WORTH MY SALT (MY FAMILY'S PRIDE AND JOY)

 

The River Basins of North Carolina surrounded by a prayer by Adrienne Maree Brown doodled by me.

Before the car even stops,

they burst out of the back door

arms wide, teeth sparkling.

Love demands we mimic their movements

mirror their joy.

We must transform our anxiety into hospitality,

our lack into abundance,

our vulnerability into armor.

We must welcome the grace dumped on our heads

unless we want to be ungrateful,

cast out, or ugly.

It's a dance we've always done

since birth or maybe before

so with a few cues, we join in.

The crescendo of nicknames pour forth, 

lighting our hearts up,  

pumping our limbs until

we find the familiar rhythm.

There's no room for ambivalence

 in the urgency of right now, 

we are all together,

 once again,

hallelujah.

The jubilation at laying eyes on slight bodies,

wrinkled hands on smooth cheeks,

grips on necks and arms wrapped tight-

it's so much.

Too much too look in the face.

Too much to wrap your lips around.

Your pride and your joy have come home again.

Did anyone ask the prodigal child 

where the hell he'd been 

or what he'd been thinking?

How he could abandon them

to silence and withdrawal?

How he could take all that they loved 

away into the chaos of his whims?

No.

They feasted.

The Bible tells us so.

So we do the Lord's bidding.

With biscuits and black-eyes,

new potatoes and first tomatoes,

some ham, sliced thick and fried.

Fair trade for the gifts she's toted with her.

Whispy blonde heads and swaggering smiles

 cover for lavender shaded eyes and skinny spines.

The questions are begging but there is pound cake

and cool-whip and sugar-laced wild berries, 

steeping in their own blood.

If there are answers to be given, 

I can surely keep them until we're full up.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

What did I want them to ask her?

The coffee is dripped and the cigarettes are lit.

The ring around the table invites confession.

Now is the time-to see what is real.

To notice what is missing.

To show them who she is when we are apart.

If only I wasn't so heavy.

Weighed down by dust and lard and sour-smelling shame.

If I could take a breath, I might steer them

towards the sickness.

If I could clear my head, I might know how to

explain to them her riddle.

I am almost able to live up to my birth.

Almost worth my salt.

I look at my brother, long eyelashes brushing

freckles as he struggles to lift his lids on Grandma's lap.

Her arm patting his back begs him to rest with her

where the shape of love is a seat at the table.

He will hurt himself to get even one more second.

Me too.

Belonging is the payment for our pain,

gluttony the balance of our sparseness,

rest the cost of mania.

I force myself to forget my queries,

stun my brain until it gives way,

close the door on the scales I just can't

make balance.

No questions tonight.

No righteous judges or hung jury.

Just three generations holding the knife's edge-

shared bread to tide us over.

The breaker masquerading as my mother

will decide to exile us all again.

This tide always turns.

Hissing sands still allow the withdrawal.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

On reunion nights like these,

I learned to forget the questions

that would lead us dangerously close to the truth.

I learned to forget the bad decisions

and misplaced concern,

forget that it takes (at least) two to tango

but that a whole mob can get away with murder.

Forget the hunger, focus on the weight.

Forget the chill, eyes on the prize.

The big hello, the belonging and smiles.

The pride clutched tightly as if it is an honest reward

 for a job well done.

Those big greetings, bombastic starts, and outsized

moments always felt like the promise of a lifeline.

Until my grandparents were planted in

darkness.

Until my brother met them there.

Until the breakers stopped coming back to shore.

Until I was smooth as glass on the surface,

all my waves buffered in my depths

all my salt heavy on the floor.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

It turns out, we mostly just live up

to the expectations of our origin stories.

Mine had expectations so high

that it destroyed their pride and doused their joy.

I tried several iterations of a life

lived the way I was told it had to be.

Then...almost on accident...but mostly because

I became who they wanted me to be....

 I decided to remember the questions.

To pull it up from the deeps

the things that were heavy and twisted.

I pulled a lot of muck into the light,

spread it around and bleached it in the sun.

I have a lot more answers to some of those questions

and I have been at sea ever since.

Unmoored but not adrift.

Saltier some days than others.

The questions I wanted to ask them then

are the ones I want to ask all of us now.

Are you proud of yourself?

Sorry.  Sorry.

Don't answer that.

 I know you aren't.  

That's not the real question.

I sometimes can't help my home-training.

I'll try again, less directly, more softly.

It's not your fault, it's the ocean we swim in.

We all learn to drown even while 

they say they're teaching us to swim.

Let me come alongside a minute

and say this without even accidental sharpness.

What I really want to know

is whether your pride was worth the price?

Does the reprieve last long enough

to hold the anxiety at bay?

Will you hurt yourself to get one more second

of that beautiful lie?

Or have you found a different way to be free?

This is a message in a bottle.

Some water is living and some water is dead

and the only way to know for sure 

is to taste it.

Well seasoned is well fed.

 

UNEXPECTED HUES (THE SPECTRUM OF CULTIVATING CONNECTION)

"I don't think it's fair," she said.

I had just finished taking an older woman's order

and my mind scrambled for a second, reviewing her choices

to see what might not be 'fair'.

Two large coffees, one black, one beige.

Two blueberry scones, warmed up.

These choices seemed equitable 

 so I decided to risk the unpredictable

chaos people share with me when I'm serving in this capacity.

"What do you mean?"  I asked.

The woman's face flushed as she issued her greivance.

"Why does she get to sit outside in the sun, eyes glued to her computer?"

She gestured to the four tables outside the glass windows, 

each with a single customer,

three of whom were women.

Wait....wut?

I spend a LOT of hours in coffee shops.....

It was a gorgeous fall day, the summer humidity had just broken

and the sun was gentle instead of relentless.

We had the shop door open because

EVERYONE (including us)

wanted to share in the glory of the day.

I paused for a moment,  

trying to form a response that would line up with 

my mission and values....which left space 

for her to reiterate her complaint while managing to

STILL leave out quite a few important details.

"She's not even eating.  

She's just staring at her screen taking up a whole table outside."

At which point it became clear to me that 'fair' was 

a stand-in for something else.

She wanted me to bully some customers

around, run them out of their seats

so that she wouldn't have to interact with anyone

that she didn't know.

Luckily, I had come up with a response, even

if it was not the one she wanted me to have.

"It seems like you should make some friends.  Maybe ask to share a table?"

This was not the response this woman wanted

but medicine rarely tastes good.

pumpkin spice season makes y'all a little unhinged

 As a coach, I work hard to avoid scripting anything specific 

about the work a client will do during our time together.

Every person I work with is already whole, 

creative and uniquely capable to build their own future.

If I come to our relationship with preconceived notions or structured agendas,

then I can unintentionally give them the very real

impression that I don't trust them (so they shouldn't trust me).

That said, one of the most common things that a client 

struggles with is ultimately rooted in not understanding their own purpose.

What are they here to do?

What are the words that motivate them to rise above

their insecurities and keep going

or (and)

what are the words that keep them within the bounds

of their body, mind, or energy?

The remedy for this insecurity is often

crafting a personal mission statement 

and it's one of the most

rewarding (and frustrating) activities most clients

 (eventually) decide to take on.

cultivating connection to bend our story towards the light

is my personal mission statement.

It has supported my decision making process

for the past ten years in a variety of ways.

I weigh decisions based on alignment with this mission.

Small ones.

Big ones.

Silly ones.

Serious ones.

You get the picture right?

This is a key guideline for rightness in 

what I want this one wild and precious life to be.

Using this statement as a kind of sandbox

for testing my decisions has some unintended consequences.

By clarifying my lens, I end up seeing differently.

Seeing differently leads to action.

Action bears fruit.

And sometimes what I think I planted

is not what I end up harvesting.

It's often baffling.

My friend Jill made this for me years ago-isn't it amazing?

For instance, one of the side effects is that I 

intentionally seek to create connection and lift those around me

no matter how small the interaction.

In every environment and all kinds of weather.

Now, there are aspects to this focus that are very easy for me.

My brain has always stored information relationally.

I am very good at remembering names and faces,

birthdays, work history and nearest relations.

 I've rarely met a stranger I couldn't connect with

on some level, having all my shyness washed out in favor 

of survival as a young person.

I like people, like to understand them

and don't have judgement of them as my first move

even when they are behaving less than their best.

In fact, I probably like seeing them at less than their best

as a way of understanding who they are behind 

the masks we wear around in public.

But there are often unpredictable interactions

like the one I started this post with that 

can test my composure and quick thinking

when am not fully prepared to engage in the work cultivation takes.

About half the customers I see on any given day

are regulars-friends and neighbors I know well.

The other half are random people

who found themselves downtown and hungry who 

wind up there almost accidentally.

A few months ago, there was woman 

who just came from her friend's hospital bed,

looking for some warmth after spending the night in the ER.

Her friend was admitted with a mild stroke and was going to be fine.

But she was shaken and a little lost.

Lost enough to tell me about her friend while she drank her coffee.

And then restored enough to buy a latte for her friend's daughter to go.

Or the guy who was in town for business and had lunch with us two days in a row.

When I greeted him by name the second day,

he looked so shocked I thought I'd mis-remembered.

But it turns out, his job involves a lot of pretty negative interactions

(dissolving companies that have been acquired)

so if strangers know his name, it's usually because he had to tell them about the 

companies severance package.

He's not often greeted like a friend on one of these trips.

Or the large extended family visiting from Maine

who took up half the cafe one morning

the day after a mentally ill man shot dozens.

Shell-shocked and grieving on their vacation,

I listened while they praised the superlatives of

their home state, tried to make sense of the reality,

and let them know that I have been there.

Both to Maine and to the place

where your home state isn't fully

represented by the news coverage.

freedom demands freedom

And while these examples seem unusual,

they are actually pretty normal.

It's not that I'm doing anything special

(even though I AM trying to do my best).

It's that people are really really lonely.

Starved for anything remotely warm and real.

They are dying to be seen and to be known.

For someone to remember their name

or take care of them in a small, intentional way.

Our old sicknesses of racism, sexism, and shame

have been made worse by their friends facism, 

materialism, and fear.

Oppression is bad for all of us even though it tries to convince

those weilding the 'shoulds' differently.

And the third places we used to use for connection

-church, our front yards, or our extended families-

are broken open and apart right now in ways

that leave almost everyone floundering.

When I created this mission statement, 

I didn't understand that I would become a kind of 

EMT for lonely people.

I was imagining something easier,

less messy when I crafted these words.

Something that could be contained to working

hours or slots on my calendar.

I hope GOD gets a lot of giggles about how sure I am

that I know what I'm going to get when I set out to do something.

I know I do.

Found this on the wall of a coffee shop in Southern Pines recently.  Profound.

I'm glad I chose the words I did...

because cultivation is an ongoing,

active effort that invites but doesn't demand.

From me or from the people I interact with.

There are some people that I haven't been

able to build a bridge with, people so lost

or sick that I can't safely find a way to connect with them.

Like the woman who used to come into the coffee shop at least once a week

to yell at the baristas for getting her order wrong until they cried

(most of them are teenagers)

and then when she was asked to manage her emotions like an adult

wrote a 500 word negative review on yelp instead.

Or the half dozen middle aged men who walk a thin line

between interest and harrassment with their intrusive questions

and poorly veiled innuendos.

They are beyond my mission right now.

But I don't think they'll be outside of it forever.

We belong to each other.

All of us.

Even those of us who struggle to 

feel redeemable.

Even those of us who are so sick and lonely

and lost that they punch help in the face

when it shows up.

I won't be behind the counter at the coffee shop much longer.

I've just accepted a position with a non-profit

and I can't wait to see the ways my 

own personal mission statement evolves in that arena.

My BOSS is going to find new ways to put 

people on my calendar and I'm confident I'll feel surprised and

absurdly irritated and delighted all at once.

LESSONS ON CHOICE (LETTING MY ORCHIDS DIE)

My brain is a weird twist of bad science metaphors 

delivered to my conciousness in a fever dream.

I spend a lot of mental capacity trying to chase down these threads

and turn them into something useful but many of them just 

evaporate once I understand them.

A year ago, I started working with a Spiritual Director

and one of the 'fruits' of that connection is that

these ideas 'stick' better.

Our recent session started with discussing orchids.

She has a beautiful one in her new office that was really showing off

and she was understandably proud of it.

I shared that I have recently killed all my orchids and 

I am also proud of it.

Yep, you read that right.

I killed my orchids.

And I'm proud of it.

What?

Not my orchids....

I'm going to explain but before I go further,

I want to be clear.

If you are an orchid owner, if you delight in them

and choose to include them in your space,

I support that one thousand percent.

There are hundreds of varieties of orchids,

they grow all around the world in a lot of conditions.

They highlight the infinite creativity of the Creator

and how much GOD wants us to thrive,

even in conditions that are tough.

Nothing I say next should minimize that-ok?

A benefit of #quitting is I spend my time differently than I used to spend it.

Almost accidentally over the past year, I have managed

to cultivate a robust indoor garden.

I have cuttings in the windowsill,

clusters of old fashioned houseplants littered around every

room that I spend time in, and a running

list of botanical projects that means I spend several

minutes almost every day interacting with this indoor garden.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I have loved plants

my whole life and I've never had a season where I wasn't

growing something, tending to some green tinged space.

I *think* this is at Fairview Garden Center in Raleigh but I can't remember for sure

But if you're not a hort nerd, you might not

realize that I was barely cultivating this joy of mine

-choosing to focus my energy on outdoor efforts because

our modern spaces are NOT designed to support natural life.

Indoor heating dries out plants, air conditioning does the same

but often keeps them burning energy to buffer the chill.

And the light-good LORD the light is insufficient

for all but the most efficient photosynthesizers.

Our homes and offices are dark caves when we aren't present

and we put film on our windows to block out spectrums of light

that plants need.

It's pretty hard on us too if we're honest.

root cutting from a christmas cactus

Orchids though-

many of them can hack it inside our spaces.

These plants have evolved to thrive in conditions that are pretty

harsh and require them to pull moisture and nutrients from the air

with little direct sunlight while grasped onto the side of trees or rocks.

After living on a diet of air,

they produce a dramatically articulate bloom that 

lasts for weeks, sometimes months- a bright flag

waving on a stalk to attract a pollinator.

When the bloom is done, the plant will go back

to a haphazard mass of woody roots and waxy leaves-

unattractive by human standards but a smart use of resources

for a plant in such inhospitable environments.

Sometimes people throw them away after the bloom is spent,

trade them in for a new model that is already blooming

and avoiding the 'ugly stage' of 6-9 months before they 

have enough energy to send up another thin stalk topped with colorful flags.

We've had a few orchids in our garden over the years,

getting them to rebloom pretty often by ignoring them just right.

But last week, I noticed that both of the ones remaining

are on their last leg.

And I decided not to rehab them.

Can you spot the slmost dead orchid here?

In my current iteration, I'm actively working to create a life

that celebrates being nurtured and cared for.

A life that shines light on the black mold of shame.

That actively celebrates abundance, generosity, fulfillment.

I have made great strides in shedding many elements of diet culture

but I am nowhere near at peace with it.

The disordered relationship I have towards my health, my body, eating

and exercise may always be a challenge-an attitude

I have to cultivate actively because the passive protocol is so destructive.

And (for me) every time I look at an orchid, I am reminded

of how our culture has tried to convince me (and every other woman)

that we need to be the most glorious and beguiling

on the thinnest of margins.

How everyone else's joy and delight

is expressed most fully in our ability to bloom in spite of 

denying ourselves sustenance.

How we need to preserve this bloom for as long as possible

or we will be disposable since that's the only

benefit we bring to a space.

Brains are such bizarre things-it is obviously not the entire

Orchidaceae family's fault that I attach human meaning to their biology.

Orchids are truly glorious.

But for now, I don't want them to take up space in my physical

or mental garden.

I only want to see wild orchids, free 

in the environments where they can actually be pollinated

and have a chance to make something else

from all their courageous striving.

I let mine die-so that something new can take up that space.

Finally, I may cultivate orchids again-I may not.

There are no wrong choices really-

just decisions about what takes up space in your 

 (physical and mental) garden.

Since I get to make those choices,

I'm going to surround myself with reminders of the life

I intend to live, ruthlessly editing out anything that inhibits my own

ability to thrive and play.

What are you editing out or pulling into your life?

I'm leaning a little more towards joy every day.

My friend Melanie gave me this cute little ensemble

 

SEVERE REACTIONS (ELECTING TO RECALIBRATE)

 

I'm an external processor, a thinker-out-loud-er,

a person who digs in deep to the emotional pea that is interrupting my flow

and then talks (or writes about) it until I've made sure all my friends know

whatever I just uncovered.

Y'all already know this about me right?

While it may seem like I have great insight into myself

and the things that impact me,

the reality is that I'm still (and always will be)

figuring out new and embarassing things about myself.

Just a few weeks ago, I was answering questions about

my medical history in preparation for a minor procedure.

I told the nice person on the phone about my allergies to

several over the counter medicines.

He asked me to describe my reaction and then was dead silent.

"Wow" he said, followed by more silence.

"We're going to mark that as a severe reaction."

I'd like to say that I knew that paranoia, days without sleep and heart palpitations

were a severe reaction to a drug before he said those words.

But I didn't.

I kind of thought it was normal.

There is only one thing in this photo.  Life.

Why did I think it was normal?

The answer to that is layered but here are a few threads:

Because I'd lived through this reaction several times.

Because I didn't get hospitalized or have any negative consequences

outside of my own body and mind.

Because I had adapted behaviors and strategies

for ways to avoid this kind of reaction in most cases.

Because everyone else can handle these very common drugs.

Because it makes me a little weird.

Because I'm a human and therefor I can normalize any damn thing-

including feeling like I'm about to be attacked by an unknowable monster

in a drug induced panic.

Because some times I don't know how to evaluate something

 until someone helps me place it within a broader context.

Because I just decided it was fine.

I (unintentionally) calibrated this experience as something that was

'not-great' but also 'not as awful as other things'.

The value I assigned to this experience was inaccurate

according to the generally accepted definitions of mild, moderate or severe

that medical professionals use

but since I didn't have anyone outside of my head validating

my rating, I never questioned it.

Humanity's flexible approach to situations

is our super-power and our biggest achilles heal.

We decided (and continue to decide) how to assign meaning and value.

We are making it up as we go along.

And while we can do this activity alone,

when we do it together, the results are different.

Sometimes better, sometimes worse-but always MORE.

These little sample teas from David's Tea could be a whole short story

I'd like to tell you this is the only time this has happened but

I've honestly been recalibrating my understanding of 

'how things are' for most of my adult life.

There are lots of experiences that I originally

thought of as inconsequential or predictable

that I now know are traumatic, abusive or unhealthy.

There are things RIGHT NOW that I don't 

pay attention to because I think they're not that big a deal

but will absolutely be revealed to me as a problem.

Nothing highlights this more than politics.

Don't roll your eyes.  I know that you're thinking of 

US government dynamics and while I know the media shenanigans

are making you want to close your laptop and sage your house,

just hang with me a sec.

 Rob Bell has the best definition of politics I've ever heard:

"Politics is our shared life together"

For it to really be politics, we've got to be present with each

other.

Otherwise, we're just walking around inside our own head

and calibrating things according to our singular understanding.

There's a strong possibility that we don't have all the info in there.

And while I like to believe I can live on my own

without influence or support

that is just plainly false.

big quote from a little book, get it where you get books

And wow have I been wrong about our shared life together.

Ten years ago, I thought our country was well on the way to racial reconcilation.

Five years ago, I thought being mentally fit to hold the office of presidency

was a given requirement.

Three years ago, I watched thousands of people take actions

that they thought lined up with their patriotic duty

but pretty much match my definition of treason.

Back to the two sides of this coin though....

our biggest flaw is also a super-power when we understand

how it works.

I can change my mind, adjust to new information.

I can recalibrate my understanding and move forward

with a different perspective.

This means I can learn to like tomatoes,

you can learn about the real history of the police force,

and we can both make smarter choices when it comes to electing

officials to represent us.

In case you're not getting the full message here

this is an election year and local elections

have significantly more impact on you,

your life, taxes, and community

than federal elections.

If you live in my home state of NC,

our voting laws changed recently-

mostly because the good-ole-boys

are scared shitless that you'll figure out a way to 

cut off their supply of oppression.

Here are some great resources for you just in case you need them:

NC Voter Information

Rural Voters Making a Difference

Important Dates for NC 2023 Elections

Lookup Your Polling Place

We could recalibrate.

Learn something new.

Be something different.

Together.