I so often times begin writing something and stop. Mid-sentence. Sometimes even mid-word. “Who cares?” I play over and over in my head. “I’m too busy to be flitting around with frivolous blah-blah.” And so I close my Word doc, turn to my to-do list and log on to Facebook instead.
A few months ago, I signed up for a Daily OM series of emails called Creative Anxiety. There’s about five of them still left unopened in my inbox. The most recent one I have yet to open is called “The Anxiety of Choosing.”
Recently, in a workshop with fellow omie Meaghan de Roos, I charted out a map of my Self. I listed the things that I’m trained in and good at. I listed the things that bring me joy; the things that I love so much that I don’t care if I’m “good” at it or what the outcome is of doing it. Both lists were the same:
Writing. Singing. Teaching yoga.
But I began to notice the different experience I was having with things that I enjoy doing vs things I’m good at doing and others know I’m good at doing, too. I LOVE singing in the car at the top of my lungs. I LOVE writing in my journals. But the second I know that someone is looking forward to me singing at the end of class or writing and posting something new online, I freeze up. I doubt. And I turn away.
How often do we quiet out own voice for fear that what we’re about to say isn’t good enough? Isn’t important enough? And then from this fear of shame, we slowly convince ourselves that it wasn’t worth saying after all. The result? It’s not pretty.
When we convince ourselves that our voice isn’t important enough, we simultaneously decide that there’s something in our lives we should be putting all of that effort into. And we jump into the depths of our career or our family, putting everyone and everything else in front of the calling of our own heart.
Why set aside your own life’s song because you think you should be singing a different tune? Is it really worth it to live the life you THINK you should be living, instead of the life you are CREATED to live?
Shut off the TV. Log off of Facebook. Quit hiding behind a million different things and take that moment to instead face your SELF. The song that’s being so boldly sung in the center of your very heart is dying to come out. It’s terrifying to stand up and sing it in front of a crowd, whether it’s in karaoke or in the conference room.
And me? I’m learning to sing, even if it means annoying a few people on the way. It’s not worth it to keep silent when I have the opportunity to put my heart out there in a way not everyone has a chance to do.
My mission statement? To use my voice unabashedly, unafraid to create space and inspiration for those who crave to have their own voice heard.
I woke up much earlier than I usually do on Sunday morning. I took a nice hot shower and took my time drinking my tea. Enveloped in my bathrobe, I meandered quietly through the early morning dark of the house. I finally wandered back into my bedroom, beginning to think about putting on some stretchy pants when I saw my Blackberry flashing. There was an email from one of my students:
“Goodness! Today is no day for commuting. Will you make it up for class?” Confused, I looked at the time. 6:45am. Still half an hour until I usually leave to make the drive from Denver to Boulder. Perplexed, I finally opened the curtains of one of the windows. Outside was a fresh new cover of snow and more was falling, anxious to add to the growing mess.
I rushed into stretchy pants, pulled on three layers of shirts and slid out across the snow to my car.
The commute was a disaster. I’m not one to worry about driving in adverse conditions, but I found myself getting very worried on multiple occasions. I don’t think I ever got to going over 30mph, and there was never a spot on the highway that wasn’t packed with snow. I yelled at every car that passed me for being impatient, I tried in vain to stay between what may or may not have been lines and prayed that I wouldn’t get stuck behind any semis.
I couldn’t imagine I would make it to church on time (aka, my 8:30am Sunday morning class). When I finally slid into my parking spot at the Boulder studio, it was seven minutes past class start time. A small handful of students were waiting for me at the front door of om time. They cheered as they saw me walk up, so genuinely glad to see I was safe. I was shaking as I tried to unlock the door and scoot across the floor without slipping to turn off the alarm.
One of my students noticed I was shaking and suggested I run my hands under some hot water to warm up. “I’m not cold,” I said. “I’m just shook up.” It had taken me an hour and a half to get to Boulder instead of the usual forty-five minutes.
We all unrolled our mats together, taking our time to get acclimated to our own thawing bodies. I sat down on my mat and looked around at the ladies.
“So…” I said, finally able to authentically smile at each warm face. “Who’s teachin’?”
When you find yourself on a difficult path, what keeps drawing you forward? There is somewhere that your heart is leading you and even in the moments when you can’t see clearly where you are, it calls out its promise to continue forward. And no matter how hard the going gets or how unsure of how you will arrive in your destination, there are those who wait patiently for you. They are the people who endlessly support you, root for your success and pray for your safety. And when you arrive, no matter have far you may have strayed from them, no matter how lost you may have found yourself, no matter if you turned down any of their offers for help – their arms are open and they hold you fiercely to warm you back up.
My mom sent me a picture via text late one evening. At first glance, the woman in the picture was me; but I never remembered having bouffant hair. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be an image of my grandmother in her early thirties. And our resemblance was striking enough that even I was initially confused.
In the 1940s, someone in the Potter family had a home video camera. The film of family and friends had been stored away for ages and had recently been transferred to a DVD. This Thanksgiving, I spent the afternoon sitting on the couch watching over an hour of silent footage of family nearly seventy years ago.
My father ran commentary on the film to point out the folks I never met, such as my great-great-Aunt Willa Dean and great-great grandpa R.J. It was fascinating to see the faces of those I never knew, yet recognize very specific features in their faces and body language that still stand out in our family today.
What tickled me most was seeing the family I am familiar with in my lifetime, such as my grandpa and great-grandma. To see a lanky boy of about ten, with ears sticking out and an obnoxious grin that just screams ‘trouble’ and realize it’s the same man with the white beard I’ve known all of my life is a little difficult to process. But then I’d see the same twinkle in his eye when he laughs and recognize it through the shaky sepia film and know without a doubt who it was.
I have heard for a long time about the apparent similarities between my twenty-year old cousin and my great-grandfather, Harlan. Harlan has long been a startling and intriguing mystery – the hard-working and successful man that everyone speaks of with deep respect and awe. Because Harlan had passed away by the time I was born, I only have photos to draw from; but the resemblance to my cousin is striking. Same nose, same hairline, same stature – same genes. There’s always been something about my cousin that makes me think of him as an old man in a young kid’s body and I have, in my curiosity to know my great-grandfather, envisioned that my cousin is the window to our family’s ancestors.
At one point on the screen of my parents’ television, there’s a giant American flag hanging from the ceiling of the front porch of a quintessential mid-West 1940s home. A man walks out of the front door and down the stairs of the porch, under the flag. He’s in a suit and tie and he turns his feet sideways to take each step down. Of all the men in the group he joins, he is the only one not in a hat.
Almost unnecessarily, Dad points out, “There he is. There’s Harlan.”
As Douglas Brooks is one to say, what is it that you recognize when you look at a photo of yourself as a child that allows you to identify the image without a doubt as that of yourself? Considering that is not what you look like any longer and that it’s an image of you – not actually you – it’s a phenomenal event. We never truly see ourselves face to face. Even when we look in a mirror, it’s the reflection we take back. There must be something beyond the skin, beyond the shape of the eyes, beyond the crooked smile that we’re able to point out as ours. We’re never able to look ourselves dead in the eye other than through the means of some external thing to point back at us.
Seeing my great-grandpa in action and seeing the marked mannerisms of my cousin gave me chills. I do know my family. I do know the million different parts of me. I recognize them as parts of my own heart. It’s from those parts that I piece together who I see myself to be – the inheritor of strength, dignity and laughter.
A few Thanksgivings ago, my cousin and I began a tradition of sitting down to write out our list of Gratitude. Last year, I had the idea of writing Thank You notes to a handful of people who had so sweetly brought new breath to my life. I never finished (or started) these Thank You notes, but I did go through my phone’s address book and text various “I’m grateful…” messages. Many of the people I decided to text were folks I hadn’t spoken to for a long time, but the feeling of knowing I was putting it out there to those that I love, had loved and had nearly forgotten filled me with the most overwhelming sense of gratitude.
This year, I’m grateful for those in my life who roll their eyes at me when I say “I don’t know,” “Maybe,” “I’ll try,” or “I don’t think I can.”
I’m thankful for the kind of smiles that make my heart beat sideways.
I’m grateful for my first ever real-life voice lessons. And grateful that the noises that are coming out of my head are finally beginning to sound more like music and less like quacking.
I’m thankful for gingerbread cookie scented candles.
I’m thankful for warm farts in the cold car.
I’m thankful for every tear I’ve shed in the company of those I love most.
I’m thankful it’s time to drink egg nog, wear sequined dresses and dance to Santa Baby on repeat while decorating the house.
I’m thankful for songs that make me cry.
I’m thankful for songs that make me dance.
I’m thankful for songs that make me think of you.
I’m grateful for bubble wrap.
I’m thankful for inner body bright – in more ways than one.
I’m grateful for fancy champagne and family dinner nights.
I’m grateful to be an Omie.
I’m thankful that when I called Roz the other day, she remembered who I was the second she heard my voice.
I’m thankful that my voice is growing stronger each time I sit down to write.
I’m thankful for all the little bluebirds.
I’m thankful that I’m continually in awe of the company I keep.
I’m grateful for my talented friends who are boldly chasing their dreams.
I’m grateful that I was able to spend the weekend sitting with Douglas Brooks.
I’m thankful for the color green.
I’m grateful for tall drinks of water.
I’m thankful for Lime’s frozen margaritas.
I’m thankful that I can collaborate scrubbing the toilet with mid-day dance parties.
I’m grateful for overwhelming cookie-baking-binges and for the emotional relief it brings me.
I’m grateful for the students who teach me.
For instance, a note a student slipped me today after class; “There is no control in life. Wherever you go, wherever you hide, there’s risk. People pay for control even if they have none. Safety is the greatest risk of all because safety leaves no room for miracles. And miracles are the only sure thing in life.”
I’m thankful for handmade “I Believe In You” cards mailed to my house.
I’m thankful for late night text messages, random I love you phone calls, and accidental Skype conversations.
I’m grateful for voicemail systems that allow me to talk for five full minutes.
I’m thankful that those I love, love me enough to allow me to listen to my heart. Even if they don’t know the song it’s playing.
But I hope we get to sing together soon.
Who would’ve thought a 78 year old Jewish woman from the Bronx would be the love of my life?
Three years ago, I was working at a doctor’s office as a part-time aide. I pulled patients’ charts for the next day appointments, scanned medical documents, and organized incoming faxes for the doctors. But undoubtedly, my favorite duty was calling patients to remind them of their appointment. Most of the patients were well past retirement, and sometimes I would have to yell for them to hear me. Sometimes they would think I was their daughter. Other times, they would tell me all about their incontinence, flatulence, son or daughter – or their son’s flatulence and their daughter’s incontinence. Some would hang up without saying goodbye or thank you, and others would simply not understand why I was calling them.
Then there was Roslyn. She was my favorite. She would call me Booby, tell me I’m a doll and that she loved me. And for whatever reason, she turned into one of my favorite people in the history of the world. She would come in about every two weeks, and her appointment was always at 3pm. Every time I’d see her name on the schedule, my heart would jump and my hands would shake as I went to call her number. I wanted to talk to her for hours, and just listen to that quintessential NewYorkJewish accent call me affectionate names I’d never even heard of.
I always got off work at 1, so I had never met her – until my last day of work.
I waited around for two hours after my shift. When she arrived, everyone knew I was anxiously awaiting her, so they hollered at me to go meet my best friend. I peered around from behind the shelves of patient file folders into the waiting room – and there she was. I walked up in front of her and nervously stammered, “Hi, Roz, I’m Elizabeth, I’m the one who…” and she interrupted with a, “I know who you are, doll,” grabbed my hand, and pulled me to sit down with her.
We sat and held hands, like old friends, or family, or even some random 70something sitting with some admiring 20something year old super-fan.She asked me why the hell I was leaving and I told her I was working two other jobs and she promised to come visit me. We talked about school and the future and how her granddaughter is about to write her master’s thesis and how her late husband used to teach plant pathology at the university. She pointed to her oxygen tank and told me she was coming from her lung therapy appointment – only to cut herself off, mid-sentence.She squeezed my hand extra-tight, and looked me square in the eye with so much genuine love.
“Darling, I wish you all the little bluebirds in the world.”
And it was at this point, like a goon, I started crying. Why? I don’t know.Couldn’t tell you. Call me my emotional mother’s over-emotional daughter, but sitting there holding hands with my idol, she was everything I’d hoped her to be (minus the blue hair, diamond studded cat-eye glasses, and sequined sweater I’d always imagined). She told me this job at the office was too boring for me because I was too smart for it. And she told me she always talks about her peaches-and-cream that calls from her doctor’s office. That she’d miss me something awful. And that she loved me.
Turns out, I meant as much to her as she meant to me, however that happened and under whatever weird circumstance.
And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop crying. Why even now, a few years later, I am overwhelmed with unexplainable emotion when I speak of her.I met this strangely amazing woman who gave me a kiss on the cheek and called me her dear, dear friend, and I never have ever, EVER doubted her sincerity or love.
At the time, I was in need of the realization of the person I wanted to be. I was a mess of an existence; maxed out working five months without a day off, sixty hours a week between three jobs, stressed out, on edge, depressed, and coming to a boil. Meeting Roz was like popping a zit of emotion or something gross like that, with all of this nasty stuff I’d been bottling up inside of me for absolutely no reason coming to a head and struggling to be freed.
I want to be like Roz. When it comes to the rest of my life, I want to be like Roz. I want to be that person you know nothing about other than notes in their doctor’s chart that you sneak peeks at every time you pull it to make sure she’s doing okay and find yourself so moved by her genuine kindness and whatever magic little spark there is inside of her that you feel it in those two minute phone conversations and it makes you infinitely better for holding her hand for five minutes.
As I sat there next to her, I couldn’t even find the words to tell her she was my favorite person – or maybe I did, but I was so wrought with emotion that I may have not said a single word the entire time. I called my mom crying to tell her I met Roz, tried to mask my emotion when my boyfriend answered his phone briefly, cried while I filled up my car at the gas station, cried while I drove home, cried on the couch harder than I’ve cried in a long time, and am even crying again now as I write this.
It was the week after meeting Roz that my life began to shift and change (see: A Chronic Pain in the Butt).
Have you ever fallen deeply in love with a stranger? Even if it was only for a brief moment – like watching a little boy tenderly kiss his baby sister in the shopping cart at the grocery store. Or seeing a married couple in their 80s holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk. Or making a new friend and connecting with them so passionately, that after a week you can’t imagine living your life without them in it. I happen to believe that we each have a series of Soul-mates that we are meant to cross paths with in our lives. They each have a different lesson to teach – sometimes with a beautiful feeling, endless fits of laughter, or an inexplicable familiarity; sometimes in the most painful of ways. They touch us in a way that can’t be put to words.
These Soul-mates aren’t here as missing pieces to our life’s puzzle. They’re mirrors – they reflect back to us pieces of ourselves. Sometimes, it’s the part of us that we don’t want to be reminded of, and those are the people that usually drive us nuts. But what Roz reflected back to me of myself was powerfully touching to me. She showed me the compassionate, powerful, loving woman I longed to be. The way she spoke of her late husband made me realize I was not in the relationship I wanted to be in.That I was too smart for all these random mindless jobs I was trying to distract myself with. Her kiss reminded me of the pure love I have to share with so many people yet in my life.
And she reminded me that dammit, I’m worth all the little bluebirds in the whole wide world.
Who has touched your life? Pay reverence to their memory, and know they’re always with you.
And at the same time, recognize you may have touched someone’s life in such a way you never imagined…
