After a while…
…I will realise that everybody is struggling within themselves to be the best they can be
…I will forgive myself my mistakes
…I will get used to early mornings
…I will come to grips with the transformative power of honest emotions
…I will learn that licking the bowl invariably makes me feel sick
…I will return to my better self
…I will quieten the inner critic long enough to think clearly about the future
The following poem was a life-saver to me when I was in a really black hole. There is a tremendous amount of power, wisdom and hope in its words. Power, wisdom and hope that became the light at the end of the tunnel when there seemed to be no other.
At the moment I, and some of my dearest girlfriends, are having a pretty crap time. Yes, we are doing what we choose. Yes we are walking in the general direction of our dreams. Yes there is forward motion. But it feels like we are walking slowly into the wind up a damned big hill. (The fact that is feels like we are walking hand in hand helps though.)
I have heard myself, and my besties, say ‘why did no-one tell us it would be like this?‘ too often in recent months. I guess nobody told us because we would have chickened out, run or laughed in their face. I am clinging to the sentiment that these dark periods are normal, natural and necessary. Thrashing around in a cocoon is necessary for a butterfly to be strong enough to fly when the time comes.
With that in mind, and permission from the author (she gave me permission years ago and I had not had the right occasion, till now) I give you After a while
After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns
if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
with every goodbye you learn …
Copyright 1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall.
At first look this question is lightweight. It isn’t the transformative powerhouse that, has effectively had me floundering, meditating, pondering and writing for over a week. Danielle LaPorte is sheer dynamite. At a time where I am floundering to figure out who I am, again, she was the perfect find online; a default, distant, online mentor of sorts. Bless her. (Her answer to this question was so much clearer than mine, for now)
A few weeks ago she addressed the following question on her blog: What is dying to be born? Wow! Fuck! Ummm…. There are so many questions and assumptions inherent in those 6 words.
It suggests that there is something dormant that simply must become manifest. It suggests urgency – that unless it is born this potential will wither and die. It assumes every act of creation is also an act of destruction. It assumes chaos and balance. It suggests we are all vessels carrying something, all midwives to something unique.
In my experience birthing is natural and blissful with support and a just right environment. What needs to die to create that environment are my fears, my feelings of inadequacy, my playing small. What in me is dying to be born? ‘My potential’, ‘my inner goddess’ and my ‘higher self’ are all true but too cliché to be meaningful. What is dying to be born of me is my true voice; in my actions, lifestyle, my writing. A voice I wont apologise for.
In the broader sense, what is dying to be born? Reverence for femininity to rival our worship of masculinity. Understanding of the power of sexuality. Respect for the art and science of conception, birthing and nurturing our children, our selves and our dreams. These are dying to born of us collectively and I hope to play midwife in my own small way.
What is dying to be born?
There is a post sitting in my WordPress drafts folder waiting to be posted. Courage isn’t something I lack. I have never been afraid to speak my mind. But something holds me back. My irreverence.
I firmly believe that our experiences as women may be vastly different, but that there are ineffable webs that connect us. I believe, and this has been bolstered by experience, that our internal experiences of the world are similar. I have learned that, more often than not, if there is an aspect of my womanhood that I find stressful that I am not alone. It frustrates me to no end that I have been forced to learn this the hard way.
My experience is largely an open book. When I experience something significant or difficult my natural instinct is to discuss it in order to understand it. I work hard to let go of (cultural) shame or guilt I feel, especially when I have done no wrong. As a result subjects that are not ‘polite’ to discuss don’t bother me in the least. In fact the double standards of what it is acceptable for men to discuss in comparison to the many natural and normal subjects it is considered unacceptable for women to discuss outages me.
So my question to you is this;
Are we ready to discuss the aspects of our inner lives that have been shushed until now? Or am I simply irreverent?
The more feedback I get the easier it will be to decide whether to publish the post languishing in my drafts.
As the days roll on, I am lucky enough to witness my toddler create his sense of self. He has begun using sentences with ‘me’ and ‘mine’. He also refuses help and asserts his opinions with the all too annoying “No!” and “Yuck!”. Despite its infancy, his self-esteem seems imperviable. I wonder how long it will stay that way and what I can do to help.
When he does something ‘naughty’, he comes to me, admits his wrong doing and then gives me a cuddle. If he is chastised or punished, he assumes the millisecond it is over that he gets cuddles, and loving attention again. He interrupts almost every hug his father and I share with a ‘love oo’, his chubby little arms outstretched, knowing in his bones he will be embraced too.
I love watching him, and his infectious belief that the whole world loves him, at work on the street. Fearlessly he smiles and greets strangers ‘Hello’. Smiles and bats his eyelashes and is offered any number of treats from chocolates and marshmallows, to stamps, toys and books. At such a young age he works a room so well I learn just by watching him and people who are less than friendly seem to not even register.
He takes risks. He values only love and fun. He expects the world to support him. He anticipates love from all directions.
Every day I feel as though I am seated at the foot of the Master. With close study he may teach me perfect self esteem.
I firmly believe that it takes a village to raise a child. In a ‘village’ children grow up at the feet of elders, learning vital lessons. Adults in a ‘village’ mentor and teach adolescents, instructing them in the skills and knowledge that they will need to contribute to the village in adulthood. Sadly I feel that my generation grew up largely without that village. This is not a criticism of our for-mothers; they were focused on creating a society where we (as women) would be valued as equals. It is because of them that we have an opportunity now to instruct the daughters of our new ‘village’ in all the skills of an adult and not just half of them.
As a result of growing up without the village microcosm we are drastically short of role models we can aspire to emulate, again not because our mothers are not ‘role models’ but because our paths are likely to be very different to theirs. Young women are in search of mentors and are coming up short. The ‘self help’ genre is growing exponentially as women reach out for help, desperately craving guidance and support.
I am fortunate in that I have had the loving guidance of mentors throughout my journey thus far. There is no substitute for experience; lessons only become permanent when one has lived them and been transformed by the experience. But the transformation isn’t automatic, the generation of women who repeatedly turn to inappropriate relationships, emotional eating and ‘retail therapy’ are a testament to that. The disconnect is that the skills necessary to courageously face life, walk towards our dreams and learn from adversity were the ones we never learnt at the feet of our elders.
We identify women of grace that we wish to grow like, but lack the vocabulary to identify what it is about their person that we value. The closest words we have to describe what it is we want are; beauty, respect, success and charisma. So we blindly stumble in search of what we think will bring us these; physical ‘perfection’, celebrity and the adoration of men. But we have the cart before the horse. Celebrity (lasting celebrity and not infamy) and adoration are the by-products of a life lived gracefully with purpose.
The deceptive nature of grace is that it ‘appears’ effortless. It seems as though it is a gift bestowed at birth when it is an attitude and a set of skills. Grace is a carriage, a way of being, that has nothing to do with external beauty. Though a graceful woman does possess a ‘glow’ that is often mistaken for, or perceived as beauty. There are guidelines, tools and secrets that graceful women live by and demonstrate, that when applied to our lives, transform them as though they have been bewitched by a fairy godmother’s wand.
This year I am working on embodying grace a little more… what about you?
The music building to a crescendo. Thousands of hands meeting in unison. The clapping creating a deep bass drum rhythm that somehow links us all.
The same is possible with dance. With celebration. With mourning. Solidarity
These are the great levelers of the human experience. In these experiences we can forego our personal identity and feel at one with thousands of strangers. These experiences change us. It always feels as though a little part of my defenses, my separateness, is lost after a ‘group moment’.
These times remind me, I like to think, of how we could relate to humanity. If we just let ourselves. They remind me of a better way.
Bless our musicians, our sports heroes, our leaders, our idols who can precipitate such events. Perhaps they hold a key to a more peaceful planet.
I love music. Pretty much all music. Well most, anyway. (Rap and death metal being two exceptions). My music collection spans the Crooners of the 1940′s to current pop stylings of Pink. I love rock and punk, folk and even some country. You’ll often hear my radio tuned to jazz, but acoustic rock and gospel are probably the two genres that really make my heart sing.
For years I have been ashamed to admit some of my favourite songs and totally baffled as to how the music of the day (presumably my day) doesn’t click with me. I know I will cop some flack for saying this (translation form Aussie slang I’ll get shit for saying this) but so much of today’s music lacks soul. There I said it. And I’m willing to defend it, too.
Now before I totally betray the musicians of today, of which many are outstanding artists, I should put this all in context. Music is a transformative medium. It has been used in rituals for worship, healing, and celebration in every culture all throughout history. Music has fueled many a revolution and moved listeners to feel the full gamut of emotion.
Herein lies my disappointment; the music of my generation doesn’t really (collectively) say all that much. And a lot of what it says I don’t want to hear. Case in point David Guetta’s “Sexy Bitch”. Oh please, the least disrespectful thing you can use to describe her is ‘sexy bitch’? Give me a break.
There will always be the trashy light music of the day thats purpose is solely to provide entertainment and enjoyment. Think disco and dance music. But the popular music of a time really interprets and reflects the happenings of the day. Our music reflects only personal dramas. Personal triumphs. Personal pain. The closest we have to anthems for a generation are Green Day Time of your life, Tomorrow by Silverchair, Dammit by Blink 182 or Crazy by Gnarles Barkley. Which pale in comparison to Queen, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Sex Pistols & Nirvana who championed generations before.
Pink has tried with Mr. President. John Butler Trio put in a good effort. Jack Johnson even writes about recycling. The Black Eye Peas manage to have a point while they inspire our ‘good night’s out, but they alone cannot breathe fire into the hearts of a generation. Our artists may not have a civil rights movement or the Vietnam war to draw on like the heroes of the 60′s and 70′s. We may not be fighting the establishment as we did with the birth of punk in the 70′s and 80′s. But you cannot tell me that when Rap and Hip hop came to the fore in the 80′s and 90′s that our rock and folk artists lost the ability to inspire us. Or that we live in a Utopian society with nothing to inspire them.
Thank heavens for Coldplay, U2, The Killers, Green Day, Foo Fighters for the soul they inject into a seemingly shallow industry at times. Let us hope they are still rocking on in 30 years time like their forefathers Dylan, Cohen and Cash all who had albums feature in the top 100 albums of the 00′s.
Please prove me and my (secretly folk loving) musical heart wrong. What are the anthems of our (Gen Y) generation? Who is still flying the flag and writing to inspire us all?
I know in my bones that nothing life will ever offer me will be as fearsome as my worries are. Not because my worries are terrible, horrifying or gruesome, but because in my worries I underestimate myself.
As a teenager, and even in my early 20′s my greatest fear wasn’t losing my job, being physically attacked walking home in the dark or getting food poisoning from eating a bad kebab after a big night out. My greatest fear was losing my identity to ‘Wife and Mother’. This, I worried, would be a fate worse than death.
I was plagued by images of an unhappy me. I would be balancing budgets, changing nappies, cooking daily and not working outside the family home. I imagined that this suburban hell would repress my unrepressable spirit. I was sure that if I was to dedicate myself to the role and responsibility of a householder that there would be no return, and my soul would be crushed.
It sounds dramatic, I know, but I would still argue realistic. Girls of my generation were pushed hard as children, told that our brains and careers would be our salvation, our ticket out of domestic subservience. Well, maybe it was worded more like ‘If you work hard you can do anything you want. You could be a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, a nurse or even an engineer. You have so much potential. Don’t waste it.’ Waste our potential on what? The roles not listed, like wife and mother perhaps?
It turns out though that suburban wife and mother was not enough to repress my spirit. I know that now because I am there. It is no walk in the park either. My fears about the never-ending list of tasks to complete and the remarkably short time to actually do them was spot on. As was my fear that the needs of my partner and especially a small child can at times feel suffocating. What my fears didn’t account for was the strength of my spirit. My spirit is still strong enough to fight for time and space to express my individuality.
I am convinced that this unaccounted for ingredient, my real potential, will bode me well in all of life’s ‘hells’. Because I can’t imagine how high my spirit will fly in the face of adversity, but I can’t help but live it.
So many people, not just young people, are thwarted by their desire to ‘do good’ in the world. At the heart of the matter is the concept that in order to have a positive impact on the world they must be important, well known, powerful and highly influential. The belief often goes that in order to ‘do good’ we must first be a CEO, a millionaire, found a charity, be Oprah, have articles written about us and have 1000′s of fans and admirers of our work.
Yes this is one blueprint of how to have a positive impact on the world, but only one. The ways to positively affect the world are as individual as you are. Literally. Doctors heal the sick. Charities help those in need, raise awareness of issues we don’t want to look at and lobby governments. Research scientists work to eradicate diseases and to prevent the often deadly spread of those we can’t yet squash. Other researchers help us understand ourselves more, our communities better and lay the foundation for the way forward. Inventors create new ways of doing things – safer, better ways. Builders, well, build… houses, schools, hospitals and ramps for wheelchair access.
But the essence of doing good is that it brings joy, peace, happiness, compassion or mercy to the world. Doing good reduces violence and intolerance, prejudice and ignorance. Doing good can be raising a child, baking a pie, making music, playing, or inventing something so useful it is revolutionary, like this. Doing good has absolutely nothing to do with age; Louis Braille had developed and refined his ingenious code by the time he was just fifteen. Doing good has everything to do with the intention and willingness to give of yourself in an authentic way.
Stop trying to change the world. Stop believing that the only truly worthwhile life is one lived in the spotlight. Stop being so afraid that you will amount to nothing that you miss the opportunity to make a difference, however small today. Humility has the power to change the world.
