What happens to our belief in the fantastical… once we know better?

This year, I found myself at a high-stakes pivot with my kids, smack dab in the crosshairs of a zero-gray area dilemma. Do I reveal or do I conceal? As a parent, you get used to the daily toggle between what you disclose (about life and death, headlines, anxieties,) and what you spin. These re-messaging strategies are a fundamental dimension of parenting, on most days.

But there is this one particular chapter of childhood that feels especially weighty. It’s that precarious transition from a world where fairies trade teeth for dollars and Santa Claus shimmies down 6-inch chimney pipes, to one where a steady stream of Amazon Prime deliveries trigger a Pavlovian response. Which is to say that for many, the first big secret of adulthood is: it was your mom and dad all along. 

This is that year for us.

After four failed mornings of Elf on the Shelf (which is to say the Elf failed to move from his previous location…#problematic), I had to come clean about who was actually moving him. Not totally unexpected, as the Santa and Easter Bunny conversations had also transpired this year, I thought it would be a slightly heartbreaking conversation. But it turned out to be a fairly practical one. They kind of already knew.

Still, it gave me pause, and not just because I tend to be our household’s chief magic maker, nor because of the mixed emotions stirred by a crossed threshold. What arose in me was a deep need to explain to my kids that while this theatrical version of magic was changing for them, the magic of another sort was just beginning.

Just yesterday it seems they were racing around the house searching high and low for Freddy the Elf, consumed by which crevice he’d chosen that day. Now, while only 8 and 10, our parental dramas around Freddy and “Santa” were met with eye rolls and finger quotation marks.

While I hope a pre-teen attitude isn’t settling in early, what I really hope is that they don’t lose touch with their belief in the good things they can’t see or touch – with magic as a spontaneous possibility. 

It got me thinking – what is it that makes magic possible? What are the conditions under which magic can make an unscheduled appearance? What is it that exists in kids naturally, that we lose, or give up, in exchange for adulthood?

The answer is naïveté; Unseen dimensions. Belief in things we can’t explain; Manifestations that have seemingly nothing to do with what we’ve achieved, but are simply the result of who we are.

But how often do we see smart, successful adults cultivating the qualities of gullibility and guilelessness?

A lot of us unknowingly (and preemptively) forfeit the ties to our dreams and hopes as a way to avoid disappointment. The desire to be all-knowing, un-flappable – the kind of person who won’t get fooled, manipulated or tricked – becomes paramount to our security. We adopt an unspoken attitude of defensiveness as a shield to life’s right hooks, a way to curtail lingering grief about our un-realized destinies, or what may just not be possible for us. But in striking this pose, I suspect we sacrifice something along the way, which is neither intellectual, nor analytical, nor even spiritual, actually – it’s belief.

Magic can’t find a seat at a table filled with doubt. By definition, one has to live as though she doesn’t know everything, can’t explain it all, and doesn’t want to be privy to what’s around every corner. For as much beef as we have with uncertainty and all its sharp elbows, when it comes to wishing for more magic, there’s no alternative. It has to come out of left field to even qualify as magic.

Not to be confused with the magical, which might be a sunset on the drive home, a song that moves emotion – a bite of something sublime – these sensory high notes are legitimately magical and should be labeled as such – as any conscious person with an ounce of gratitude for life can appreciate.

But magic as a concept seems like something you can’t plan or force…a gift that by definition has to be unbeknownst to you to be certified as magic. Which might call for us to adopt a mindset that encourages surrendering to the unknown in order to experience it. Maybe we could go against all our mature instincts and assume a position much like sleeping with our mouths open, vulnerable to anyone watching, so that by removing our layers, a surprising, maybe even forgotten dream – finds its way in.

This year’s Elf fail marked the end of certain childhood myths, which comes with some melancholy for me. On one hand, I feel relieved to stop setting alarms before bed to move the beanbag man, throwing up roadblocks to delay entrance into a room with dead giveaways. On the other, I’m inspired to discover new magical threads in the fabric of life and make magic a priority, to be noticed – and not exclusive to a season.

I explained to my girls that although they now knew the truth about some imaginary characters they thought were real, I also reassured them that there were plenty of wonderful surprises that would still mystify them throughout their lives. In fact, I said that the really mind blowing magic is all the good things that will seem to come out of nowhere – yet seem totally right, as familiar as their own fingerprint.

With surprise and awe, I said, you’ll marvel at these surprises, and wonder what you had to do with having them. You’ll discover answers to some, but find no explanation for others. Just being who you are set a butterfly effect into motion – which resulted in a much-needed presence… whatever “it” is.

The trick is not to doubt the goodness – not to become too smart to believe in what isn’t obvious or reasonable. Just because it’s no longer manufactured, does not mean it can be explained.

Trading pragmatism for fairy dust wasn’t the parenting moment I thought I’d have, but turns out – it’s what I want to teach them most.

Do the weight of certain words change according to the times? In 2018, might we need to reset our relationship to ideas that at one time, might have seemed empowering?

I recently came across a lecture series, created and hosted by a major fashion retailer in New York City, designed to get the attention of someone exactly like me.

The series was called “Fearless Women.”

F E A R L E S S.

Is this what times like these call for? Having no fear?

This past week, as Dr. Christine Blasey Ford began her congressional testimony, the word she used to describe her reluctant recounting of traumatic personal events was “terrified.” She’s not the first to use that word. But what marketers choose pluck from #metoo and movements giving voice to previously silenced audiences, though earnest, feels tone def. The impulse to package fearlessness doesn’t actually make fear go away.

Even before last week’s stunning news cycle, I found myself questioning the thinking behind a message like “Fearless Women.” The word is featured prominently next to entrepreneurs on the cover of People, in GOOP and throughout likeable memes on Instagram. I’m wondering if the teams who voted for “fearless” have ever started something from scratch, pressed send on a piece of art, spoke up when it was easier to be quiet, or stepped into the ring when the sitting on the bleachers was more comfortable? If they had, they might not have imposed the idea of fearlessness on anyone.

Unspoken traumas aside, the intended audience is presumed to be creative, entrepreneurial, autonomous, powerful, self-made women who, as risk-takers, already have a close and consistent relationship with fear. Is this (seemingly blatant) truth lost on those who’d like to get credit for supporting a movement? Here’s where what sounds good in copy is in danger of overshadowing the real meaning of the call to action.

It’s no secret that messaging and campaigns organized around a cultural zeitgeist are tactic #1 for raising visibility for brands. It’s a strategy that creates a halo effect around companies that want to be viewed as relevant and empathetic – more human. Women, and our ancillary interests and concerns, are predictable breadcrumbs for a fashion retailer. So at first glance, women and fearlessness may seem like a match made in marketing heaven. But is “no fear” really what the speakers at this event – visionary, pioneering, bold women – have in common? Do they identify with fearlessness, or are they being asked to organize their stories around a narrative of fearlessness because the retailer has decided that fearless is this season’s must-have accessory?

On many an occasion, when interviewing people who have achieved some degree of fame or public recognition, I have noted a consistent sentiment. It was rarely, if ever, fearlessness, but rather resilience, in spite of fear, that pushed them to put one foot in front of the other. To layer fearlessness over an already unrealistic blueprint of what it takes to be great feels like a misunderstanding at the highest levels of an organization.

When decision makers forget their humanity, they miss the most obvious truths. We actually don’t want to buy fearlessness, even when we’re terrified.

But here’s what we do want.

We want to know she almost didn’t do it.
We want to know she doubted and cringed and stopped and started – had awful, uncomfortable conversations, and got up again the next day to do it again.
More than stoicism or fearlessness, we want to know how she faltered and won, then lost and then tried again.
This is the version that speaks to us.
But it’s a less tidy marketing package.

Since this retailer is known for its exceptional shoe collection, might I suggest a series called, “A walk in my shoes: Blisters, Bunions and Finish Lines.” It would accomplish the same thing – but is a promise that can be kept. It gives everyone the space in which to tell her story – as she really sees it – which hopefully was the company’s original intent.

We don’t slay our dragons as much as learn to tame them. Let’s not hold up “fearless” as a necessary prerequisite to success, or an ingredient for achievement or worth. Few of us steps outside her comfort zone fearlessly. Propagating a narrative that says she should is yet another box we’ll ultimately have to crawl out of.

Summer, for many of us, impacts productivity, disrupts established processes and changes the pace we strive to hit the rest of the months of the year. More than any of the other seasons, it forces us to make tradeoffs, to negotiate for the summer pleasures that can only be done during these magical months. For me, there’s always something that ‘has to give’ to make room for everything else I want to savor.

Hot days are the reason to power down early, to cancel meetings; days off are legitimate needs more than they are guilty pleasures. Deadlines are accommodated, whereas new initiatives – and the requisite heavy lifting – those, we wave off to fall.

In July and August, we forgive erratic, work-disrupting kids’ schedules and colleagues’ inconvenient vacation notices because, for this fleeting period, work can wait. There’s an unspoken, collective agreement that because summer is a rare window of time, all is forgiven. It provides the ultimate “hard out,” a season that demands we milk every minute, without judgment.

But the transitional days between the end of August and early September feel less clear. Cues that point to more prescribed rhythms compete with our lingering desires to be spontaneous and open-ended. These weeks have us in a collective no-man’s land of bumpy starts, even for those of us ready and wanting of more structure. It’s easy to feel (temporarily) unmoored as expectations shift.

This was especially true for me as I sat down to write one recent morning, the first uninterrupted personal work day in (many) weeks. In spite of the numerous messaging projects I’ve completed for others this summer (it’s not as though I didn’t work), I found myself undone. I’d even go as far as to say panicked – by a palpable sense of incongruence. Was it my unusually quiet house, with kids now back in school? Was it an over-stuffed in-box, full of unanswered emails? Maybe.

But if I’m honest, the unexpected strangeness hit me as I began this blog entry. Sentences that usually come so easily felt rusty and punishing. After a six-week hiatus from personal writing – a self-imposed pause intended to uncover new perspectives and be present to other areas of my life – the exercise of unearthing clear dialogue, in this format, was sharply awkward.

I can’t tell you that a flash of regret didn’t seize me, because it did.

Please tell me you’re having a similarly clumsy transition.

Should I have been here, at my keyboard, so as not to lose all the momentum that suddenly appears to have evaporated? 

Is the consequence of enjoying more summer –time, people, experiences – the loss of something else – art, progress, life’s work?

(This is long, but if this sensation is at all familiar, stay with me.)

As I thought back to why I chose to break the status quo, I was reminded of how fatigued I’d felt last spring, bored by the inescapable expressions of my own stirrings. Have you ever tired of your own output? I remember craving a new way to relate to the observations that have defined my work, a desire to evolve in some way. Maybe this acute, uninspired slump was the toll to be paid on the road to creative rehab. 

But that narrative feels too punitive. Why is the nature of internal dialogue so sacrificial? Why is enjoying our lives – themselves works of art – often characterized as hedonistic? Could the real price of mental rest – especially because what was gained was both novel and meaningful – be thought of as walking down a path without footprints? Could we gently remind ourselves that we have not undone hard fought achievements but are simply in the realm of the unfamiliar?

Transitions don’t always appear productive, on the outside.
Nor are they very comfortable, on the inside.
But they are, quite often, the precursor to the new story we’ve asked for.

I’m not sure any of us have any clue to what we’ve released or acquired until we get back into relationship with it. It’s in the doing that we see what percolated and grew while we stepped away from it, particularly for those of us who create something…from nothing.

Sometimes the world invites us to a conversation we can’t refuse, and the roar of a wonderful, important, or worthwhile force takes over. But it doesn’t mean whatever has gone quiet, set aside for rest or recalibration, isn’t making its own magic while you’re not watching.

I get the sense that a new path is waiting, once my feet hit the ground. It may be overgrown, thorny and even a little formidable, looking at it right now. But trusting that there’s a way through it, that the part of me that churns and moves isn’t so much dormant but unexplored, is one reassurance that helped me take this first step.

How are you, friend?

Sometimes I go to bed at night with a deep sense of reward. Finally, I think to no one but myself, a nice, long stretch of rest before I face all of the decisions, demands, and solutions to be required of me tomorrow.

But then… the next morning comes – about 5:15 am usually (thank you enthusiastic birds of New England) and I wake up thinking: Already? Seriously? Is it time to do this again?

For me, it’s not about dreading my day or resisting the phase of life or work I’m in. Of course, some weeks feel mentally heavier, while others more light/productive. Yet others create the sensation of bailing water out of a sinking boat. But this life… especially when you bite off a big chunk of it – whether creative, financial, managerial, analytical, intellectual, operational, emotional, parental – or any other role that shoulders the wellness or future of something or someone important, is demanding as fudge.

It’s so interesting to me to observe that as we grow in our vocations and are able to take on more risk or responsibility, we must also grow internal capacity to bear more uncertainty. But being metaphorically out of breath and in an almost constant state of whiplash… ain’t no way to live.

For me, this past month proved to be opaque. What I thought would happen, develop, grow, become real…showed up as something completely different…and with many a curveball. Because the reverse pattern seemed to repeat itself, I decided to start looking at things like the flow of a river; “where the water flows, so shall we go.” Corny, yes – but I needed it.

If the meeting seemed difficult to nail down, I released my need to have it.
If the person didn’t seem sure, I prepared to let them go.
If the idea didn’t resonate, I put it away for later.

Sometimes the world/ universe/ spirit/friends are throwing up roadblocks to steer you in a different direction or help you see an alternate route. I’m trying to watch for those now, instead of muscling through with an unyielding force. Which isn’t to say I’m not persistent and determined, but there’s something to be said for observing the flow. While you know clichés give me hives (but here goes), “meant to be” usually presents as the right time, place, words, opportunity – a sign of some kind, or ease, that reassures.

Exhaustion comes from thinking you have to deal with it all.

Restoration comes when you realize a lot of “dealing with it” may have nothing to do with you.

Who’s taking up space? Are they paying rent, or squatting?

Forgive the self-focused angle this week – but it does the best job of explaining what you could easily apply to your own life if it resonates.

Sometimes (but not often enough) I have the forethought to take inventory of the “tenants” residing in my thoughts. These are threads of a conversation I might only be having with myself, that have become semi-permanent without my realizing it. Recognizing them is a contemplative exercise that requires some wherewithal and practice. Why? Because it requires a thought looking inside a thought, as they tend to camouflage themselves as “normal.” In reality, they’re depleting, diminishing and distracting. But I don’t tend to challenge them because I get slowly used to co-habitation.

I wouldn’t call them a belief system as much as a more contained grievance, regret or worry.

Having participated in my share of brand-related hospitality and real estate projects, I tend to think of it in exactly those terms.

A (good) real estate developer considers a property (like a mixed-use office campus or a retail lifestyle center) in a host of ways. The questions contemplated are often:

What is the optimal ecosystem? Will big, established brands balance smaller, riskier concepts and together will they create something authentic? Compelling? Is there a juicy anchor tenant paying a lion’s share of the rent, but who can attract complementary businesses?
Will the addition of one tenant turn off a series of others? And, at what cost?

As anyone who reads this blog knows, there’s not a lot of daylight between my musings and a (good) metaphor; I love them. But the reason I like this one is because life doesn’t always feel intentional in the way that decisions made by real estate professionals are. We’re “in” properties of our own making, yet not always of our own design.

So I’ve started to distinguish my literal tenants from my invisible but nevertheless vocal ones. Realizing there was a difference was a victory in and of itself.

There are the tenants that see the light of day – professional commitments, family time, hobbies, personal work, cultivating curiosity and interests – even common stressors around deadlines, finances, and relationships qualify. You could say that these are the tenants of our days. This stuff is obvious and makes for the ingredients for a full and meaningful life (managing this is its own mission.)

But there are other tenants that are unseen, that can’t be spotted on a schedule, but who, like a squatter, are uninvited occupants in our minds. They tend to be demanding, entitled, and perpetually unsatisfied. Some are old scripts. Others are punishing messages about what we haven’t yet started, completed, or might never get to, despite deep and sincere desires. Fleeting bouts of this can be expected; but when a stray idea sets up shop, a good property manager notices – and investigates.

We all want good tenants – which is to say inspired, benevolent streams of consciousness. But there’s a certain amount of rigor required to spot the sneaky ones taking up space, not just for days or weeks, but months…who have no storefront.

Some hidden occupants are great – like an idea percolating that hasn’t taken shape. But when they feel more like anxieties, chronic frustrations or mounting crises, they affect the whole “property” in ways seen and unseen.

I like to know who and what I’m hosting, so I can evict them if necessary. Giving them notice is a matter of seeing them, as a first step. They may not leave, and a resolution may not be clear to me, but they can’t be there without permission from the landlord (me), either.

Even when I can’t give them the boot entirely – because they’re thoughts, after all – the conversation often reveals something I need to see.

What to do with them depends on what they tell me.

Wife. Of. The Owner.

Isn’t it interesting that in 2018, the woman in a partnership could still be considered a plus-one to the boss?

I actually don’t think anyone using this title means any harm, but when I was on the receiving end of it the other day, I was reminded of how ubiquitous these unintended slights really are.

As the co-owner of a new business, I was in a delightful conversation with a new employee who, at the end of the conversation, gave me a compliment that included her excitement at talking to “the wife of the owner.” I offered an alternate title for myself to her which was, “I think you mean the co-owner.”

While I wasn’t upset, something changed in me. In that moment, I became personally invested in stopping the marginalization of anyone – from the subtle gestures to the more glaring ones. If a 23-year old, financially independent, highly educated, engaged citizen-of-the-world can make this mistake, it can happen to anyone.

I know our antennae are all rather “up” lately on this – but I don’t think there is any stance that is too vigilant on this topic. As someone who works behind the scenes for brands, I’ve gotten very used to seeing my work out in the public, on Instagram, in the communal zeitgeist – with zero attribution. Such is a life in brand strategy and advertising- -often invisible to the majority of the world. And that’s okay. But when I see that same standard applied to the woman behind the work in a myriad of other situations, it strikes a nerve. Maybe it even lights a fire.

If anyone has ever wondered why women (or anyone who feels unseen) “seem so angry,” it’s because we are so ducking tired of holding 15 balls in the air and still delivering high caliber work, only to be treated as a side dish to the main one. This comes in too many formats and contexts to list, from domestic and family contributions to vocational and professional ones – but I can assume that anyone reading this has been that person at least once, if not dozens of times. Feeling invisible, when you’re hauling a load, is one of the worst kinds of slights.

To those who find themselves in positions to change this, course correct or otherwise give credit where it is due, please do it. This is not a directive to men or women but to all of us – to acknowledge work (and workload) and to celebrate where it’s earned.

In a different situation that swirls at the center of my orbit lately, someone did that for me. And I won’t soon forget it. Thanks, Doug.

When someone shakes your cage, it can be hard to shake it off. A lingering psychic residue is often the by-product of an aggressive, insensitive or otherwise unexpected email, phone call or confrontation.

Thick skin, as some are quick to suggest, must be nice. But thick skin can’t be grown overnight. And even if it could, I’m not sure I’d like to insulate myself from everything it keeps out.

Being in the eye of anyone’s storm is unsettling at the very least. The chest tightens. There’s a destabilization that undermines even the most anchored human being.

Most people remember being yelled at as a child, usually by a parent who had lost cool, patience or wits. If it was a rare event, you learned that all people, even the best of them, have limitations. But if it was a common one, you learned something else.

You might have learned you were stupid.
Or worthless.
Or, that even where there’s love, there’s great unpredictability.
Maybe that early loss evolves into fear of losing control, lack of trust, a trigger for anger. It may sow deep, unresolved rage.

We have no idea who is walking around with what.
Until we get punched.

When I am on the receiving end of an explosive or otherwise unconscionable communication, I’m undone by the circumstances so much that the genesis of the other person’s unraveling rarely enters my consciousness. I don’t much care about why they are the way they are, and quickly move to a change of scenery or decompression as a means of recovery.

But that strategy doesn’t always deliver the emotional cleansing I’d hoped for. Instead, imagining what it must be like to be the person living with the kind of turmoil that causes them to lose it; of actually caring about why someone overreacted, rather than dismissing it, is a relatively accessible way to get out from under it.

While distress doesn’t typically have an expiration date, doing nothing to understand the source of the wound in others leaves it too free to wander in our own beings. Unchecked, it can show up later as something we may not like.

Practicing empathy is what allows us to see beyond what was done to us, to get a different view of the other. At a minimum, it wrangles and contains trauma. But better yet, it cultivates a quality worth having.

Might we glean something from this dreaded word, and might I possibly be the last person to come to this seemingly obvious conclusion? Forgive me in advance if you’re miles ahead.

In a conversation with one of my favorite clients recently, when I shared my own (common/clichéd/sadly normal) conflict around certain feeds on Instagram, he told me this:

“You’re not alone. I just unfollowed everyone I know so that I can exclusively follow the people who truly inspire me.”

What a novel idea! (first thought.)
What if I offend them? (second thought.)
What if they don’t even notice? (third / but not final thought.)

And later, in the post-conversation-mental-marinade, the justification cycle went something like this:

But I follow them to know what they’re doing, because it’s part of my job to be aware and connected to the marketplace, to observe influencers, and because my peer group follows them, and because they like my stuff so I should like their stuff, and because 40k other people follow them so…maybe I should too…and so on.

Really?
Really.

Lately, I’ve found myself flattened more than inspired, after looking at Instagram. And, the data says there are a lot of us. While I love posting and sharing with my own followers, because it feels warm and cozy, I feel unprepared with what sometimes reaches out from the screen and slaps me around a little – messages that annoy and provoke and then linger like a low-grade fever. Certainly not a crisis or even a curveball, they are much more a commentary about what provokes feelings I don’t deem worthy than of any wrongdoing by anyone else.

Logic would have it that if something feels bad, it is bad. But that ain’t Insta. With inspiration, connection and beauty can sometimes come addiction, bitterness, and envy. It is a platform that shines at presenting one (gorgeous) version of everyday reality. While it doesn’t take much time relative to the course of a day or week, the focus that it does pull seems out of whack with my priorities. It beckons me to questionable places – unproductive lines of dialogue that would otherwise never start.

So why do I/we persist?
Because the world does it?
Because the dopamine outweighs the depression?

We’ve become a little bit enamored with knowing what’s up with other people. It’s fun. It’s voyeuristic. It can be awesome sometimes.

One route is to unfollow, assuming you have the willpower to do it. But even if you can check that box, this platform remains a fixture for most of us because the good outweighs the bad. It calls for resolution, one way or the other.

As for me, I’ve reframed the Insta visual playground and am #following the Marie Kondo approach to social media in general:

Edit feed.
Limit time.
Ask myself…

Is there joy? If not = “unfollow.”

It’s hard to fully be yourself in any meaningful relationship when you have to be too careful – when there is even the slightest sensation of eggshells underfoot. Filtering oneself, whatever the degree, is not without cost. What I have noticed though is that eggshells are hard to spot in certain relationships. Crisis has a way of pointing out what couldn’t be seen before.

I once had a friend, a good friend, and business colleague, who played a huge role in my professional development. She brought me into opportunities that would shape my career and life, and over time became a big part of my day-to-day. But as much as I appreciated her support and promotion of my work, she was also unpredictable, emotionally erratic and had a fierce temper.

I learned to live with those edges because I cared about her, felt I owed her, and, logistically speaking, she was enmeshed in multiple aspects of my life. I chose my words carefully and handled myself with caution around her, and it became a dance I perfected. It was only years later that I began to see how much work all the tip-toeing and mind reading took. It’s hard to see the web you’re in when you’re in it. Now I know I was in a constant state of encouraging, soothing, reassuring or dodging bullets –  and it was exhausting.

One day she lobbed a ‘grenade’ over the fence…not only landing on me but on a lot of people in her orbit. It was the direct offensive that finally put the relationship into clear focus for me. Her outburst caused hurt feelings, professional setbacks and general bewilderment all around.

Her extreme actions allowed me to get “out” of a toxic situation, one that had long felt suffocating and fragile, without having to have a conversation. But I had no idea how deeply the dynamic impacted me until one day it was no longer there. I felt lighter and relieved.

I could have had the conversation, drawn the boundary or taken some proactive steps to address the issues more honestly, of course, but it really wasn’t until it was gone that I realized how much I was holding back. I’m not asserting that my approach is in any way evolved, but I do recognize the (very) human need to overlook behavior to save feelings.

Eggshells can cause a version of ourselves to emerge that we don’t much like, that could even feel tense/fake/compromised. I couldn’t see how much I adapted around her until I didn’t have to.

They also exist to signal landmines, even when we don’t know where those explosives are located. We fear stepping on them, at any time, anywhere, and as a result, move toward what feels like a safer trajectory. But in survival mode, we also lose something. Is it genuine expression? Is it truthfulness? Is it an ability to just be ourselves? Is it the opposite of intimacy – in the form of distance and protection?

There’s a difference between being sensitive, considerate and compassionate, and constantly worrying that you’ve ignited or wounded a person in some way. Worse is living in constant anticipation of it.

Knowing that difference can be a guide to the relationships we both cultivate and avoid. And to what we can no longer stand.

Funny thing about an eggshell – you can only remove one – with one.

If this metaphor is lost on you, what I mean is this… difficult relationships often require equally difficult conversations to effectuate change. And challenging dynamics are often only disrupted vis a vis a challenging incident that seems unwanted at first glance, but may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back…or pattern, in this case.

Empathy doesn’t feel exhausting.
Perpetual restraint…does.

When we hear the popularized term “holding space,” more often than not, it relates to something in the metaphysical sphere. But lately, when I apply the principle more literally, it offers interesting relevance in the real world. It’s especially true when conditions need to change, or the shape of something seems to be asking to evolve into its next incarnation, but I don’t know what to “do” about it.

On most Tuesday mornings, I take part in a morning dance rave at a nearby studio. It’s not a popular offering (yet) and, truth be told, at times I’ve been one of only two people in attendance.

I love the freedom, the darkness, the fact that despite the low headcount, the studio owner still gets up early to host it. Through this weekly event, she and I are both holding space, but in different ways:

She, by opening the doors, putting it on the schedule, turning on the music and turning down the lights; Me, by planning for it, and then showing up.

Taking it one step further, we’re both betting that something good will come from an open-ended question of sorts. With no agenda, only intention, it allows for answers, downloads and insights; about what, we don’t know ‘till we do it.  But it does require some trust and an adjustment of traditional expectations.
If I expected a crowded, mind-bending Burning Man experience that opened the door on a new quantum universe, I might be disappointed. If she expected a packed house and commensurate fees, she’d be equally bummed.

Because we’ve all been there.

You plan, you craft –  roll up your sleeves on a project, service, piece of work – and the applause is light at best, or at worst, inaudible.  Maybe you can point to a variety of reasons why, or not, but the takeaway is the same; zero bodies, dollars, likes, ROI…and seemingly little progress.

But…that’s what’s great about holding space for a thing; It’s an approach that takes time and practice, more than strategy and tactics. It’s adjacent to uncovering the answer, and less direct. But it’s surprisingly effective when you have that luxury to do it.

Taken further, I’m thinking of the people or circumstances you want to enter your life, the new energy, the answer, the opportunity – the right dynamic. Sometimes, all you can do is make room in your mind and schedule for those things to make an entrance – because nothing else seems right / clear / possible. You can take all the proscribed steps as well, and should. But just as meditation is often an exercise in not doing something, holding space is being there with intention and attention to see…what unfolds.

When we “hold”, we invite potential.
There’s stillness in it – that ironically, instigates movement.
It’s not proscriptive or instructed. It requires getting body and mind in one place – off-device, on-alert.

I don’t go into my dance rave asking for ideas, but the very act of free movement, with no teacher, no program or method, invites a certain cascade of thoughts that can form something worthwhile. I can’t predict it nor do I look for it.

It’s a parenthesis – with nothing inside (yet.)

January can often usher in a commitment to do it different or better, even to take on more, but with this drive often comes a dash of existential angst. And, if you happen to experience the winter months in extra cold weather, it can further deepen the crevasse between what you want and what you have, causing you (I mean me) to take a kind of personal inventory.

If you’re reading this, you’ve lived long enough to know that life can be shorter than we might have thought and different than we could have predicted.

The time is now…is a recurring theme.

So it was at about mid-December, amid all the holiday décor, toast-making and reassuring traditions that I started to ask myself…

Am I taking enough risk, or settled and complacent?
Are things vibrant and fierce or muted and dull?
Do I need a cold splash of water over my entire being?

In other words, am I too comfortable?

It occurred to me that I have done the stuff I’m most proud of when I’ve been pretty uncomfortable.

Giving birth.
Climbing mountains.
Facing illness.
Telling the truth.

With sub zero temps outside my window, I don’t have to look far for a little discomfort. Which got me thinking…

Most of us dwell in lives where we’re warm when we want to be, cold when we need to be, fed when we feel like it and distracted…on demand. Assuming chronic pain or crisis isn’t part of your immediate reality, comfort is mostly within arm’s reach.

Which is why any discomfort – physical, emotional – is almost always a shock to our systems, a place we flee rather than seek. Yet, being out of comfort is often precisely what provokes good work that we wouldn’t produce otherwise. I’m starting to think that for as much as I’ve tended to my personal care rituals, there may be equal mileage in finding or embracing some discomfort; withstanding what I don’t think I can stand.

If you follow Wim Hof (whose disciples include Tim Ferris, Tony Robbins and Dean Karnazes) you probably know about ice baths – or at the very least – cold showers. The wisdom behind cold exposure is that our “evolution” has made us less tolerant of the elements, and therefore more susceptible to disease and depression. Our wild, ancient human has been lost. Technically, cold-water submersion is one of a handful of practices that reconditions the hypothalamus to be more adaptive and resilient. The ability to tolerate healthy but difficult environments sharpens the senses and grows capacity, radically changing how we regard our own strengths. All of this, of course, tends to create higher performance. And toughness.

But this isn’t about ice baths or becoming harder. It’s about the dozens of opportunities that already exist in life that have us contracting or flinching, that we discard or escape – thinking they’re bad (at worst) or not useful (at best.) But what if we’re missing an opportunity? What if we could stay in the moment, feel the feelings, witness the unease, hunger, pain, and restlessness – whatever sensation descends – instead of getting out? Why not instead, go in?

Pushing physical (or other) limits to build emotional resiliency is not a new idea, but I like it as a mission, for this year especially, as I take on a fresh set of projects and some realignment on personal goals.

But how do we make the uncomfortable more of a natural habitat?

I’m taking cold showers. And I sat in the snow and took 30 breaths in a tank top the other day. I’m resisting the urge to look at my device when an answer eludes me, because I see that it’s an avoidance technique for discomfort. I’m breathing when I feel like clenching. I’m staying in the pose.

Because…

With discomfort comes expansion.
With expansion comes space; it widens the margins, makes more room.

I want that even if my bare feet have to touch the ice to find it. And yes, there are many other ways! But cold has a hold on me. Confronting and embracing it is right outside my door.

Let’s not avoid the things that grip us.
Maybe their existence is the invitation we need to be most awake.

Hello Friends,

So here we are, nine days into 2018.

I wonder how each of you cross this annual threshold. Do you have a ritual? A way to close one year…or open the next?

I like to look back on the past year and see where I can connect the dots. Were there any patterns? Was there a set point? An overall feeling … or a series of independent messages that, only in hindsight, form a greater picture?

In my own life, 2017 was a year about boundaries. What can I live with…what can’t I? How can I help make something better, without giving too much? Where am I called to action? When do I give myself permission to devote my energy elsewhere? While these are questions (as they appear on paper), in my mind’s eye, I think of them more as statements. They function as an internal GPS. The moment they are presented…the answer reveals itself. The course, suddenly clearer.

Related to this was staying in the discomfort, acknowledging how it is and (just as much) how it isn’t. Being able to exist with multiple realities, various extremes, conflicting stories, opposing views; disappointments and victories, within the same minute.

I go into this year knowing that these themes may continue, but despite them or because of them, I will commit to putting one foot in front of the other, with full presence, integrity and service. I can’t really promise more than that. I do this knowing that there are questions I can’t answer, grief’s I can’t solve, aspirations that hold a future hope – but as of yet – little evidence. There is light and joy right here, under my feet, within reach, and also the things that remain unresolved – but not unseen.

How can I answer my own calling – when sometimes I can’t even hear it?
How can I watch for signs – but still do the work – whether they show up or not?

I’m not waiting for answers. That’s not the point of the asking. But if I had a resolution, being brave enough to ask the questions would be it.

This is my work.
What is yours?