It's Virginia Woolf's birthday

Here's a little Virginia Woolf from this morning's Writer's Almanac...

"So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.  But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery, and the sacrifice of wealth and chastity, which used to be said to be the greatest of human disasters, a mere flea-bite in comparison."

Be careful when it comes to fixing people

It's a simple rule.  If you don't know someone, don't try to fix them.  This is especially true if they haven't asked for help and you haven't asked for permission.  It's old wisdom, covered as far back as the gospels.  It's a cold and rainy day in Los Angeles.  My body is stiff, my range of motion is limited.  I went to yoga anyway, I wanted to see if I could loosen up.  In one of the standing poses, the instructor came by and moved my knee out an inch. An inch is nothing except when you have a rheumatic arthritic disease that limits how far you can move your hips.  That inch was the difference between tolerance and pain, health and injury, walking freely and limping.  The instructor had great intentions.  She could tell I knew what I was doing.  I had a strong position, with a little adjustment, she was making it stronger.  How often have I done the same thing?  How often have I imposed help without enough knowledge, without asking permission.  How many people have been hurt by the unintended consequences of my helpfulness, of being caught up in what I know instead of aware that there is so much I don't know?  As I limp off to bed tonight, I pray that I become more present and less instructive in my relationships.  Waiting until someone asks for my help, waiting to know them well enough so that I might actually be helpful, I inch forward in my own understanding - physically and metaphorically.  

Defining vision

According to the handy Apple dictionary, vision is defined as "the faculty or state of being able to see."  The second definition, more applicable to my current circumstances is, "the ability to think about or plan the future with imagination or wisdom."  The last description moves into the realm of supernatural apparitions. 

My comfort with visions follows precisely the hierarchy of definitions.  I am a visual person.  I like to look around, to observe the things going on in the world.  My photography is about capturing a moment and attempting to draw out it's beauty.  I rarely pose a shot, I never do studio work.  Everything you see on this blog is a snippet of some experience that I was having.  My pictures are of things that I notice.  I wasn't always interested in looking around.  I was the victim of a violent crime.  For a long time after that experience, everything scared me.  I couldn't make eye contact, I'd be totally overwhelmed walking into a new environment.  Every thing, every person was a threat.  It took a lot of practice, small and slow steps to overcome the paranoia of victimhood.  There was a time when I did not think I would ever see anything but danger.  Now I understand that the way I see is informed by the redemption of trauma, it is the result of reigning in  what was once a dangerous case of hypervigilance. In the refinement of neurosis, I have new eyes for everyday beauty.  I see more than I ever did before.

Vision as the ability to think and plan with wisdom and imagination seems to be the next big challenge.  The tension that grips my whole body when I think about having a vision for my life is totally debilitating.  I am overcome with a single thought - "I DON'T KNOW."  I find the question threatening and the questioner a sadistic tormentor.  Ask me anything, anything except that.  I am of sound enough mind to recognize how irrational my fear is.  I even have an image that captures the insanity of it.  There I am clinging to the top of a flag pole, crawling 20 feet in the air to get away from the relentless need for a vision.  Me, terrified of heights as I am, holding onto this cold, slippery silver pole, hoping I won't fall.  Every time I look down, I see crowds of people whispering about my lack of vision.  "Yeah. She's the girl who has no vision," says one woman in a stinging whisper.  "If she only had a vision, she might get back to doing something with her life, she's become such a lazy cow" replies the woman standing next to her.  "Well,"  her friend responds conspiratorially, "I hear she's just impossible to be around. Doesn't play well with others, if you know what I mean. Nothing special enough about that one to put up with the personality.  And, you know the things they said about her and the former boss."  A third person joins the conversation. "Do you really think she slept her way to that job?"  The first woman raises her eyebrows. " Maybe she isn't that bright.  After all, she is perched at the top of a flagpole and no one knows why."  They all laugh.  "Everyone knew she would break eventually."  There are other voices at the bottom of the flagpole.  Kind and generous, encouraging voices.  I'm starting to hear those more clearly.  The volume is turned down on the din of criticism and doubt.  But I'm still terrified, I know there's a crowd of people out there, everywhere, ready to shred the vision.  Ready to mock and gawk and say she's kidding herself.  With that kind of imagination, it's not surprising that I don't find immediate joy in crafting something that will expose my deepest desires, my dream for this life.  I want to protect that, it's too fragile to hold up to the world.  I understand the faulty logic here.  I admitted at the outset it was irrational.  The parallels to the time when I was afraid of everything are real.  I knew it was irrational then.  I knew that I wasn't afraid of the person standing in front of me.  I was afraid of the potential that they represented.  I had to rehabilitate my vision. I recall it was hard work. I had to limit the visual field in the beginning.  I had to move more slowly, tenderly taking in the people and the things around me.  I had to give my brain enough time to see something, to understand it and to decode whether or not it was dangerous.  It was an intense time of deliberate intellectual and physical engagement.

  

The path to restoring or perhaps to finding the vision I lack now isn't altogether clear.  I think I'm doing the things I need to do to find my way to a vision and a voice for it.  I think cultivating disciplines of patience, of preparation, of waiting are part of coaxing into the conscious world something that already lives below the surface.  I think I am doing the right things in the right places but I can't be sure.  It is impossible to know if I am just wasting time, indulging insecurity, jeopardizing some unrealized potential.

I long for some reassurance that I am progressing but visions are too big to get bogged down in scorecards and timelines.  Visions change lives.  Real visions are what change the world.  And, so, I end with the third definition - "an experience of seeing someone or something in a dream or a trance, or as a supernatural apparition."  This week is when we celebrate the life of a man who changed the world because he had a dream and the melodic voice to sing it into hearts despite massive, terrifying obstacles.  From Moses to Martin Luther King, Jr, great visions are always inspired by God.  I believe in this God who in the face of the impossible, in the direct confrontation of human fears draws us into an inspired identity.  I may not be comfortable with this God but I do believe in him, that much is clear.

Holy light

I spent this morning in the presence of a holy man.  The best part of the waiting comes on days like today.  If I weren't waiting, I would have been too busy to have this experience.  If I were all neat and pulled together, I doubt I'd spend as much time seeking out voices of wisdom and maturity.  If I were settled into something new I'd be doing that. Maybe I'd see someone outside of my normal circle now and again but would I be present or would I be glancing at my blackberry every few minutes.  I can't adequately describe what happened or why it was so special. The beauty of the holy is it's elusiveness, it's overpowering gentleness. My soul is fed by holy encounters, my energy vibrates with gratitude for the experience - be it walking on the beach in Malibu or kneeling in a church or the amazing moments when you see God in the person sitting across from you. Today I was privileged to hear a life story, a human narrative marked by tragedy, love, failure, greatness, grace.  It was mythical yet delivered with stunning and genuine humility.  It was the kind of story that reveals God in the world, in my friends life, in my life.  Is there a greater gift than being the source of light that shines God directly into soul of another?  I think that might be the truest and most important call and I'm thankful for the holy man who spent his morning with me and did just that.

Snuggling with my edge

The edge to which I refer is a yoga term.  It is the point you reach when you can go no further.  Your body is stretched to it's limit.  The edge, once you find it, is where you stay to breathe.  Working inside your edge sounds easier than it is.  The space at the end of your capacity can be painful, it can be brutal, it's the place you find your body shaking, it's a hair's breadth to tears or relief. With my lame, damaged body the edge is precarious.  I'm an athlete at heart, my instinct is to find the breaking point and move to the place right past it.  Chronic pain tames that compulsion, living gently in this body is a choice I make.  Yoga is a great physical outlet because it is all about the present, the body in that moment.  I drift between careful and reckless, my yoga practice is about a maturing understanding that is neither.  I've developed a new intuitive sense of self that recognizes the always moving edge more easily.  Today I was reflecting on the metaphysical edges and my dull, almost nonexistent sensitivity to them.  When have I pushed too far in demanding strength or courage in the face of disappoint?  When do I sink too quickly into despair?  I had an interview today for something that was promising.  After the call, I was a little disappointed.  I tried to rally the faith I wrote about yesterday. I saw its edge, I stretched into it and it hurt.  I knew that I wouldn't hold that space forever, the disappointment would fade, the anxiety would subside, something would change.  While snuggling up to that edge wasn't joyous, it didn't kill me either.  I'm still a little bummed but a few hours of holding a posture of near teary is about all I can take.  Time to let that go and move on.  That's the best part of the edge, you can chose to let go and cook dinner for a dear old friend instead. 

Does it really suck?

On my way into church today, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a while.  She asked how I was, how the job hunt was going.  Because I wasn't feeling very well, I was slow with my words.  I shrugged, mumbled something about hard. The word sucks was offered.  Kinda.  It kinda sucks.  It's common for people to suggest that job hunting sucks.  I'm always a little hestiant though because in reality it's not that bad.  Especially in the context of my life, being investigated by the media, government agencies and teams of lawyers was worse -much, much worse.   Looking for work affords me the chance to think about different organizations, about the work they do to improve the world. I've met interesting people, learned more about myself with each opportunity.  I've built spiritual disciplines into the process and spent hours in prayer for the people with whom I engage and their organizations.  Blessing this process, that's success to me.  I just want to bless it but then someone asks me or I think about it too much and I curse it.  Under scrutiny, I can't find the confidence, the faith to say - it's okay, I'm blessing the process.  Or - yes, getting rejected hurts but I know that taking the wrong job would hurt more.  I'm discerning here and that's a slow, deep process but I'm safe because I'm listening for God.  I can't find those words when I'm talking to others, my discouraged posture, bruised ego is what I consistently feel and show. At a party tonight, I finally articulated the tension of this process in a way that honored it's contradictions.  Yes, it's hard to do this as a discipleship practice but I know it's right.  I trust God but I still have human fears.  Staying faithful, choosing not to manipulate or force my way, impose my will, that's the hardest thing I've ever done.  This is the real work.  Waiting, letting each day form deeper rivulets of faith in the invisible spaces.  Slowly letting God-soaked time reshape the foundation of my life.  No, that doesn't suck - not even a little.  It's just easiest hard thing I've ever done.  It is the real work of the incarnate life of an eternal spiritual being.  It is the blessing that I can't always see or feel but is nonetheless mine.  

Philip and Ernest

I finished reading the Sun Also Rises this morning.  Like all things experienced in youth and revisited as an adult, it was very different.  Everyone knows Hemingway is the genius of few words but I forgot the joyous effect of his sparse, efficient style.  The intensity was magnified by contrasting it with my most recent read, The Human Stain by Philip Roth.  As Hemingway is the master of few words, Roth expertly layers phrases escalating emotional tension until it crests like a breaking wave.   I marvel at Roth's fluent prose, he does things with words that make my knees wobble.  I underlined long passages throughout the book.  With Hemingway, I can't point to a single page where I was swept away. Instead it was the experience of the whole that engendered my awe.  These authors are as exceptional as they are different.  They make reading a euphoric venture.  From Roth to Hemingway, the bar is high for my next choice.  Thankfully there is no shortage of options, beautiful art bound in black type face is abundant. 

Youthful wisdom on important things like leashes and tv

My 15-month-old nephew calls the television "A-D-D."  My dog refuses to walk on a leash.  I'm beginning to think there is something to the wisdom of these youngins.  As much as I like watching really bad television, I'm pretty sure the kid is better off not developing the habit.  As for the pup, she's got a point, leashes suck (for lack of a more eloquent word).  My very real struggle to define the next chapter of life comes down to questions of freedom. Working is fine, more than fine.  It's the control.  Just like Lucy, I don't want anyone else to hold the leash.  I can tolerate it dragging behind me but as soon as you pick it up, let alone tug on it, I'm lying down - maybe even in front of the TV.

Vision RFP

I was joking with some friends today about an idea I have.  I want to run an RFP process to decide what to do with my life.  It's the perfect solution for a former chief of staff in search of the next thing to staff.  I'm about out of patience with my existential exploration of a vision for my life. I don't do vision.  I do implementation.  Sure I can be creative but whole cloth vision work is outside of my skill set so why not outsource it to people who like doing that sort of thing.  It's an altogether absurd idea except in it's succinct pragmatism.  Maybe I'll run the competition on this blog.  It begs the larger question of what do we do when we don't know how to do things.  Try, quit, punt, wait?

What do you need to be forgiven for?

This was the opening question of the mid-morning Bible study I attended today.  What do I need to be forgiven for?  I was struck by the absence of an immediate list.  I always have a list, usually, neatly written on color coded notecards.  I like lists.  I can tell you exactly who I need to forgive, what they've done, when, and how I feel about it.  I have that inventory memorized.  I run it through regularly checking to be sure it's all in the same place as when I last visited.  It's like my closet.  Suits on the right.  Shirts on the left.  Socks in the bottom drawer. Childhood wrongs on the top shelf, professional betrayals in the wire basket.  Unlike my real closet, this metaphorical room never runs out of space.  I don't have to thin out the rack of hurts to make room for new ones, it's an endless pole where I can neatly hang the latest treachery - large or small.  I imagine I am not alone.  We all harbor resentments towards people who have no sense of what they've done to us.  For me, the shift to reflecting more on my own behavior, the unkind words, the anger, the gossip that I need forgiveness for might, just might, make it a little easier to let go of some of my list.  The prayer does say "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."  Please forgive me. What a liberating, humanizing request.  It humbles with it's ring of simple beauty and elegance.  Yes, please forgive me.  It's the right place for me to start.

Don't interview in your pajamas

For this blog to make sense, some back story is important.  I'm working on that.  It's a long story. It involves calamities and investigations, doctors and lawyers, betrayal and intrigue.  I call the season of life just prior to this one, the collapse. It's the perfect word.  After the collapse, there was search and rescue then search and recovery.  There were two rounds of the five stages of grief and some international travel.  There was spinning, sleeping, and weeping.  Slowly there was some peace.  Now there is the waiting.  The next job or a great man to share my life with or both.  What's next?  It's the omnipresent question asked about 50 times a day - 25 by me, the other times by everyone else.  I HAVE NO IDEA.  I'm waiting.  For what?  I don't know.  God. Fate.  A sign.  Something.  Lately I wait for potential employers to call or email.  As I answered my cell phone at 7:50am I realized there is a major distinction between passively and actively waiting and I'd been doing too much of the former.  Running into the dining room in my pajamas, I fumbled to locate the ringing phone in my purse.  When I didn't recognize the number I considered letting it go to voicemail.  If it was a recruiter perhaps it might be wise to pull myself together.  Impetuously, an instinct fed by the tension of waiting all the damn time, I answered.  Sure, now is a perfect time to talk.  I can hear the gardeners outside starting the lawn mowers.  There I was moving room to room trying to escape the din of leaf blowers.  Out of breath already, I can hear the tea kettle in full shriek.  Why would I be an asset to your organization?  Let me see.  My sound judgement and strong organizational skills.  Quieting the tea kettle I can't seem to find a safe spot, pacing in the living room Lucy gives chase.  She hits me in the calves with her duck bear (the Starbucks bear dressed in a duck suit), growling for attention.  I babble on breathlessly while trying to escape the determined puppy.  I hung up with the recruiter knowing that my interview lacked a certain polish.  I poured my tea reflecting on the circumstances.  Yes. There it was, one of the calls I was waiting for and I forgot the rule: no one is impressive in their pajamas.  

Why the waiting room?

Everyone waits.  We wait for coffee and doctors and traffic lights.  We wait for phone calls and emails and for packages at the post office.  We wait for our big break, our first shot, our next chance.  Lately, waiting is my raison d'etre.  The stories of life on hold make my friends laugh so I thought I'd do something with them - while I wait.