Another One

As spring storms came and went this last week, so too did my waves of grief. Under branches laden with wet snow, I was transported back to the drive I took eight years ago, pulling into the driveway where my father no longer would be. Walking in the solid front door, that year, I hugged my brother and we sat and stared, not sure what to do before the family descended. I made inappropriate jokes. I choked, I’m sure, on my words, and my spit. When a few relatives showed up, we ordered Chili’s and tried to chew.

And this year, making the same drive, a toddler babbled in my backseat, unfamiliar with our family patterns or notions of a death anniversary. While the wounds are no longer seeping, their marks still remain. We ate cheeseburgers at the same table we sat at eight years ago, although its parallel orientation in the room now is just enough disruption to remind us that, yes, we all have changed.

I’m pleased to be on the downward slide towards April. While my body is remembering, exhaling, and less tense, I find gentle reminders that this week, every year, will be tough. It’s cocky to think otherwise. For when you lose a metaphorical limb, a figure head, a family anchor, the phantom limb still quakes.

I found my father in the discounts I received at the gas station and in the eyes of the hawk that sits above us, perched on the light post we pass every morning on our way to drop off. In the way my brother says hello when he comes up the stairs. In the sweatshirts we took out of bottom drawers, musty in their comforting embrace.

I wanted to write something more pleasant, lighter, more free. I no longer feel like grief is a ball and chain, though I can feel the scars from the cuffs on my ankles. So, yes, it was a hard week. Naming that in exhale is importantly beautiful.

And, two friends had babies, and the afternoon light pours in, gracing the plant I almost killed out of neglect with a second chance at surviving. My fingers continue to clack across the keyboard, and thoughts fill my head and my heart. We look towards Easter. Another time of resurrection. We made it through another one. And that is a beautiful thing.

In My Own Little Home

I recently had a coach ask me the question, “Seven years from now, how will you know the choices you made reflect the social change you want to be a part of?”

You can’t answer a question like that in one sitting. There are so many layers to my answers as I think about the next seven years. In seven years I’ll have a third grader. Hopefully there will be a president with a name we have only barely heard of today. Hopefully, we’ll have better care for children and the cost of groceries will go down. It is so easy for me to spin into possibilities of what might be that I miss what is, right now.

What I liked about the question, as mind-blowing as it was, is the reminder that the choices we make today also matter in the large scope of social change. As I spend my Friday afternoons with my daughter, I’m choosing to honor caregiving in a different way. I highlight the myth of work-life balance and sit in the truth that our choices reflect how we want to be in the world. I type. Baby naps. I feel guilty for being away from the office.

A follow up question the coach asked was, “What will you gain by making this sacrifice?” At first, I was angry. I don’t want to have to sacrifice. I want to “have it all” or at least be proud of what I’m giving up, which I think was the intention behind her question. After further reflection I’ve come to my answer – I’m gaining the freedom to live into the social change I want to see.

I want my choices to build spaces where mothers are welcomed and given space to nurture their children and also be valued as employees. Spaces where rest is valued and treasured as much as outcomes and outputs. Spaces where grief and loss and uncomfortable, hard realities are named and held with compassion. Spaces where we hold one another with tenderness and then get back up again, holding hands, to face whatever comes next.

I’ve spent a lot of this week angry at the system – the motherhood tax, the war overseas, the scary political situation that still exists here in the idealized version of America. I get frustrated at a lack of empathy or care for one another. And my anger has told me that, again, it is in our choices where we get to make change.

So, for those of you wondering how to make sense of what’s unfolding for you, I hope you remember you have power in what you say yes to. And power in what you say no to. And power in holding dear the change you are trying to make in your own little world, on your own little street, in your own little home.

And those choices are beautiful things.

Join Me at Founded in FoCo!

Founded in FoCo has done an excellent job curating stories and workshops to bring humanity to work for this year’s gathering. I’m excited to share I’ll be leading a writing workshop titled “Actually, There Are Words” designed to help us all find the words for tough experiences. Whether you’re a leader, an employee, or a business owner, this 45-minute experience will have you re-thinking the phrase, “There are no words” when we all struggle. I hope you’ll join me.

Well meaning people will say, “There are no words” when faced with difficult life experiences. In my experience, that silly little phrase is simply not true. Most of us have LOTS of words and few folks are comfortable hearing them! In this interactive workshop, you will use wordplay, poetry, and writing prompts to practice putting words to the experiences that are difficult in our organizations and our personal lives. Designed for all writing skill levels, we will build on the basics and tap into creative expression. Grace, compassion, and sense of humor welcome.

Registration is open for the week of events!

I’m also working on a new monthly newsletter to share updates and opportunities. Email me back if you’d like to receive updates.

Constant Companion

We were driving from story time to get lunch when my mom said, “Grief’s a pretty constant companion these days. I’m no longer afraid of her showing up.” I inhaled deeply as she spoke, integrating the power and the truth of this realization. I call my grief a gremlin. She lives in my heart pocket and has wings like a crow and claws she keeps trimmed, though they come out every so often. Her big eyes are round and deep blue, and when I’m hurting, they look deep into me with a knowing so profound. This little gremlin sees me, if I let her.

We lost another matriarch last week. Dylan’s grandmother passed at the age of 94. Her decline was quick, perhaps it always is. Though we knew the end was coming, I’m always sensitive to the sucking away of air leaving the room when you get the news. When I received the text, it was early. We held hands and in the pause, welcomed again the little gremlin as she crawled out of the warm place where she lives. I wept when making travel arrangements, and again in bedrooms when we went back to her home.

Grief, if we let it, is a constant companion. March is coming and I miss my dad ever so much. When telling baby of the loss, she repeated me saying, “Grandma died.” Then, after her pause, said, “She went home with Papa.” Perhaps the children know more than we do.

And as grief walks alongside, life still happens. Emails pile in. To-do lists loom. The text messages buzz, reminding me of connection and purpose and pull my brain in perpendicular directions. After a busy weekend, and snacks for dinner, I found a rare moment of rest on the couch Sunday evening. At 8:30 pm, after the bedtime routine, I was scrounging in the pantry for a little something. I filled a pot, watched water boil, and made pasta, letting the steam reach my face for just a few moments. I melted butter, sizzled garlic, and pulled together a silky sauce to coat my carbs. I poured myself a glass of wine, and at a time too late for supper, sank into the couch to nourish myself. I patted the seat next to me, inviting the gremlin onto the cushions.

Turning to the episode of “The Crown” where the Queen loses her sister, I let the waves of tenderness wash over me. Relationships are complicated. We try to connect, we miss, we try again. We anger and we make-up. And in the end, we lose. And we love. Bowls of pasta help. The welcoming, again, of our grief as friend, is a beautiful thing.

I Contain

I’ve been paying attention to how frequently the notifications on my phone go off. I’m addicted to the dopamine hits and I know I’m not alone in this. We’re trained to be responsive, and my phone and its algorithms keep me going in a Pavlov’s dog-type way of being – always curious, lurking, waiting for the next notification to roll in. I’m guilty of checking in at stop lights and being distracted while my toddler pulls on my legs asking to be lifted up. And this week, after very full days with many meetings, and many other forces metaphorically asking to be cared for while I was also distracted, I wonder, who is training who?

The world asks us to move at an incredible pace. And the speed is making me grumpy, feeling like I’m less than, and that if I could type just a little bit faster on my phone then all of my dreams could come true. I made a shift at work recently, attempting to go down in hours. The demands stayed. I haven’t been very successful with my boundaries. The hours still fill. And I’m still split in the disappointing of family, my employer, or myself. Again, this juggling is not a unique problem, but I ask myself, who is leading whom?

This week, we partnered with a client on a one-day workshop to build team trust and improve how they work together. Part of the work requires participants to share their backstories. We sat together in a worn room, with posters teenagers created on the walls. Their hand done drawings of wildflowers drew me in as I listened to tender stories of pain, resilience, coping, and recovery. Gut wrenching examples of what being human calls us to go through. And then, we put the lid back on, and went about our agenda. I think the exercise was successful, revealing new truths about each of the team members in the room. And I find myself wondering, do the humans lead the work, or do the organizations dictate, leaving all the pieces we are often told to keep to ourselves in the dark?

There was one drawing in particular, done in colored pencil shades of yellow and white, of a coned daisy at the end of the season. The petals dipped down, angled away from a source of light. As I sat and listened, I thought, we all contain multitudes. Flowers do too. I tend to think in black and white, in binaries, and make choices on either a or b. And kind coaches remind me, usually, some third option exists. Perhaps this is where the yellow pencil comes in.

I contain multitudes. And perhaps these big questions I’m asking in this season of life will also reveal multiple options. Not just A or B, but some combo in between. And if you can help me put my phone down and choose to exercise instead, maybe i’ll have another epiphany while I let the emails roll in unnoticed. Big questions. Unclear answers. Beautiful things.

Mama Loves You

Last night I put an overtired toddler to bed. We asked too much of her – dinner was late, there was a tich too much t.v. while we cooked said dinner. I insisted on a bath. The offer of picking out a book pushed her over the threshold, and her tears started to flow. I’m learning to respond with more kindness when these moments happen, rather than pushing through, and as we closed the books, and turned out the lights, baby continued to cry.

Luckily, I wasn’t pushed past my limit just yet and I was prepared to sit with the tears for as long as it took. However, her distress is also distressing, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I started rubbing her back and singing a tune, listing out all of the people that I know to love her.

Mama loves you and Daddy loves you.
Pop Pop loves you and Gigi too.
Nahna loves you and Sam loves you.
Gaga loves you and M&M too.

Over and over I sang the made up rhymes until eventually, baby began to calm down. Her breathing slowed, eyes drooped and she fell asleep, awash with words of love.

I’ve been having so many conversations with hurting people lately. We’re tired, scared, nervous for another tumultuous election year. Layoffs are happening. The need for collective exhales seems to persist. And in those moments of distress, I’m realizing I’m gifted at being grounded, unafraid to sit in the dark. However, in order to do so well, I believe we need to be awash in words of love.

In a recent conversation with a wise friend, he encouraged me again with the invitation to stop and remember how incredible it is just to be alive. To sit in a warm coffee shop, with gloves on my cold fingers, and have intelligent, heart-warming conversation is a miracle in times like this. We woke up today. The cars started. The coffee brewed. How many things had to go right just to get us to this point, wherever you are now, reading these words.

Yes, there are a million stimuli, and the desire to melt down like an over-tired toddler is an active one. At times, we may need to let the tears flow. And when they do, for whatever reason, may you start to make your own version of the song.

You may not know Nahna or Gaga, but I’m sending love to you. Be awash in words of love. A beautiful thing.

An Anniversary – 10 Things Seeking Beauty Has Taught Me

This little blog turns ten this year. Thanks to the archive, I know I wrote 47 posts that first year in 2014. In 2022, after welcoming a new baby, I only wrote twelve. Life, and its demands, have changed a bit. I did write slightly more in 2023, but certainly not at the weekly rate, and I’m not sure what 2024 will have in store. I worry about sharing my free ideas with ChatGPT, and how artists and writers are compromised with the advance of AI. I weigh sleep over exercise, and sending emails over creating new content. Regardless, in this ten year journey, the continued practice of seeking the beautiful as the world continues to grow more connected and more tumultuous has brought a multitude of gifts.

For this first post of 2024, I’m sharing ten things the pursuit of beautiful things has taught me in the last ten years.

  1. The world, perhaps, has always been a little bit messed up. Still, there is joy. Pay attention.
    R.E.M once quipped “It’s the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine.) Since the beginning of time the sky has been falling, things are shifting, and changing. And yes, in the last ten years things have felt bleaker, heavier, and perhaps more important than the previous ten. And I believe, you see what you look for. Turn off the news. Bring cookies to a neighbor. You, too, can create joy. What do you need to do to feel fine?
  2. Hope takes practice.
    Our brains are programmed to seek out the negative. It keeps us safe. I’ve learned, however, in a world that constantly feels dangerous, finding beautiful things keeps me feeling hopeful and optimistic. Hope, for me, is a practice of choosing the good, over and over again. Beauty expands when we seek it repetitively.
  3. Most people are in some type of pain. Expressing it helps.
    Our culture sucks at finding words for difficult experiences. Each of us are suffering in some way and we’re told to keep that pain to ourselves or in quiet rooms where professionals help you problem solve. I’ve found so much community and belonging with people who are able to hold both beauty and pain, side by side, as we work towards healing. I’m not alone.
  4. Awe is an underrated experience.
    How much of life we take for granted. When I really stop to think about all the things that do go right on any given day, I’m filled with awe. Yesterday, I watched my daughter chase bubbles across a winter lawn. Her grasping for tiny purple orbs while squealing with delight brought me back to a grounded place. A tiny human chasing soap. Amazing.
  5. We need each other.
    Americans like to believe we are independent. Grief, Covid, and motherhood have taught me that while our experiences are unique, there are common threads to the human experience that can connect us if we let it. We need each other. We need soup and phone calls and texts and connection. We need reminders that when things are heavy, others can shoulder the weight of both our worlds and the big ol’ world. And when things feel light, we need to invite others to dance with us in the rays of goodness. Beauty expands when it is shared.
  6. Not everyone will grow with you. That’s ok.
    In the last ten years, I changed jobs and I said a lot of good-byes. Co-workers moved on, friends moved, and some family members stopped responding to texts. I made short-term connections and cried when people I thought would stick around didn’t. Not everyone is growing in the same way you are, and that’s ok. This truth doesn’t detract from the beauty individuals bring in different chapters along the way.
  7. Chin Up, dear.
    In times of transition, stress, and distress, it’s easy to get tunnel vision and forget what else is going on that is positive. When I’m feeling bleak, I remind myself to cup my own face and say, “Chin up, dear.” The slight tilt up brings a different perspective at the reminder that while my situation may be less than ideal, somewhere across the way someone else is experiencing great joy. Coffee is being brewed, friends are hugging at airports, babies are being born.
  8. The practice is worthy
    Yes, I have dreams of turning this project into a book, and it would be nice to be discovered. Perhaps all artists want to be found. But, I’ve learned that weekly writing, or as it has devolved to less, is still worthy of existing. I don’t need an agent or a book deal or a long newsletter list for the work to matter. Even if the posts bring in only 54 cents a month. To know the posts meet at least one each week still bring the work worth. The dedication to the project and how it has transformed me is worth enough.
  9. Beauty is often quiet.
    There’s a lot of noise out there. Returning to the beautiful often takes the deliberate choice to turn down the noise and to tune into what you know to be true. Witnessing may require calm. Beauty doesn’t demand attention and it doesn’t yell. It’s in the silence that we may be moved to tears.
  10. Now, more than ever.
    People are so scared. People are so beautiful. Now, more than ever, I believe we can use the pursuit of beautiful things to connect us with compassion and grace. Humans have capacity for both darkness and light. And I believe, when we train ourselves to look for the beautiful, we can change ourselves and in turn, trickle out to change the world.

Here’s to the continued search and however many posts come next.

Chex Mix

In today’s version of The Skimm, I clicked the link about the rising cost of Diet Coke. The writer interviewed someone who drank 4-5 cans a day, and their wallet was feeling it. I puffed up my chest for just a moment, because while I love the vice that is Diet Coke, I certainly don’t drink four cans a day. Don’t we know that aspartame is bad for us! And then my smugness dissipated as I went to pour my third cup of coffee.

Each week I’ve been watching the price of bacon jump up – last time I checked a pound had gone up a dollar fifty since I started paying attention in October. Inflation isn’t new – we’re talking about it, we’re feeling the impacts, we’re curious about what’s going to go up in cost next.

And, we use our little vices to keep discomfort at bay. November turned to December quickly, and days were filled with meetings, meal planning, perhaps paying too much attention to the rising cost of things. And in my conversations with friends and family, shifts and changes continue to happen as the world rumbles across the ocean. One friend is quitting her job, another trying desperately to get pregnant. Kitchens are getting remodeled, grandparents moving to nursing homes, and our neighbors got Covid again.

I told Dylan last night I’m having a hard time filling my container with my own worries. I’ve gotten porous again, taking on the fears and hurts of others because I just want the world to stop. being. in. so. much. pain. And then I wonder, is it the world’s pain, or my own?

This weekend I got out my mom’s splattered recipes and stocked up on Chex Mix supplies. I poured dry cereal, pretzels, and nuts into my grandmother’s old roasting pan. I melted the butter, found the Worcestershire sauce, added salt and poured the hot liquid over the mess of carbs. I let baby stir, and together, we watched comfort soak into the open spaces in the cereal. Nuts became glossy and we stuck the pan into the oven to bake slowly, with intention.

Once done, I scooped the mix into Ball jars and sent the gifts out into the world with love.

Perhaps it’s silly to connect Chex Mix to love, the pouring of fats onto cereal as a way to rub balm into our wounds. When things are shifting, I turn to the kitchen. Salt helps. Butter is consistent. Let’s fill up our holes with love this season. We need each other.

May your snacks be salty, full of butter, and of love. Chex Mix – that, too, a beautiful thing.

Melancholy Or ….

On Halloween, I found myself awash in the mixture of my life. As I walked our little downtown’s streets, holding hands with a baby Elmo, I missed my dad with a well-worn, familiar ache. And I looked up to blue skies, and noticed an older gentleman sitting on a bench, holding up a Jack Russel Terrier to his face for a kiss. Golden leaves were falling, and with their descent came another landing truth – we have stepped into grief season.

November is here and with it comes a mixed melancholy of anticipatory grief and chosen celebration. While there are no safe months in grief, I think the reminders and triggers are easier to manage in the window from the day after Father’s Day to, well, maybe today.

We’re talking about smoked turkeys, and who will sit at what table, and how to juggle parties and planned celebrations. And in the busyness that tempts us to brush our feelings under the rug by the fire, are reminders of who won’t be there, gifts that won’t be given, memories of holidays gone-by. I suppose that’s the gift of getting older, the remembering mixed with the space for creating new things.

New neighbors to share soup with while juggling toddlers in costume. New freedom in ordering out rather than filling the counter with boxes of butter and bags of mini marshmallows. New high-chairs at the table and writing gift lists with entries including play food and puzzles. Old leaves fall, and we watch them release, letting them land to be crunched. And, still, there are old men smiling, and dogs waiting for kisses, and a toddler’s laughter takes up more space than we knew to allow.

And in the missing, I’ll add an apron of his to my outfit. Maybe I’ll pour his scotch as we take out boxes of food already prepared in our familiar kitchen, where he once stood bickering with my grandmother about which way was the right way to put a turkey in the oven. I’ll also be kind to myself when I realize, with new waves of small devastation, that they never set foot in my new kitchen.

Grief season is here and with it the choice to pick melancholy or create something new. A beautiful thing.

And …

“What’s with the ampersands?” I asked our client as she sat across from us at a high-top table. After a successful client engagement, this leader told me about her small earrings in the shape of an “And” symbol.

She shared about how in leadership, particularly in public service, we have to live in AND spaces. Choices we make help some AND may harm others. We want communities to thrive AND we don’t have infinite resources to do so. We plan for the future AND respond to the present. She said the symbol has become her mantra, a constant reminder that we often live in the gray.

I’ve been thinking about AND spaces for myself lately. The suffering AND the beauty. Straddling a fence of understanding business needs AND wanting, deep within, to change our environments so humans can be seen and heard. When sharing this frustration with my boss today, he shared, “Maybe we can get off the fence, and find somewhere else to sit instead.”

This week a friend lost a baby. I watched and I prayed with hope and can’t begin to understand why something like that happens. We watched horrible headlines and numb ourselves from the suffering across the world.

AND

I stuffed my kiddo into a puffy pink snowsuit as she ate snow for the first time. Snowflakes fell, flirting with orange pumpkins, and we make plans for costumes, and candy and community gatherings.

We suffer AND we celebrate. We plan AND we respond.

To move beyond survival, and towards thriving, I’m embracing the AND. Both are true.

And this week, the AND space is a beautiful thing.

PS. If you’re wondering how to explore your own AND space, let’s have a conversation. For a limited time I’m offering two coaching sessions for $75 as I work towards my ICF coaching certification. These spots will fill quickly.