the music never stopped

We recently took our 7-year-old son to his first concert.  Because it’s what my husband and I have been listening to almost daily for the last couple of years, one of his favorite artists is Jason Isbell.  Isbell came to play at a venue about 45 minutes away so we made plans to take the kiddo.

Leading up to the show, he would grin every time we mentioned how cool it was to go to your first show at age 7.  He wore his Jason Isbell shirt the day of the concert.  We dropped his brother off at a sitter and we took him to deli that we go to every time we see a show in this town.  Sandwiches piled high with processed meats and cheeses.  Cash only.  Delicious and so bad for you and perfect, really.  The kiddo ordered a kids meal–a huge grilled cheese sandwich, potato chips, a pickle, a soft drink, and a cookie and ice cream…all for $2.95.

We finished our meal, paid up, and headed to the auditorium.  We were there in time to see the opening act that started at 7pm.  The band was good, but not quite our favorite kind of music–and certainly not who we were there to see.   Kiddo’s attention was drifting.  Finally, Jason Isbell came on stage.  His face lit up and I could tell he was a little overwhelmed. He played the opening song, which we all knew every word of, and it was so good.

By the third song in, I looked over at our son and he was sound asleep.  It was right at 8:30 (his regular bedtime) and he was completely out.  I wanted to wake him.  I didn’t want him to miss the music.  Especially when I heard the beginnings of “Flying Over Water”, an older song that I didn’t expect–and kiddo’s absolute favorite one.  I patted his leg and whispered in his ear but he did not wake up.

The music played on.  We were there for our son–not for ourselves.  We have seen and heard Isbell live a few times, once at the Ryman in Nashville.  After that, nothing will sound better.  We were here so our son could be blown away by live music.  He wasn’t really blown away.  He was just sleeping.  We enjoyed the show which seemed to last forever and then left before the encore so we could make it to the car ahead of the crowd.  He slept the entire way home.

The moment illustrated a haunting truth: the music plays on even if we miss it.

The kids play happily, pretending they are fast cars in a race and help each other to the finish line.  Pure joy expressed while you are on the phone in the next room.  

Trees drop their leaves in a beautiful act of surrender and you are in the house vacuuming.  

A customer in the next line pays it forward in an act of simple generosity while you are busy thinking of what you’ll order.  

A musician belts out poetry to indescribably beautiful sounds and you’re asleep.

Last week I wrote about false choices.  Our awareness is a different story.  Our awareness forces us to be single-minded.  To choose.  We can’t be two places at once.  Our awareness has boundaries.  We can’t be fully present with our spouse and also be outside talking to a friend.  We can’t be at work and playing blocks with our 2-year-old at the museum.  We can’t be asleep and rocking out at the concert.

My first reaction to my son’s sleeping at the concert was disappointment and a little bit of panic.  He was missing out.  We paid money for him to see this and he never got to take it all in.  He was missing the beauty, the sound, the fun.  How could I allow that?

My second reaction was joy: the music plays on.  For those of us who are awake.  Even for my sleeping son.  What better lullaby than this?  The music plays on.  If for no one else, for the one playing it.  There’s something really humbling and magical about living in a world where beauty happens just for happening’s sake.  Flowers bloom whether you see them or not.  Babies smile in rooms all by themselves.  The music plays on while you sleep.

There’s a big difference between “I’m missing out” and “the music plays on.”  The first says that there isn’t enough.  That the world is a scarce place and I must hustle to get my fill.  The second says the world is a place of abundance–so much so that even when I don’t show up, there will be enough.  As Geneen Roth says, “Enough isn’t a quantity–it’s a relationship to what you have.”

We are surrounded by more magic and beauty than we’ll ever be able to take in.  I am reminded to pay attention. To be a witness to the life around me.  I am reminded that the problem of scarcity is a problem of my own attention.  The problem isn’t that the magic doesn’t exist–it’s that I miss it.

Here’s to a 2016 of awareness and attention and gratitude.  Here’s to a 2016 of the second response: The music plays on.

 

 

 

 

 

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Hard to lose (a poem)

Even the dog’s
Eyes make me sad
For living
is being with life which
looks at you
through lashes
or the other kind too.  Yes,
even the sores
are hard to lose. 

Even my dad’s
Eyes make me sad
For living
is being with life which
looks at me 
through glasses
or the other kind too.  Yes,
even the drink 
is hard to lose. 

Even my brother’s 
Eyes made me sad
For living
is being with life which
looks at me 
through memories.  Yes.  
The living are hard to lose.  

-Amanda Lynne Noell, May 10, 2002

Mighty. Small.

“Oh, the Mississippi’s mighty, but it starts in Minnesota with a place that you can walk across…”

This line is from one of my favorite Indigo Girls songs, Ghost.  I listened to that song a LOT in high school, especially when I was driving my 1988 Honda Accord.  The music played through my disc-man connected through my tape player.  Back in the days before digital music and bluetooth.

The song is about a relationship and there are many references to water throughout it.  This one line is so powerful because it reminds us that one thing can be at once mighty and almost unnoticeable.  A river can be so wide, deep, and powerful that it drowns you–and yet at its source it’s possible you would miss it altogether.

At work I am a little bit famous for not believing in false choices.  We give these to each other and to ourselves all the time and I just don’t think they’re helpful.  We can either do what’s right for our staff or our clients.  We can either have fun or follow the rules.  We can either save money or get the best product.  And I always wonder (and often say out loud): “Why not both?  How about we say AND instead of OR?  I love the line in this song because it’s proof on planet earth that big and small can co-exist at the same time.  Sure, sometimes we have to choose.  And…there are times we don’t have to.  It’s helpful to offer up ‘and’ instead of ‘or’ to see what’s possible.  One of the worst ways we often see this is in our understanding of God.

When I was a camp counselor at Camp Little Crossroads (now named Crossroads Camp and Conference Center) in Amherst County, Virginia, we had vespers every night.  This was a time when we worshipped God out in the woods.  We walked our campers there from our cabins and sang fun songs all the way up the road.  One of those songs went like this: “My god is so BIG, so STRONG, and so MIGHTY, there’s nothing that he cannot do!”  We acted it out with motions by making big muscle arms and big wide out-stretched arms.  I guess when you’re little, it feels comforting to know that God is bigger than anything you could ever be afraid of.  It’s good to remember that God can do all the things.

Then, just a few years later, I found myself in the small hospital chapel at Lynchburg General Hospital, praying for my brother who was upstairs in the neurological ICU.  He had been hit by a truck on route 122 coming home from a night out with friends.  His 22-year old body was broken all to pieces.  His brain was injured.  He was not the same as he was when he left us earlier that day–my first day back from my sophomore year of college.  I prayed for him.  I prayed that he would live.  And then I learned what life would be like for him if he lived and so I prayed that we’d have the courage to survive whatever outcome.  I prayed that God would be present–with him and with all who were so heart-broken by his injuries.  And I prayed that God would be small.  Tiny.  Microscopic.  I wanted God not to be big and mighty and strong, but small enough to crawl through his veins and neurons and blood cells.  To seep into his innermost thoughts and memories and remind him in his state of unconsciousness that he was loved and he was not alone.  I wanted God to be invisible enough to live in unseen places and do work that wasn’t possible any other way.  Healing work is tiny.  It happens in itty, bitty moments.

It is Christmastime.  December 20th.  One of the times of year we remember that God came into the world as an infant.  For those of us who believe the story that Jesus–not created, but begotten–came into the world as a tiny, scraggly, vulnerable infant: God really was small.  He lived in a womb and entered the world the same way each of us has entered: the human way.  He was god and he entered our world.  He was mighty and he was a helpless infant.  He is an AND god, not an OR god.  From the very beginning and to the very end.  Like the Mississippi River.

I’ll leave you with one other line from the Indigo Girls’ song: “Oh, there’s not enough room in this world for my pain.”  My brother did not live through his injuries from the car wreck.  After eight long (and, somehow short) days and nights in the hospital, he died.  His body was so badly injured and it worked so hard to help heal itself that it gave out.  Earlier on the day of his death, my mom and dad and I sat by his bed.  My dad opened the bible and read from the book of John chapter 3: for God loved us so big that he sent his only son to us.  It was a reminder that I can only now appreciate–God got small just to be with us.  Now, that is big stuff.

Merry Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the bigger miracle

I love to fly. I was so grateful to recently have an opportunity to be in an airplane. Taking off is my favorite part. I love the sensation of speeding up and lifting up and getting higher and higher in the air. When the small plane took off from the airport this week, I was grinning ear to ear while filming from my iPhone so that I could show my kids what it looks and sounds like to get airborne.

On my final flight to my destination, I had a window seat again (thank goodness). As I approached the row of my seat, I was checking out the guy I would soon be sitting next to. He was old-ish–I had a feeling he looked much older than he actually was. He was really thin, with tan and wrinkly skin and gray hair. He had on ragged jeans and a turquoise sweatshirt and those awkward-looking white sneakers with the soles that are just a tad too thick.

He didn’t make eye contact when I said “excuse me” and shuffled by him to take my seat. He kept his focus on the book in his lap. I sat down, put my giant purse under the seat in front of me, buckled my seat belt. Sent a quick text to my husband, switched my phone to airplane mode, and gazed out the window. Ready for takeoff.

We were airborne and I watched carefully as the buildings and swimming pools and rivers got smaller and smaller. Soon we were above the clouds. To my right was evidence of this great wonder: human beings get to fly through the air. Somehow, because of lots and lots of intelligence and effort and strength and technology and logistical miracles, I was flying above the clouds.

To my left was this man reading this book. I glanced down at it. I recognized it instantly. It was the “Big Book” of Alcoholics Anonymous. I started reading along with him the words on the page. They were words of fear and courage. Hitting the bottom and deciding to look up. He read slowly, never looking up. I smiled in his direction because he made me think of the last man I know who read that book–my dad.

I was struggling to decide whether I should say anything to him. I could tell that I really wanted to connect because I couldn’t look away from him.

Near the end of our flight, as we were preparing for our descent into St. Louis, I said, softly, “my dad has been sober two years this July.” He looked up. Eye contact. The slightest smile I’ve ever seen. He said, “me–7 weeks today.” I nodded and told him that the journey took all the courage our family had. That I was so proud of my dad. He said yeah, it was hard.

And that was it. I looked to my right again and wondered: which is the bigger miracle? Flight or sobriety? And I decided neither one had to win. I was allowed to be equally in awe, all at once, with the courage to my left and the power to my right. I sat in the middle and took a deep breath in. I thought to myself as I breathed: thank you for the power and courage around me. May I borrow some for myself for the road ahead.

The Words in my Body

Over the past year, one of the most significant ways I have changed (grown?) is my increased awareness that we experience life through our physical bodies.  Through yoga and other spiritual practices, I’ve begun to learn that the best way to bring myself back to the present moment and away from the worries of the future or the regrets of the past is to just notice my breath.   Not to try to think my way out of it, but to get in touch with my very basic physical self.  To tune in to my body and my breath in that very moment.  I’ve been learning that the body is where we act out everything.  Happiness, sadness, pain, stress, loss–the body feels it all.  This body is what we were given–all we were given, really–as the vehicle to go through life.  I’ve spent a lot of time avoiding my body and trying to ignore it, hoping, I guess that it’ll shut up or go away.  But it won’t–not as long as I’m living.  Might as well start to take care of it.

As I’ve shifted in my perspective, the way I talk to my kids has also changed.  I’ve started referring to their bodies for all sorts of things.  “Are you hungry in your body?”  “Do you feel sad in your body?”  You get the picture.   This became more real for them after we all went to the theater to see the animated movie Inside Out this summer.  We talked about how God lives in our bodies, especially the week of vacation bible school.  It’s fun to see them get more tuned in.

So it was no surprise, really, when my 4-year-old pulled out the body language on me when he didn’t feel like doing what I said.  Here’s the scene:

It’s bedtime.  Maybe 8 or 8:30.  It’s been a hard day.  My husband and I had both had difficult stuff at our jobs followed by kid pick-up, homework time, dinner, baths.  And we were all spent.  The 4-year-old has recently done this little switch-a-roo from the olden days (like a month ago) when I’d ask him to do something and he’d do it…to this thing where I tell him what to do and he says no.  Or he asks why.  Or he laughs in my face and walks away.  Pretty much anything but compliance.  So I’ve been teaching him, gently, that when mom or dad or any grown-up who loves him tells him to do something that the only OK response is “OK” followed by doing it.  We’ve been practicing.  “Brush your teeth!”  “OK, mom!”…”Get out of the street!”  “OK, dad!”  You get the picture.  So on this particular night, I asked him to do something–I forget what.  Something customary that I ask him to do EVERY SINGLE NIGHT because that’s how bedtime is.  The children need prompts to do the same three things every single night.  Pajamas.  Teeth.   Bed.  So I tell him to do one of these things and he laughs in my face and starts dancing around.  It’s cute, but not that cute.  So I remind him: “J, the right thing to say is ‘OK mom’.”  And he says to me in his classic deep, monotone Incredible Hulk voice: “that word is not in my body.”

4 year old declares victory!  He used my own stuff on me!  Not fair!

“That word is not in my body.”  Translated into modern english as “I was not really wired to comply, mom.  We know this.  That’s your older son.  Me?  I am wired to go my own way.  That OK word…it’s not in my body.”   Or maybe just translated as “Nope.  Not doing it.  Take that, you old hag!”

I don’t remember what I did.  I was struck by the moment.  I’m sure he eventually went to bed, because life went on.

At age 4, in this 20-second encounter, he reminded me about something really big: The words in our bodies are strong.  What are the words in me?  What are the narratives that run through me throughout the day?  Pay attention, you’ll hear them.  For me, many of them are powerful stories about love and acceptance.  “You shouldn’t try that–what if you fail?”  “You’re too young to be the boss.”  “You don’t really want to tell him how you feel–he’ll be totally freaked out.”  “Everyone is watching so you better not mess this up.”  “Look at her.  She looks disappointed.  You must have done something wrong.”  “Nope.  Not letting you off the hook for that error–if we let up who knows what kind of mess you’ll make next.”  “You know while you’re out having fun, your kids could be getting into trouble right now.  You better stop and go check.” “How can you be doing something for yourself when there are starving children……”

Do any of these sound familiar?  The words in my body feed my deepest fear: that I can’t be loved just as I am.  That I’m not quite enough.  That I’m deeply flawed and in need of major fixing. (And probably so is everyone else, too.) These stories are powerful because they become our scripts.  And our scripts become our beliefs.  And our beliefs become our actions.  And our actions become our patterns.  And our patterns become our life.  I don’t want a life built on stories of never good enough.

Tonight after homework while I was eating my dinner, my oldest son wanted to read. So I asked him to read to me while I ate.  He picked up a new devotional book that I bought him recently.  He turned to today’s date, September 29th.  He began to read: “God made you wonderful.  He made you thoughtfully and lovingly.  God made you unique.  God made you wonderful.”  The story continued about how what the world says about us is not what God says.  The world says we have to look, behave certain ways to be loved.  And I sat there as my precious kid told me what I’ve forgotten so many times: That the only story that belongs in my body is the one that says I was made wonderful.  I can know it’s true when I see him.  I can confirm that God made him wonderful.  And because I know that for him, I believe it is possible to  know it for me.

I said a tiny, quiet prayer: Help me remember that God made me wonderful.  Thank you for this kid who is so obviously wonderful.

What would happen in my days if I really remembered that story–if I replaced the old stories of fear and never enough and shame and doubt with stories of unconditional confidence that God made me wonderful?  I suspect I’d be nicer, kinder, gentler to myself.  And if I remembered that that’s everyone else’s story too?  I suspect I’d be nicer, kinder, gentler to them too.

One of my most favorite, most loved, beautiful family members has gotten a bad diagnosis lately.  And of course, as people find out, they tell her their most horrible stories about how that same diagnosis ended up for others they knew.  And this beautiful person has done the smartest, most gracious thing she could do: She said thanks but no thanks and decided to collect better stories.  She has been selective about who she tells and the stories she allows herself to hear and keep.  The stories of being defined by a disease–she lets those go.  The stories of health and healing and gracefully bearing with something hard while still being anchored to the really important stuff?  Those are the stories she owns.  And I believe that the stories that are in her body will help her heal.

May God grant me the same wisdom; may I give myself the same permission: To let the stories of never enough and the stories of fear pass like clouds overhead; and to invite the stories of wonder, healing, and love in to take up lifelong residence in this body of mine.

Let them see you sweat.

I recently joined a gym.  For the last three weeks I have gone faithfully at least three times each week.  I’ve scheduled time on my calendar during my workdays and I have kept the appointment.  I have decided that my health is a non-negotiable and that when I have a date with myself, I will show up.  

This only happened after I learned, deep down, that I’ve had the order of things backwards for a long time.  You see, I used to think: When I start getting more fit and less flabby, I will love myself.  And now I think: I love myself.  Period.  And what follows is this: When you love someone, you take good care of her.  You take her to the doctor.  You feed her food that makes her body feel good and work at its best.  You let her rest when she is tired.  You help her body get strong and you give her whatever permission she needs to be well.  

(And, it also took a dear person, an angel, really, to sneak into my calendar and hold time.  And sneak me brochures and prices of nearby gyms.  You know who you are.  You plant the seeds at just the right time.)

And as beautiful as that is, loving myself is hard to do sometimes when I walk in there.  It’s a super-friendly place.  I chose it only after looking at lots of options.  I like it.  The staff is great.  All that.  But me? I’m very different than I was the last time I seriously worked out in a real gym.  I remember my strength and conditioning class at Liberty High School, back when I was, well, in HIGH SCHOOL and training for track and tennis and basketball.  And I was fast and I was strong.  And now?  That isn’t the story anymore. I’m a little uncomfortable with myself.  It’s like I’ve shown up to this date with myself and I get there and the gal looks WAY different than I had imagined.  30 pounds heavier, a lot slower around the track, and not bench pressing like she used to.  It’s like a bad on-line dating experience.  Expectations are no match for reality.  

I’ve noticed one thought, one narrative that keeps showing up when I’m at the gym: I don’t want others to think it’s hard for me.  Which is so bizarre–because this is a place that is actually dedicated to the pursuit of challenge.  People come here to literally give themselves a hard time, to push limits, to stretch themselves, all to get stronger and build endurance.  People come here to sweat.  And I don’t want them to see me sweat.   AT THE GYM.  So I’m poised on the stationary bike like a princess just taking it easy.  Or doing leg extensions and trying to make sure I’m not too breathy since I’m only lifting, like, 4 pounds.  I tried to bench press 15 pounds yesterday and was shaking from the weight.  Puh-lease!  I look around hoping no one sees my shaky hands or the tiny weights.   

I don’t want anyone to think it’s hard for me.  

And there it is.  That sentence has two parts:  I don’t want anyone to think…..it’s hard for me.  I struggle so much with wanting to control what others think of me.  And I struggle so much with thinking that if I was really good, then nothing would be hard for me.  I don’t like others to see me sweat.  Or maybe I don’t like coming face to face with the reality that some stuff is beyond my capacity.  Maybe I don’t like that I have limits.  That I’m human.  It’s all a bit too…vulnerable for me. 

When a colleague gives me critical feedback on a paper I wrote, I cringe.  When someone on our staff questions a decision I made, I get scared.  When I don’t know an answer that I think I should know, I am embarrased.  Somehow, somewhere, I have connected love and acceptance with perfetion.  And not just perfection, but perfection with ease.  When I’m effortlessly strong and good and competent at all things big and small, then I will be worthy of love and acceptance.  I have to say, this is not ideal.  This is a hard gig to keep up for longer than, say, 12 seconds at a time.  

So far I’ve loved myself enough to keep showing up.  And then I get there and I am asked to love myself in my weakness, in my struggle, in my confusion about gym equipment.  I am asked to love my 35 year old self.  I am asked if I will come back tomorrow.  I am asked if I only love this gal if she’s perfect or if I’ll take a chance on showing up again tomorrow and facing my limits again.  I say yes.   I’ll keep showing up.  Because the right question isn’t “what do I want them to think of me?”  The question is “how do I want to live in this moment?”  Do I want to live scared and, as Brene’ Brown says, “hustling for my own worthiness?” or do I want to live out of deep, unconditional love?  Geneen Roth, author of Women, Food, and God, asks: “If Love could speak, what would it say?” I think Love would say “Let them see you sweat, darling.  And here, have some water to cool you off.”

What’s most important.

My oldest son, 7, asked me a question today while I was folding laundry (my second least favorite household chore, next to putting the laundry away). “Mom, what is the most important thing?” I paused, looked at him with my most curious glance, and asked him what he meant. He meant: what matters most?

I pause. If I couldn’t speak and he could assess what mattered most to me based only on my actions, what would he see? Some days, he would see that what matters most is that people like and approve of me. Some days, he’d see that what matters most is that I’m right. Some days he’d probably say what matters most to me is getting everywhere on time. I think that how we live each moment is an exact expression of what matters most to us then. And that what matters most to us in all these moments rarely matches the stuff we spout out when we’re trying to impress others about what great people we are.

Back to the moment with my kiddo. I said: “Everyone answers that question differently. Some people will say that their health is the most important thing–because if you’re not healthy, you can’t do what you love. Some will say that their work is the most important thing. Some say God. Some say family. I’m curious about you. What’s most important to you?”

He said, “God. Then my family. Then, my life.” I stopped folding and just gave him my most solid mom look and said those things were all on my list too.

(I’d like to say I should get 3 mom points for this moment. Which should make up for the 3 mom points I lost this week at the elementary school at orientation when he told his new principal that his mom overslept and he ate cheetos and chocolate milk for breakfast and played video games while he waited on his mother to get up.)

I try hard not to make up ‘supposed tos’ when they aren’t useful. Like, what good moms are supposed to do with their children on weekends or cook for dinner. How many times am I supposed to give my kids a bath? Go out with my friends? Leave town without my family? What are the rules, universe?! Just tell me what I’m supposed to do! Supposed tos are short-cuts to answers that keep us oriented outward, away from our own wisdom and intuition. I’ve tried to avoid over-using them with my boys so they know that their compass is the life inside them, not some directioness dot that keeps changing position in the evolving social climate.

So I don’t believe I’ve ever said to my son: “This is how you’re supposed to care about things: God, then family, then yourself.” We’ve been searching for a church home lately and a little out of touch with a regular sanctuary (though we have church all the time in other places). So I was surprised to hear him say this since it’s the kind of a thing he’d hear about in that Sunday School class he’s not going to. And I was really hopeful that it is what is really true to his own heart.

He starts second grade tomorrow. He’s walking into a new school, one much bigger than the primary school he attended for Kindergarten and first grade. This is the year, per his teacher’s welcome note, that he transitions from “learning to read to reading to learn.” It feels big to me. And so I told him two things before I kissed him goodnight: First, there are so many people who love and care for him and who will watch over him. Me, dad, bus drivers, older kids, teachers, librarians, God–God is always with you. And second, that he’s got a big, good, brave heart (because we also believe that God lives in us) and he can choose to do stuff that matches his heart or he can choose to do stuff that matches other kids (or the ‘supposed tos’.) Doing the right thing means doing the thing that matches what is most important to him.

I reminded him: You are loved. You have the divine with you and in you. You can trust yourself.

Three lessons I have spent my life learning over and over again.

Integrity–the actual definition of it–is about being whole. It’s about having all things aligned. That what we say lines up with what we do, for istance. What I didn’t tell my son in the dining room today was that sometimes what we say is most important to us doesn’t always match how we live. A year ago I was in a group of colleagues saying that my health was really important to me. And a quick inventory of my behavior demonstrated that it was actually at the bottom of my list. No annual physical in years; prescriptions lapsing without a care; no regular exercise in months; a diet that did not make me feel well; and a pretty consistent neglect of my own body and mind. Neglect is a strong word–and it’s what a professional would have called it if I were talking about how I treated a child. But since it was my own body, it was perfectly acceptable.

Big things happen when we tell ourselves the truth. Miracles happen when we love ourselves through our own lack of integrity.

What would happen if for an entire day, I lived as though I really believed I was loved no matter what, I have the divine in me, and I can trust myself? How would I handle being hurt by a colleague’s rude remarks? How would I handle praise or a wonderful gift? How would I react to a bad diagnosis? How would I talk to my kids after they misbehave in public? With whom would I spend my time?

I invite you to join me in getting honest with yourself this week about what matters most. What do you say matters most? How do your moments and days match that? And when you see the big, gaping holes, respond to yourself with love bigger than all the gaps you see. When you see that what you thought was most important was your family yet every moment you spent with them you were actually on your phone scrolling through facebook. When you see that what you thought was most important was showing kindness and yet you were too afraid to make eye contact with the homeless man at the library. Respond to yourself with love. Miracles will happen in your heart when you get brave enough to tell yourself the truth and when you get soft enough to love yourself through it.

A Depression Story

My story of depression is one story of hundreds of thousands of stories.  I tell it for one main reason: once we name something, once we step outside of it by speaking it, we gain power over it.  The storyteller gets to shape the narrative even as the narrative shapes her.  There’s another reason to tell my truth: maybe others can borrow strength from my story.   At church this week we recited a Canadian statement of faith, the first line of which is “We are not alone in this world.”  Yes.

My depression story officially began when I was 16, though I had a hunch that something was out of whack much earlier than that. Sixteen was the year that I got official help–from a doctor, therapist, and pharmacist and pastor.

The help I got was kind and gentle and compassionate. The help I got was from people who loved and cared about me and who were smart about how brains worked. They did not place blame for my ‘ disease’ as they called it; they did not indicate that I should feel shame. They gave me a safe space to talk about it.

And I was grateful for the help. I was grateful, mostly, that someone was listening to what was happening, affirming that it wasn’t how I had to feel forever, and that there was a way ‘out.’

Yet, I was not sure the help I got was the right help. I hated taking the pill.  I hated telling my friends I was depressed.  Crazy.  I felt shame.  I felt like it was a part of me that I should hide.  I knew it was more than that and was curious, but was weak and was doing what all the experts said.  They treated a mental illness. They had a recipe for sadness and irritability and negative thoughts and anxiety. Their recipe was an SSRI (Prozac, 20 mg daily), counseling, prayer. Their recipe was designed to help my body have more of this neurotransmitter that I clearly lacked, to have space to talk about all the things that must have led to the disappearance of the neurotransmitter, and some spiritual intervention that would help me know, I guess, that I was loved enough for someone to intervene to the heavens on my behalf.

This has been the recipe for the last 19 years of my life. This recipe, when I’ve followed it, has kept my depression at bay.  The alleviation of my symptoms has been really helpful.  And it has come with its own consequences.  Side effects.   And most disturbing, the actual truth that the depression was still there.  Underneath the prozac, my body was still not well.  It was still tired and weak and foggy.  So for 19 years, I’ve turned the volume down on tired and weak and foggy.  But what I really longed for was to actually be alive and well and clear.

This recipe–the recipe that contains drugs that mute symptoms and that gives therapy for changing thoughts and behaviors–it forgets a really basic question that no one–no doctor, no psychiatrist, no counselor, no nurse, no pastor, noone in 19 years ever, ever asked: why does Amanda’s body not make enough of this essential thing, serotonin, that she needs to feel good? No one asked anything about my physical body. So they were creating a recipe that would alter my mind–and I knew all along that my depression was in my body.

Before I move on, do you notice the disconnect? Do you notice how strange it is that everyone isolated my ‘disease’ to my mind? That we even talk about the mind and body as two separate things? There’s this assumption that is so deep we hardly notice it anymore: the mind is powerful and is in charge of everything. And can be treated separately from the body–as if the mind were located somewhere outside of our physical selves, in a command center miles away.  Last time I checked, my mind was actually attached in really permanent ways to my body, and is, in fact, part of it.

No expert ever acted as though the two were connected.  No one asked me the one question that would assure me they understood that my mind was actually a part of my physical body–and that my whole body needed attention.

It wasn’t because they didn’t have clues.  Oh, I gave them clues. Every single person with whom I’ve shared my depression story has heard the same line from me when I give them the symptoms: “It never starts with sadness. I’m great with sadness. I feel it, I value it, I learn from it, I embrace it, and I eventually allow it to pass. It always, every time, starts with physical fatigue. I’m really tired. I’m so tired in my body that all I want to do is sleep. I’m compelled to sleep. I nap all the time. I go to bed early. I sleep late. I sleep so much that the next thing that happens is that my appetite goes away. It’s like I’m hibernating. It’s like all I need is rest and I have no need for nourishment. I physically shut down. And going days and days like that starts to take a toll on my mind. What I first notice in my thoughts is not sadness or anxiety, but simple fogginess–like I can’t remember what I just read in a book or I kind of glaze over when people are talking to me. And all that means that I feel incredibly weak–physically unable to do anything of value. So I withdraw. Because going out with friends is a real chore. Reading is a chore. Eating is a chore. So I’m alone, lonely, foggy, weak. So when anything at all stressful happens, I am so exhausted that I feel I can’t take it. And the only expression of help-seeking I have left in me is to weep in isolation. Or, to get in my car and drive. I would do that a lot. Because I wouldn’t want to be this way in front of people. Because I’ve built an identity on being competent and bright and witty and wise. And to let anyone really see me weak and weepy and foggy was too much. So I’d drive.   I would hide.  I would think “I just don’t want to be anywhere right now.” And so driving would allow me to be in between places. There was great comfort in that for me in my darkest days. And one time, a sophomore in college (before the death of my brother, not after), I drove in the dark. And I was in so much physical pain, I was suffering so much. I wanted someone to help me, but I didn’t want the same kind of help. I wanted help for my body. I wanted, too, a good and socially acceptable reason to be ‘nowhere’ for a while. So I turned my headlights off as I was driving at midnight down a two-lane road between Richmond and Bedford. I wanted someone to crash into me. I wanted my body to feel alive again–and I wanted to get help and I wanted to do both in a way that wasn’t so shameful. And if we’re all honest with ourselves, we will acknowledge that a woman in a hospital bed from a car crash is much more OK than a woman in a hospital bed because she’s crazy.

A car came by and I quickly and quietly turned my lights back on and I found my way back home to Bedford, VA.  I screamed in pain as I drove.  I got home about 2am.  I slept on the couch and told my mom I’d talk to her in the morning. We did talk in the morning and I told her what I did and she called for help and I did end up in the hospital. The hospital for crazy people. At 18 years old, I was locked on a long hallway of middle-aged people with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, multiple personalities, and drug addictions. I did not feel safe. I did not feel loved. I was not allowed to go outside.  I was not allowed to do any of the things that would actually help me feel well.  I found my way out of there only by promising I’d return to the treatment plan.  So I did.  Prozac, counseling.

There are more of these stories, though not all lead to the hospital. There is the story of being so paralyzed on the job in my twenties that I literally couldn’t get out of the car and go into a conference.  There is the story of post-partum depression that left me unable to feed, clothe, or play with my first-born son for most of his third month of life. My story has lots of smaller stories of depression. And every single one of them begins with fatigue. Not sadness.

Just about a month ago, at age 35, I went to another doctor. I tried again telling my story and saying: Prozac helps, it really does. And counseling helps, sort of. But I think there’s more to it. And I want to really be well, to be all the things my body is capable of being. And I think that taking this medicine is missing something really big.  And–I think that this idea that I need a way ‘out’ of depression is sort of missing the point.  I think I need a way INTO the depression because I think it has something to tell me–and not just about my mind or my circumstances, but about my physical body.  My body doesn’t feel well and can’t do the things that bring me joy and I think that this depression can actually help tell the story about why.  So maybe, please, can we listen to it instead of make it easier to ignore?

And for the first time in my 19 years of seeking help, someone listened. Someone asked, “I wonder what is going on in your body that you’re not feeling well?” Someone accepted my symptoms and didn’t expect my symptoms to fit their diagnostic manual and instead asked what was behind those symptoms. Someone said, instead of treating the lack of chemical XYZ, let’s get really curious about why your body seems to lack it and let’s support your body in making what it’s supposed to make all on its own. And for almost three hours, this doctor and nurse team listened to my story from day one of my life (literally, from the day of my birth) to the present. They mapped out my symptoms, major life events, and other details. And they’ve tested my blood, my spit, even my shit.  (I mean, if dogs can get a stool sample once a year, why not, right?)   And they’ve gotten all the clues about why my body is so worn out that it has failed to produce (or adequately process) all sorts of hormones and nutrients and minerals. And all of those things we can start to re-balance with the foods I eat and the way I take care of my body.  So my body gave the doctors all the clues they needed.  It was there all along, running through my veins.  My body had a story to tell that the mind could never express.

I am Prozac-free today after almost 3 months of this deep inquiry into my body. After about a 3-week period of adjustment off of the medicine–during which I was a bonafide MESS–I am experiencing health like I must have had as a kid. I have a healthy appetite. I eat good food when I’m hungry and I quit eating when I’m full. I do not want to take a nap. I finish my days at work with energy to contribute to my family. I’m able to give baths and cook dinner and play outside.  This is a miracle.

There’s more to this story–and I will surely feel compelled to write it soon. For now, I want to say that I am most grateful for the spirit in me that would not give up–that believed there were answers worth getting.  I am grateful for the friend who planted the seed about this branch of medicine (functional medicine or integrative medicine–which I would officially like to call real medicine).  I am grateful for a tiny little medical community that exists in some corners of the world that asks the harder questions.   Gratful that they go beyond “what pill can alleviate these symptoms” to “what is behind these symptoms and what story is that telling us?”

I’m grateful that I did not end my life before I found out a way to really live. I’m grateful that the help I got was given in love.

Running on a parallel path beside my gratitude is a path of deep grief. For the 19 years I believed a story that I’m crazy, poorly-designed, defective.  For the days I slept or was in a fog or was suffering, I am sad.  For the moments of my kids’ lives I’ve missed.  For the hudreds of thousands of people who are also living in a story that says they are not worth asking the hard questions about.  For the thousands of children in Virginia today taking enormous amounts of mind-altering medication and believing that their minds are ill; that they are weak, not quite right, problematic. For the countless adolescents and young adults and middle-age people and elderly people who are living inside a story that says they aren’t enough. For all who have not been given the help that says they have a story worth hearing.   That a way ‘out’ is less helpful than a way IN to their stories.  That their bodies have amazing, healing stories to tell.  I grieve for you and I grieve for me. So I tell my story. You aren’t alone. And you are powerful beyond all the labels and cures you’ve been given.

More to come.

Goose Creek Valley

Goose Creek Valley

Today I got to go “over the mountain”—which is what we say in Bedford when we’re trying to get to Interstate 81.  There’s a very scenic way to get there via windy country roads up one side of a mountain and down the other.  I dropped off my children at the sitter and headed towards Montvale.  Montvale is a small part of a very large and rural Bedford County.  It’s known for the Beale treasure, a great corn maze, and very large gas tanks on the side of the main highway.  But nestled behind the highway are a series of windy, narrow roads in all directions.  One of those roads is Goose Creek Valley Road.  This road takes you from the recreation field all the way to the tip top of the mountain.  On the other side is a windy road down to a small town called Buchannan…where you find Interstate 81.

This road is part of me.  I’d say it sings to me except it’s more than a song.  It’s like medicine.  Whenever I drive on that road, my body changes.  My posture settles, my blood flows differently, my heart beats a bit more steady, my breathing becomes deeply innate—kind of shallow and chest-y.  And then, my tears start to flow.

First, I come across the house on the left, high up on the hill.  That’s where the old man lived that my brother used to help with chores. I think mostly they shot guns together or maybe even chewed tobacco.  I’ll never know because girls weren’t invited.

Then, there’s the intersection (if you can call it that) with Crouch Road.  Which is the road that bears the maiden name of my grandma Ella May.  It’s the road that will take you to the tiny schoolhouse where she went to classes and met all her boyfriends, including my granddaddy Woodrow.

Next, there are the cows in the massive field at the foot of the mountain to my right—in the tiny bend in the road where I used to pick the most beautiful flowers.  Queen Anne’s lace is what grandma and I called it.  It would be more than a decade later when I’d learn that it was really a weed—and a nasty, buggy one at that.  Chiggers is what all the kids in high school called it.  A lacy, horrible weed that was full of bugs that would grab on to you, bite you, and make you itch for weeks.

These are the curves in the road around which my grandma would drive her big, lima-bean green buick and honk the horn loudly without slowing down.  This is what she referred to as safe driving.

These are the curves in the road around which my granddad drove his big white chevy truck in the summer heat.  My brother and I would request the air conditioning and he’d grin, quietly roll down the side windows, and spit his tobacco juice out the window.  This was his version of air conditioning and we were not impressed with its smells or temperature.

Then further down the road I see it.  And it almost takes my breath away.  To my right is the cowfield with the small creek, the gravel road, and the rickety wood-plank bridge.  It’s across the street from my grandparent’s old home.  The willow tree, the spring house, the side garden.  The square house that looked out over all the farmland and sat just far enough from the road that you could hear the radios playing from the passing cars.  Those were the fields I played in.  Those were the cows I watched for hours on end.  That was the creek I splashed around in and where I found old bones I was sure belonged to prehistoric dinosaurs.  That was the road I crossed to go from a supervised grandchild to a free girl, playing without the fear of what others might think.  Across the street I was far enough away that I wasn’t watched.  I could move without wondering what I looked like.  I could sing without wondering what I sounded like.  I could explore without fear of what I might find.

Then, just 2 seconds up the road on the left was Jewell Luck’s old house.  She was one of my grandfather’s many siblings.  We would walk to her house to visit her.  I remember she was very sick.  A hospital-like bed in her downstairs room sat by the back window.  She looked out to a field full of honeysuckle.  She gave my brother and me each a $1 wrapped in a special gift envelope every time we came.  I’m not sure if she ever left that bed.  I wonder how she died, where her life ended.

And then, the hardest part of the road.  The part that meets Walnut Grove Road.  Walnut Grove Road takes you to Walnut Grove Union Church and Cemetery.  The Church is where we’d go with grandma and granddad on Sundays—one week it was Baptist and the next week it was Methodist.  Grandma was raised a Methodist and Granddad a Baptist.  So how nice for them that a church like that was within a 3 minute drive from their home.  Grandma sang in the choir, but only on Methodist weeks.  She would dress me up in dresses and pantyhose.  There were church suppers and Bible School weeks and picnics outside.  And then later, there were funerals.  First, Grandaddy Woodrow.  Then, my brother.  Then, many years later, Grandma.  I cannot pass that road without a lump rising in my chest.  Knowing their sweet bodies that housed the divine lay in the ground on that hill is just too much for me most days.  They showed me how to live; and then they showed me how to die.

It was in that Cemetery that Grandma Ella May told me the family’s secrets.  One day when I was in college, we went there.  I can’t remember why we went.  Perhaps to visit Grandaddy Woodrow’s grave–although our family’s never been much on hanging out at cemeteries.  We generally think that plastic/silk flowers and strange doo-dads are a bit tacky, even for the dead.  Anyway, the secrets.  She stood there and pointed at each grave around our feet and told me their dark secrets.  This one was in an asylum.  Crazy.  This one cheated on his wife with that one over there and then shot himself.  This one just dropped dead in the street one day and no one knows why.  This one never worked a day in his life.  This one I dated.  And this one.  And this one.  And here, your granddaddy.  I loved him so.  And God doesn’t make any mistakes so I know it’s going to be ok.  And she’d shake her bent up pointer finger at him and we’d leave everyone behind in the ground to go back home.

The house is so different now.  When grandma and granddaddy sold it, the new owners essentially gutted and re-built something new on the lot.  They chopped down trees, took down the old spring house.  Re-located the driveway.  It’s bigger now and less simple.  The old house was a brick square.  I could draw the floorplan easily.  I remember the flooring in each room, the furniture, the way the doors opened.  The brown living room carpet, the blue vinyl kitchen flooring.  I still know the smell of the back porch and can see all the RC cola bottles stacked along the wall.  I can tell you she used that weird red toothpaste (Close-up!) in the bathroom just off the kitchen.  I can see the bedrooms and the giant upstairs bathroom where I found my first tick and lost my mind.  I can see the porcelain bathtub filled with only about 3 inches of water—what she called a “spit bath.”  I can remember where the floor creaked upstairs.  I can see Aunt Linda’s room, my dad’s old room, and grandma and granddaddy’s room.  Their room smelled like her perfume and was filled with so many treasures.  I can see it all and yet it is all gone.  The house, the people, the stuff.  It’s all gone.

It’s all gone from that road.  I’m not 9 years old anymore.  None of those people are alive.  The willow tree is gone and the old front porch has been demolished.  And yet they are real to me–I can still see, smell, taste and touch them.  The divine sense of life–of pleasure and work and beauty and balance–all of those are alive in me.  I know it because of how my body changes when I get near it.

I am grieving today.  The loss of that land, the loss of the old home, the loss of my grandma, granddad, brother.  The loss of the girl who used to live like she already had the part.  Now I’m a 35 year old woman who always seems to be auditioning for the next thing.  Who always wonders who’s watching and hopeful she’s making the grade.  Today I am grateful to re-connect with a younger version of this body.  As Anne Lamott says, we are all the ages we’ve ever been.  I’m glad to be Mandi, granddaughter, explorer, loved.  There are no auditions on Goose Creek Valley Road.

The first post: Why Balcony Falls?

The balcony: It’s the place you go to get perspective.  Marty Linsky and Ron Heifetz talk about the balcony in their research and teachings on adaptive leadership.  We are constantly moving from the ballroom–where we are actively participating in the dance–to the balcony.  The balcony is where we can see the patterns emerge.  It’s a great place to be because it’s got its own kind of beauty.  From the balcony you cannot hear the tiny conversations about who’s wearing the right shoes or who forgot to put a tampon in her purse for the evening.  You cannot see with any precision whether a dress is too tight or someone’s name is spelled correctly on the guest list.  You can see and hear big stuff.  You can hear, for instance whether the room sounds happy or sad.  You can see if there are folks on the sidelines.

I love the balcony.  I think I have an innate attraction to it.  It is hard for me to resist backing up, backing out, raising my awareness to the level of patterns.  I see great value in the balcony.  The ballroom?  It makes me kind of nervous.  It’s a room full of activity and sweaty people and strange foods and uncomfortable clothing.   And while the details are exquisite, there’s one small issue: There’s no hiding on the ballroom floor.  You can be seen and heard and touched.  You cannot hide.  You are part of the action.  No more being aloof or removed or safe from judgment.  You are your most vulnerable when you’re on the ballroom floor.

This blog will be the place I push myself to fall off the balcony.  A place where I allow myself to fall down off of the high post of evaluation and into my own humanity.  Balcony falls.  This is the space to explore life on the dance floor.  Sweaty.  Awkward.  Exposed.

There’s one more reason for the name–my best friend.  The only friend with whom I’ve really been able to completely fall off the balcony and into my own truth.  And that friend has this great quality about her that I think is rare in many women.  She reminds me to have fun.  She notices when I’m trying too hard and missing the part where I can experience joy.  Like the time she taught me to knit and she noticed I was all scrunched up in a ball, stressed out over the yarn twisting just right.  And she smiled and said, “Amanda, dear, FOR GODSSAKE it’s only knitting.”  One of my friend’s favorite hobbies is being on a boat in the water.  One of her favorite places to be on the water is a place called Balcony Falls.  It’s a beautiful, rough patch of the James River that tests your strength, skill, and balance.  And it’s also a lot of fun to ride.  So I name this in honor of her, my friend with whom I can rest in my truth–and allow myself to enjoy the ride down.