It seems like someone only pulls out in front of me and drives really slow when I am running late. What’s up with that?
And today, the slowpoke loser person that pulled out in front of me reminded me how it feels living with active addiction… ya know when someone’s words and actions don’t line up. I had to just laugh!
Mr. Sparky?
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“Many people do not know that they can strengthen or diminish the life around them.”
(Dr. Rachel Remen, My Grandfathers Blessings, p 193 )
“I can’t cook” was something I learned well over the years. I learned it from listening to others and from comparing my insides to their outsides. I learned it from thinking I should be doing something differently if I wanted to get different results. One particular moment plays loudly in my brain…
My husband came home from work through the back door. As he walked through the tiny kitchen, he lifted the lid on the one- skillet meal I had prepared and said, “You cannot make stroganoff with hamburger meat!” He put the lid back on the skillet and walked out. This was early in our marriage, and this was the beginning of an important lesson.
His mother was a gourmet cook. I can see her sitting on her little stool in front of the stove stirring the rue until it was just right. She only used aged cheddar and she made homemade mayonnaise! I grew up with Velveeta and fried bologna sandwiches. Mom cooked every night – she cooked a lot – but there was no preference given to the brands of food or the perfect mixture of spices. Food was food. Preparing meals for our family of 7 was more about filling our bellies than creating a palatable delight. In other words, we grew up with a different experience around food. He learned that how you made it matters, and I learned that what matters is that you made it at all.
Our disparate histories well prepared us for cooking to be an issue in our marriage. He cared… and he let it be known. Reinforced over time, his message became my own. I should care about having the right mixture of colors on the plate or everything should be ready at the perfect temperature all at the same time. There must be something wrong with me if I did not know that using tomato sauce is an absolute offense to decent chili. And God forbid I use a cookbook. That was cheating, just like using the encyclopedia or the dictionary to find answers to the crossword puzzle. That was cheating too.
I wanted to avoid the backlash, so I basically stopped putting any efforts into preparing a meal that would be enjoyed and appreciated. Cooking became a chore. Cooking became a way to squelch hunger – nothing more.
With the help of Al-anon and some great therapists, I have slowly created a new story around my ability to cook, and I am trying new things. I bought my first cookbook – a final rejection of the old story that no longer served my needs- and I used my cookbook to make some killer pies last Thanksgiving!
Today, I live in a different home with a different family, and my partner “oohs and aahhhs” over my spaghetti and meatloaf and sloppy joes. He closes his eyes and savors the pot roast and squash casserole. He goes back for second and third helpings of my chili, and he even eats the leftovers. It feels so nice to contribute to his enjoyment with a simple meal… and he feels so contributed to. There is a back and forth to it all – a mutual giving that we get to share in the kitchen.
Today everyone gets to experiment and discover in “Deborah’s Kitchen,” and the failures are met with laughter. The latest science experiment resulted in a large oddly shaped pink area on the hardwood floor! I still do not particularly care about food the way some people do, but I do care about preparing a meal for my family with joy… I want to contribute from the kitchen sometimes.
Rewiring my brain around cooking took a lot of work – a lot of digging – mostly into my own story. At the same time, the feedback from those around me has played a big role in giving me the courage to keep venturing out into the unknown. Both are true.
How we treat people matters…. Just as much as how we treat ourselves.
Do you have a story of healing that took place in your kitchen?
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I lit a fire to burn the last of my old journals, and movement on the front porch caught my eye. It was a dove…two doves…working in tandem to rebuild last years nest. One is flying back and forth bringing sticks while the other stays home to rearrange. And I know what is next. Creation. New life.
The symbolism is not lost on me.
While I am clearing away the old to make room for the new, I get to witness newness springing forward in the fullest way possible.
I am smiling. Full of wonder.
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I sat down to write this morning and asked myself, “How are you feeling?” There was no answer… so maybe the answer is numb.
I think I am having an anniversary reaction, and there is this stuff swirling around in my body, just below the surface. I have been a bit on edge all weekend, so last night I was thinking about watching a sad movie- something that would make me cry so I could get it out of my body. I couldn’t find one that interested me.
This morning as I sat with my pen dangling over a blank page, I reached over and turned on my iPod. A song by Mercy Me came through loud and clear. “Yeah,” I thought, “there don’t have to be any words, and I don’t have to try and fix this. Just be still and know…”
This too shall pass. All is well.
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Running low on faith and gasoline
She had a lot on her mind, and she didn’t pay attention.
She was going way too fast,
and before she knew it,
she was spinning on a thin black sheet of ice.
She was so afraid.
She threw her hands up in the air,
“Jesus take the wheel, cause I can’t do this on my own.
I’m letting go.”
How many times have I been moving so fast that the moments get blurred? How many times have I taken myself to the edge before I threw up my hands? I distinctly remember the first time I really let go… that moment when I surrendered.
Can you see this sign?
I was sitting on the sofa in my living room at 4am, trying to sip broth since I was not able to keep any solid food down for the past four days.
I carry all of my pain in my belly, and I was holding onto a lot of pain. My husband was using, having an affair, and he had moved out of the house. I was confused, lonely, angry… and most of all afraid. I was spinning on a thin black sheet of ice.
As I tried to sip the broth, another panic attack came over me and I started choking for air. Apparently I passed out, because I “came to” slumped over the cushion. And when I came to, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. That “peace that passes all understanding” was full of a sense of knowing. I “came to believe” as they stay in Step 2… and I knew I was not alone. And the words resting in my fragile awareness… “I can do this.”
Ever since that moment my prayer has been, “God, please help me stay awake today so I can see the signs you plant in my moments. Help me to trust this process.”
This morning I turned on my iPod while I was reading and processing a long and arduous mediation from yesterday. We will be sitting back at the table on Monday to keep moving forward with the divorce agreements… hopefully. I was writing about some judgements I have around the financial division of assets, really wanting the final agreement to be fair and equitable. Knowing full well that it is not my job to make decisions for the parties, the fear that lack of understanding of the complex financial information will prevent informed decision making.
Carrie Underwood’s voice came through the speakers, and I smiled … my prayer became, “Jesus take the wheel. Take it from my hands, cause I can’t do this on my own. I’m letting go.”
I woke up and remembered I trust the process! It is my job as a mediator, ethically speaking, ” to make sure that the parties have enough data to assess their options for settlement and their alternatives to settlement.” I find some peace in knowing I can present the information they bring to the table in a way that everyone agrees is accurate, then let go of the results. And if I am not confident that all of the needed information is on the table, I can call the mediation.
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When I am complaining, I am telling myself a story about what other people are doing that is making my life unhappy. I am focused on what I don’t like or want, and this takes me on a journey to nowhere!
A couple of weeks ago I heard someone say, “Complaining is a form of dishonesty,” and it really got me thinking. Am I being dishonest when I am complaining?
com·plain [kuhm-pleyn] verb (used without object)
1.to express dissatisfaction, pain, uneasiness, censure, resentment, or grief; find fault:
2. to tell of one’s pains, ailments, etc.
3. to make a formal accusation
dis·hon·est [dis-on-ist] adjective
1. not honest; disposed to lie, cheat, or steal; not worthy of trust or belief
2. proceeding from or exhibiting lack of honesty; fraudulent
So expressing dissatisfaction, finding fault, and making accusations is not worthy of trust and fraudulent? Yes, if I want to live an authentic life and be honest with myself. I want to be trustworthy and acknowledge that I play a part in the stuff of life. The behaviors of others may stimulate pain and grief in me. They are not, however, responsible for my feelings. That’s an inside job.
If I keep my complaints out there, then I get stuck in them… like living on remote control with no off button. If I bring them back home then I get to see just what it is I am missing in my life. What do I want… and what can I alone do to make that happen?
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Numbers are like a tidy little package that I can wrap and deliver with ease and confidence. I love reconciling accounts and seeing that everything is perfect… discrepancy “0.” and I love that numbers tell a story, a story that no one can question or call to task. They tell the truth.
Or so I thought until I was involved with the legal system. I entered into the courtroom anxious for the truth to reveal itself. The numbers are like facts that cannot be disputed. Like one plus one will always equal two. Then I heard the attorney twist and turn and take a deposit and turn it into a lie. I was shocked to learn that taken out of context, even numbers can be manipulated to turn a simple story into a saga.
My faith was knocked off center. My naive belief in the legal system was shattered. We take an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Attorneys, however, have wide latitude to engage in “puffery.” They manipulate facts in an attempt to make their version of the story more compelling… And this includes the ability to manipulate numbers.
My body was so shocked at what I witnessed… I threw up my lunch. After much processing… screaming and crying and talking to people I trust…. I have come back to my original conclusion.
Numbers don’t lie, only people do.
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Over the past two weeks, I have had multiple cancelled appointments, offices closed without notice, and no-shows at mediations. I have had similar situations in my personal life. The decisions of others, or lack thereof, impact me in a painful way. What’s up universe???
Just last night, one of the parties for a 4:30 mediation failed to show. We called at 4:30, and they said they would be right over, so we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally at 6:00 we left. I was disappointed. I really want people to mean what they say, and I missed out on Friday night time with the kids. I was excited, nonetheless, to get home in time for our Friday night Clone Wars adventure.
I got home to an empty house.
My confusion quickly turned to sadness, and when I could not get anyone on the phone, the sadness became intense. When I finally spoke my disappointment with the intensity, I somehow became the problem. Sound familiar?
Last night was not fun… I took a trip down with my itty bitty shitty comittee. What started as “Wow, they went without me and did not even let me know” to “He NEVER communicates with me.” I even thought, “I’ll show him what it feels like! I won’t answer his calls or let him know what I am doing!” I think I was operating on the level of a 15 year old at that point… or maybe a seven year old like Alice nose diving down the rabbit hole. It does not feel good an certainly does not make for a decent night’s sleep.
This morning I sat down and started writing. Three pages later I came to this
I cannot do it right enough to avoid the pain of living life. I cannot make choices for others, and I certainly cannot control their choices. My part is making my heart known. Show up for myself by sharing my truth, my experience… with an open, compassionate heart.
God gave me a mate, and I learn about my own holiness through my relationship to him. All of my confusion and sadness and anger are a call to return to God…. to love. Although I may think it is about someone else, caring for my sadness is an inside job! And really there isn’t anything that needs to be fixed. I just got an opportunity to see what really matters to me.
I want to matter. I want to matter enough that others will consider me when they make decisions. And I am so grateful that consideration of others is important to me. I care for the time and attention that others put into their schedules. Their work and their play. It matters to me when someone takes a minute to text, to call and let me know what is going on, when they stop to answer my calls. I am glad that I invest time to touch base with others about my plans. I am glad that I answer phone calls, even if just to say, “I’m going to have to call you back.” I am glad that this is who I am. Even when the need for that is unmet, I can feel how full it is to want that!!!
That is where I am this morning. Self empathy… feeling all the feelings and dwelling in the beauty of my unmet needs by seeing that I would not have it any other way. I do not want to change who I am to avoid disappointment and sadness. And I do not need to change anyone else. I have a beautiful caring relationship with someone who cares about me. That does not mean he will do it perfectly all the time. Perfect sucks. I tried that for a long time, and today I know that God lives in the imperfections of life.
I want to stay open to all of it! I can make a simple request. “Can I share with you how sad I was last night…” and sharing my experience IS connecting… intimately connecting. This morning I can go there with the knowing that I got to see God at work in my moments. Aaahhhh “there’s no place like home.”
Amen.
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