I Want to Talk About Faith

I want to talk about faith.

To understand it. To hold it. To feel it so strong that it will hold me up. To be able to pick it up and put it in my pocket. To be able to rely on it. Text it when I need to.

But faith refuses.

It doesn't want to be talked about. Nor to be understood. It's not my Facebook friend. It's just a silent ever-present witness. A witness that I either allow or ignore. Just outside of my peripheral vision. And if I turn my head too quickly, I lose sight.

I have lost many things in my life. My mother. My business. My home. My marriage. My family. My friend.

But none compare with losing my faith.

Because losing faith means losing life, self, and the belief in love. Because losing faith means giving up.

And we can't give up.

Even when we want to.

Even if we have every right to.

So I want to talk about faith.

To bring it alive in my soul. To remember that everything really will be ok. And that all of this really does matter. And that we truly are loved. And that we can hand all of this over and just serve. 

And that this is enough.

My friend, Jarrod, says faith is like electricity. You can't touch it, taste it, see it or smell it. But you can see the effect of it.

Yes. Faith is like that.

And as I write this, I see two men across from me at the cafe.

Praying. 

Both of their heads are lowered toward their clasped hands. One is nodding. Wiping tears from his eyes.

This act of offering. Right here in a coffee shop. 

It humbles me.

Humans are beautiful.

And for just a moment, I see faith looking me straight in the eye.

With a smile and a wink.

A Failed Attempt At Practicing Peace

Saturday's yoga class was the worst yoga class of my entire life. I hated it. (Actually, hate isn't strong enough.) I fucking hated it. (That's better.) It was 2 and half hours of grueling torture.

Here's what's weird, though: the poses weren't difficult. In fact, each pose would be considered Level 1. It was a slow-paced class, but I usally love slow classes. The breathing was controlled. That's no big woop. She had us focusing on one thought. I'm pretty good at that kinda thing. There were no arm balances, back bends, or any other exhausting acrobatics. It was a total mind-fuck. Nothing seemed like it should be hurting as bad as it was. But everything hurt. Really. BAD.

I wanted to quit. 

Leave.

Run.

Cry. (I did. Reasons Why Meadow is Crying #43: Child's Pose Hurts)

I wanted to yell at the teacher. Call her stupid. Start a revolution. Set all of us free.

I felt like I was in prison. Completely and utterly powerless. And in pain.

And soooooooo angryyyyyyy.

I love yoga.

But I hated this.

I talked to my teacher later about this class. I asked her if she just had some magical sequence of movements that make people angry?

She laughed. (Which kinda made me want to punch her.)

She said she took away everything that is kind and comfortable about yoga. She said her theme was 'discipline.' She controlled the pace of our breath, when we were allowed to exhale, how long we had to pause in between. She didn't allow any movement in postures. She had no music. She even made attempts to control our mind-focus (evil Jedi mind-tricks).

Basically - she put us in yoga prison for two and half hours on purpose - to show us how crazy our minds become when everything comfortable is taken away and we are still expected to keep our discipline with our mind, breath and body.

Of course, sweating my ass off there on the mat - I didn't see any of this. I wasn't Zen. I wasn't Rowdy. I thought I was the only one feeling this way. I chalked it up to being tired and burned out after so many hours of working on my latest book. I thought it was because I need a vacation. I never once considered that it might be on purpose - and that it was ok to be mad. And to just allow myself to be mad. And to try to bring myself back to peace.

Instead of relying on self-care and self-love and remembering that I have a choice of how I react (Novel idea, right?!) - I turned a million pounds of hate on her (AKA: What not to do).

And this is so good for me to see. For all of us to see.

I could have just laid down. I could have taken a non-painful Child's Pose. I could have taken care of myself. I could have refused to let myself be so angry. I could have set boundaries. I could have seen that the moment I wanted to rebel I was acting like an emotional child and had unknowingly changed her into my Mean Mommy. I could have seen myself as having a similar experience 'with' everyone in class (connection) rather than thinking I was the only one feeling that way (isolation, AKA: my typical I'm-unlovable-and-broken response).

In other words: I could have been disciplined. I could have practiced what I teach. 

But I didn't. 

As my friend Kira says: "It's so much easier to think great thoughts when you're sitting in a multi-million dollar house on the beach."

This is so true. Rowdy work doesn't show up when we're sittin' in paradise all nice and comfy with an umbrella in our drink.

Rowdy muscles aren't needed for that. 

Rowdy work begins when it starts to get uncomfortable. When we've lost our illusion of control. When we've forgotten that we have a choice. When we're scared. Or angry. When we don't want to forgive. When we feel like a victim.

This work is a practice. It's a practice of non-attachment. It's a practice of non-reacting. It's a practice of equanimity even when we're in physical or emotional pain. It's a commitment to self-care. It's a decision to choose self-love.

Because if I can't find peace on my mat, where-the-hell else am I going to find it?

I am not afraid.

  

No. 

I am not afraid.

I’m not afraid of what it means to live my life. To live as me. To speak my truth. To hold myself accountable. 

To have my heart seen. Unsheltered.

To share the stories of my wounds. And my mending.

To utter words of intimacy.  So thick. Only the strongest of souls will be left standing to witness them.

Because I have been to the bottom of the burning torch lake. I have lost my voice. My breath. My sight. My ability to move. And slowly sunk in complete surrender to what the mother would do with me.

And when I found rest. And opened my eyes to the cold light.  I was given the gift of vision. And instead of the eyes of another. I now only see the flicker of mine reflected.

I see what every person is dying to see. And I now know that I am not afraid to see it.

Because I have come face to face with Grendel’s mother. Only to find that the most ruthless of enemies, the one that nearly took my life, the monster who only the fiercest of warriors will ever meet. Shared my own face. Shared my own self. The self that wanted to lay hidden and unknown. The self that wanted to be secret and quiet. The self that had been buried, rejected, exiled.

The self that will ruin you if it remains unknown.

And then to whole-heartedly return to dry land. Beyond the bleached bones of the great-horned stags that refused to save their own life in that water. 

And I know a secret: 

They were never meant to aid my passage to the other side.

And this is a journey that only I can take.

Until, I see a traveler who sees their own flicker in mine.

And then I’ll know that I have found a true heart. Another who has stared into the mother's eyes. To find themselves.

Who is not afraid either.

Moon Prayers

I said a prayer for my heart tonight. 

I felt that cold seeping in.

The inky blackness that hides in my veins. Just waiting for a call to duty. To harden and cement a barrier so thick that I will be protected from this hurt. 

The white hot barbed-wire that courses from my gut. Twisting and turning a tangled rusted knot. Weaving itself a corset through my rib cage. Suffocating and stifling. Tighter. Till there were only two words.

Love me.

The two words that risk the most dangerous of dangers:

To love and to be rejected.

And I know rejection.

I know what it’s like to have your mother call you a pig. Rip off your clothes. And make your brother and sister watch while she whips you with the belt buckle. 

I know what it’s like to have your father fear you more than he can ever love you. 

I know what it’s like to have a man leave you. But not all at once because that would just be too kind. Instead, it’s in millimeters and moments. Till you don’t quite remember if he was ever there in the first place.

I know rejection.

And still. I hear the words.

Love me.

I want to obliterate them. Banish them from my memory. I want to shut them up. Gag them. I want to puke them out. And flush them away. I want to hide them somewhere safe. For some other night when I will know that I can trust.

And still. My soul will not be silenced. It craves connection. It speaks that moon language. 

It knows the truth. That love is never dangerous.

So I said a prayer for my heart tonight.

And my tears washed the blackness away. And the ocean wind broke through the weathered barbed-wire. 

And I remembered.

The two words that repair all wounds. 

And keep any heart from turning to stone.

I remembered the two words that obliterate all risk. All danger. 

The two words that make me willing to walk out into this dark night. Alone. And not afraid.

I love.

The two words that remind me that it’s not about what I get back. It’s not about being accepted, approved of, or included. It’s not about how well I can contort myself to fit your expectations. It’s about what I give. To you. To me. To all of us.

I love.

Because it’s not worth living life any other way. 

And even though the hardening and steel sing their siren song seducing me toward their fortressed prison.

I shut my eyes tight.

And say a prayer for my heart.

To help it choose to love.

Because this is the only direction to keep walking.

The Harsh Truth About Healthy Boundaries

Listen.

We all have them.

Some of us have long ones. Some of us have short ones. Some of us have nice ones. Some of us have mean ones. Some of us pretend to not have them at all. And some of us just whip ‘em out at any old time, and use them as manipulative weapons of mass destruction.

No matter the size, the length or the age.

We always keep these hidden from sight. And we know the entire thing by heart.

On page 42 it might say, “If you see that I’m upset, you’re supposed to ask me what’s wrong.”

On page 128 it might say, “If it’s Christmas, you’re supposed to know what I want and get it for me.”

On page 387 it might say, “When you see a beautiful woman, you’re supposed to be struck blind momentarily and give me extra attention just because she walked by.”

On page 956 it might say, “When you’re upset, you’re supposed to talk to me and make me feel included.”

Basically, we carry around encyclopedia-set-sized invisible instruction manuals titled “How You Should Make Me Happy; Volumes I - Infinity.”

The problem is that these manuals are an ongoing project. There are undefinable loop holes. And horribly irrational penalties. There are blatant contradictions everywhere. Constant edits and ceaseless reprints. Written and re-written to offer an endless supply of hoops for the people in our lives to jump through. 

And our people?
They always fail.

Because no matter how much we love someone.
No matter how kind we are.
How smart we are. 
How cunning we are.

It’s impossible to follow all of the rules. All of the time.
Because it’s impossible to be in charge of making someone else happy.

Joy. Happiness. Peace. Love. Gratitude.
These are not states of being that can be created for another human being. 

We’ve been seriously duped into thinking that someone else can make us feel. We’ve been taught to believe: You followed my rule = I am happy. You didn’t follow my rule = I am mad/sad/jealous.

But here’s the truth: happiness can’t land on you. It can’t get painted on you. You can’t borrow it and wear it. It’s not a hand-me-down. It can’t be given to you by anything other than you.

We are happy when we choose to believe happy things. When we choose to focus on the positive. When we choose to love.

And this has nothing to do with whether or not someone followed your rule.

People break rules. They screw up. They check out a girl’s ass. Or forget your birthday. They text too much. Or not enough. They ignore you when you’re sad. Or forget to pick up toilet paper at the store.

And if we’ve set ourselves up to make our emotional state dependent on another person’s ability to follow our invisible manuals.

Then we lose. Every time.

And what about boundaries? Right? That’s what every student asks after they learn that they’ve gotta burn their manuals. They mistakenly believed that their manuals were boundaries. They think that by burning their manuals - they will become doormats of epic proportions. And that’s not the case. We’ve just been really confused about the difference between manuals and boundaries.

If manuals are titled “How You Should Make Me Happy.”

Boundaries would be titled “How I Make Me Happy.”

Boundaries are invisible manuals written exclusively for ourselves. They aren’t instructions for another person. They are only instructions for ourselves. They are never written out of anger. Or resent. Or manipulation. They are never written to make someone else behave. They are only written with the full acknowledgment that people do what they do. And we get to feel how we feel. And we get to choose to follow through with our own consequences. 

On page 2 it might say, “When I don’t get a call back. I will send an email instead.” 

On page 5 it might say, “If you are drunk, I will not have a charged discussion with you. I will leave and come back later.”

On page 6 it might say, “When I don’t want to do something, I will tell the truth.”

On page 11 it might say, “When I am upset, I will take responsibility to bring myself back to calm.”

On page 15 it might say, “If I want something for Christmas, I will ask for it. And if I don’t get it as a gift, I will make sure to get it for myself.”

On page 19 it might say, “When someone is late, I will still hold to my own time frame.” 

Boundaries are tough. They require a ton of self-awareness, rationality and emotional maturity. They require vulnerability, willingness to uphold consequences, and often they risk the very thing we’re trying to protect: the relationship itself.

They prevent us from becoming doormats. And hold us solely responsible for our inner state of being. 

Boundaries are about self love. And love of others. They are about caring for yourself and others. They give us new guidelines for inner peace. 

And most of importantly.
They work.