a counseling session with instructions to find something in common. We bought kayaks, floated around local ponds and ducked through tunnels of pond shrubs, picking spider webs off our faces and necks. We also tried local pub-hopping to find the perfect nachos as if finding the immaculate conception of peppers and cheese would be the expected miracle that would save our marriage. You know what we discovered? We both liked kayaking, we both liked nachos, and we both knew our marriage was over.
There are some decisions that are easy to make like wearing thongs under yoga pants and bare feet with sandals, but most of the time, the bigger the decision the more murky the water.
I believe that God hates divorce. Bloody hell, I hate it too and I guarantee if you ask Jason how he feels about the subject, he'd agree. But sometimes, when all we have to see through is pond water, we can only make our best guess with what we have in front of us, and in our limited human vision, we are only able to move forward but for the outstretched guiding arm of grace. What am I trying to say? We are fucked, but we're not fucked forever and ever because life and love doesn't end at divorce just like it doesn't end at cancer and in fact, sometimes the first time a person ever fully lives and loves is at the beginning of their dismal diagnosis.
Divorce is a very real and a very painful terminal illness and it causes a grief that often has no closure. But the gaping hole left over can always be filled with beauty and grace if we so choose, the way tulips spring out of the dirt above a buried coffin.
Please pass the nachos.
There's this quote that Jason and I used to ponder when we were working on what was left of our marriage and it goes like this:
"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results".
We'd come back from a counseling session with instructions to find something in common. We bought kayaks, floated around local ponds and ducked through tunnels of pond shrubs, picking spider webs off our faces and necks. We also tried local pub-hopping to find the perfect nachos as if finding the immaculate conception of peppers and cheese would be the expected miracle that would save our marriage. You know what we discovered? We both liked kayaking, we both liked nachos, and we both knew our marriage was over.
There are some decisions that are easy to make like wearing thongs under yoga pants and bare feet with sandals, but most of the time, the bigger the decision the more murky the water.
I believe that God hates divorce. Bloody hell, I hate it too and I guarantee if you ask Jason how he feels about the subject, he'd agree. But sometimes, when all we have to see through is pond water, we can only make our best guess with what we have in front of us, and in our limited human vision, we are only able to move forward but for the outstretched guiding arm of grace. What am I trying to say? We are fucked, but we're not fucked forever and ever because life and love doesn't end at divorce just like it doesn't end at cancer and in fact, sometimes the first time a person ever fully lives and loves is at the beginning of their dismal diagnosis.
Divorce is a very real and a very painful terminal illness and it causes a grief that often has no closure. But the gaping hole left over can always be filled with beauty and grace if we so choose, the way tulips spring out of the dirt above a buried coffin.
Please pass the nachos.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Gospel of Farley
Jake has been pestering me to fill out his high school registration form and because I am a) in denial that my baby Jake is going to high school and b) because I'm in denial that my baby Jake is going to high school, I'm putting it off for as long as possible. Instead, we sat down together tonight and watched the best of Chris Farley, Saturday Night Live.
One of my favourite scenes is during the "Chris Farley Show" (a spoof, naturally) where he interviews Paul McCartney and comments on one of his quotes: "The love you take is equal to the love you make." Jake and I talked about it for a bit and interpreted it as that we need to love as we want to be loved. We need to treat others the way we want to be treated. We can't expect the world to lick our wounds while we keep walking into the fire.
The kids know that I am easy-going and all-loving, and sickeningly so, but they also understand that if there's one thing on this earth that makes me homicidal, it's when someone parks in our designated reserved parking spot outside of our home. When we pulled in yesterday, I found a white domestic car parked in our spot, and I proceeded to furiously scribble a nasty note onto a piece of slurpee-stained napkin to leave on their windshield, but when the suspected assholes started walking toward their car I tucked the sticky napkin into my pocket and then went all like, passive-aggressive on them, killing them with majorly loud body language.
Did I feel better after that?
No.
I don't need to accept the bullshit that this world has to offer but I certainly do not need to seek it out, either.
It was a gorgeous sunny day out today and everyone was in a great mood. We piled into the van with skateboards and scooters and bikes and headed to the park but just as we were loading up the van, the same people from yesterday pulled in and parked beside us, in the regular parking spots. I gave them a sheepish smile and they nodded a graceful look in return and I knew that all was okay. Not just with us, but with the world. Because love doesn't merely exist with us, but in spite of us.
The love we make is equal to the love we take, true. But it's not a transaction or it wouldn't be love. Love is a gift. Love is grace. We accept it undeservedly and we give it unreservedly. But if we keep walking into the fire with the expectation that the world will keep licking our wounds then we will get burned. And we will lose our parking spot.
One of my favourite scenes is during the "Chris Farley Show" (a spoof, naturally) where he interviews Paul McCartney and comments on one of his quotes: "The love you take is equal to the love you make." Jake and I talked about it for a bit and interpreted it as that we need to love as we want to be loved. We need to treat others the way we want to be treated. We can't expect the world to lick our wounds while we keep walking into the fire.
The kids know that I am easy-going and all-loving, and sickeningly so, but they also understand that if there's one thing on this earth that makes me homicidal, it's when someone parks in our designated reserved parking spot outside of our home. When we pulled in yesterday, I found a white domestic car parked in our spot, and I proceeded to furiously scribble a nasty note onto a piece of slurpee-stained napkin to leave on their windshield, but when the suspected assholes started walking toward their car I tucked the sticky napkin into my pocket and then went all like, passive-aggressive on them, killing them with majorly loud body language.
Did I feel better after that?
No.
I don't need to accept the bullshit that this world has to offer but I certainly do not need to seek it out, either.
It was a gorgeous sunny day out today and everyone was in a great mood. We piled into the van with skateboards and scooters and bikes and headed to the park but just as we were loading up the van, the same people from yesterday pulled in and parked beside us, in the regular parking spots. I gave them a sheepish smile and they nodded a graceful look in return and I knew that all was okay. Not just with us, but with the world. Because love doesn't merely exist with us, but in spite of us.
The love we make is equal to the love we take, true. But it's not a transaction or it wouldn't be love. Love is a gift. Love is grace. We accept it undeservedly and we give it unreservedly. But if we keep walking into the fire with the expectation that the world will keep licking our wounds then we will get burned. And we will lose our parking spot.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Don't Flush Yet
Like sitting on the toilet in the morning after an evening buffet of Indian food dinner, I'm not sure how this is going to come out. As much as I enjoy a solid purge of personal information, I also realize that I need to pick my audience and I'm pretty sure that letting my private life splash into the bowl of cyberspace doesn't come without some dirty consequences. However, my reason for sharing my life with others is to build community and sometimes all it takes for a bond to form is to have one person take the plunge.
Within the last three weeks, doctors have found two different types of cancer cells in my body (two different areas). That's the only part that sucks, because the good news is that both types are completely treatable. But what if I had walked out of the doctor's office today with a diagnosis of malignant melanoma? Would I be sitting in my room right now, scowling at the cat fur stuck to the edge of my chair? No. But the thing is, is that I didn't get that diagnosis.
So how should I live from this moment on? How do I not let myself get caught up in the "what ifs?" and yet, and yet maintain the understanding that each day of my life is a gift? I need to somehow find that balance between being thankful for my life and respecting it. Accepting grace, but not abusing its generosity. Today is a gift, not an entitlement. Life doesn't owe me anything and in fact, life might very well smack me upside the head every once in a while and leave me bleeding in a fucking ditch.
I know what I do want though, and that is to live life and love fully. If I get stuck in the land of what ifs then I will feel the pinch of its roped-in limitations. I vow to move forward with a soft heart, a respectful attitude toward the fragile gift of life, and a fearless dedication to love well.
Take my hand! I washed them, I promise.
Within the last three weeks, doctors have found two different types of cancer cells in my body (two different areas). That's the only part that sucks, because the good news is that both types are completely treatable. But what if I had walked out of the doctor's office today with a diagnosis of malignant melanoma? Would I be sitting in my room right now, scowling at the cat fur stuck to the edge of my chair? No. But the thing is, is that I didn't get that diagnosis.
So how should I live from this moment on? How do I not let myself get caught up in the "what ifs?" and yet, and yet maintain the understanding that each day of my life is a gift? I need to somehow find that balance between being thankful for my life and respecting it. Accepting grace, but not abusing its generosity. Today is a gift, not an entitlement. Life doesn't owe me anything and in fact, life might very well smack me upside the head every once in a while and leave me bleeding in a fucking ditch.
I know what I do want though, and that is to live life and love fully. If I get stuck in the land of what ifs then I will feel the pinch of its roped-in limitations. I vow to move forward with a soft heart, a respectful attitude toward the fragile gift of life, and a fearless dedication to love well.
Take my hand! I washed them, I promise.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Grace
This is an excerpt from my journal on August 9th, 2010 (during my dreadlocks/raw food phase):
I am in grace and grace is in me. It's not something I need to work for or earn, it's just there like air and water and blood and sweat. Whether or not I acknowledge it doesn't make it exist or not but where my choice lies is if I will actually live it, breathe it, sweat it, taste it and share it. Grace is a gift, something I need to surrender to, like water. If I'm in an ocean I can struggle and fight but I'll sink. If I surrender, I'll float. Surrendering in an ocean is freaky because we have to splay out our arms and legs in this hugely vulnerable position with our head up, necks exposed, where the targets are hard to miss and easily fatal. But surrendering keeps us alive whereas fighting it will sink us, and fast.
I love the grace as water analogy because it's not human nature, necessarily, to be comfortable in water. Walking around on dry land comes naturally to humans. It's no great feat and certainly not very character-building.
I have had several people comment on how robotic or unhappy I seem lately. At first it really bugged me. It shook me up a bit! But then I think I realize that it's okay that I am a bit blah to them right now. It's just a season of my life: growing pains. I planted my spinach, peas and bean seeds and I love watching them grow. It was pretty damn dull at the beginning. I had to mix a pile of cow shit and dirt together, stuff it into a cup, then jam a little brown seed deep into the middle of it and water them every day. It sucked. Nothing happened. But then one day I saw little green shoots come up and the kids and I rushed outside and peered into the little containers and oooohed and ahhhed at them like they were the most exciting things on the planet.
So, sure... I may not exactly be a barrel of laughs right now. I may wear boring hemp skirts a little too often and my hair might look like a rats' nest. But really, is that a window to my soul? Could it be that I'm just a little brown seed trying to fight my way through a pile of manure? And could people give me a little water and sunshine already instead of kicking sand over me? Sometimes I wonder if people need me to be happy for me, or for them.
I love living authentically, it's such a freeing feeling. I certainly don't want to come across as haughty or uncaring but I owe it to myself to be able to look fully into the faces of the people around me without apologizing for my existence.
It's time for me to live that grace out and it's not going to happen if I'm trying to hold myself together all the time. It's time that I let go and let Suzy be Suzy and let God be God. It's such a freeing, peaceful feeling. My sprouts will come, just a little more water.
I am in grace and grace is in me. It's not something I need to work for or earn, it's just there like air and water and blood and sweat. Whether or not I acknowledge it doesn't make it exist or not but where my choice lies is if I will actually live it, breathe it, sweat it, taste it and share it. Grace is a gift, something I need to surrender to, like water. If I'm in an ocean I can struggle and fight but I'll sink. If I surrender, I'll float. Surrendering in an ocean is freaky because we have to splay out our arms and legs in this hugely vulnerable position with our head up, necks exposed, where the targets are hard to miss and easily fatal. But surrendering keeps us alive whereas fighting it will sink us, and fast.
I love the grace as water analogy because it's not human nature, necessarily, to be comfortable in water. Walking around on dry land comes naturally to humans. It's no great feat and certainly not very character-building.
I have had several people comment on how robotic or unhappy I seem lately. At first it really bugged me. It shook me up a bit! But then I think I realize that it's okay that I am a bit blah to them right now. It's just a season of my life: growing pains. I planted my spinach, peas and bean seeds and I love watching them grow. It was pretty damn dull at the beginning. I had to mix a pile of cow shit and dirt together, stuff it into a cup, then jam a little brown seed deep into the middle of it and water them every day. It sucked. Nothing happened. But then one day I saw little green shoots come up and the kids and I rushed outside and peered into the little containers and oooohed and ahhhed at them like they were the most exciting things on the planet.
So, sure... I may not exactly be a barrel of laughs right now. I may wear boring hemp skirts a little too often and my hair might look like a rats' nest. But really, is that a window to my soul? Could it be that I'm just a little brown seed trying to fight my way through a pile of manure? And could people give me a little water and sunshine already instead of kicking sand over me? Sometimes I wonder if people need me to be happy for me, or for them.
I love living authentically, it's such a freeing feeling. I certainly don't want to come across as haughty or uncaring but I owe it to myself to be able to look fully into the faces of the people around me without apologizing for my existence.
It's time for me to live that grace out and it's not going to happen if I'm trying to hold myself together all the time. It's time that I let go and let Suzy be Suzy and let God be God. It's such a freeing, peaceful feeling. My sprouts will come, just a little more water.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
By Life
Contrary to what the majority of people think, grace takes practice. I think most of us were taught that grace is something that's being constantly poured into us by some sort of intrusive free pass to be lazy assholes. Grace has been referred to as an "easy way out" or a lazy man's excuse to stay stuck. We fuck up, pray a little prayer and then dive right back into our stench. It's not surprising that the idea of grace has been left sitting in the dusty bookcase between the Bible and the spare key to my 1987 Firefly that I sold in 1999.
It's almost like there's two major groups of people: the grace abusers and the grace refusers.
The grace abusers are the people we love to hate. They mess up like we all do but then the second they walk through those church doors on Sunday they assume that they're all good to go again. Church on Sunday? Check. Best casserole brought to the church ladies' brunch? Check. Pole stuck sideways up their bums? Check. Check. Check. They "do" all the right things, desperate to try to erase that nagging voice in their hearts that tells them that the ropes on their wrists can simply be untied by their good deeds. The sun comes back up on Monday and they, pregnant with good intentions, realize that they can only control their lives for so long before their white-knuckled grip starts to slip and they fall right back into their mess, throwing grace out with the bathwater.
The grace refusers wear martyr masks. They're the people who have an extremely hard time accepting free coffee bought by the people in the car in front of them in the drive-through. They bend backwards so far in a gumbyesque fashion that their heads end up in their asses. They say things like, "oh, save it for someone who really needs it," or "I couldn't possibly" and "I'll be okay (wearing a wounded expression) but thanks so much anyway!" They're not secure enough in who they are to be able to plant both feet firmly on the ground to receive that much-needed bear hug. They crumple and slink around, hunched over and pathetic, desperate for others to stroke their martyrdom.
I've been both a grace abuser and a grace refuser. Honestly, I felt much better about myself being a grace refuser. I felt stronger and more authentic, like I was doing the world a huge favor by not taking any handouts. At least when I was a grace abuser, I put in some sort of effort to accept grace. By refusing it, I simply became even more self-centred despite my seemingly selfless outlook on grace. It looks selfless on the outside but because I refused grace, I simply got stuck in my mess. We all shit the bed, but grace refusers just sit in it, reeking like death. People come to visit us, offering us buckets of water and soap but we refuse their help, reassuring them that, "I'll be okay, but thanks so much anyway!" Time goes by and we realize that we are alone and we wonder why.
It's the great paradox: grace is free but it takes an insurmountable amount of strength to receive it. Not strong by white-knuckling self-control, no, and not independent self-absorbed "strength" where we assume we "don't need anything from anyone." I'm talking about the strength that comes from acknowledging that sometimes, we need. It's so easy to puff our chests out in hot-headed pride and refuse help and sure, we'd "be okay" for a while. But by pushing everyone away, we'll end up awfully lonely.
There's a third category of people and this is where I want to be: grace believers. The word belief comes from the term, "by life" which essentially implies that a belief is not stagnant but dynamic--something that is lived out. Grace believers are strong enough to acknowledge that we need, and then we clean house and move forward. And because we know how to receive grace and then walk in it, we will then be able to hand it out to others. All we can do is hope that the people we give it to will be strong enough to believe in it too.
It's almost like there's two major groups of people: the grace abusers and the grace refusers.
The grace abusers are the people we love to hate. They mess up like we all do but then the second they walk through those church doors on Sunday they assume that they're all good to go again. Church on Sunday? Check. Best casserole brought to the church ladies' brunch? Check. Pole stuck sideways up their bums? Check. Check. Check. They "do" all the right things, desperate to try to erase that nagging voice in their hearts that tells them that the ropes on their wrists can simply be untied by their good deeds. The sun comes back up on Monday and they, pregnant with good intentions, realize that they can only control their lives for so long before their white-knuckled grip starts to slip and they fall right back into their mess, throwing grace out with the bathwater.
The grace refusers wear martyr masks. They're the people who have an extremely hard time accepting free coffee bought by the people in the car in front of them in the drive-through. They bend backwards so far in a gumbyesque fashion that their heads end up in their asses. They say things like, "oh, save it for someone who really needs it," or "I couldn't possibly" and "I'll be okay (wearing a wounded expression) but thanks so much anyway!" They're not secure enough in who they are to be able to plant both feet firmly on the ground to receive that much-needed bear hug. They crumple and slink around, hunched over and pathetic, desperate for others to stroke their martyrdom.
I've been both a grace abuser and a grace refuser. Honestly, I felt much better about myself being a grace refuser. I felt stronger and more authentic, like I was doing the world a huge favor by not taking any handouts. At least when I was a grace abuser, I put in some sort of effort to accept grace. By refusing it, I simply became even more self-centred despite my seemingly selfless outlook on grace. It looks selfless on the outside but because I refused grace, I simply got stuck in my mess. We all shit the bed, but grace refusers just sit in it, reeking like death. People come to visit us, offering us buckets of water and soap but we refuse their help, reassuring them that, "I'll be okay, but thanks so much anyway!" Time goes by and we realize that we are alone and we wonder why.
It's the great paradox: grace is free but it takes an insurmountable amount of strength to receive it. Not strong by white-knuckling self-control, no, and not independent self-absorbed "strength" where we assume we "don't need anything from anyone." I'm talking about the strength that comes from acknowledging that sometimes, we need. It's so easy to puff our chests out in hot-headed pride and refuse help and sure, we'd "be okay" for a while. But by pushing everyone away, we'll end up awfully lonely.
There's a third category of people and this is where I want to be: grace believers. The word belief comes from the term, "by life" which essentially implies that a belief is not stagnant but dynamic--something that is lived out. Grace believers are strong enough to acknowledge that we need, and then we clean house and move forward. And because we know how to receive grace and then walk in it, we will then be able to hand it out to others. All we can do is hope that the people we give it to will be strong enough to believe in it too.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Day Sixteen
If you ever want to lose faith, hope and love in a giant motherfucking hurry, get divorced.
I grew up within the bubble of Christianity; I went to church, Sunday School, Christian private school and Christian University. Let's just say I learned a lot about Christ.
Even when I didn't believe in the things I was learning, I still dug deep, chewing the material like an overdone steak. I wanted to squeeze as much as I could out of what I was learning so that I knew for sure what I believed to be true and what I did not. I wanted to make it my own, which is important. I'm glad I did.
Grace is one of the foundations of Christianity (my favourite topic of all time; I could talk about grace for HOURS). Faith, hope and love are the mothers of grace in that it takes faith, hope and love to first unclench our fists in order to receive and give grace. And we need grace because grace is movement. It's action. I can't just say, "I grace you" and stand there like a donkey. I can say "I love you, I have faith in you, I have hope in you" until I'm blue in the face but I won't show it without grace. Hee-haw.
See? This post isn't even supposed to be about grace but I can't stop!
I want to talk about faith and hope. Ask anyone who has been through a divorce how much their hope and faith in anything has changed and they will tell you that they either have very little left, or none at all. Standing at the alter, the couple is pregnant with hope for the future. They have dreams and ideas of what life will be like together and while they're exchanging their vows they're teetering on the edge of this free-fall not caring how risky it is as long as their bodies are intertwined on the way down.
Divorce causes the death of this hope and nothing is more disabling than hopelessness.
Faith (in God, or in relationships, or in the capacity to love and trust again) is like the very first baby step toward rebuilding hope. It's a choice, whether or not we're going to stay stuck or move forward. I used to silently mock the ignorance of faith but after trying it out myself I now view it with respect. I used to think that only children and needy pathetic adults depend on faith (and maybe some do just to fill in the gaps of their own ignorance, allowing them to be lazy in their spirituality) but now I realize that it takes massive amounts of both courage and humility to have faith to move forward, to take that first step.
And that's where trust is formed, is rebuilt, by that very first baby step of faith. Without that first step, trust is empty, the future is hopeless. And only by the grace that we give and receive are we able to even imagine taking that first step of faith. Knowing that we aren't perfect and understanding that it's okay to be just as we are in that very moment, are we then able to unclench our fists and let go.
And as we free-fall, we learn that we don't hit every branch on the way down, that sometimes we can actually fly. And we wouldn't have been able to feel the invigorating feeling of flight if we hadn't made that conscious decision to let go in the first place. Have faith, have hope, and love...and I promise you that by grace you will get un-stuck, and you'll give this life something to remember.
Move it.
I grew up within the bubble of Christianity; I went to church, Sunday School, Christian private school and Christian University. Let's just say I learned a lot about Christ.
Even when I didn't believe in the things I was learning, I still dug deep, chewing the material like an overdone steak. I wanted to squeeze as much as I could out of what I was learning so that I knew for sure what I believed to be true and what I did not. I wanted to make it my own, which is important. I'm glad I did.
Grace is one of the foundations of Christianity (my favourite topic of all time; I could talk about grace for HOURS). Faith, hope and love are the mothers of grace in that it takes faith, hope and love to first unclench our fists in order to receive and give grace. And we need grace because grace is movement. It's action. I can't just say, "I grace you" and stand there like a donkey. I can say "I love you, I have faith in you, I have hope in you" until I'm blue in the face but I won't show it without grace. Hee-haw.
See? This post isn't even supposed to be about grace but I can't stop!
I want to talk about faith and hope. Ask anyone who has been through a divorce how much their hope and faith in anything has changed and they will tell you that they either have very little left, or none at all. Standing at the alter, the couple is pregnant with hope for the future. They have dreams and ideas of what life will be like together and while they're exchanging their vows they're teetering on the edge of this free-fall not caring how risky it is as long as their bodies are intertwined on the way down.
Divorce causes the death of this hope and nothing is more disabling than hopelessness.
Faith (in God, or in relationships, or in the capacity to love and trust again) is like the very first baby step toward rebuilding hope. It's a choice, whether or not we're going to stay stuck or move forward. I used to silently mock the ignorance of faith but after trying it out myself I now view it with respect. I used to think that only children and needy pathetic adults depend on faith (and maybe some do just to fill in the gaps of their own ignorance, allowing them to be lazy in their spirituality) but now I realize that it takes massive amounts of both courage and humility to have faith to move forward, to take that first step.
And that's where trust is formed, is rebuilt, by that very first baby step of faith. Without that first step, trust is empty, the future is hopeless. And only by the grace that we give and receive are we able to even imagine taking that first step of faith. Knowing that we aren't perfect and understanding that it's okay to be just as we are in that very moment, are we then able to unclench our fists and let go.
And as we free-fall, we learn that we don't hit every branch on the way down, that sometimes we can actually fly. And we wouldn't have been able to feel the invigorating feeling of flight if we hadn't made that conscious decision to let go in the first place. Have faith, have hope, and love...and I promise you that by grace you will get un-stuck, and you'll give this life something to remember.
Move it.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Day Nine
As a daily runner, I see a lot of things that most people don't see:
On weekend mornings, more often than not there is a pile of puke at one of the bus stops along the main road. One time last winter there was a macaroni barf that sat for weeks--it just kept freezing and thawing and re-freezing.
I know that every evening at 7pm for the past 5 years, Pat walks her little dog Penny and every evening at 7pm prior to those 5 years, she walked her little dog Mikey.
Ninety-nine percent of drivers don't even glance to their right before turning right onto a main road--they just look left at the oncoming traffic, narrowly missing pedestrians coming from their right. I do it too, and I feel terrible about it.
This morning I saw an older man kick some leaves over top of his dog's pile of fresh steaming poo in a lazy attempt to make it all just "go away."
Other runners blow snot rockets onto the sidewalk. They fart. I blow my nose into my sleeve, especially if it's raining. We talk about diarrhea and sometimes we even throw up (Mark is notorious for stopping mid-stride at the top of a difficult climb and yacking into the bushes).
You know what else I notice? I notice that the more people learn about me and my life story, the more they open up to me about their own. They see my messes and what I've done to clean house, and I think (I hope!) it gives them hope. But what I do know is it gives them validity and then they feel comfortable opening up and talking about their own struggles. I think, anyway. That's what they tell me. Or maybe they just know enough about me to know that I won't judge, because I too blow my nose into my sleeve sometimes.
I think it's important for us to know that we all make mistakes but more importantly, that it's possible to move forward and grow from them. We can read self-help books or pray mightily and fast until our stomachs eat our spines, but there's just something powerful about seeing real people mess up and grow from their mistakes who then live to tell about it and sometimes, if appropriate, who can also have enough grace to laugh about it.
Seeing things that most people don't see isn't always a stomach-turning adventure--it can be a gift! Especially when I happen to know exactly where NOT to step when we're walking through that huge pile of leaves.
On weekend mornings, more often than not there is a pile of puke at one of the bus stops along the main road. One time last winter there was a macaroni barf that sat for weeks--it just kept freezing and thawing and re-freezing.
I know that every evening at 7pm for the past 5 years, Pat walks her little dog Penny and every evening at 7pm prior to those 5 years, she walked her little dog Mikey.
Ninety-nine percent of drivers don't even glance to their right before turning right onto a main road--they just look left at the oncoming traffic, narrowly missing pedestrians coming from their right. I do it too, and I feel terrible about it.
This morning I saw an older man kick some leaves over top of his dog's pile of fresh steaming poo in a lazy attempt to make it all just "go away."
Other runners blow snot rockets onto the sidewalk. They fart. I blow my nose into my sleeve, especially if it's raining. We talk about diarrhea and sometimes we even throw up (Mark is notorious for stopping mid-stride at the top of a difficult climb and yacking into the bushes).
You know what else I notice? I notice that the more people learn about me and my life story, the more they open up to me about their own. They see my messes and what I've done to clean house, and I think (I hope!) it gives them hope. But what I do know is it gives them validity and then they feel comfortable opening up and talking about their own struggles. I think, anyway. That's what they tell me. Or maybe they just know enough about me to know that I won't judge, because I too blow my nose into my sleeve sometimes.
I think it's important for us to know that we all make mistakes but more importantly, that it's possible to move forward and grow from them. We can read self-help books or pray mightily and fast until our stomachs eat our spines, but there's just something powerful about seeing real people mess up and grow from their mistakes who then live to tell about it and sometimes, if appropriate, who can also have enough grace to laugh about it.
Seeing things that most people don't see isn't always a stomach-turning adventure--it can be a gift! Especially when I happen to know exactly where NOT to step when we're walking through that huge pile of leaves.
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