What Was, What Will Be

I've always been the reflective type. Thus, honoring have the start of the new year with some heartfelt reflection on the year ending and the year to come has been my go-to New Year's tradition. Setting intentions for myself feels about as natural as taking a breath in, a breath out. It feels good. It feels like the right way to close one chapter and start another.

So, to my surprise, as 2013 came to a close and 2014 jumped to a start - with my 30th birthday just a few days into the New Year - I've felt no such inclination to step aside and dream of what's next.

Not that I'm not dreaming...

Perhaps starting a new decade requires more concentration or focus. Perhaps reflecting on the year past has felt a bit surprising and so I've wanted to linger there longer. Or, simply put, I have been living into my intentions and felt less bound to the actual ritual of stating them.

When I think about this past year I recognize that I put up a lot of walls - a sort of fortress around myself - to quite literally protect myself. 2012 had a lot of heartache and I went into 2013 a little weathered and exhausted. In my bubble - created through fear, heartbreak, disappointment, and needs I couldn't yet articulate - I ended up digging deeper into self-care and discovered someone I rather like: me.  It was a year of looking back to name the hurt and looking forward to say how it could be different. It was about self-love and forgiveness, which includes loving the bits that will always be broken. It was also a year that ended with serious career transition that put me face-to-face with my walls, fears, BS, excuses AND power, humor, sensitivity, competency, and passion.

It was a year about quoting from Dear Sugar; cooking adventurous and epic meals in my new kitchen; expressing love and accepting rejection; acting courageously in my career; finding support in surprising places; being less surprised when things don't always work out the way you expected but they still work; speaking my own truth; laughing through tears and crying through uncontrollable laughter at therapy; and driving home more times than I can count filled with overflowing gratitude for my community of wise, loving, wonderful people.

All that being the case, I know 2014 has to be about kicking down some of those self-protection walls. It can't all be about self-work: eventually you have to try out your tools in the field instead of just sharpening them over and over again in the shop. This year I looked within and came out on the other side liking who I am, scars freckles and all. This year I aim to be open to new experiences, new people, new challenges, and the possibility of new hurt, if it means new growth.

Seemed like a dog was a good way to start.

Hello, Ramona. 

what we give up to grow (up)

Tonight I spent a solitary evening pushing a mop, washing and folding stranger's towels, and wiping dust off windowsills. This simple work, two hours total every Wednesday for the unforeseeable future, gives me the ability to take unlimited yoga & pilates classes at a small studio a few miles from my house. The work itself felt meditative and relaxing. Alone in the studio, with the lights dimmed, folding towels for tomorrow's patrons of the studio, quiet except for the cars passing outside, I felt at peace.

It's funny, I've talked about giving up my metaphorical ugly robes to find the good ones, but when I started this project I didn't envision some of the choices I've ended up making. I guess that's the fun part. Tonight I did something I had envisioned though: I traded skills. What was surprising is that it could be something so simple: really it was just my time and willingness to do some unglamorous, but not difficult, tasks. But by giving of my time and energies, I gain something very tangible in return: yoga. Which is something I've recently identified as a possibly really healthy addition to my life; something worth making time and pausing for. A worthy investment.

I guess that was one part I didn't envision: what it was I would want to trade for, and how simple it would be to get it.

I also didn't envision what I'd have to give up in order to gain.

In this particular instance, I decided to stop playing kickball on the team I've co-captained for the last three years: spring, summer, and fall seasons x 3 years x every Wednesday evening = a lot of kickball. I guess to be honest, on some egotistical level I also felt important on the team, and needed by my peers. So I stayed on the team longer than I wanted, and with negative influences and relationships around me, in order to not disappoint others or let down anyone. (Forget about disappointing myself: I was worried about the team.) So last week I decided to give it all up - at least for the time being or until it feels right to welcome it back into my life - in order to do some better self-care.

So that became a part of it too: walking out of something familiar, into something foreign.

This year I am learning how much this happens, how often this is necessary. In some ways it feels like I am shedding my old skin...

Is that what I mean though? Or do I mean that I am finding what skin I want to live in; I'm being a little more willing to risk trying out different versions of myself to get at who I want to be? It's about acceptance, yes, but also risk. It's about seeing while change is constant, it's more exciting to be the executor of some of our changes. I want to try new things and be more fully human because it's a choice I've made. I want to be happy and centered and caring for myself deeply - by choice.

And a big part of self care is reframing how I think about being alone. What activities can I take part in by myself that are energizing, life-giving, and nourishing, rather than depleting? At a retreat a few weekends ago, though surrounded by people, I discovered the possibility that yoga and pilates could be one life-affirming activity that is as good solo as it is in a group. Certainly caring for my body and my health is a huge part of the many activities I find joy in on my own - including cooking, gardening, going for walks, and reading outside. (Okay, that last one was a stretch...)

So tonight I discovered not just what I can give up, but what I can give, in order to receive the things I need. It's a small step, but a step towards more fully understanding myself and my place in this world. No (wo)man is an island, but sometimes to get back to the others, we first need to get back to our self.

Or at least that's my theory. I'll let you know how it all shakes out.

ode to the writer

The last time I visited my childhood home I discovered that again, in my absence, my parents had taken it upon themselves to "organize" the spaces I used to occupy. What this translated to for me is that I had another line of boxes to go through to sort into one of the following categories: goodwill, trash, save.

In this assortment of trash and treasures, I discovered something truly horrifying: a folder of writing from my 10th-grade Creative Writing class. I'm conflicted here because I don't know if I should go back and put "creative" in quotes or "writing." Let's just say what I found in that folder made me blush.

I was very fond of my Creative Writing teacher, Mr. Ryan, and I shuddered to think of him alone in his office struggling to get through my poem about whales which was trying to not obviously be about a love interest but was pretty obviously about a love interest. And that was one of my better, more articulate pieces.

The folder was horrifying enough that I was compelled to write Mr. Ryan an apologetic email. We got a good laugh over the angst of high school "creative" "writing" and I thanked him for his positive feedback on some truly cringe-inducing stories. I was waiting for him to say he'd seen worse, but he just lol'd it off. Ouch.

In some part of myself I have always fancied myself a writer-and I'd like to think (or hope) my writing voice has improved since 10th-grade. However, it would be more honest to say that I have always wanted to fancy myself a writer. I have wanted to claim the title for myself and say to people, "I am a writer." But I found myself abandoning the practice again and again, and so I thought I therefore didn't have the right to call myself one.

I thought of my friends who were self-described painters, artists, runners, teachers and so on. What they all seemed to share in common, and had that I lacked, was an ability to claim their title with no hesitation. "I am an artist," one would say, showing me her newest creation. "I am a runner," another would proudly proclaim, recounting his 15-mile trek through the city.

I, on the other hand, would always insert a disclaimer. "I am...I mean, occasionally, I do write. But not like every day or anything." [really awkward laugh causing both parties discomfort]

As I toasted the new year nearly a month ago, I got to overthinking about a lot of things, including my resistance to name certain parts of myself that are actually really important parts of my identity. Parts of myself that are scarier to talk about because they make me feel more vulnerable to an audience of possible critics. I thought about the inherent insecurity in not just declaring who I am and who I want to be. I think I've been letting the fear of failure or judgment (possibly my own most of all) keep me from exploring the parts of myself that could be very nourishing, life-giving even. I felt this deserved a little attention.

Which brings me back to this goodbye ugly robe project.

A quick tangent: perhaps I am a little too fond of exploring the roots/routes of things, but admittedly I am interested in context. I find that when I start a project it's very important to define things a bit. What got me here? What are my intentions? Though the road in front of me might be a mystery, what are my hopes for it? I do like to get to the heart of the matter before focusing on the surface of things. So bear with me.

I think a big part of 1) making writing more of a practice in my life via this blog and 2) specifically documenting the figurative moments of replacing ugly robes with beautiful robes is about not not doing things out of fear or (ugh) laziness.

I was afraid of not being good enough to call myself a "writer." So I stopped writing as much. And then nearly altogether. So my refusal to claim this part of myself became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Ick. Goodbye to that behavior! Or, to be crass: F all that!! (F You Ugly Robe didn't have quite the poetic ring to it, and was a little too angry for my liking...)

So this is me lifting myself out of - I'll admit it - what was starting to feel like a lot of really depressing self-fulfilling prophecies. I imagine the specific adventures I undertake and document in this space will start to reveal what some of those hang-ups were.

For some reason this is the year I decided to get serious with myself, strangely enough, to rediscover both the serious and less serious parts of myself. Which is me saying: this is also about having FUN.

Because I'd never felt like an expert at, frankly, anything, I'd stopped myself from trying many new things. But this year I reminded myself that one way to get closer to yourself is by more honestly seeing the world and the resources around you. I know a lot of talented people. I know a lot of experts. I'm ready to see what they are willing to teach. And what I'm willing to ask to learn. Plus what I'm willing to try all by myself, even if it means making a path where there is none. Because (cheese alert) I'm also waking up to the world of resources we have within ourselves. Denying these types of adventures and just dwelling in the world of same ol' is actually quite exhausting.

I woke up on January 1st with an overwhelming feeling that I had a lot of unanswered questions and near-expired promises to myself.  What else was on the brink of extinction because I had denied it's importance for so long? I felt with certainly there were many adventures and interests brewing inside of me that were begging to be explored.  From things as mundane as: I should know how to jump my car, I should paint my bedroom and rearrange my art; to things that impact my daily life like: I want to cook more thoughtfully for myself, I want to be more active to have the option of doing races in the summer, I want to rely less on my car and more on my feet; to long-ignored goals such as: I should reteach myself Spanish, I should ask more questions about my family history, I should read more poetry and take more pictures of my world; to much more secret desires and dreams such as....

....well, there's no hurry to put all my cards on the table right away. There's plenty of time to dig into those spaces and explore what's after that dot dot dot. In other words: there are plenty more ugly robes to destroy to see what comes out of the ashes.

Clarifying My Feelings Towards Robes

Least you all think I am some sort of robe-obsessed-oddball, I thought I would take my second blog post to clarify my first.

To be quite honest, it's rather strange that my inspiration for this project came from clothing inspired by towels (ie: how I have always, until recently, thought of robes). The ugly robe was actually a gift from my mother. Though, one could argue that anything that ugly is no gift at all. I have to say, even though my mom's style choices for me often fall flat, usually what's at the heart of her giving is incredibly intuitive. In this case, my mom knew before I did that I would actually enjoy the robe experience. She just happened to introduce me to this fact via a very ugly, very embarrassing specimen.

A little over two years ago I purchased a rather small, quite old house. And I really began to embrace certain aspects of being a homeowner and a homebody. But I started to feel that maybe my neighbors weren't (or shouldn't be) too keen on my tendency to clean in the nude or near-nude. Maybe it was the result of living alone then or the way the sunlight streamed in through the windows at the time of day I typically shower, but more times than I care to admit, post-shower I would catch a glimpse of the dust bunnies gathering in the staircase, or the dirt on the windowsill, or the overall disarray that can come in a small, old house. And so I would grab the vacuum or mop or duster and go at it...naked. Why on earth I couldn't pause a mere second to throw on some clothing has never occurred to me until this very moment. Perhaps I was afraid the feeling would leave me, and ultimately that was a bigger crime than nude cleaning. I won't psychoanalyze (this).

Anyway, I have a lot of windows in my house, and one day while putting some real effort into a particularly resilient stain, I thought: "I'm naked and surrounded by windows and someone could see me right now. And that would be very, very embarrassing for us both. Because I have a mop, which is not a good naked accessory." And then I finished getting out that stain and went upstairs to put some pants on. Followed by a shirt.

I think I recounted this story with a nervous laugh to my mother: "I keep finding myself cleaning in the nude! Isn't that funny?!"

About a week later a package arrived with the baby blue, floor-length, hooded robe. Mom's always been a bit of a prude and moral purist. She was sending a clear message: cover up, lady!

And so, with a bit of a heavy heart, I put that robe on. At first I resisted the confining feeling of that terry-cloth beast, but slowly I warmed to its comforting embrace and I started to see the pros of life in a robe. You really could just waste an afternoon puttering around the house in your robe. This is coming from a person who is spread very thin and lives a busy existence. Me-time via robe was overdue.

Not that this is about laziness or me moping around the house in my robe with a romance novel in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. Quite the opposite in fact.

This project isn't about robes really. My decision to get a robe that I feel good in and good about- rather than one that I felt would only be slightly better being caught in than being caught naked - is about this larger concept I briefly touched on about really stepping into the life I want. And more so, being an active creator in my life story rather than a passive observer. It's really about not being lazy. Which makes the fact that this comes from the laziest "clothing" known to man rather hilarious.

So despite this all coming from my - shocking - discovery that I liked relaxing in a robe, on occasion, and deserved to be in one that made me feel kind of cute and kind of stylish, this is about the opposite of lazy. Imagine me taking the collar of my own shirt, picking myself up and saying, "Get to it!"

Today for instance. My car broke down this weekend and though I rely on public transportation for most of my travels, I have some car needs this week in particular. And it also is probably a good thing to fix my car before a blizzard strikes. So I decided to learn, with my housemates help, how to jump a car. I should know how to do that. And I want to know how to do those things for myself, with the help of a friend, instead of always turning to an expert. Through trying things out for ourselves, asking questions and making the effort to learn things that don't come naturally, I'm hoping we (I) can became proficient, if not eventually experts in certain (probably surprising) areas of life.

And despite a nice, young man pulling a rather unsafe u-turn to see if we "need help with that?" and despite it not working on try one, two, or three and despite the tow truck operator I eventually called being the one who finally got it to start via a jump, overall I get the concept now. And I think I could do that again in the future. Which is the point - I took something I didn't know or understand, said I wanted to know and understand, and so now I do. I feel rather good about myself.

This is just one of many little hopes for myself that has been growing and stirring in me for some time. Yes, as silly and small as it sounds, learning how to jump my car was on my list of things I wanted to know and do. I look forward to exploring - and documenting - more of these little dreams. I have a few at the top of my head, and next time I visit this space, I'll share what's next.

Or maybe, by that point, what's already happened.

goodbye ugly robe

This is my ugly robe. Or rather, this was my ugly robe.

Take a good look:

-It's made to be a look-at-me-I'm-practically-a-towel style of robe. Can you even call that fabric?

-It's a rather unpleasant shade of baby blue.

-It has two gigantic pockets, two gigantic chicken-wing sleeves, and is floor length.

-It has a hood.

-Oh, and the zipper only worked for about a week and then broke, after which is just hung on slightly above my belly button keeping the robe "closed" but only in the most lenient definition of the word "closed."

It was a damn ugly robe.

But as ugly as it was, it was also the inspiration for this online project. You see, the ugly robe came up in conversation with the woman I like to think of as my personal lighthouse in the dark--my beacon when all hope is lost. My life coach of sorts. Ok, my therapist who I pay to listen to me talk and occassionally give me really sage life advice. (If I can't be honest now, at the beginning, how will I ever?)

I told S about my ugly robe. I told her about it in this manner:

[resigned voice] "Well, it's ugly robe season again, so I guess there's that to look forward to."

I think she choked on her herbal tea. While rolling her eyes.

And then she told me something that really hit me at my core, in that part of myself that hears the truth when it most needs to, that internal compass that has no tolerance for bullshit.

She told me--I don't even need to paraphrase here because she was rather succinct--"Well, if you hate it so much, then get rid of it. "

This woman is worth every penny.

Here's the thing, you should probably know before you go on any further, that this project is coming from a place of rather determined intention. It's going to be cheesy at times, and cliche, and probably induce some eye-rolling and uncomfortable laughter (from you and me). Because, honestly, an ugly robe is at the heart of this project, so you know I'm reading into things a little too much. And that I will embrace and continue that trend throughout this process, as I have a rather strong dedication towards "honoring from whence we came."

But S hit on something really true that day. She reminded me that I can't just sit around and wait for my life to happen to me; I need to take an active role in creating the life I want to live. The robe was just a small piece of a larger struggle I was having internally--and that was ripping into my external world--to make ch-ch-changes that I'd deemed necessary long ago, but not found the strength or motivation to make. Simple as that. S hit the nail on the head: quit wallowing and playing the part of victim, throw out your damn ugly robe and beyond that throw out all the other damn ugly robes you are holding onto as well, be they literal or figurative.

The lady really got me thinking. So on not-quite-the-eve (anymore) of the New Year, but close enough to be able to easily visualize myself taking a first step into something unknown but important, I decided to make good on the promises I've made to myself over the years. One of them was writing more, hence putting these thoughts down here. There are plenty more though, and what this goodbye ugly robe project is really about is remembering the life I want to build for just myself--that of course includes other people-- but doesn't start from the assumption that someone else is going to take control of my happiness or dreams or successes or failures. That it is up to me to take the first step forward, even if I stumble a little bit, and see what my life can grow into.

See: cheese has been served already.

Oh, and by the way, there is going to be a new robe. I'm not going to pretend it's sexy-even though the photo would like to imply it is - but it's cozy looking, has a little bit of a ruffled edge around the collar, is a cute flannel pattern, and overall is so much more me. Which is the point. And as S and I discussed, by replacing the zipper with a tie closure, I am asserting the fact that 1) I am not a middle-aged woman with saggy breasts (thank you very much) and 2) I am not resigned to a life in an ugly robe. Read into that if you want to, you probably should.