Courage: Where Am I?

Ever have one of those days when you look around you and say, “where am I?” I don’t even recognize this place. I don’t recognize MYSELF in this place. HOW did I get here?

2010 was filled with lots of those days for me.

For the last couple of years, I’ve chosen a “theme word” for myself in January rather than laboring over the typical new year’s resolutions. The goal was to adopt a single word (a concept) I wanted to explore and magnify in my life for the coming year. The word represented something I needed or wanted to develop, a new area of growth for myself sought out in words and action.

The theme word for 2010 was Courage. As soon as I began the process of choosing a word–as soon as I even had the thought, really–I knew that Courage was the one for 2010. I had reached a point of intersection in several areas of my life. An intersection where the day-to-day realities of living didn’t match the hopes and dreams I was banking on. An intersection where I saw a Haley I never wanted to be, a Haley I felt sold myself short, a Haley uncomfortable in her own skin and yet oddly complacent in that covering. An intersection of which I had become undeniably aware. And, no matter the level of distraction I infused in my life, that awareness couldn’t be denied. And, it seemed that every action and every thought begged the question, “where am I?”

So, Courage jumped to the forefront of my mind. If those life realities weren’t the authentic life of meaning I needed–demanded–for myself, then something had to change. I had to learn confidence and courage. I had to develop the courage to make changes, to take actions, to form new habits, to move. Away from this intersection in a new direction.

Easier said than done sometimes. For we are indelibly mired in our own skin and the trappings of our own making and choosing.

I thought 2010 would be about action. About brave acts of throwing off the bindings. About rejecting foolishness. About having the courage to stand up for myself and my gifts, the courage to create that life of meaning in concrete ways. About the courage to act. And it was to a degree. Still, I reached December with a decidedly uninspired mindset. For all the blessings and accomplishments of 2010, I saw the year as one of failure in many ways. I surveyed the landscape of my life and found the same intersection. The same frustration with the self I saw in the mirror. The same discrepancies between all that looming potential and the nut and bolts realities. What had happened to my courage?

I couldn’t even begin to think about a theme word for 2011. But then, as the evaluations of last year began to sink in, I started to realize something. 2010 WAS a year of courage for me. Perhaps not the “charging the hill” type of bravery the term immediately calls to mind, but courage none-the-less. Last year’s courage involved counting costs. It involved the sometimes painful commitment to look at myself squarely in the face and recognize that I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. It involved an undaunted gaze at my own life situations, recognizing the areas where I had willingly given over control and wisdom and compliance where it shouldn’t be. It was a courage of realization. The courage to recognize and accept. And it isn’t always fun.

Counting the cost takes courage. Taking stock of what your choices are costing you, what they are costing what is most precious to you, is not for the faint of heart. And admitting I’ve been more than willing to pay for everything that cost me dearly has been downright debilitating at times. Taking a close look at my own part in the hard situations I see around me–in that intersection–isn’t easy. But, it’s a necessary first step to having the courage to act.

Having the courage to step forward or step back often begins with accepting that you brought your own self to this unknown place. That courage to look at our own flaws and diminishing tendencies without blinking is a prerequisite to the courage required for change, for action. It’s the kind of courage that throws off distorted views and watered down visions. It’s a clarifying courage, one that puts questions more easily into perspective. It’s a courage that imbues each small step with more as we see that person begin to become more in line with who we know we need to be.

I’m realizing my work in courage isn’t done. It may never be done, but at this intersection, a new measure of courage is certainly required. And I’m ready to see where this new courage can take me. So, I’m continuing my theme of courage for 2011. I imagine some of the essays on the subject will be a little more personal in nature, perhaps a little more raw. Following through with courage tends to do that. I hope you’ll hang in here with me as you seek out areas of courage in your own life this year.

Resolved.

As the waning days of 2010 slip by, I find myself resolved. A new year often brings with it the pressure of resolutions–that laundry list of things we want to add or subtract or change about our lives. Sometimes the pressure of actually choosing the transformations we want to pursue are just as daunting as carrying out the resolutions themselves. After all, making resolutions requires that painful task of self-evaluation we tend to avoid. It involves taking stock of life and commitments and habits and determining their value or effectiveness. Ick. The self-help mantras usually encourage that the most successful New Year’s resolutions are those that are specific. And, I tend to agree. This year, my resolution is pretty specific.

No resolutions. Simple resolve.

Resolve calls to mind determination. Firmness. Having made up one’s mind. And I have. New Year’s Day ushers in a new year. And this year, newness is a blessing I am prepared to embrace. With all the successes and challenges experienced in 2010, I’m determined to embrace the ripeness of this new turn of the calendar.

A new year.
A new day.
A new attitude.
A new opportunity.
A new look.
A new habit.
A new step.
A new path.
A new start.

Resolve is like a restart for our minds and hearts sometimes. The new year, 2011, is filled with new days and new moments. New moments are just that. New. And new means I’m free to release that moment from past decisions, past mistakes, past habits and even past accomplishments. Embracing that new moment means cultivating a willingness to let go of the constraints of our own old ways and the benchmarks of our own old strides. Whatever past success or failure, THIS new moment deserves that freedom. THIS new moment can thrive in that freedom. THIS new moment is alive in that freedom.

So, in 2011 I’m resolved to let new be new. I’m resolved to let go and hold on tight. I’m resolved to make these new moments mine.

[Click the desktop wallpaper version above to download and enjoy with your technology and grab this iphone wallpaper version as well. Happy New Year!]

Moments of Wonder

A few nights ago I was giving Baby Girl a bath. I do it every night before reading to her and rocking her to sleep. And although sometimes I can’t help but view bathtime as a chore, every night I’m more keenly aware that these moments are fleeting. I already have phenomenally fewer of them with Little Drummer Boy and Bug. There was nothing particularly special about this night, a Tuesday like any other one. But somehow, this bathtime inspired all-too-common questions. As I sat beside the tub, responding to her squeals, I could feel it rising.

Baby Girl is most often filled with giggles and energy for her bath. When I’m not distracted by the rush of the day and the task list of bedtime routines, I watch her. I see her carefree little body standing there too busy to sit in the bath water. Her pudgy tummy and pudgy cheeks, her hands all in motion and eyes full of light, she laughingly fills a cup with the water’s flow and pours it back into the tub for the simple pleasure of seeing the bubbles. I can’t help but enjoy the simple pleasure of her wonderment myself.

On this Tuesday, she accompanied her water play with talk of Frosty the Snowman. I guess she’s been reading (or singing) about him at daycare and her new snowman washcloth inspired the recollection. For Baby Girl, all snowmen are Frosty. All baths are for bubbling water. In these moments, I’m amazed at the simplicity life boils down to in a two-year-old world.  Her splashing and squeals pierced the sounds of brother car chases and computer clicks just a room away. Their own imaginations hard at work awaiting their turn with the suds. Sitting on my heels beside the tub, I matched her height, and I could look straight into her uncontained eyes. They were completely oblivious to me, and yet they gripped me. With a soapy washcloth in hand I could feel the pull of that required moment of whisking her away from her water experiment and on to more practical cleanliness. But even though the night was getting away from me, I just sat and watched her.

In that tug between my own time constraints and her wonder-full display, that’s when I felt it rising. That’s when the tears began to well. I felt it overtaking me. That odd mixture of overwhelming love and wonder mixed with second-guessing and fear. This little child before me in her innocent playfulness. This precious one who without even realizing it had placed her whole world on my shoulders. And thereby captured my lifelong gaze.

And so the fear and self-doubt rise in proportion to the love.
Can I do it? I ask myself.
Can I give them what they need? What they deserve?
Can I hold their hearts? Until they grow the passion to do it themselves.
Can I mold their whims and nurture their gifts?
Can I provide for them?
Will I be able to fund their warmth and their table and their opportunity?
What if I can’t?
What if I mess up?
What if I get side-tracked and miss something?
Something important?
Can I really do this?

I sat beside the tub and watched her. And cried. I can do that with Baby Girl. She’s so young that my tears are blissfully invisible to her, unlike the array of questions they would produce with her brothers. I took it all in. The carefree spirit. The joyful eyes. The concentrated movements. Filling the cup. Pouring it out. Squealing. Giggling.

The more I sat, the more I wondered. How can I shield them from the worries of living and providing? How do I keep it from creeping in when their only concerns are whose turn it is to choose a movie and how long they get to make bubbles in the bath water? How can I give them that privilege of childhood and ignorance? That sweet and oblivious face standing there by the faucet where the whole world is filling the cup and pouring it out. How can I give them everything I want them to have? How can I make their worlds safe and full and at peace all at the same time?

It’s in moments like this one that I realize what she’s teaching me. That moments of wondering find their rest in moments of wonder. The carefree attention that simplicity provides. The place of wonder she shows me in filling the cup and pouring it out. The sheer amazement of something as basic as a bathtub full of water seen through the clear blue depth of a two-year-old’s eyes. When I stop myself and my rampant thinking–when I let go–in that place of wonder, I am master rather than slave to the onslaught of worry and concern and self-doubt.

So, I look at her. I look at them. Their beauty. Their exuberance. Their joy. Their wonder. And I know.

If I can just keep my eyes here.
If I can just focus here.
And see.
We’ll be ok.

Golden Moment

I was driving south on Highway 45. Going home to my parents’ house for Thankgiving with the children. The trip is only about 45 minutes, not enough mileage to be considered a real trip, I guess. Still, it was a symbolic trip of sorts, the opportunity to step away from my weekday surroundings and our normal work and school routines. I had spent much of the day working on last minute design projects and gathering clothes, toys, movies, and bedtime favorites for four days away from home. The short drive was my first moment to relax. It’s funny how powerful those moments can be sometimes.

The children had already spent much of their excitement about the trip that morning and one by one drifted off to sleep, lulled by the tires on the pavement. I was alone with my thoughts in transition from the busy-ness of the week and ready for a few unscheduled days. My mind was pressed. It had been a full week of thinking crammed into only two days. I had been in a period of thinking and creating, dealing with stressful situations and my own wrestling leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s hard to quiet myself during those times.

It had been raining off and on during the morning, so the sky was striped with clouds. The sun had finally dropped below the cloud lines enough to make its appearance. The timing was golden. It was a perfect sphere of light hovering just before its decent into sunset. The glow was what distracted me.

Suddenly, for the first time that day, I was bathed in sunlight. It felt like the first time that week. The first time that month. My light blue shirt was aglow as the western sunbeams streamed into the car window. It’s interesting when light presents itself. It’s unmistakable. It commands attention. It demands to be noticed and given its due. That one shaft of light stunned the noise in my brain into silence.

It made me take a deep breath.

As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I could see each of my gifts. Their faces were turned in odd but restful angles in their seats and shining. The sunlight set them aglow. The same glow I see constant in their spirits through the changes, through the stages, through the brotherly love and scuffles, through the first words and moments of learning, through the bedtime kisses and cheeks pressed against mine. Life. Aglow. A glow that brought into sharp perspective all the efforts of the week, all the commitments, all the decisions, all the needs and wants, all the challenges and joys.

Suddenly, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts anymore. I was alone with the three most precious hearts I’ve ever known.

12 Days pf Thanksgiving: I

Instant Gratification.

For my Bug…
From the moment I laid eyes on you, you owned me.
In that instance, I knew you were something special.
That earnest look, punctuated by a smile and interrupted by mischevious ideas.
As you’ve grown, I’ve come to know your incredible imagination, your unmatched resolve, your unquenched spirit.
The way you mold your surroundings by sheer will.
The way your heart is uncontained.
The way you have to dance and sing, as if some part of the universe can only be set in motion by your contribution.
And you’re right.

I’m thankful for the undeserved gift of each of my three children.
But during the Thanksgiving season, for Bug in particular, who’s light entered the world on this day.
To leave its indelible mark.

Happy Birthday, 4yo Bug!