"Look at you, helping your mom like real men!"
Yes. Someone said that to my boys this past weekend when they were helping me carry our luggage.
Oh, how I grow weary of this “real men” talk.
"You mean they are helping me because that is what we do… right? We help each other. And they are really good helpers."
Yes. That was my response.
Oh, the looks I receive for my gentle corrections of “real men” talk.
And no, this is not in the general public. I do not fight those battles. If some stranger makes a comment in passing that is especially bothersome to me and I know the boys hear it, we discuss it later, privately. I only attempt these corrections with people who spend a lot of time around my kids.
I simply do not understand why it is so upsetting to some people that I refuse to raise my sons to think they should offer help or courtesy to others on the basis of gender. I cannot understand why it bothers some people that I refuse to teach my sons that in order to be “real men” they should do things for women because women are somehow weaker and need them. (I am apparently also harming their real manhood by my refusal to glorify guns and war and certain “manly” types of violence, but that is another post.)
Yes, I am a feminist and that does influence the way I raise my kids. But I'm not trying to use my kids, who happen to be boys, as some kind of political or social statement. I don't force them to read feminist literature or tell them negative things about men or try to make them “girly” or whatever else it is that people scared by feminism think that feminists do. All I'm trying to do is raise my kids with values that promote equality, mutual respect, and healthy views of gender.
So when friends or family say things to my sons about being men in a context that makes it seem that the way we treat others hinges on gender instead of shared humanity, I am going to say something. Not because I am trying to be difficult or because I am angry, but because it is contrary to the values I am trying to teach them. I want my boys to know that showing kindness and courtesy to others – regardless of who they are – is part of how we value the image of God in others and in ourselves.
I want my boys to be good men because they are good people who happen to be male, not because they fit a certain social or religious stereotype.
I'm not trying to turn my kids into feminist activists, harm their sense of manhood, or teach them women are better than men; I'm trying to raise kids who truly understand equality.
Yes, I am teaching them to hold doors open and help carry luggage and lots of other things many may consider chivalry, but not because those are things “real men” are supposed to do. I'm teaching them these things because those are just a few of the countless ways to show we understand the inherent value of every other person. And if someone doesn’t want the help they offer, that is okay as well.
Behavior matters, but so do the attitudes and thoughts behind that behavior. I am trying to teach my boys that the behavior they exhibit toward other people should come from the desire to show respect, kindness, empathy, and love, rather than teaching them attitudes that assign worth to others based on gender or how well a person fits into certain roles.
So really, there is no need for eye rolling or concerned looks when I politely dispute the “real men” comments directed at my boys. It is fine to complement their kindness and helpfulness or to tell them it is appreciated when they do something nice without being asked, but there is no reason to use their positive behavior to create differences where none need to exist.
I may not be out there on the front lines, fighting the good fight against patriarchy, sexism, male privilege and the like. I may not be able to single-handedly eradicate from this earth all the attitudes and views that are harmful to both women and men. But I will speak up when people say things to me or to my children that promote and reinforce them.
And I hope my sons are learning to do the same.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Go Do
I work in IT. That is not to say that I am an IT person, because I am not. I simply work for an IT company, writing reports about things that go wrong and tracking identified actions to completion. As part of the training I’ve received in this role, I finished course work and two projects to receive a certification for Lean Six Sigma Green Belt.
Stay with me here, I promise the entire post is not about this.
Lean Six Sigma projects are quite detailed with specific steps of data gathering and planning and risk analysis and result measuring and progress reporting. If you manage a Lean Six Sigma project, you will likely be involved for months, possibly years, completing all the steps and requirements before achieving the desired outcome. In the course of planning a project, however, if you identify what is called a “go do,” you can simply get the people you need and go do it, without all of the following of steps required for a full project.
I’ve been thinking that for quite some time my blogging has been similar to a drawn-out Lean Six Sigma project. I’ve spent a lot of time researching and analyzing and writing, mainly regarding my faith, but without identifying or completing any go do items. Not that I haven't been doing anything. I work full time and have kids. What I mean is that I haven't completed go do items resulting from all of this unraveling and listening and reading and weaving I've been writing about.
It is not necessarily bad that I’ve spent so much time writing in this way. Sometimes writing is the only way I can organize my thoughts and figure out the how and why behind my feelings. I type and type and type until things start to make sense or until I get to the root questions and then I can go back and cut and paste it into some kind of meaningful thought. Writing is very important to me. I don’t intend to stop writing.
What I do need to figure out is what direction my writing needs to take. I have been moved or inspired or infuriated by news stories or other blog posts I’ve read and have started writing responses to many of them. I have numerous drafts sitting in my dashboard hashing out my thoughts on everything from gun control to abortion to modesty culture to motherhood. Some of these drafts are even completed and edited, but I always hesitate to click "publish" and almost always talk myself out of it I’m simply not sure that is the direction I should be taking at this point.
There are some truly amazing bloggers out there who have a calling to delve into these topics and turn them over with their words to expose the hurt and truth and complexities. I appreciate those writers and reading their perspectives is extremely beneficial to me as I wrestle with where I stand. But I also read books and listen to sermons and have conversations with people, often stopping just short of certainty or complete agreement on any of the seemingly urgent topics of the day. It seems to me that if I’m unable to come up with an explanation that does justice to the complexity of how I arrived where I am with my beliefs, I’m not sure it is helpful for me to write in a way that is anything other than trying to make sense of my personal struggles.
So instead of writing to convince others to think what I think or to criticize what others are saying/doing/believing, I need to focus my writing on what allows me to work out where I should be going and what I should be doing. And then I need to go. And do. Again, I love to read what is written by the people I respect and admire and I love to write. But more and more I've realized that I need to focus on doing. Not that writing isn’t doing anything, but I can't only read and think and write without it producing action on my part.
Now that I think of it, it’s not entirely accurate what I wrote earlier about not finding a single go do in all this time. I did identify one: find a church. And I did it. And it feels awesome to have stopped obsessing over the whole church thing and to actually have done something about it. Now I just have to figure out what is my next go do and go do it.
Stay with me here, I promise the entire post is not about this.
Lean Six Sigma projects are quite detailed with specific steps of data gathering and planning and risk analysis and result measuring and progress reporting. If you manage a Lean Six Sigma project, you will likely be involved for months, possibly years, completing all the steps and requirements before achieving the desired outcome. In the course of planning a project, however, if you identify what is called a “go do,” you can simply get the people you need and go do it, without all of the following of steps required for a full project.
I’ve been thinking that for quite some time my blogging has been similar to a drawn-out Lean Six Sigma project. I’ve spent a lot of time researching and analyzing and writing, mainly regarding my faith, but without identifying or completing any go do items. Not that I haven't been doing anything. I work full time and have kids. What I mean is that I haven't completed go do items resulting from all of this unraveling and listening and reading and weaving I've been writing about.
It is not necessarily bad that I’ve spent so much time writing in this way. Sometimes writing is the only way I can organize my thoughts and figure out the how and why behind my feelings. I type and type and type until things start to make sense or until I get to the root questions and then I can go back and cut and paste it into some kind of meaningful thought. Writing is very important to me. I don’t intend to stop writing.
What I do need to figure out is what direction my writing needs to take. I have been moved or inspired or infuriated by news stories or other blog posts I’ve read and have started writing responses to many of them. I have numerous drafts sitting in my dashboard hashing out my thoughts on everything from gun control to abortion to modesty culture to motherhood. Some of these drafts are even completed and edited, but I always hesitate to click "publish" and almost always talk myself out of it I’m simply not sure that is the direction I should be taking at this point.
There are some truly amazing bloggers out there who have a calling to delve into these topics and turn them over with their words to expose the hurt and truth and complexities. I appreciate those writers and reading their perspectives is extremely beneficial to me as I wrestle with where I stand. But I also read books and listen to sermons and have conversations with people, often stopping just short of certainty or complete agreement on any of the seemingly urgent topics of the day. It seems to me that if I’m unable to come up with an explanation that does justice to the complexity of how I arrived where I am with my beliefs, I’m not sure it is helpful for me to write in a way that is anything other than trying to make sense of my personal struggles.
So instead of writing to convince others to think what I think or to criticize what others are saying/doing/believing, I need to focus my writing on what allows me to work out where I should be going and what I should be doing. And then I need to go. And do. Again, I love to read what is written by the people I respect and admire and I love to write. But more and more I've realized that I need to focus on doing. Not that writing isn’t doing anything, but I can't only read and think and write without it producing action on my part.
Now that I think of it, it’s not entirely accurate what I wrote earlier about not finding a single go do in all this time. I did identify one: find a church. And I did it. And it feels awesome to have stopped obsessing over the whole church thing and to actually have done something about it. Now I just have to figure out what is my next go do and go do it.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Enough
Enough: occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations
1: in or to a degree or quantity that satisfies or that is sufficient or necessary for satisfaction
2: fully, quite
3: in a tolerable degree
In most instances, I like the word “enough.” "Enough" is an improvement from "adequate," but doesn't indicate "excess." The demands or requirements are met, but I haven't gone overboard. The word "enough" can be such a calming word. It makes me think of phrases like:
1: in or to a degree or quantity that satisfies or that is sufficient or necessary for satisfaction
2: fully, quite
3: in a tolerable degree
In most instances, I like the word “enough.” "Enough" is an improvement from "adequate," but doesn't indicate "excess." The demands or requirements are met, but I haven't gone overboard. The word "enough" can be such a calming word. It makes me think of phrases like:
You don’t have to keep worrying.
You don't have to keep struggling.
You have what you need.
You've done what you can.
You ARE enough.
Those are good thoughts. I like those phrases.
I know settling for “enough” in all aspects of life is not right. There are places that call for continued investment or for not saying that where I am is enough. Important relationships, learning, certain goals – those are a few areas where settling for "meets expectations" doesn't work. Those are areas that deserve my best efforts.
Yet, in places where "enough" is acceptable, I need to let it be just that: enough. I know I have a tendency to obsess a bit about things. Even after I've realized that more is not going to produce a better outcome or provide additional clarity or create a more desirable situation, I'll keep going back to it in my mind and over-thinking it. Or over-doing it. Or I'll keep going back to it and writing about it again and again from different perspectives.
Enough is enough, as they say. The first place I need to accept this is in writing about how shattered and broken my faith and beliefs have been. It's not that it doesn't matter anymore, it's just that to keep going back to it is splitting my focus. It's time for me to turn my attention in a new direction. It's time for me to approach new topics in my writing. It's time for me to move on.
I've written about it enough.
I know settling for “enough” in all aspects of life is not right. There are places that call for continued investment or for not saying that where I am is enough. Important relationships, learning, certain goals – those are a few areas where settling for "meets expectations" doesn't work. Those are areas that deserve my best efforts.
Yet, in places where "enough" is acceptable, I need to let it be just that: enough. I know I have a tendency to obsess a bit about things. Even after I've realized that more is not going to produce a better outcome or provide additional clarity or create a more desirable situation, I'll keep going back to it in my mind and over-thinking it. Or over-doing it. Or I'll keep going back to it and writing about it again and again from different perspectives.
Enough is enough, as they say. The first place I need to accept this is in writing about how shattered and broken my faith and beliefs have been. It's not that it doesn't matter anymore, it's just that to keep going back to it is splitting my focus. It's time for me to turn my attention in a new direction. It's time for me to approach new topics in my writing. It's time for me to move on.
I've written about it enough.
Friday, April 19, 2013
I Think I Found a Church
Yesterday, when I sat in the old, worn pew in the back of the sanctuary and we chatted, I have to admit I began a bit guarded. When I'd called the church office to ask about newcomer classes, she suggested that rather than waiting for them to arrange another session, I come in and meet with her, the parish priest. I know I'd readily agreed to it, but I was still a little nervous.
The rectory office was in the midst of a re-organization effort and the common area was busily being rearranged for an upcoming activity, so the sanctuary was the only free space when I arrived at our agreed time. It was mostly quiet, save for the kids from the free preschool they run listening to a lesson up on the stage. It's not an enormous church, but the last pew is far enough back that we couldn't hear them.
She asked about my church background and what brought me to St. Patrick's. In a few quick minutes I explained growing up in church and then trying to find the right place after the boys were born and then becoming a church drop-out to study my faith and try to figure out where I belonged. I tried very hard not to ramble. I think I did an okay job.
We talked about what I've been reading -- Beck, Evans, Keating, Taylor, Volf. She is a good listener. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and it felt like a holy moment, even though I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing.
Looking me in the eyes, she said, "You are so young and that is quite a journey. You are brave to keep trying. A lot of people give up." I detected no hint of condescension or insincerity or flattery in her voice. I kept my composure and asked about her journey, but my heart was breaking open in the most excruciating and beautiful of ways.
When she considered her words and said that she knew there were some things she may be wrong about, but that she kept praying and seeking understanding and grace, I felt hopeful.
When she said that I would find people in the congregation who held opposing political and social views, she stretched her arms out wide to demonstrate the full reach of those differences. But when she assured me that the congregation strongly believes we are one in Christ and are called to share the table regardless of those differences, I felt like I was hearing the church I've been listening for.
When she said that they aren't always perfect at it, that they are a place comprised of people which means they will never be perfect, I laughed and told her that if she'd tried to convince me her church was perfect I would have known it was not the place for me. I told her that her congregation was the most welcoming I'd ever experienced and that each Sunday at least two people I hadn't met yet made a point of chatting with me, and she said she was very glad to hear I'd been made welcome.
She didn't try to pressure me to continue attending or for any kind of commitment, she simply said that based on our conversation, she thinks the Episcopal church seems like a good fit for me. She encouraged me to call her if I have any questions and agreed to come up with some books for me to read to learn more about their traditions and beliefs. And then she gave me a big hug and said she enjoyed talking with me.
I waited till I got to my car to let the tears fall.
At the beginning of this year I didn't know if I would ever feel at home in a church again. Four months later -- after only six Sunday mornings there -- and I can't imagine finding anywhere else that feels more like home.
They are having a dinner/fund-raiser Saturday night to benefit the local interfaith homeless ministry. She'd seen that I signed up to attend and as we discussed it, she mentioned that she is going to speak for a few minutes beforehand. The topic? Weaving the Fabric of Life.
Maybe there is the slightest possibility I do believe in holy moments after all.
The rectory office was in the midst of a re-organization effort and the common area was busily being rearranged for an upcoming activity, so the sanctuary was the only free space when I arrived at our agreed time. It was mostly quiet, save for the kids from the free preschool they run listening to a lesson up on the stage. It's not an enormous church, but the last pew is far enough back that we couldn't hear them.
She asked about my church background and what brought me to St. Patrick's. In a few quick minutes I explained growing up in church and then trying to find the right place after the boys were born and then becoming a church drop-out to study my faith and try to figure out where I belonged. I tried very hard not to ramble. I think I did an okay job.
We talked about what I've been reading -- Beck, Evans, Keating, Taylor, Volf. She is a good listener. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and it felt like a holy moment, even though I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing.
Looking me in the eyes, she said, "You are so young and that is quite a journey. You are brave to keep trying. A lot of people give up." I detected no hint of condescension or insincerity or flattery in her voice. I kept my composure and asked about her journey, but my heart was breaking open in the most excruciating and beautiful of ways.
When she considered her words and said that she knew there were some things she may be wrong about, but that she kept praying and seeking understanding and grace, I felt hopeful.
When she said that I would find people in the congregation who held opposing political and social views, she stretched her arms out wide to demonstrate the full reach of those differences. But when she assured me that the congregation strongly believes we are one in Christ and are called to share the table regardless of those differences, I felt like I was hearing the church I've been listening for.
When she said that they aren't always perfect at it, that they are a place comprised of people which means they will never be perfect, I laughed and told her that if she'd tried to convince me her church was perfect I would have known it was not the place for me. I told her that her congregation was the most welcoming I'd ever experienced and that each Sunday at least two people I hadn't met yet made a point of chatting with me, and she said she was very glad to hear I'd been made welcome.
She didn't try to pressure me to continue attending or for any kind of commitment, she simply said that based on our conversation, she thinks the Episcopal church seems like a good fit for me. She encouraged me to call her if I have any questions and agreed to come up with some books for me to read to learn more about their traditions and beliefs. And then she gave me a big hug and said she enjoyed talking with me.
I waited till I got to my car to let the tears fall.
At the beginning of this year I didn't know if I would ever feel at home in a church again. Four months later -- after only six Sunday mornings there -- and I can't imagine finding anywhere else that feels more like home.
They are having a dinner/fund-raiser Saturday night to benefit the local interfaith homeless ministry. She'd seen that I signed up to attend and as we discussed it, she mentioned that she is going to speak for a few minutes beforehand. The topic? Weaving the Fabric of Life.
Maybe there is the slightest possibility I do believe in holy moments after all.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Shattered
"The price of recognizing Jesus is always the same: our idea of him, of the church, of the spiritual journey, of God himself has to be shattered. To see with the eyes of faith we must be free of our culturally-conditioned mindsets. When we let go of our private and limited vision, he who has been hidden from us by our pre-packaged values and preconceived ideas causes the scales to fall from our eyes. He was there all the time. Now at last we perceive his Presence." - Thomas Keating
I've immersed myself in theology as of late. I do have some non-theology books on my to-read list, but this is where I am right now, still mulling over the wisdom and experience of others to help me figure out where I am and what I believe. I've noticed several themes over and over again in the various books I'm reading and one of them is "shattered." Whether it is a shattered view of life or shattered ideas as mentioned above, I keep finding this thought as I read.
Here is the thing about something that has been shattered: it cannot be un-shattered. Even if you tried to painstakingly fit every shard back into the whole, it would never be as pristine and smooth as before it was broken. If something is merely chipped, cracked, or broken into a few pieces, you can attempt to put it back together. However, if it is really shattered into hundreds slivers, you can a) choose to use the pieces to make something else (just look on Pinterest -- people make a surprising number of things out of broken glass) or b) you can replace the shattered item with a new one. Regardless of what you choose, you cannot put it back together to be exactly as it was before.
I didn't realize it at the time, but this shattered experience had a lot to do with my break from church. I really could not continue to go to church week after week, trying to appear that I was okay when my idea of God had been shattered and I felt betrayed (at least in a way) by my own beliefs. The truth seemed too messy and made me feel too exposed and I wasn't in a place where I felt safe sharing any of those things out loud or face-to-face with anyone other than a few close friends. I felt too broken and confused and lonely -- and maybe even scared -- when I went to church. With my previous framework was in shambles, I needed to take the time to become a student of my faith and sort out what I believe about God.
So, a lot of that is still true. I am broken. Any illusion of certainty I had before is shattered and has been for quite some time. The way I see it now is that I will either begin to perceive God's presence as something new among the shattered pieces or I will replace the pieces with something new.
This past weekend, I read the following passage regarding the way our preconceived ideas about God can keep our faith from maturing:
The means that we needed in the early part of our spiritual journey (but which we may have come to depend on too much) are gradually removed... Family, ethnic, and religious values are important and may support us for a certain time and to a certain place in the spiritual journey, but not to the place of total freedom that is God's ambition for each of us. - Thomas KeatingI may be broken, but I'm not scared anymore. I realize now that this is simply my journey. If I'm going the wrong direction, I will figure it out eventually. If no one else I know is going this way, that is okay. The more I read and learn and think about the beliefs of people I'll never meet and the generations of believers before me -- with all their passion and hunger for truth and differences and brokenness -- the less lonely I am.
I can't prove that what my faith is becoming now is what it is ultimately supposed to be. I can tell you that even if it feels like God is so very different from who I'd previously thought, letting go of those preconceived ideas and acknowledging that I'm working with shattered pieces feels so much more like freedom than pretending at certainty ever did.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Nothing to Offer
I thought I’d unraveled to the point I could start putting it all back together, but that was an illusion. Apparently there is more. I’m okay. I’m getting by. But I’m still unraveling and I hadn't planned for that to be the case and it is messy. I feel that I have nothing to offer anyone right now, but actually writing it out loud is something. I was going to say that writing it out loud helps, but it actually just means that the three people who read my blog know about it now. Some things are what they are and have to be dealt with over time and I have to learn to keep going. I am learning to keep going.
Oh, and one place I'm going is back to church.
Over a month ago, I started reading the book The Mystery of Christ: The Liturgy as Spiritual Experience by Thomas Keating. I got up one Sunday morning with plans to visit a local community church, but after reading several sections from Keating's book with my coffee, I changed my mind and decided to visit a church that keeps to the liturgical tradition.
I Googled one I've frequently driven past to find out when their late service started and I went. I sat in an old pew and I noticed the way the light filters in through the stained glass and I chanted scripture from a prayer book for the first time ever and I listened to the priest blessing, individually, members of the congregation who were celebrating birthdays that week and my eyes welled up with tears. As new and different as much of it was for me, I felt what I can only describe as a sense of home. And I experienced a tiny stir of what I think was hope. I had a fleeting thought that maybe, somehow, I will find a place where I can start putting some things back together and stop feeling so alone in my faith experience. Maybe. Somehow.
I still have much to learn and far to go. At the moment I'm still feeling like I'm empty, like I have nothing to offer. I honestly have no idea yet if this church is the place for me, but I've gone three of the past four Sundays anyway. I have no idea how long it will take before I know if I’m doing the right thing, but I’m doing it until I figure out if I am.
I hate feeling like this and I hate feeling empty and I hate not having anything good to write about or talk about or give... but I think that is the way life is sometimes. I think, sometimes, the dry spells teach us just as much as the abundance. I think I need to stop thinking so much and just keep going.
Oh, and one place I'm going is back to church.
Over a month ago, I started reading the book The Mystery of Christ: The Liturgy as Spiritual Experience by Thomas Keating. I got up one Sunday morning with plans to visit a local community church, but after reading several sections from Keating's book with my coffee, I changed my mind and decided to visit a church that keeps to the liturgical tradition.
I Googled one I've frequently driven past to find out when their late service started and I went. I sat in an old pew and I noticed the way the light filters in through the stained glass and I chanted scripture from a prayer book for the first time ever and I listened to the priest blessing, individually, members of the congregation who were celebrating birthdays that week and my eyes welled up with tears. As new and different as much of it was for me, I felt what I can only describe as a sense of home. And I experienced a tiny stir of what I think was hope. I had a fleeting thought that maybe, somehow, I will find a place where I can start putting some things back together and stop feeling so alone in my faith experience. Maybe. Somehow.
I still have much to learn and far to go. At the moment I'm still feeling like I'm empty, like I have nothing to offer. I honestly have no idea yet if this church is the place for me, but I've gone three of the past four Sundays anyway. I have no idea how long it will take before I know if I’m doing the right thing, but I’m doing it until I figure out if I am.
I hate feeling like this and I hate feeling empty and I hate not having anything good to write about or talk about or give... but I think that is the way life is sometimes. I think, sometimes, the dry spells teach us just as much as the abundance. I think I need to stop thinking so much and just keep going.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Reckless Bravery
Last Saturday, I went out to dinner near downtown with some friends and I was late due to a ridiculous series of circumstances. By the time I arrived, the parking garage was pretty full and I had to park in the basement level. I backed into a space as close to the stairwell as possible, knowing that was probably the safest idea since I was alone.
My friends and I had some delicious sushi and a great visit. We talked about going somewhere else for a drink, but it was St. Patrick’s Day weekend and none of us felt like being around a bunch of drunks. We said good-bye on the second level of the parking garage where they'd parked and I made my way down the several flights of stairs to my car. It was getting late and I could see as I made it to the landing there weren't many cars remaining in the vicinity.
I heard them before I saw them, eight or nine guys on motorcycles, engines revving at an ear-piercing volume. Shit. They were occupying the three parking spaces adjacent the driver's side of my car, as well as part of the aisle in front of where I'd parked.
I know not to judge a book by its cover. Just because a few of them were wearing ski masks and at least one was heavily tattooed on his face and neck, doesn't mean they were intending to be menacing. Maybe they were just some suburban soccer-dads out blowing off steam after a long, hard week in the trenches. Maybe.
But I saw them there and I got pissed that I didn't feel safe. I got pissed that my initial reaction was to be scared. I got pissed and I squared my shoulders and clenched my jaw and looked straight ahead and walked confidently over to my car. I met the gaze of the guy closest to my car and did that half-nod acknowledgement thing as I approached. I didn't even lock the door once I got inside the car, because I didn't want to seem scared. I started the engine and pulled out of my parking spot, giving myself a mental pat-on-the-back for having backed in when I parked because that allowed me to easily navigate around the guys who were partially blocking the aisle.
The two in the ski masks followed me all the way to the exit floor of the garage, revving their bike engines behind me at every stop sign, before finally circling back around to a lower level as I made my exit. It wasn't until I'd left the garage that I let myself think, "What the hell did you just do? You didn't even check to see if anyone else was around! No one would have heard you scream over all that noise. There MIGHT have been security cameras, but what are the chances they are being watched that closely? What is wrong with you?"
This is not the first time I've done something like that, the getting pissed that I feel like I need to be scared when I have a right to feel safe, and then doing something that in hindsight was probably unwise. Why is it that I can be recklessly brave when it comes to my physical safety, but when it comes to trusting my heart and my head, I let other people get to me? I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I realized something:
I'm done.
Remember the post where I wrote that growing up I learned to doubt so many things about myself? How I learned to doubt my heart and my mind and my thoughts and what I knew to be true? And remember how I said I didn't want to go back there?
I realized I have not truly left that behind and that I still let people make me doubt myself, even when I know I'm right. I let people tell me to be careful with my line of thinking and then I begin to wonder if I have the ability to really understand what I learn. I let people make me feel that I’ve misunderstood something when, no matter how many ways I look at it, I know that I haven’t. I let the words of other people make me scared to trust myself.
And now that I’ve been thinking about it, that pisses me off just as much as when I feel scared for my safety.
I’m pissed that when I say something true, I can be made to doubt it because the person I say it to doesn’t like the way it sounds. I am mad because I let the way other people question me turn me back into that 15 year old who knew with all her heart that something was wrong, but whose voice was silenced for being a girl and daring to speak up and rock the proverbial boat. And I don’t want to be that girl who gives in and doubts what she knows to be true, because being that girl pisses me off.
I'm pissed and I'm done.
I know I've stated that learning to listen is a priority for me. But I realized today that there is a difference between listening to someone else for the purpose of understanding them and listening to the point of being silenced. I do need to listen to others and strive to understand, but I need to listen to me too. When it comes to what I know and what I can tell is true, I've got to be recklessly brave about owning it. I’ve got to be recklessly brave in the right ways and about the right things, other people’s fears and baggage be damned.
I'm done buying into the bullshit that my mind and heart need someone else to tell them what to think and what to feel. I'm done giving too much time to anyone who tells me that my heart and mind can't be trusted when I know they are in the right place. And I've decided I'd rather stick to my guns and be wrong and later have to admit I was wrong than to buy into bullshit and regret it.
I may need to be a little more careful about my physical safety, but I've got the reckless bravery thing down. It's time I put it to good use.
My friends and I had some delicious sushi and a great visit. We talked about going somewhere else for a drink, but it was St. Patrick’s Day weekend and none of us felt like being around a bunch of drunks. We said good-bye on the second level of the parking garage where they'd parked and I made my way down the several flights of stairs to my car. It was getting late and I could see as I made it to the landing there weren't many cars remaining in the vicinity.
I heard them before I saw them, eight or nine guys on motorcycles, engines revving at an ear-piercing volume. Shit. They were occupying the three parking spaces adjacent the driver's side of my car, as well as part of the aisle in front of where I'd parked.
I know not to judge a book by its cover. Just because a few of them were wearing ski masks and at least one was heavily tattooed on his face and neck, doesn't mean they were intending to be menacing. Maybe they were just some suburban soccer-dads out blowing off steam after a long, hard week in the trenches. Maybe.
But I saw them there and I got pissed that I didn't feel safe. I got pissed that my initial reaction was to be scared. I got pissed and I squared my shoulders and clenched my jaw and looked straight ahead and walked confidently over to my car. I met the gaze of the guy closest to my car and did that half-nod acknowledgement thing as I approached. I didn't even lock the door once I got inside the car, because I didn't want to seem scared. I started the engine and pulled out of my parking spot, giving myself a mental pat-on-the-back for having backed in when I parked because that allowed me to easily navigate around the guys who were partially blocking the aisle.
The two in the ski masks followed me all the way to the exit floor of the garage, revving their bike engines behind me at every stop sign, before finally circling back around to a lower level as I made my exit. It wasn't until I'd left the garage that I let myself think, "What the hell did you just do? You didn't even check to see if anyone else was around! No one would have heard you scream over all that noise. There MIGHT have been security cameras, but what are the chances they are being watched that closely? What is wrong with you?"
This is not the first time I've done something like that, the getting pissed that I feel like I need to be scared when I have a right to feel safe, and then doing something that in hindsight was probably unwise. Why is it that I can be recklessly brave when it comes to my physical safety, but when it comes to trusting my heart and my head, I let other people get to me? I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I realized something:
I'm done.
Remember the post where I wrote that growing up I learned to doubt so many things about myself? How I learned to doubt my heart and my mind and my thoughts and what I knew to be true? And remember how I said I didn't want to go back there?
I realized I have not truly left that behind and that I still let people make me doubt myself, even when I know I'm right. I let people tell me to be careful with my line of thinking and then I begin to wonder if I have the ability to really understand what I learn. I let people make me feel that I’ve misunderstood something when, no matter how many ways I look at it, I know that I haven’t. I let the words of other people make me scared to trust myself.
And now that I’ve been thinking about it, that pisses me off just as much as when I feel scared for my safety.
I’m pissed that when I say something true, I can be made to doubt it because the person I say it to doesn’t like the way it sounds. I am mad because I let the way other people question me turn me back into that 15 year old who knew with all her heart that something was wrong, but whose voice was silenced for being a girl and daring to speak up and rock the proverbial boat. And I don’t want to be that girl who gives in and doubts what she knows to be true, because being that girl pisses me off.
I'm pissed and I'm done.
I know I've stated that learning to listen is a priority for me. But I realized today that there is a difference between listening to someone else for the purpose of understanding them and listening to the point of being silenced. I do need to listen to others and strive to understand, but I need to listen to me too. When it comes to what I know and what I can tell is true, I've got to be recklessly brave about owning it. I’ve got to be recklessly brave in the right ways and about the right things, other people’s fears and baggage be damned.
I'm done buying into the bullshit that my mind and heart need someone else to tell them what to think and what to feel. I'm done giving too much time to anyone who tells me that my heart and mind can't be trusted when I know they are in the right place. And I've decided I'd rather stick to my guns and be wrong and later have to admit I was wrong than to buy into bullshit and regret it.
I may need to be a little more careful about my physical safety, but I've got the reckless bravery thing down. It's time I put it to good use.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)