Not Out of Apathy…

I was having a conversation with someone tonight that began with voting and politics… A unifying topic if ever there was one, right? There wasn’t much talking with one another, mostly at, but, it did get me thinking…

How do you best go about making the changes you’d like to see in the world?

Well, for me, I have to realize that about the only thing I can really change is myself. There’s a lot that I would like to see done differently of course. I am not saying I am helpless…But it saves me a lot of headaches and heartache when I stop expecting to be able to change the world by just wishing it were different. Or sitting in contemplation of how much better things would be if they were only the way I wanted them to be… I spent a lot of time doing that. A LOT.

Anyway, within the conversation, I was asked if I vote… I have a confession to make, I don’t. That wasn’t recieved well by the other party on the phone. Truth be told, they had some valid points. I have mixed feelings about it myself. One side of me says “Anne, you are not a responsible citizen,” while the other says “Hey! you’re not batshit crazy–you’re doing pretty good!”

I know myself. I do not handle current events well. I don’t vote because I am doing my best to stay useful… It’s not out of apathy. I do not handle politics and vitriol. It’s just so damn negative.

When I let that negativity in, I am useless. I soak it up like a pessimistic sponge. Bleak and despairing, I lay in bed wanting to cancel all my plans and check out of reality for a while.

Does that make me a weak person? Perhaps… But as they say, it is what it is. I’m just trying to avoid those black holes. You see, I’m trying to be a spiritual person on the path of goodness.

I don’t always know what that means but I try to learn a little more every day. One thing that I have learned is that we all have gifts. Things that we have been blessed with.. or given.. or however you want to phrase it.

Some of us are great artists and musicians, who add great beauty to the world. Some of us are scientists and mathematicians, inventing and solving. Some are made for politics and bureaucracy and business, left-brained and logical. Some of us are mothers, nurturing all those around us. Some of us build– some of us sew. Who is to say which of these is more important?

I don’t know. I certainly don’t want to go around pretending that I know what the most important job is… the most important duty. I guess I think it’s my responsibility to see how I can be most useful to those around me. So far that has meant a lot of one-on-one conversations. A lot of hands held and tears shed. Laughter shared, vulnerabilities revealed. There has been healing and growth and seeking. And I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but my heart feels full. That means something–it has not always been that way.

I know there’s a lot going on in that great big world out there. Maybe I’m a little idealistic, maybe naïve, but looking at what’s going right and building on that is the only way I have found to be in the stream of life and connected to the world around me. Perhaps that is the key. For each of us to find our path to fulfillment, our role to play in this world and to go forward with love. I have to believe that is what really makes a change. The evidence of the power of love is there in my life.

A Wedding Dress called Stress

I went to try on wedding dresses on Saturday. Oh the horror! I thought I might cancel the night before. I wasn’t actually going to…but I thought about it.

You see, here’s the thing. I am not that excited to try on dresses. I feel like I’m not cut out to be a bride in some ways. I feel oafish and unattractive. I get a feeling of “Why dress up a turd?” That’s terrible, isn’t it? I talk to myself in language that I would never dream of using towards another person. I think most of us do.

Well, anyway, I was having trouble sleeping the night before. I was all agitated, preparing for the worst. Asking God to remove my obsessive negativity and help me enjoy the experience, or at least not loathe every minute of it.

I got up in the morning and put an outfit on that I felt comfortable in. Drank some coffee, ran an errand, and then…pulled up alongside Sandra D’s Bridal Boutique in downtown Watertown. I felt a sort of panic throughout me, but I knew my maid of honor Jaime would be there soon, as well as my other good friend and bridesmaid, Destiney. Without the encouragement of those two, I would never have made the appointment.

I walked through the front door and was immediately greeted by Sandra herself, a lovely, friendly lady. I felt absolutely lost. That was my first time in a dress boutique, I wasn’t exactly the ball-gown type of prom dress girl in high school so this was all new to me. She asked what I was thinking of and I said rather unsurely “Hmm, I don’t know. I guess something with sleeves. I hate my arms so I don’t want people to see them on my wedding day…And something that hits high at the waist to kind of like camouflage this area,” gesturing around my midriff.

Starting out on a real positive note Anne.. Dammit! My therapist said I need to use more positive language when talking about myself. Oh well, too late now.

“Okay, here’s a few,” she said pulling some down from what seemed like an overwhelming number of dresses in plastic bags on the wall. “Pick out some others you’d like to try on and hang them here.”

I proceeded to halfheartedly glance at the fancy white dresses, thinking how terrible they would all look on me. Then the bell rang and Jaime came in. Thank GOD! “Help me, help me!” I cried. (Okay, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but almost!)

Together, with the help of Destiney, we pulled out some more dresses. Then it was time to enter the torture chamber. “Let me know if you need any assistance,” said Sandra. Yeah, I don’t think so.. “I’ll be fine,” I said.

The first number was quite lovely, I proceeded to try to pull the bulky fabric up around my waist and got stuck on my hips. It wasn’t going to work. So… Naturally, I decided I would have to pull it over my head. Well, wedding dresses are a LOT of fabric and tulle and poofiness. It’s kinda hard to find the opening, but I managed. Got it on.. (pretty much) only the sleeves wouldn’t go up over my arms so I couldn’t fasten the back…. Panic.

“How are you doing in there Anne?”

“Uhm, fine. It’s just kinda small..”

“I can hold it up for you so you can see the overall effect if you like,” she graciously offered.

“Alright…” and I let her in.

She held up the dress and I viewed myself in the mirror, trying to see past my perceived flaws. I did think it was a lovely dress. I let Jaime and Destiney peek in the door. With my back against the wall so they couldn’t see the evidence of my largeness. I allowed a picture. It felt like a mugshot. But hey, exposure therapy, right? Walking through fire.

The next dress fit, but made me feel like a T-Rex. I came out of the fitting room and stepped on the dais in front of the dreaded 360 mirrors.

“How do you feel?” asked Jaime.

“Like a T-rex,” I said, laughing and displaying my arms limited range of mobility.

Oh boy. It went on like that for awhile, much longer than I would have liked it to. There were dresses that didn’t fit at all. One that was terribly unflattering, and another I kinda sorta liked. There were increasing numbers on the size of the dresses that made me feel as if my body were ballooning outward as I stood there dejected. Trying to remind myself that it’s just a number. Trying to remind myself that life in an active eating disorder never brought me happiness so I better do my best to keep growing and keep challenging that horrible voice within.

And I made it through. With a little self-deprecating humor, a little help from my friends, an understanding and patient Sandra, and a little prayer. (And a little American Spirit.. I quit 3 weeks ago but that ordeal deserved it. No regrets!!)

After all is said and done, I am thankful and glad that I decided to do it. I don’t know if I’ll go with the dress I found there, but I faced a fear and came out on the other side unscathed. Indeed, with even a little bit more resolve to not let my negativity get me down. There isn’t anything on this planet I can’t face with a little love and help from friends, a dash of humor, and some prayer.

Progress, not perfection!

Something Different

I decided to do a little something different for this post. I’m currently in a creative writing class and just recently roughed out a short story. It needs some work for sure but here it is…

Sally’s Fountain of Youth

There was no place she had loved more in that little town. Naturally, she wanted to share it with her best friend Brooke.

Mom had finally consented to the weekend road trip. “It’s only a 2-hr drive Mom! I promise we’ll be really good. Come on, I haven’t been there in forever. And it was my favorite place ever. Please!” Sally had relentlessly pursued this goal. The day had been something she had dreamed of since they had left 3 years ago. It was going to be amazing…

But what she found was not what she remembered. The magic of the place was gone.

“It doesn’t look like it used to,” she said sadly to her friend Brooke. “It used to be really pretty.”

The two young girls stood in front of a fountain at a park in town. They were old enough now to walk around by themselves, and still young enough to wander in adventure. The fountain was crumbling, but had probably been impressive at some point. It was a figure of a horse, rearing back. The mane was made to look as if it were waving in the wind. The eyes of the beast seemed to possess a fury almost tangible. But upon closer inspection, bits and pieces had fallen away. Both from the beast, and the pool around it. Kids still liked to toss pennies in, hoping their wishes would come true.

Sally had brought Brooke here to show her. This fountain was the foundation of her childhood. She had come to this park as often as she could.

She had pretended she was a cowgirl; the horse was her partner. She had found it in the wild and tamed it herself. She was the only one that could ride it.

She was a warrior Queen wielding a sharp silver sword. Her and her steed moved as swift as shadows across the battlefield.

Sometimes she was a horse herself, and she galloped freely with her fellows. She breathed in the crisp mountain air through flared nostrils. Her own mane flew in the wind. Free.

“Yeah, it looks kinda like crap,” said Brooke in her characteristic bluntly honest manner, “But I’m sure it was really cool.” She added lamely after seeing the look on Sally’s face.

“It was,” Sally said wistfully.

“Did your Dad ever come with you here?” Brooke asked.

“No. It was usually just me and Mom. Sometimes the babysitter. Dad was… sick a lot.”

“Oh. Like sick how?”

“Just sick. I don’t know. He just was.”

“Did he have cancer? Is he still alive? I don’t think I’ve ever heard your mom talk about him? Does he still live here?” Brooke was a stream of questions.

“Geez Brooke. He was just sick. Okay? Do you have to ask so many questions?”

“Sorry…”

“It’s fine. It’s just. I don’t know. Hard to talk about.”

The two girls kept walking past the fountain and further into the park. There was the swing set Sally remembered. Had it always been like this, so rundown? The woodchips beneath the playground needed to be replenished. The plastic of the slides was pale and unexciting. They sat down on the swing set. Their shoes pushed the dirt around as they moved idly from side to side. They didn’t swing. They were too mature for that now. Too grown up.

Brooke looked over at her friend Sally. She was blond and pretty, still with the soft features of childhood. Her eyes were blue and very serious. When she laughed, they lit up. But when she was lost in thought, her whole face darkened. That’s the way she looked now.

“Are you okay?” Brooke asked her.

“Yes.”

She wasn’t really okay. She had started to remember things. Things she did not want to remember. Things she wasn’t even sure if she did remember. She wouldn’t talk about them with anyone. Not yet. But she had realized things recently.

She knew why they had had to leave 3 years ago. She hadn’t wanted to go. She had begged her mother to let them stay. She didn’t want to leave Daddy behind, her friends, her teachers. She had cried and cried when Mom told her they had to leave. “Why? Mom, I love it here. We can’t leave. We don’t have to leave. Please don’t make me.” She had pleaded desperately. Her mother had looked down upon her sweet little blond-haired daughter in her polka dot dress and cried with the desperation of a lost woman.

They had packed only a couple of bags and left in the middle of the night. Daddy came running out after them when he heard the door slam. It was a blur. He was holding something in his arms. Maybe his hunting rifle, but then again, who knows what Sally saw that night. She was only 8.

All she wanted to remember from those years was the joy she felt at the park. The imagination fired by the fountain. She had thought maybe if they came here… Maybe if she shared it with Brooke… Maybe then she would remember the right things. The good things. The true things.

But sometimes the fantasy was not strong enough to suppress the truth. And sometimes the truth was terrible.

She sat there on the swingset with a heavy heart. Much too heavy for an 11-year-old. And she didn’t know where to turn.

Abruptly Brooke was in her face. She had jumped off her swing and marched right over to her taciturn friend.

“Look!” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. And I’m sorry I said that fountain was crappy. It’s really nice. I actually like it. And I don’t know about your dad. My uncle was sick too. And I don’t know what they meant, but one of my cousins said that meant crazy. So, maybe that’s why I wanted to know. Plus, I’m your best friend! And we share everything. Remember, pinky promise? And I promise, I will always be here for you. I am your bff. So. There. I said it.” Brooke finished breathlessly.

Sally got out of the swing and gave her best friend a hug. The first broken piece began to heal as a tear fell down her cheek. The love of her friend was a truth that didn’t need to be suppressed.

The Moment

I don’t know why it is so hard for me to stay in the moment. I do really well sometimes. I feel present. My eyes are open and I actually see my surroundings. My ears listen to the sounds of nature or my friend talking across the table or my fingers clacking on a keyboard. I feel the chair beneath my bum or the bumps in the road as I drive.

But sometimes I am gone. I am hypnotized and mesmerized by the labyrinthine winding paths of my brain. It is really dangerous up there sometimes. Fraught with boobytraps and dynamite that might explode at any minute. And I know this. So, if it is so difficult to be there (my mind) instead of here (the present moment), why do I always go back?

Mostly habit I think. I know I’m not the only one that struggles with this. I have many friends with whom I lament with over our inability to stay in the moment. Oh, we try! We try very hard. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes in the most amazing moments, our meddlesome mind likes to jump right in.

For instance, right after I became engaged (which happened on Sept 24 yay!) to the most amazing man I have ever known, I began to be worried about potential divorce… Also about how I am going to look in a wedding dress and about how we will end up old and I might be ugly and wrinkly and he won’t love me anymore like he used to..

(P.S. Chad is the most incredible human being I have ever met. Hilarious, so attentive, creative and smart. He loves me like no one else ever has–good, bad, and everything in between. I could not ask for more)

So I became frustrated. “ANNE WHY CAN’T YOU JUST ENJOY THIS MOMENT?”

And I further destroyed my chances of enjoying the moment by delving further into my mind with my amateur psychoanalysis.

I think it would be a lot more fun to live in my mind if it was a more positive place. Daydreaming. It is such a nice word, isn’t it? Connotes a lot of positivity, maybe unrealistic, grandiose things, but still, I imagine a child at a desk staring out the window with eyes glazed over in imagined glee. I don’t daydream much as an adult. Day-maring? Is that the day version of a nightmare? I am good at those.

So, how do I stop these day-mares?

I think breathing helps. Haha. I hear people talk about grounding techniques. In fact, I was listening a podcast the other day that suggested narrating each activity as you are engaged in. I think you’re supposed to do it as an inner dialogue, but I was especially lost in my head yesterday and desperately tried this new technique. “I am driving my car. I am looking at the road. I am talking out loud to myself. I am thinking about being in the present moment. I am thinking about how I am not supposed to be narrating my thoughts.” Right! “I am stopping at the stoplight. I am feeling the steering wheel under my hands.”

It was weird. I’m not gonna lie. But it helped. I try praying too. Sometimes the most effective prayer for me is “God, please take this from me.”

And He does. Not always on my time, but in His time.

I do get to live in peace and serenity some days. Many more than I used to. And I trust it will continue to get better as I seek to grow.

But I also know that negative thoughts will always exist. They will come, to me, and to you, and everyone else on the planet. That’s life. It is a good thing too, because sometimes negative thoughts are helpful. Like “I should not do that, it could kill me.” Or, “That milk was curdled, I think I’ll stop drinking it.”

And those other negative thoughts? Those daymares? They pull at us, tear at us, rip us to shreds. But gradually, those negative thoughts can lose their power. Because they are thoughts, just thoughts. They are not reality. They do not have to be played upon repeat, or treated as an inevitability. They do not mean we are defective people, or that there is something any more wrong with us than there is with the rest of the world.

But! They sure do make it hard to stay in the moment!

So when they come up, we can start to accept and move past them. And return to the moment.

This moment. Right where I am supposed to be. Right where you are supposed to be.

If you can’t do it perfectly, you might as well not do it at all…

First off, terrible advice. Don’t take it. I take it all too often.

A few things follow…

For starters, I don’t write in my blog for months. Apparently that thing they say about blogs failing within the first 6 months is true. It’s funny. I was so determined not to let that happen. And then, all of a sudden it did. Whoops!

Well, here I am again. I have been writing. Writing for school, and writing for fun. Fiction mostly. I journal some. I’m not sure what happened. Not sure why I stopped blogging. I think it was mostly self-imposed pressure. That is usually what makes me give up at most things in my life.

If I can’t do it perfectly, I might as well not do it at all!

That has been a motto in my life. An old idea that has been so deeply ingrained, it is very difficult to let it go.

I remember…

When I was a kid, I was rather heavy. I was nicknamed the 1,000 lb cow. Full disclosure, I did not weigh 1,000 lbs BUT my affinity for cows was rather unfortunate in my situation. Anyways. So, there I was, an awkward and clumsy chunky monkey… doing what? Learning how to waterski. Yay! What could possibly go wrong?

I mean, I was wearing a swimming suit…so that was a good start. All chubby kids love wearing swimsuits. And also I was with my very athletic and talented cousin who seemed to be able to pick up anything within minutes of her trying it. And we were with her parents, my Aunt and Uncle who always asked me at meals if I “really needed seconds.” So as you can imagine, my confidence in myself was at an all-time high.

Ah yes, I do well remember that day. I remember most of my failures with vivid clarity. I remember that there was a pair of waterskis that were tied together for beginners. I remember trying to get up and the rope whipping out of my hand. I remember attempting to laugh it off and try again, and falling. Again and again. I remember my little arms quavering and the slap of the water like a slap of remonstrance. I remember encouragement from my uncle that felt like ridicule. I remember shame creeping over me. A voice saying “Your fat-ass is never going to get it.” And then I remember crying. I’m not sure if I did or not. All I know is that I have never tried waterskiing again because “it’s stupid.”

Haha! Yes. The ultimate solution. I’m not saying that I have any particular desire t o waterski, but that situation is just one illustration of me not executing something perfectly and giving up. I don’t know how I missed Thomas the Train Engine’s sage advice “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” Maybe I thought he meant only try two more times, and then give up. Whatever the reason, I am beginning to realize that no one is perfect. And I can’t just give up all the time.

No one does everything perfectly all the time. In fact, few people do anything perfectly any of the time.

I mean, no shit!? Really Anne, you’re 29 years old and you just realized that. Yup. I know. It’s sad. Well, anyway, all success is built upon failure, and learning to improve. And I think learning to accept imperfection as part of life is something that I must do. Not everything I do is going to be graceful and elegant. Not everything I write is going to be beautiful. Not everything I say is going to make sense. And not every idea I have is going to pan out. But that’s okay!

And it’s okay for you too. You don’t have to be perfect. Just don’t give up.

In case you have forgotten Thomas the Train Engine’s advice, I am here to remind you, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again…ad infinitum” (That means don’t stop. Unless you can really tell that it’s not meant to be, which is a totally different case and maybe I’ll write about that some day).

Labels

I’ve been giving a lot of thought lately to my perception of myself. I once heard a speaker talk about labels. She was stressing the importance of getting rid of old negative labels we put on ourselves, or that others have stuck us with. It is amazing how tightly adhered some of those labels are. It reminds me of when you ever so carefully try to remove a sticker without leaving any of the adhesive behind, but despite your painstaking efforts, you are left scratching away with your fingernail trying to get it all off.

I think that is how it has been for me in trying to rid myself of some of my labels.

When I was young, I accepted what other people said about me. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t deny it. If people called me a weirdo, I assumed that identity. If I was fat and ugly, well, that must be accurate. If I was a loser and a loner, hmm, sounds about right. That’s me, that’s Anne. Of course, there were some positive labels, intelligent, creative, funny. Though usually those labels had an asterisk next to them denoting some other label that would negate the positivity of the first. Like “Funny*” *but ugly, or something of the sort. The bottom line is, I did not have a very healthy self esteem or perception of myself growing up.

I still am finding myself coming up against some of those labels today. Trying to rip those suckers off is tough. One that I particularly struggle with is feeling like a bumbling oaf. I don’t know what it is, but ever since I was a kid, I have felt BIG and not feminine. Almost manly… I have been told this is untrue by many people. And maybe part of me thinks that it might not be an accurate perception at times… But Friday, I found myself believing the old label.

I was meeting a couple friends for dinner at a trendy restaurant in Brookfield that is by a shopping mall, replete with stores that I have heard of but never set foot inside. Altar’d, Lululemon, Anthropologie, etc. Partly this is due to the fact that I do not shop as much as I used to (trying to keep that budget in line), but also partly due to the fact that I don’t feel like I’m worthy of wearing fashionable things. At these times I tell myself, “Well Anne, those clothes are just Goddamned overpriced nonsense.” And I pretend I’m not afraid, just “too good for that material BS.”

Now that’s a lie. I try not to be overly concerned about material matters. God knows I’ve struggled with that in the past, but I like clothes. I’m just afraid to put something on that seems trendy and then look like I’m trying to be trendy and failed and look like a big fat goof.

So, needless to say, there’s a lot of labeling and judging and control issues and a lot of stuff going on there.

BUT! It was time to slay the dragon on Friday.

I went into one store because the clothes on display were actually my style. I thought “Oh, what the heck, go on in there!”

As I walked through the heavy door into the store that was decorated with more care than my living space, I immediately felt a sense of being an outsider looking in. I felt as if every person in there looked at me like “OMG, what is that?” Thinking that my entrance would create such a stir is a ridiculously absurd ego-feeding proposition. Moreover, there was no validity to that feeling, aside from an old label rising up from within.

A voice inside telling me “You don’t belong here. You don’t fit in. You’re not like them. This is where pretty people shop. This is where they shop. GET OUT”

But I didn’t listen. I thought to myself “Well sweet Jesus Anne, you’re gonna have to get over this bullshit sometime soon because I’m getting pretty sick of feeling like a goddamned alien every other day. You just go look at that shirt you liked and try the thing on and walk around like you own the place, because you are the customer. And you have every right to be here. And you are a beautiful human being. And give people a little credit. Maybe smile at someone.”

(I have to give myself ridiculous pep talks sometimes, full disclosure.)

But it worked. I took a breath. Let myself be myself and took my time. Looking at the clothes upon the rack that appealed to me. Not because of what I thought other people would think or say or anything like that. It felt like a big accomplishment.

Now, most of the clothes were, in my humble opinion, quite overpriced.

But I did walk away with a new shirt that was on clearance,

And a new key fob that said

“Kind heart. Fierce Mind. Brave Spirit.”

Now those are some labels I can dig.

What You Look for is What You’ll See

As long as I can recall, I have struggled with feeling a sense of disconnect with my surroundings. I have a dual nature, and though at times very positive, it can be equally depressive. It then urges me to see every negative thing, every flaw, in myself and the world around me. It tells me this is necessary–this is the truth.

I look around and see war, I see corruption, deceit, disunity. I see people fighting one another, on physical, digital, emotional, spiritual planes. Lemmings all scrambling to be the best, disregarding the consequences visited upon those around them. Sometimes I see the pursuit of pleasure at the expense of humanity and connection.

A world obsessed with instant gratification to the extent that they are blocked from any sort of true gratification.

I would be lying if I said I never fell into this trap. I still do sometimes. Maybe that is why it is so hard for me to feel harmony. I am still fighting my own demons, my own self-centeredness.

The thing of it is though, I can change my perspective. What I focus on grows and grows.

I remember reading once that every thing, every situation, every person is comprised of darkness and light.

We choose what to focus on. My fear tells me to focus on the darkness, that I might shield myself from it. What ends up happening is the darkness envelopes me. Every part of me. Mind, body, spirit. It has the exact opposite effect of what I am hoping.

When I focus on the light, the world is brighter. I see goodness around me. I see strangers helping strangers. I witness movements toward communication, toward tolerance and acceptance. I see people striving against the negative influences out there. Not everyone is blindly following the masses. And not everything is negative.

Sometimes, it is easy for me to look back upon the past and envision it as a perfect place. A simple place. “The Good Ol’ Days” A place where people got along, where life wasn’t bogged down with cellphones and television and the vast world of the internet. But that simply isn’t true, is it? There may not have been cellphones, TV, and the internet, but there was that time period’s equivalent.

The deeper you dig into any situation involving humans, the more apparent it becomes that though the scenery has changed, we are simply playing out a story told a thousand times.

So…at times my dark mind tells me that as a society, we are moving more and more toward disunity; that the ridiculous amount of leisure and self-centered activities that drive us each day are driving a wedge between us and our fellows.

But! My light mind knows there are many good things about life and people. Love, friendship, ease of communication and travel. There’s a plethora of positives in this world today.

It is one thing to acknowledge darkness in the world and try to do what you can to change it. It is fully another thing to see the darkness and let it consume you, rendering you depressed and useless.. What I find is that I then end up contributing more to that very same darkness.

I myself must go forward with hope. With hope and love in my heart. It is the only way I have ever found a hint of harmony. May I continue to remember that and cultivate that attitude day by day.

Waging War on an Old Idea

The other day I was getting dressed to go for a walk with my boyfriend.

It was hot out, cloudy, a little muggy. It was the kind of weather that called for a tank top. The kind of weather that I dread.

Wearing a tank top is historically no small feat for me. I have avoided wearing sleeveless shirts since I was probably around 11 or 12. I remember watching an episode of Oprah with my mom when a lady lifted her arm up because she won a prize. As she waved her arm excitedly, the woman’s fleshy underarm wiggled about. My mom exclaimed in disgust.

I remember thinking, “Oh no! Do I have that?”

I decided that I did. I also decided that to avoid ridicule, my arms should never again face the light of day. Perhaps in an isolated situation with no witnesses, but other than that, never..

As I have grown older, no matter how thin I have ever gotten, the arm phobia has never ceased to plague me.

It seems trivial, but it grew and grew. It’s something I am still working through. But it goes beyond the simplicity of a sleeveless shirt. It is indicative of much deeper underlying issues that I have had with myself.

Harsh judgment and condemnation. Comparison with others. Fears of inadequacy.

I have been waging a war against this menace within my mind. Sometimes I win the battles and sometimes I lose, but I always keep trying. Why? Because I have experienced some measure of freedom. And I am hungry for more of it.

So, this particular day that I referred to earlier began with the putting on of the tank top. I managed to do so without spending too long in the mirror checking for flaws (of which there are never a shortage when I am looking). It was a decent first maneuver for this particular battle. My spirits were shaky, but the action was strategic.

I went into the local coffee shop for an iced coffee. Black of course. One can’t justify creamer when wearing a tank top. My mind said, “Anne! People will see the cream and think ‘no wonder she looks like that.'”… I listened to that negative inner dialogue. That was a mistake, the first indication of a battle-losing mindset.

Then, the barista overcharged me by a couple dollars. I took notice, but instead of pointing out to her the very easily corrected mistake, I ignored it. I had to get out of there! Too many people, too public a place. “My arms, oh my arms! Everybody’s looking at them. Judging them.” Insecurity mounting.

We went outside and proceeded downtown to the lake loop. The lake loop in my town is a popular walking route. My boyfriend and I have done it many times. I usually enjoy it quite a bit. But this was our first sleeveless journey together. And that meant trouble.

You see, there is a problem with the lake walk. There are a lot of reflective surfaces. Many opportunities to condemn and judge oneself, especially when in a PMS-worsened state of self-loathing.

We began our lake loop. Window number one. “Don’t look. Just keep walking.” I told myself.

Window number two, accidentally caught sight of self. “Oh, there you go. Ugh, wow. Yikes. Look at that, that’s awful… Wait, now what was Chad saying? Pay attention!”

Friend on bicycle pulled up to say hello! “Oh no, he probably saw my fat arms from behind me. Now he’ll think I’m disgusting,” said my inner fear dialogue.

“Hi!” I said out loud with a smile on.

I could feel my resolve starting to waver. The battle was starting to be lost. What I thought could be a victory was slowly slipping away. “Help me God!” I thought, desperately not wanting to fall into the all too familiar pit of self-centered despair.

It crept on. The bleakness coming towards me. All I wanted to do was cover my hideous arms.

But it was not my arms.

It is an old idea. It has been deeply ingrained in me by myself and my perception of others. It is the idea that I must be perfect to be loved. It is the idea that my best is never enough. It is the idea that if people know the real me, they won’t accept me.

There’s a lot of reasons for those ideas. None of them are very reasonable, or logical. But, they are familiar and therefore often difficult to let go of. However, the only way through the fire is to get singed a little. The process can be painful.

Anyway, after our walk, we were heading to the pharmacy. My boyfriend, being the ever-perceptive gentleman that he is, inquired what was wrong.

I told him. Our open communication about our struggles has been a wonderful gift to both of us. I was vulnerable and explained my feelings. He’s heard it before, but listened patiently, attentively. He is a gift in this journey of life.

As usual, it felt freeing to let some of the anguish inside out into the light of day. Yet, I still felt a little heavy, both literally and figuratively.

Then it happened. On the way back home, magic in the skies before us.

The clouds were numerous, fluffy and white, wispy and gray. But a clearing in the clouds.. just around the sun. And through the opening, thousands of sun rays radiated down in a pyramid. It was majestic. It was as if heaven itself was on earth. Like goodness and light raining down. The sheer beauty of it halted the flood of negativity. It was like I could hear God saying “Anne, it doesn’t matter what your arms look like. These things simply don’t matter. They are so petty.. So small. Look at the beauty of life, the vastness of this world. Don’t worry my daughter, I love you just the way you are.”

And just like that, the tides of that battle turned. I was bloodied and bruised, but emerged victorious.

Never underestimate the power of the spirit. Sometimes it is darkest before an especially remarkable and reviving dawn.

The Puzzle

I’m so glad I found the missing piece.

The piece that fills in that hole inside my heart and soul. You see, I think we all have it in some way shape or form. And through our lives we try to find that missing piece. The piece that will make us whole.

“Maybe this is it” we say as we buy a new car or find a new relationship.

“Maybe this is it,” when we feel that familiar high due to our substance of choice.

“Maybe this is it,” we think when we change ourselves, the way we dress, the way we do our hair.

But sooner or later, we find no rest. There is no end to the search for that missing piece when we’re looking in all the wrong places.

I think we are all born with a piece missing. As infants, it’s barely perceptible. So small we don’t notice. The progression stems from there. The more we grow, the bigger the missing piece. It becomes painfully obvious. We resort to all sorts of idiotic behavior. Think teenagers. Our ideas about what the missing piece is are painfully immature and sometimes embarrassing to look back upon.

Then we grow older, not necessarily wiser, and try different pieces. A marriage. A baby. A house?

Nope, all those might be just fine… but still not quite sufficient.

Because the missing piece is something intangible. It is something indefinable. It is of the spirit, and the spirit alone can fit the vacancy. When we are experiencing that sensation of something missing, we have a tendency to look in the realm of the material.

I always had.

And in the material, we shall never find what we are looking for.

Today I know the missing piece is a relationship with my Creator. The Spirit of the Universe. God. Whatever spiritual entity you choose to believe in. The missing piece is the peace of God. It is what connects me to you, to myself, to the world at large. No other piece means a thing until that piece is in place…

But.. there is a funny thing about that missing piece.

It seems to need constant adjustment. Just when I think I have it perfectly in place, a space appears. I start to feel a little restless. Something feels off. This is where the seeking comes in.

Now that I have found the substance that satisfies that vacancy, I have to be diligent about fashioning it to fit each and every day. Just as the piece missing grew from infancy to adolescence, it will continue to grow. As the vacancy changes, so must I.

So how do I do this? How do I keep that piece in place? I have to slow down and practice awareness and being present. I have to remain willing to grow. I must reflect and see where I can improve and where I can be helpful. When I am conscious of that piece of my life, then I have the peace I desire.

The search for the missing piece gives my life meaning. Without that search, life would be meaningless.

Apples Can’t be Oranges

I listened to this podcast today about a boy who was convinced by two well-meaning assistant high school football coaches that he was destined for athletic greatness. They were pushy, going so far as to call him at home and tell him to meet up with them for training. He did. By the end of that summer, he was 6’ 6” and 240 pounds. In the interview, he referred to his body after that period of intensive training as a “costume.” This was because one important fact remained, he was still himself. Someone with very little aggressive nature and a little on the depressive side. Gary simply wasn’t a football player. His spirit was tied to other endeavors. He tried so hard to be what they told him he could be. He even went to college on a football scholarship. However, eventually he listened to his heart (and the advice of a wise therapist) and ended up quitting the football team and becoming a comedian. He found his path.

But first he had to jump off the other path. He had to leave the football player identity behind. He had to venture back into the land of self-discovery rather than others-centered discovery of self, intent on gaining outside approval.

I have also had to eventually adopt this plan. This plan of leaving behind all the costumes of my life, and trying not to acquire any new ones along the way.

How many identities have I had to leave behind?

There was my attempt at being chic–in which I am pretty sure I ended up looking like everyone’s mom. After that, my zebra print fiasco, complete with orange hair and eyebrow piercing. Then a little rocker chick. But when that didn’t work, I tried on redneck. Then my athlete runner stage. Honestly, I never quite nailed any of those identities. Still never felt right, none of these changed the interior.

I was running from me. I didn’t like her!

You see, my thoughts about her were negative. She was fat, uncool, too smart, too dorky, or just plain boring and ugly. Who would ever want to be her? No one liked her or ever would..

No, assuredly that Anne had to be destroyed. Burned to the ground and a new Anne built out of the ashes. That idea started at a young age… and I ran with that plan for awhile, trying different versions of myself.

But that Anne was never improved. And no matter how hard I tried to be someone else, that little dork was always underneath the surface threatening to reveal herself with an obscure Lord of the Rings reference.

Thank God I love that girl so much today! She’s actually been pretty great once I gave her a chance. I think we can all benefit from embracing that inner self that we have. That spirit inside that tells us who we are, that calls to us and inspires us. Why do we judge it? Why do we run? We are all who we are. Some of us are strong and silent, some of us are sensitive and loud. Some of us love math and science, some of us are artists and dreamers. Many of us are an amalgam of many different quirks. Maybe we should stop fighting ourselves and embrace our individuality. For, if you’re like me, you cannot be someone you are not and find any happiness…

I think a lot of damage comes from us trying to fit into specific identities, or trying to tell other people who they should be. You just can’t make an apple into an orange. You can paint it orange and texture the peel, but it’s still going to be an apple on the inside. And you’re going to make that apple awfully unhappy when it puts on its orange costume and deep down just wants to be an apple.

So be an apple!

Or be an orange if you’re an orange!

I am always going to be me on the inside.

And you are always going to be you on the inside.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

It’s time to give the real you a chance.

Learn about yourself, the essence of your spirit. Learn to love that sometimes silly, unreasonable, eccentric, wonderful creature that is you. Feed your spirit, cultivate your character, expand your heart and blossom!