Closed for Renovation

I spend a lot of time in my head.  That sounds fairly obvious; I mean, who isn’t in their own heads?  (I will pause here so you can fill in the blank for that question - I’m sure everyone can think of one person who just doesn’t seem like s/he EVER spends time in thought.)  I am constantly thinking, analyzing, pondering, wondering... It doesn’t matter if I am with others, either; though, engaging with other people does manage to turn down the volume on the inner monologue that sometimes screams at me late at night.  I just cannot seem to get out of my head.

There are times when my thoughts are very focused, like when I am generating lists of things that need to be done for a particular lesson, in order to pack for vacation, or the preparation for a social gathering.  When I have something on which to focus the raw energy of my thoughts, it’s downright scary what I can accomplish in a short amount of time.  For example, in preparing for my recent vacation, I procrastinated getting started despite the ticker tape of things I knew I needed to do.  Lo and behold, two days before I was to leave, I wrote the list and got my butt in gear.  In two days, I managed to cook for the wonderful people who volunteered to pup-sit, cook for the trip, do laundry, clean the house, mow the yard, and pack my clothes and car.  Not a ton of stuff, but considering I still had to run practice, managed to play tennis, and have lunch with some pretty awesome ladies during that 48-hour time period, I am relatively proud that I got everything done.

Now, when there is no focus for my thoughts, well, I imagine if someone were to be able to hear my inner monologue, s/he might believe me to be the poster child for Ritalin.  Laying down to sleep, working in the yard, driving longer than ten minutes, sitting on the beach watching the sun rise... the thoughts are like pinballs, traveling in one direction only to bounce wildly in a completely different and often unanticipated direction.  This morning, for instance, as I sat and watched the sun rise, my brain covered the following gamut: what I need to do to get fit, what I need to plan for an upcoming conference, how to get my mom and aunts to start talking like rational human beings, how to let go of some old resentments, what I need to do to get ready for school, what I need to do to prepare for my season, what God’s plan is for me, how much I miss playing volleyball, how much I hope my nieces will experience all the good in this world, if I’m ever going to meet someone, how annoying the sand fleas were that nipped at my ankles, and what I wanted to read next.  Two hours, my inner monologue at mach-5.  The nap I took after that was delightful.

Sometimes, I wish I had a mute button.  (Go ahead, say it.  Some of you wish that, too.)  I wish there were a way to mute the internal narrative, or at least a way to turn the volume way down.  It’s not so much that I mind reflection or introspection or rumination.  I think it is important to be able to do those things honestly in order to grow.  The problem with spending so much time in my head is two-fold:  1.  I’m sick of myself.  You know how it gets when you go on vacation with someone, and it rains so you are stuck in the hotel or condo together for days at a time?  It gets so annoying that even the way they breathe makes you want to stab a pen in both eyes... yeah, that’s how I feel about my brain right now.  And 2.  The constant analysis is creating a ridiculous amount of negative self-talk.  The ever-lasting, ipod shuffle-and-loop playlist of my brain seems only to focus on my flaws and failures.  This delightful by-product, in turn, increases #1 which then exacerbates the negativity.  To be cliche, it is a vicious cycle.

I think most people would advise me to simply find a focus to keep that energy harnessed.  If I were talking to someone else who expressed the same things, I would tell her or him to do just that.  Why in the world, then, is it so unbelievably difficult to do that?  Reading helps, but I may spend my retirement fund on books if that is going to be my only escape.  Pinterest can also be a labyrinthine distraction, as can be the mind-numbing apps on the iPad, but somehow I think there is more to living than these things.

Perhaps this is my eviction notice to myself.  Or, maybe not an eviction, but a notice of renovation.  It’s time to get out of my head.  Or, perhaps not get out, but let in the sunlight and fresh air that surrounds me because I gotta tell you, the air is getting stale and oppressive, and the ambience is dreary.  If anyone can recommend some good cleaning techniques, let me know.

Friends

I follow an advice columnist, Carolyn Hax, on Facebook.  She is not the “dear Abby” kind of columnist but rather one who is honest, sometimes gentle and sometimes sarcastic, and will gently redirect someone in pain as often as she’ll call someone out who has his/her head up a butt.  In short, I’m a fan.  She has a live discussion every Friday and sometimes will develop question threads into a stand-alone column.  Today, her column was just that and its subject was “How to end, or mend, a friendship.” (I suggest reading the comments section - her followers are hysterical!)

I have been on both sides of this equation, and it is fascinating to me how differently the equation plays out for all of us.  I have had friends with whom our common bond ceased to be common, and there seemed to be a natural fade.   I had one friend who crossed a line of hurt that just changed the way I saw her.  I admit to not handling it well, ignoring calls and texts.  When she finally asked about it, I did explain it, and she just erupted with an “I-can’t-believe-you’re-still-upset-about-that.”  I have also had a friend who stopped talking to me rather abruptly.  While I think about the other friendships that have passed from my life from time to time, this last one is the most painful, most likely because it is the most recent and it was a 20 year friendship that ended.

I have talked about this with a friend (who, bless her heart, is still very present in the weirdness that is my life) and she is probably reading this and banging her head off the keyboard.  She doesn’t understand why I won’t contact my former friend, why I won’t ask what happened.  She doesn’t understand my (il)logical thinking of “if 20 years of friendship isn’t worth a conversation, then why should I try to force it?”  Yeah, yeah.  I know what you’re thinking: I should swap “(il)logical” for stubborn.  I think this is a natural reaction to hurt, to try to block it by being flippant.  The truth is, though, that it does hurt.

I am not a fan of pain.  I imagine most people aren’t.  I think it’s natural to try to avoid it.  However, at some point, a person has to face it, feel it, and figure out what to do with it.  This is the part that I am a fan of: pain brings growth.  It can be for the better or for the worse, but hurting presents an opportunity to grow.  I’m not quite certain, yet, what kind of growth this particular hurt will bring.  Perhaps it will be to remind me to cherish the friends I have present.  Perhaps it will be to bring me closer to God.  Perhaps it will be to make me a better friend to others.

I am grateful for the friendships I have and have had in my life.  Some friends have taught me an appreciation for music, some taught me how to be selfless.  Some friends have taught me an appreciation for the healing laughter can bring, others taught me the strength to be found in humility.  Some have challenged me to be a better teacher, some have challenged to be closer in my walk with God.  All of them have contributed to who I am.

Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend. (Proverbs 27:17)

Manning the Ships

There are many types of sea-going vessels: boats, ships, canoes, kayaks, scows, barges, dinghies, gondolas, yachts, submarines, etc. Some are small, meant only for one occupant; others large, meant for groups.  Some are for leisure, a quiet place to fish as the sun rises or a raucous place to party with a group of friends.  Some are for provision, carrying coal from one part of the country to another or hauling in myriad types of seafood for consumption.  Whatever the size, whatever the purpose, each vessel needs proper maintenance in order to function.

I’ve been thinking about a different type of ship recently: relationships.  Like sea-going vessels, there are many types.  There are the overreaching categories, familial, platonic, and romantic, and within each of those, there are several subcategories.  We have different relationships with parents than we do with siblings, different relationships with colleagues than we do with friends, and different relationships with flirtations than long-term significant others.  

When I was growing up, my mom told my sister and me that friends and boyfriends may come and go, but our sister would always be there.  Every time we fought, she would remind us of this, and I am thankful for the relationship she and I now share, not only because of the comfort, advice, and shared memories we provide each other, but also because I see my nieces developing the same kind of relationship and it makes my heart smile.  

Recently, though, my mom and my aunts have been struggling, the stress that comes with caring for my gram as well as personality clashes have led to more and more tension.  This makes me sad and afraid.  Sad that their relationships are not weathering the storms of life and afraid that, if I am not careful, if I don’t take proper precautions, the same could happen for me.  Sad that my nieces see this, too, and afraid they might think it’s okay to allow the storms of life wash over their relationship and sink it.

Their struggle is certainly not unique to sisters; most relationships face such moments at one point or another, though perhaps not as intense.  When I think about the times I’ve faced them in my own relationships, I wonder if I have made the passage easier or if I have been a lightning rod.  I wonder if my pride has gotten in the way or if I’ve allowed His grace to guide my own.  Sadly, I know I have contributed to the rocky waves more than I would like to admit.  

When we encounter those tempests that threaten, what is the proper balance to fortify the ship?  There is a power balance in relationships that aren’t quite recognizable in fair weather.  People will sail along in blue skies, laughing and bonding.  Friends laughing at the latest episode of Modern Family, lovers gazing adoringly in each others‘ eyes while enjoying a sunset, family celebrating the birth of a child.  When the winds pick up, though, navigating the squall together can be a difficult thing, especially when there is more than one alpha in the mix.

I can’t remember where I read it, but I recall a quote that goes something along the lines of, “Saying I am sorry doesn’t always mean you’ve lost.  Sometimes it means you value the relationship more than you value being right.”  I think relationships are built, and broken, in the typhoons and hurricanes of life.  These are the times when we discover our own strengths and weaknesses as well as each others’.  If we are brave enough to be honest with ourselves and each other, brave enough to recognize where we are placing the value, we can adjust the sails or rudders together.  

A Father's Love

My parents divorced when I was young; thus, my father wasn’t as present in my life as those whose fathers lived with them.  My grandparents lived next door to us growing up, and my grandfather gave us more than enough love to guide us and nurture is in the day-to-day growing.  He was a man of discipline and hard work who also loved to laugh and have a good time.  I remember holiday gatherings, with him at the head of the table and cracking jokes.  I remember the way he looked at my gram and the way he looked at my mom and her sisters.  He may not have been one to say it with words, but he loved the women in his life very much.

My stepfather may have started on the periphery when we first met him, but his presence in our lives now is indelible.  He is also a man of discipline and hard work who loves to laugh and have a good time.  He came to every volleyball tournament when I was in high school, even those across the country, something he continues to do with my nieces, his granddaughters.  He climbed through feet of snow to go house-hunting with me, and he has given me much time, sweat, and energy in making my house a home and a safe one at that, something I know he does with my step-brother and sister as well.  His generosity is quiet, and he asks for nothing in return.  

While my dad wasn’t around for the day-to-day stuff when I was growing up, and while we don’t have a typical father-daughter relationship now, I know he’s a good dad.  I’ve seen him with my younger half-sisters; they know they are loved deeply.  I will not lie and say it doesn’t hurt at times, but he and I have our own moments: funny conversations waiting for the movie to begin, seeing all the sci-fi and silly movies no one else wants to see, a shared sense of humor.

My brother-in-law has been a member of the family for 24 years, my sister’s high school sweetheart who’ve built an amazing life together.  I’ve seen my brother-in-law be silly, be serious, be patient, be stern, be playful, be loving, and sometimes, be sad.  I’ve seen him be a brother, a son, a husband, a dad, an uncle, a grand-son, and a friend. Last summer, though, was the first time I had the chance to see him be a dad in the every-day business of it: the disciplining, tucking-in, playing-in-the-sand, meal-preparing every-day business of it.  And it was awesome.

Another Father’s Day comes upon us this weekend, and I’ve been thinking about fathers.  Everyone has a different relationship with their fathers, and everyone defines fatherhood differently.  Some dads are hands-on, some more comfortable providing in other ways.  Some dads are great spiritual leaders, some are stars at the grill.  Some dads rock at crawling around on the floor at play, some make books come to life.  Yes, dads have flaws because dads are humans; sometimes those flaws hurt but sometimes they make us stronger.  

In Luke 15, the Lord tells the story of the prodigal son, taking his inheritance from his father, leaving, and spending it riotously.  Finding himself in dire straits, he worked the fields, eating the same meal as the swine with which he slept, before realizing the offense in his rejection of his father’s love and humbly returning.  Rather than disowning him or lashing out in anger, his father thrilled at his return, embraced him, and called for the finest raiments and a feast.  It is this unconditional love that I celebrate this Father’s Day.  This unconditional love with which I have been blessed by the pretty amazing father-figures I have had in my life as well as the extraordinary fathers with whom I am friends.  Flaws and all, they have inspired me, encouraged me, and made me into the woman I am.  

To you, I wish the greatest of days: may you find yourselves surrounded by good food, good conversation, and may you find the unconditional love you give given in return.

Lovesong

I was 11 years old, sitting in a hot and steamy college gym, watching a sport that until then I had only seen played in the back yard at picnics.  We went to watch because my sister had just begun playing for the freshman team and the varsity team had made it to states.  I watched high school athletes throwing their bodies around on the floor, jumping and swinging and celebrating, and cry their hearts out when they lost in the championship.  I fell in love.

It has been a part of my life ever since that Saturday a long time ago.  I watched my sister earn two PIAA silver medals and play division I ball.  I started playing myself in seventh grade, was part of a three-time state championship team, played club ball that took me to parts of the country I probably would never have seen otherwise, and earned a college scholarship to a small school that brought amazing people into my life and made me the woman I am.  I helped manage the newly created men’s program at my high school, preparing me for coaching, which I have been doing in some capacity since I was 19 years old.  I played in co-ed leagues and tournaments as an adult, though not much recently.  I even watched my mom accept a national award for Parent of the Year for it.

It has introduced me to amazing people: one coach in high school who I am not sure realizes that he saved me from myself and another who was willing to spend countless hours after practice just hitting the ball at me to make me better; friends from my high school, club, and college teams who may not be a part of my every day life anymore, but who taught me who I want as well as who I do not want to be; people from adult leagues who, though a continent away, are among my best friends in the world.

It has taught me important things: how to rely on others to make something happen; how to take charge when others are struggling and need someone to look to; how to follow strong leaders who know where they’re going; how to get up and try again when I make a mistake; how to celebrate respectfully when I sometimes win; how to encourage, how to be honest, how to meet new people, how to be comfortable in my own skin.  It has given me a strength I do not know I would have had I not fallen in love with it so very long ago.

It was my passion for a long time.  I ate, slept, and breathed it.  There were days when I spent half a day with it, when I went from one practice to another to another, when I became so gym-drunk, the punchiness brought fits of giggles only a fellow player or coach could understand. 

I spent the past holiday weekend watching my nieces play the sport their mother and I so love for a club in which I once played, my mother once ran as the director, and my sister and I coached.  They are 14 and 11-years-old, and they have the bug.  I see it and hear it in their voices.  If the oldest could play it for 16 hours a day, she probably would.  And they’re good.  Very good.  They work hard and play with intensity and love it, love it, love it.  But as good as they are, what makes me happiest is knowing that they will learn all of the things I learned, meet awesome people like I did, and have countless great memories and experiences to forever shape who they will become.

I debate at the end of every season whether I want to continue coaching because the passion has begun to wane after 26 years.  Every year it takes a little longer before I say yes in my head.  Part of me thinks I continue to coach because I don’t know who I would be if it weren’t part of my life anymore.  Part of me thinks that if it weren’t for volleyball, a piece of my heart would stop beating.  Part of me thinks that a love affair this long means forever, for better or for worse.  

Entitlement

Disclaimer:  For the anecdotes included in the following writing, I use first person for sake of a smoother pronoun agreement; however, I am just as guilty of some of these and just witnessed the others. I would like to direct the following words toward myself more if not as much as toward the general population.  

I walk up to customer service and say, “I need to leave something here and pick it up later because it won’t fit in my car” rather than “Would it be possible for me to leave this here to pick up later?  I can’t fit it in my car.”   

or

My significant other breaks up with me, several months or several years ago, and I only call particular friends to unload all of my heartache and never ask how s/he is doing, even after months have passed since I’ve asked.

or

I sit in my classes and do nothing but creep on Facebook or tweet on Twitter, and I am shocked that I got a zero percent for the marking period.  “I should get something just for showing up!”

or

I make plans with someone, but then I back out because something better comes along or because I just don’t feel like it.  The next time I want to go out, I am annoyed that my friend won’t go.

What is wrong with us?  How is it that we have morphed into a group of people who feel they are entitled to special treatment, special rules or exemption from the rules that apply to everyone else?  How have we become a group of people who think of themselves first and everyone and everything else as secondary?  

Please understand, I know there are times when we do need to come first because if we don’t, we wouldn’t have enough to keep on living.  But think about it: what is so bad that I cannot ask someone how they are (and mean it)?  You can count on one of your hands events or situations that qualify.  What makes me so much better than someone else that I get to do whatever I want?  Answer: nothing.

Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my pain and start focusing on how I could help someone else, my pain would somehow abate.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my frustration and start focusing on what I can do to make things run more smoothly for someone else, my patience would grow.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my disappointment and start focusing on being a blessing for someone else, maybe I will be able to see all the blessings I’ve been given.

Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, 

love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: 

~ 1 Peter 3:8

Comparative Grief

When most people hear the term grief, they assume there has been a literal, physical death; and, usually, their compassion valves switch on and they immediately offer condolences and support.  What is interesting is how people tend to have considerably less compassion when the death is metaphorical instead.  

Think about the times you, or someone you know, came to the end of a long-term, romantic relationship.  If you are anything like me, the person you love is your best friend as well, so when that ends, there is a double whammy.  I remember hearing some sort of explanation for romantic grief on a television show: the amount of time permissible to grieve is directly proportionate to the length of time one was in said relationship by a third or some such.  As if grief works like an algebra equation.  Don’t get me wrong, if that is a personal mantra for you and it works for you, brilliant!  It is the application to others, and judging them according to that personal mantra, that drives me bananas.

I also find it curious that people, and I am guilty of this myself, tend to put more weight on the dissolution of a marriage than the ending of a long-term relationship.  (Clarification: when I think long-term, I think 2 years or more; I am sure that is different for everyone.)  While I have never been through a divorce, I have struggled through the ending of an 8 year relationship.  No, there were no legal waters to navigate.  Yes, I understand that legal matters can become incredibly nasty.  However, I still had to face family gatherings alone, to feel the fresh cut of the knife every time an acquaintance would ask about us, to face shared spots alone, to feel the pain anew every time a special song evoked the innumerable memories.  

There is also the great unspoken grief: fading or losing friendships.  As we grow and change, which I hope is a never-ending process, sometimes the people in our lives no longer fit.  I think it is natural for some friendships to fade because commonalities dissipate or belief systems change and are no longer compatible.  Sometimes, the feelings are mutually recognized; sometimes, they are not.  The surprising fact: it is rare for friends to have “the talk” like those ending a romantic relationship would.  I have been both the one to pull away and the one from whom friends have withdrawn.  I don’t feel good about either, and as awkward as those “talks” may have been, the closure they would have provided would have been worth it.  

Confession: I do not talk much about these things to my friends.  I have had both good and bad experiences when I have tried to talk about it.  One friend told me it’s on me to figure out how to feel better; another friend just about flicked me in the forehead for not going to her sooner.  My reticence comes more from my own self-judgment more so than my fear of others’.  I judge myself as being weak or ridiculous for perseverating on hurt and pain. Before some of you start banging your heads on the keyboard, I do see the fallacious logic of this.  I mean, come on.  Anyone who knows me knows I do my best to listen to people without judging them.  Why do I do it to myself?  Or even worry for a millisecond about someone judging me?  

I had a conversation with a friend last night who is struggling with grief.  If one were following the Kubler-Ross model of grief, this friend is experiencing anger, bargaining, and depression all at the same time.  Fun times, right?  But in speaking with him, I realized something: it is easy to dismiss someone else’s pain because you think it’s not as bad as, say, a literal death, or a terminal disease, or losing one’s home, or global genocides.  He and I both spoke of the wonderfully vicious cycle of beating ourselves up for feeling sad and angry when there are much worse things in the world, which everyone knows makes the initial pain and hurt feel so much better, right?  

Sometimes, we treat others’ pain as insignificant in comparison to - fill in the blank.  That judgment may never be vocalized, but our thoughts influence what we put into the world in even the smallest of ways.  I hope, I pray, that I remember that what may feel like a catastrophe to me might seem like a gnat to someone else.  I pray that I remember a walk in the park for me might be someone else’s cataclysm.  And may what I put into the world uplift rather than judge.