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The Power of Me Too

9/23/2016

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​I saw it twice in a week, a quote allegedly by the late Mexican artist, Frida Kahlo, that I could have written:

"I used to think I was the strangest person in the world
but then I thought, there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do
I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too.
well, I hope that if you are out there you read this and know that yes, it’s true I’m here,
and I’m just as strange as you."


​First of all, though widely attributed to Kahlo, it appears there is no proof she ever actually said it. There doesn’t even to seem to be a plausible suggestion that it was her. So why does everyone think she said it?
 
​With a little digging, I learned that In 2008, a Canadian writer and artist named Rebecca Katherine Martin, just 15 at the time, mailed a postcard to the wildly popular blog PostSecret, a site that anonymously posts reader-submitted “secrets.” The idea is that, by posting the secret, it loses some of its power and the poster becomes somehow less alone. The postcard she created featured a partial picture of Kahlo, which seems to be the only reference to her.

Maybe there’s something to our desire to believe that a famous, beautiful artist felt as flawed and lonely as we do. Maybe that’s why the quote is consistently attributed to Kahlo. Or maybe it’s our inability to pay attention to a Google search longer than the first few results to figure it out. Maybe it’s both.

​One of the places that the alleged Frida Kahlo quote surfaced this week was in a video I watched introducing the Mothers of Preschoolers theme for the year, and I could tell it resonated with my friends too. I lead our local MOPS group this year. You know, the group with the ridiculous name that I never wanted to join because I feared they might try to make me decorate a cake and talk about my feelings? Well, they've never made me decorate a cake. But MOPS has been a lot of beautiful things to me: a place to take my kids when the days felt long, friends and strangers to cook my dinners on nights when I couldn’t because I had just had a baby (or had just lost one), conversation in a place where I had neither friend nor family. But most of all, it’s made me feel less alone.

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Last week, for our first meeting, I had to choose an icebreaker. Friends, even that word causes me to cringe. I hate small talk; I would try to excuse myself to the bathroom whenever it’s icebreaker time if I could. I understand their purpose, but they are not my favorite. So I waded through an absurdly long list until I found one called, “Me Too” and immediately knew this was the one for us. The way it works: everyone writes down five things about themselves on a card. They could be anything (I have three kids, I like to cook, I’ve been married for ten years). Then everyone takes a turn reading her card out loud. When you hear a statement from someone else that is also true of you, you say “me too.”
It goes like this:

“I drive a minivan.”
Me too.
“I miss reading fiction.”
Me too.
“I’m a Navy wife.”
Me too.
“I used to be a (fill in the blank), but now I’m not sure what’s next for me.”
Me too.

No one’s problems got solved after we did this. But I felt a buzz in the room. Because maybe that’s the thing I love most about MOPS; maybe that’s the reason I stay. Because of all the times I’ve walked in, shoulders slumped, worn down from the inherently lonely, mundane parts of motherhood. I’ve sat down with my coffee and started listening and something brightened as I heard myself say, “me too.”

This week has been so heavy. Two more police shootings of black men, days and nights of sometimes violent protest in Charlotte, renewed fighting in Syria, continued vitriol on the campaign trail. And as a result, I see my circles, my acquaintances, my newsfeed fearful, angry and divided.

Where we live, it’s also been a week of rain. School was closed for two days because of the flooding and, despite the bickering and boredom, I was grateful to hold my babies close.

They learned this week that little friends of theirs had lost their mother just last month. What they don’t know is that it was suicide that took her. These precious children's beautiful mother, whom I didn’t really know, was so overcome— with her illness, her problems, her flaws—that the end seemed a gift. Finding out stole the breath from my lungs. While we must protect the innocence of our children and hers, I don’t think we can whitewash this. Did she have a place where she could hear another say, “Me too?” I have to believe her people did all they could to save her. But did she have the help she needed? Would she have accepted it? Would it have made a difference?

I certainly don’t know, and no part of me is trying to simplify what is never simple and can never be fixed from the outside in. But I know just enough about the darkness within me to know that it's a liar, and that total retreat is not an option.
 
What would happen if we didn’t hide our brokenness? If we wore it, not as a badge of honor, but as a reminder of our humanity, of our connectedness to everyone else? As a Christian I believe that nothing separates me from anyone else, or from the depravity and death and darkness of this world but for the grace of God and His son, my savior, Jesus Christ, who can pull anyone, anyone, ANYONE out of the depths. If I really believe that, to my bones, I don’t need insulation or separation or protection from anyone else’s broken pieces; they can only cut me so deep. This knowledge should compel me into the dark places with compassion, with understanding, with an arm ready to wrap around hunched shoulders, the gentle words, “me too,” on my lips.

May we all seek out a place to rest, where we can bring our pain and flaws and mistakes and strangeness and lay it bare. Not just online--where it's so easy to posture, to project, to cover up and to hide--but in real life. Where sisters and brothers would look at us tenderly and say, “Me too,” and refuse to let us leave the way we came in. May we not believe the lie that these sisters and brothers need to look just like us, talk just like us, tell all the same stories and live just like us in order to be the people for us. And if you can't find that place, maybe you can make it yourself. Being vulnerable will not keep you safe, but it also won't allow you to stay lonely. And it might just make it safe for others to come out of hiding and say, "Me too." 

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What I do

9/13/2016

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I was walking on the beach, talking to my brother in law and sister in law, but I might as well have been on the Roman Road, talking to anyone who would listen.

One of my daughters is consistently a terrible ambassador for herself. We know her to be hilarious, brilliant, insightful and caring, but many people who encounter her—even family—might not gather that from their time with her. Her behavior betrays her. I hear myself saying this, in frustration, and dig my toes in the sand, immediately aware that I do it too.

Our new pastor had rattled the familiar verse off the weekend before, “What I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do” (Romans 7:15 NIV).

So, for our daughter, maybe it’s a tantrum when she’s feeling overwhelmed, flying off the handle because a bee flew by or speaking unkindly to someone she loves. I see this behavior met with frustration, anger, or even disgust from people we know and from strangers alike. Sometimes I meet it the same way. It’s frustrating to see someone I love misrepresent herself so.

And yet, I betray my heart on a regular basis. Inside, most of the time, I am loving, open and kind. I see the best in others and want to believe good things for them; I have ideas about telling and showing them this. I have plans to spend my time with intention, doing things I love for myself and people I love. But then, instead, I spend my time forgetting myself, complaining or judging, scrolling through Facebook while the precious minutes fly by at night and hitting snooze in the morning. Why do I do this?

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I find Paul’s lament at once comforting and disheartening. “I do not understand what I do,” he says at the beginning of verse 15. Neither do I, which suggests that my self-betrayal is nothing new; it is the human condition. Though I am comforted to know I’m not alone, I’m frustrated, wondering what I can do about it.

So, here’s where I land. I can pray to be an ever-better representation of myself. I can work to understand what I want to do and why I choose what I do instead. I can take it all moment by moment and make deliberate choices about my words and time. I can apologize to others and forgive myself when I mess up (because none of this will keep me from getting it wrong forever). But maybe most importantly, I can look at my daughter and others in my life with understanding and grace, knowing we all get it wrong more often than we get it right. I can reject the notion that our character is distilled to only our actions; I can choose not to judge others as if I’m the only one who betrays myself; I can give them the benefit of believing that their behavior betrays their best selves too.

I ran a slow couple of miles on Monday, went to yoga and finished reading a book yesterday, and my aching muscles are waiting for enough ambient light this morning to run safely. I write to you predawn now, without feeling particularly inspired or insightful, but I showed up anyway. Here's hoping you find it within yourself to show up anyway for yourself and your people today. 

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Another Turn, As Myself

9/7/2016

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Five years ago, when I turned thirty, I found myself at a crossroads of sorts. I struggled with my identity, then a mother of two daughters, three and one, working full time. I wrote about my newfound knowledge that aging is hard, even when you didn't think you were vain or insecure, and that confidence looked different and was harder to come by than I'd thought.

Today I find myself turning thirty-five with far less struggle. Everything is different: we've relocated to two different states since then and settled on the southern Virginia coast, where I never wanted to come and now never want to leave. I quit my job to stay home with the kids and added one more: a wild, affectionate, blond little boy. Our girls have grown, and with them our parenting challenges. My body and diet and lifestyle have all changed. And coinciding with, or maybe as a result of all these changes, I have learned volumes about myself.

Like most people, I have traits of which I'm not proud. It can be tempting to shame ourselves for these, or at least it can be for me. I'm terrible at keeping in touch, at returning phone calls. I like the idea of making plans but often feel like I want to stay home at the last minute. I screen phone calls, even from people I love most. I can be awkward in social settings; I love people but crave solitude. For years I have hung my head about all of these things.

Over the last five years, though, I've learned that these are not necessarily shortcomings, but character traits. My love of togetherness but need for solitude are not contradictory, they just are. They are part of what makes me me, and each part is equally good and right and neither part requires me to apologize. Knowing this about myself frees me. It enables me to commit to only the social engagements I really want to be a part of, reserving time at home with my family or alone. I no longer feel a need to explain a negative RSVP. The reasons why I choose not to commit to something, for myself or for our family, are my prerogative. My wellness--and my family's--is my responsibility alone and comes first and, for me, this includes ensuring my margin. Adopting this habit has garnered me puzzled looks and questions that sometimes feel more like accusations from others with different needs, but it has also largely removed resentfulness from my life. If I only say yes when I really mean it, then I am free to be fully present and engaged where I am. And, necessarily, I say no to lots of really good things. But when I leave white space in my  life, sometimes it serves me and my family by allowing us downtime. It has also often freed me to help others I hadn't known I'd be helping. And, either way, it's good.

PictureA photo I couldn't have shared at thirty
My acknowledgement and acceptance have moved into my physical self too. I have proof of my motherhood on my chest, my stomach, my legs and even my face. When I was thirty, this troubled me greatly. And of course there are days it still does. I still don't find aging to be for the faint of heart. But I earned every last one of these marks and changes. So when it's hot, I will wear shorts, and they won't touch my kneecaps either. When I go swimming, I'll probably wear a bikini, and it's not because I think I look perfect, but because it's most comfortable for me, and I don't need to be perfect to be comfortable. Mostly, I will wear makeup because it makes me more at ease, but if I don't, I don't need to worry about others seeing "the real me." I am okay the way I am today.

This whole "without apology" business might sound self-centered, and I can understand that. Conversely, though, I think knowing myself better and owning my decisions, strengths and flaws has helped me grow stronger at apologizing and recognizing when I'm wrong. It's still not my favorite thing, but whereas I used to struggle with any admittance of weakness, getting my strengths and weaknesses out in the open has made me less afraid of being exposed. It's okay to be wrong, to make mistakes and to say I'm sorry. I'm really not sure I knew these things before.

Knowing myself doesn't mean excusing poor behavior because that's "just the way I am." Sometimes it means forcing myself out. So, after long periods of busyness or togetherness, I now know I can be a bit of a hermit. And I'll let this go on for a little while--a recharging period--but there always comes a time when I need to venture back out, to avoid poisoning myself with self, to restore my focus back to others and balance. I understand my lack of responsiveness can be rude, regardless of whether that is my intent. So, even though I don't always want to, sometimes I have to pick up the phone. Not everyone is like me, and I can be myself and still meet them where they are.

​In yoga we practice noticing what is happening within our minds and bodies and allowing it to be, without judgement. This last part is so hard but so good. It has allowed me to come more fully into being myself, which has meant greater vulnerability in my relationships and an increased ability to understand my own emotions and reactions. I can question my feelings and weaknesses, but there is no point in shaming myself for them. I can learn and grow while still allowing them to be. If I understand my reactions better, I'm less likely to project my feelings on others and, I hope, better able to be present for them.

So, at thirty-five, I still have major questions that gnaw at me while I try to sleep, about where I'm going, whether I will ever decide to make my dreams come true, and whether it's even up to me anyway. This year I have felt like I lost my mojo, and after spending a long time shaming myself for that and thinking I could just discipline my way out of it, I'm realizing maybe there's something to the silence. Maybe I'm not doing something wrong; maybe the timing just isn't right. Maybe when it is I'll know; maybe I'll feel it. Maybe there is something here for me now; maybe it's just not what I thought I'd find. Instead of feeling ashamed that I have the voice but can't  stand the stage, I'm learning maybe there can still be beauty and purpose singing in the darkness, into the wind, for the love of the song itself. 

So sometimes I'll write, and other times I'll read. Sometimes I'll draw near to others, and other times I'll curl inward. Sometimes I'll sing, and sometimes I'll reflect silently, but always I'll work harder at listening. I will know myself but work to be more considerate of others, to be a more thoughtful friend. A more faithful follower. A better version of me. 

Maybe, most of all, I've embraced what I may not have known five years ago: I cannot forgive, accept, shower grace upon and love others if I don't first practice it within myself. The second greatest commandment--to love my neighbor as myself--holds little weight if I don't love myself in the first place. I'm finding that treating myself with this sort of care enables me to better see others, to meet them with more compassion than I ever thought myself capable of before. 

I thank God for change and growth, for forgiveness and grace, for self-awareness and burgeoning wisdom. I'm grateful for these beautiful, flawed, wonderful people in my house and community that I get to keep trying to love better. I'm grateful for the shiny and new and the tarnished and dusty, for a twelve-year-old love and eight, six and two-year-old children, for laughter and friendship and family, for the good and easy and the complicated and hard. But mostly I'm thankful for the ridiculous blessing of another turn around the sun, for a chance to keep trying.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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