A Journey to Self

Many of my own philosophical questions revolve around the idea of self. Who am I? Why am I here? How can I know myself? Is my self real? We find examples of philosophers discussing these questions throughout history. Attempting to identify the self as something one can know while encountering all the ancillary ideas that each position leads to has been a subject of much discussion. Rene Descartes found himself in an uncomfortable situation trying to satisfy the inclinations of both his religious and scientific mind. He found his answer in an ontological dualism that put res cogitans, the thinking, unextended substance under the authority of God (and thus, the Church), and res extensa, the unthinking, extended substance under the authority of science. In this way, Descartes reasoned, both empirical and rational truths can coexist. However, this idea quickly came under scrutiny as it seemed to make a causal connection between the mind or soul, and the body or physical nature impossible (Mitchell on Descartes’ Epistemology, 236). 

While Descartes tried to produce solutions, as he was certain the mind and the body were linked, he was unable to do so convincingly; his best effort was the pineal gland (Mitchell on Descartes’ Epistemology, 237). Both Physicalists, who identify self as the body only, and Idealists, who argue the self is only an idea, use the mind body problem to refute the dualism defended by Descartes. In fact, David Hume uses the argument as part of his discussion to conclude that there is no actual “self” at all. While I think it is safe to say that the pineal gland is not the linchpin of the mind and body, I also think that, barring a reality I cannot conceive of, denying any idea of self is also inadequate. I am in good company in that idea as Immanuel Kant also disagreed with Hume’s evaluation of self. Instead Kant imagined that there are two separate realities – the noumena that we cannot know, and the phenomena that we can. Kant uses the concept of transcendental ideas to explain how the information passes or shifts from the noumena to the phenomena (Soccio on Kant, 318). It is in these shifts that we develop constructs for our reality. As these transcendental ideas are ignited by experience, forming structures for the experiencer through which the noumena become organized into the phenomena, it is a likely candidate for the mind body connection and satisfactory criteria for personal identity. This idea of construct of self through a perception of experience gained momentum through my encounter with William James’ discussion on consciousness (although I do not pretend to understand the fullness of that piece of work), and solidified with V.F. Cordova’s assertion that self is a constant creation. 

René Descartes

If I may be permitted a caveat: I have been somewhat hesitant to tackle this subject, partly because it covers multiple philosophers. Mostly because, as I have intimated, I am honest about my lack of full understanding of the philosophic positions offered. However, I have decided to take the journey approach to explain my position. As such, I will begin with my first encounter with the idea of self and move through to the most comfortable idea I believe I have ever heard concerning the subject. The errors in understanding are all mine. However, the knowledge gained is valuable to me even in its imperfection. 

My idea of self moved from a casual and obvious fact to a philosophical quest with Descartes’ Cogito. While familiar with “I think therefore I am,” this condensed version had not inspired a contemplation of self. However, the expanded idea, in particular “…he can never make me be nothing as long as I think that I am something,” resonated in such a way that, while I could not be sure exactly how I would get there, I was certain that I agreed philosophically with the existence of a self (Mitchell on Descartes’ Epistemology, 232).   

Because I am unfamiliar with all the rules of philosophy, I am only partly sure that my certainty of destination breaks one of them. That concern only lasted for a moment as Descartes’ offering of the pineal glad and Cartesian circle offering to solve the mind body problem was immediately met by an eyeroll at the absurdity. Hence, I was certain I had my intellectual honesty intact even if I had violated a predestination in research rule (again if there is such a rule). This intellectual honesty had me at a serious disadvantage when I engaged with David Hume who argued against the existence of a self at all. Because of our current inability to scientifically show where the self is, or to define the material of which it is made, there is no way to prove its physicality or permanence. Therefore, it does not exist; there is no self (Pojman on Personal Identity in Locke and Hume, 384). While his argument was compelling, it was not insurmountable. First, Hume’s asserted that every real thing must correspond to one real idea (Pojman on Personal Identity in Locke and Hume, 384). The self does not have any singular impression and is therefore not real. I refute this point with one simple question, “Why must it?” While I am sure Hume has a compelling answer for that, I will continue to go back to “…he can never make me be nothing as long as I think that I am something.” In this particular instance, Hume, not Descartes’ evil deity, is the “he.” 

Immanuel Kant

While I would have resigned myself to this idea to preserve my belief of a self, Immanuel Kant did not let me fight this good fight alone for very long. His Copernican revolution changed the way in which experiential knowledge and personal ideas of such knowledge could be deemed as true. Kant suggested that the mind did not conform to experience, but that experience conformed to the mind. Kant suggested that there were two types of reality – noumenal reality and phenomenal reality. Our experience is facilitated by transcendental ideas. These ideas, Kant suggests, are the way in which experience, the noumena that we cannot know is conformed into the phenomena that we can know (Soccio on Kant, 318). In this singular reversal, Kant provided me with a counterpoint to Hume’s suggestion that self was nothing more than a bundle of perceptions. My self, my cogito, is the is the creator of the perceptions. Without my self, there are no perceptions. As Hume has acknowledged the existence of perceptions, in fact bundles of them, I would insist that he therefore acknowledge my self as the facilitator of those perceptions. is Coperiam Hois 

William James furthers my journey, although in a cursory way. While I understand many of his thoughts, I am having a much tougher time determining his point. His tone suggests that he is directly contradicting Kant’s thoughts on transcendental ideas and sides with Hume on the denial of the existence of self, positioning the self as a “function” versus something real (James – Does Consciousness Exist, 3 – 4). However, I will share how his ideas of experience and his metaphor of both the paint and the room set me up for the apex encounter with Cordova and my final argument that my self does exist and it is real in so far as I identify and understand real. James’ proposal that “things,” e.g., the paint and the room, are real both of themselves and within the context of the being experiencing them situates itself, in my mind, in line with Kant’s description of noumena and phenomena. The paint, the room (noumena) cannot be known by my self outside of the transcendental ideas that shape it into the phenomena. Once I have experienced the paint, the room, there is both the paint, the room as they are and my perception of them in my self. The differences between the actuality of the paint, the room and my perceptions of them may be nonexistent or innumerable; they still exist both in themselves and in my self. James describes this ability to exist in multiplicity as the way a point can exist on two separate lines provided that the lines intersect. To this point, I would suggest that one line being the paint’s, the room’s existence, and the other being my self. Without my self, there is no intersection. Regardless of whether one positions the experience within or without, or considers it by addition or subtraction, and regardless of how many instances of the paint, the room exist based on encounters, if they are able exist outside of themselves at all relies on the existence of my self to interact with it.  

This journey explains why my mind was ready with full preparation to encounter V. F. Cordova. Allow me to venture into the illustrative for a moment and I will conclude with reasoned logic, thus covering, I hope, both the relative and absolute belief I have in my self, and the self of others. I found Cordova’s writing to be beautiful and profound. Her respect of nature and our place in it was complete, whether we as individuals respected it or not. Her ability to confront the human condition as a whole, in parts, relative, and separate had the ability to convey both empathy and straight forward judgements. In her explanation of our relationship to nature, our egg in the womb reliance to that which is around us, I found the final piece, for now, that I needed to put my belief that my existence is real, my self is my existence, therefore my self is real.  

Craft Your Life, Your Way

The 80/20 principle teaches that there is an imbalance in nature; that only a few things really influence the majority of things.

Day 13 of the 28 Day Self-Growth Plan
The 80/20 Principle: The Secret to Achieving More with Less by Richard Koch

Jen Smith, the author of this guide and the creator of the debt freedom blog Saving with Spunk, went from not being able to stick to a budget longer than two weeks, to paying off $78,000 of debt in less than two years. How did she do this? Read up to find out how you can too!

Day 14 of the 28 Day Self-Growth Plan
The No-Spend Challenge Guide: How to Stop Spending Money Impulsively, Pay off Debt Fast, & Make Your Finances Fit Your Dreams by Jen Smith

I don’t know if this will be a trend, but it would appear that the end of this week (like the end of last week) is suitable for a twofer. So, I give you Day 13 and 14 in one post – but backwards.

Day 14 goes first because there’s nothing to say. Have a budget, don’t spend money like an idiot. Done. Next book.

Ok, seriously. If you have a problem with spending money, maybe this book will help. Try it if you want. I didn’t find anything about this one helpful because my problem with spending money has nothing to do with a budget, lack of thrifty ideas, or not understanding how basic money principles work. My vacillating ability to spend or not spend money comes from a multitude of other mental relationships that have almost nothing to do with money. Therefore, this type of “fix your money problem” book was never going to interest me.

So, there’s that.

And honestly, I don’t remember the 80/20 Principle being so, well, boring. In fact, I remember it quite fondly. Again, my experience with executive summaries is fairly limited so maybe this one just isn’t a great representation. But it was just meh – and I still recommend the book.

I will say that this particular summary instigated a thought connection that I don’t remember having the first time around.

I don’t even know how to piece all these different bits of information together. Hang on and let’s just see what happens.

So, the executive summary mentions the Pareto Principle. Originally noted by Italian economist Villfredo Pareto and then improved and developed over time, the Pareto Principle states that for many outcomes roughly 80% of consequences come from 20% of the causes (the “vital few”).

Then it gets into leveraging time. I am all about leveraging time. And it occurred to me that everyone does that differently.

Case in point: I decided to hire a housekeeper almost two years ago. It has been one of the best decisions of my adult life. I am not a person who finds cleaning cathartic. Actually, I find it quite the opposite. I am, however, the kind of person who finds comfort in a certain level of order.

Ugh, Mark Twain said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” And those aren’t quite the right words.

I am not someone who requires high levels of cleanliness and order. However, my brain rests, my soul relaxes, and my creativity moves easier when there isn’t shit all over the place. I suppose that’s better. You’ll just have to make it up for yourself or ask if that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve decided much of this is just a hair above journaling – I am not gonna wear myself out with the edits.

Anyway, many of the reasons I waited so long to do this have nothing to do with me or money – they centered around what somebody else thought other people would think. I didn’t get that. I mean, housekeepers expect a certain level of mess – it’s literally what they do. They aren’t gonna go back and talk shit to other people about your messy house. And who cares if you hire a housekeeper?

So evidently, I was half right. Housekeepers do not give a shit about your messy house – it’s why they are there and as long as you aren’t a dick, the relationship blossoms into something beautiful. I literally worship both people who have worked in my home and they know if. They make my life infinitely better and I make sure to tell them that all the time.

And evidently some people do care. It’s weird to have folks who aren’t paying your bills or cleaning your house have such interesting opinions on how you accomplish that for yourself.

But people will always have opinions. I have them and I have to check them.

Case in point: Lady in one of my Facebook groups asks for everyone to share their morning routine. As you and I have already discussed, “routine” has a slightly different definition in my world. And I said so is a typical flippant way. “Coffee. All of it. Then *waves hands erratically* whatever comes next.” My tribe was there and we supported each other’s own brand of chaos.

Then there was the other.

5:30 Alarm
5:32 weight and potty
5:41 yoga
6:09 make organic kale Greek yogurt smoothie
6:15 journaling and gratitude
6:45 you get the picture

And her tribe was there, and they supported each other’s own brand of order.

And I rolled my eyes. I am not proud of that, but I am honest. And I thought about it. My eyes rolled because (more honesty), my knee jerk is people that say stuff like that are full of shit. Again, not proud, just telling you how the brain works. I get this full vision of some chick who hasn’t properly washed her hair in days because she is too busy trying to get her Instagram feed properly curated.

And that’s not fair. Moreover, it probably isn’t accurate. I tell people all the time, “If you knew the half of how chaotic my life actually is, you wouldn’t believe it.” And that’s true. So why can’t the other extreme be just as true? Just because I can’t fathom how that works doesn’t mean it doesn’t. And this nice woman doesn’t need or deserve my judgement. If I give her the same consideration I give myself, it is super easy to see – she has a life that works for her. She understands what it might look like to others, but she doesn’t care. She isn’t living for the “others.”

And that’s the only way to utilize the power of the 80/20 rule. It isn’t enough to understand it, believe in it’s realness, trust in the implications. You have to be willing to craft your life, your way. People say that kind of thing all the time without really digging into what that means on a personal level.

Living life on your terms, your way, without apology typically has a lot of people looking for an apology – or at the very least, an explanation – whether it is warranted or not. Be gentle with them and yourself. Everyone gets accustomed to a certain flow. When that flow is disrupted, people get a little agitated. It is to be expected. Check your judgements. Craft your life. Just keep swimming.

Oh. And coffee 😉

Choosing the Feels

A few days ago (or maybe more at this point – the days are kinds running together due to the pace at which my life is currently moving) a girlfriend asked me how my book was going. My answer to her was “which one?” She seemed a little shocked at my confusion and said, “well, your novel, of course.”

The truth is my writing is more important to me than I think it has ever been. Mostly because it is less stifled, more accepted by those I care about, and something I am starting to feel less self-conscious about.

But I am still feeling self-conscious. It’s a feeling I am working on. Mostly because I know it is real. Mostly because I know it is ridiculous. Yes, that was two “mostly”s. Yes, I know how math works. No, this isn’t a math problem.

One of the hardest parts of putting nouns and verbs together on the page these days is the feeling of unworthiness. I think I may have mentioned this publicly before and I am currently resisting the urge to stop typing and go search to see. I won’t because the intention of that act is unproductive. If I were going to do it as a point of reference to further the work, that would be one thing. It isn’t that. It is simply a stall tactic. A visit into the past so that I do not have to stay present here, in the now, in the midst of this current work.

And I digress. I digress because I don’t want to address the idea of feeling unworthy. I attempt to skirt it for a few reasons, I think. But the most overwhelming one is, in the words of the wonderfully blunt Simon Cowell, it feels indulgent.

It has the air of wallow and the assumption self-deprecating behavior that begs for those who encounter it to shower me with platitudes of my wonderfulness. It feels like it could be misconstrued as the worst type of fishing expedition.

I have analyzed that idea for longer than maybe I should have. But that’s just my way. There’s probably a whole conversation I could have about that (and perhaps will), however for now, I will just leave it right there and you will just have to trust that I know myself pretty well and gave it more than a shallow thought. And after much contemplation, it isn’t indulgent or panderous (which isn’t technically a word but should be).

What it is, is honest. It is the way I feel. It is the accumulation of a lot of years of self-doubt and manipulation. It had it’s culminating moment when I heard someone say to me, “I don’t know why you write the way you do. You look silly. You write like you are somebody and you are just not. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that I love you and I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself.” That kind of shit, as fucked up and asinine as it is, will stick to a person. It stuck to me. It rooted and cross pollinated and had little demon spawn like a weed infestation all in my brain.

More than once I have crossed paths with folks who look at me like I am crazy. They have disapproved, publicly and privately, about my life choices. For a while I considered giving those opinions some weight – or at least time for consideration. Fairly quickly, I decided that wasn’t how I was moving into the second half of my life.

Keeping with weed analogy, I’ll explain it this way. When I was a kid, my dad would burn our yard every few years in the colder months, right before spring was scheduled to do what she does. It was supposed to get the junk out so the grass could grow back fuller. I later learned that this happens in forests and tree farms on occasion when the undergrowth starts to take over. The unproductive gets burnt away so that the good, the intentional, the real, can flourish.

I participated in a bit of “scorch the earth.” It probably wasn’t my finest hour, but I own it. And, even in hindsight, even when I see all the ways I could have done it different, even when I know I could have been better, I still don’t regret it. It was one of the few times, up to that point in my life, I lived in the present. Because I hadn’t done very much of that, I wasn’t very good at it. I am getting much better.

The scorch took care of a wide range of ills. However, as anyone knows, the process looks ugly, and it takes a while for the new and better to grow back. During that time, you have to be watchful for the weeds that survive, the hearty ones with deeper roots, darker places to hide. They will grow back. They are familiar and comfortable and will take back over if you let them. They will have the help of shit fertilizer more commonly known as the judgement and opinions of others who only see your mess. The crazy thing is, part of you will want to let them grow. You will look at the shit and put stock in the idea that maybe the others are right. There is the comfort of the things you know – good for you or not, and the exhaustion from doing the work otherwise.

I lived that part too. I weeded and I weeded and I weeded my new growth. It was hard and uncomfortable and draining. But the work was good. The tiredness, the soreness, was much like that physical feeling of a job well done. I am also fortunate enough to have a broad-shouldered husband who carries what I cannot. A family who gives me life. Friends who give me respite. I have moments when I feel weathered and acutely sense unfairness. It is in these times I look around and see how amazingly blessed I am. Those blessings are my strength.

I sit here tonight, over a week after I first started putting these thoughts to ink, and I can’t really remember all the places I intended to go when I first started. My husband and I exchange more words with each other during a day than I think most people do with every single person they come into contact with. There have been two recent conversations that give my initial sit down with myself a completely different perspective.

The first addresses ridiculous feelings and that I have come to terms with the fact that I have them. One of the greatest gifts of being overly self-aware is that I understand that just because I feel something doesn’t mean that I am, or anything else is, that something. It simply means I have a feel. My feelings are not a representation of fact – they are a suggestion of opinion and an indicator of external factors. Therefore, just because I feel unworthy doesn’t mean that I am unworthy. It simply means that there is a feel, a fear, that I need to root out and dispatch properly. It probably means I am giving the opinions of others more weight than they merit.

The other was a little more ego boost with a touch of tough love. Truth is, we have had this conversation before…more than once. Sometimes it takes more than we would like to make sure the message takes hold. Honestly, I am mostly okay with that. I am 42 years old. I spent a long time dealing in unhealthy habits attempting to function in disfunction and presenting to the world an “everything is wonderful” face. If that takes me a bit to work all that out, so be it.

My husband adores me. He makes it a point to make sure that I know that there is nothing I could do to change that. He makes it a point to be clear that he loves me just the way I am. In fact, in the very beginning of our reconnection, when I knew that he loved me, when I knew he wanted to be with me, when we knew how many challenges that created, he offered to let me go. He made the offer with the assurance that he would love me anyway, as he had always loved me. He had loved me a long time without having any hope that I would love him back. He didn’t see how that would change. He didn’t ask me to do or be anything for him. He asked me to be and do for me. That’s how he loves me. And if that meant him, great. And if it didn’t, well, he was okay with that too.

He reminded me again the other day his love was unconditional. I could function inside myself without fear. That if we agreed or didn’t wouldn’t change the fact that I was his girl and he had me. I could step into whatever it was I stepping into and know, with certainty, that he was there. And, because that is true, if I choose to keep holding myself back, freaking myself out, getting twisted in my own head, well, that was on me. I can’t blame that one anyone else.

In the words of Mike Trepagnier, “Choices. We all have them. I can only control mine.”

“April is Weak”

This. This was the unfinished journal musings from November that made yesterday’s go at Freeman a tangled mess. Now that this is addressed, I can get back to the other…

November 25, 2018
The idea had actually lingered for days. Better put, it seeded more than a year ago. A recent conversation, one that incidentally shouldn’t have mattered to me at all, sparked a need to flesh the idea out, to put real thought and understanding into the wisp in my brain. To understand it better because it was a route to understanding myself better.

I have long been aware that the way in which people know, or think they know, me is varied. I think all people, whether they acknowledge it or not, can claim this statement true for themselves. As individuals, we consider ourselves for ourselves. When we consider others, or are considered by others, additional histories, perceptions, and ideas come into play. More importantly, we rarely offer the same pieces of ourselves to others uniformly. What I share with my closest is different from what I share with my casuals, with my family is different depending on how we are family, with professionals is different than personals. And what I am and share with my beloved is wholly different and in a league all its own.

The Motives of People

That awareness is paramount in my work to release myself from the effect that the opinions of others have on me. In the not so distant past, those effects were pretty embarrassing. More than once I have berated myself for being a grown woman and still not having better control over my own emotions. I am all too aware of the debilitating effects the thoughts of others can have on me. I have made it no secret that Mike’s support and simple council – the motives of people who seek to make you feel a negative kind of way are always suspect and should be disregarded as unimportant – has been instrumental.

But I still get caught. I suppose I will always have moments when I get caught. As such, I have revised my intention for the work. To think that I will never be moved by the thoughts, feelings, or opinions of others is unrealistic. It’s not that I can’t do it; I won’t do it. It’s not who I am as a person. I am not that hard. I don’t have those kinds of edges. Moreover, I don’t want to be that hard or sharpen those edges.

I feel compelled to note that I do not see those traits as negative. Mike has them and I love it about him. He is my rock and his shoulders carry a lot of weight. I am able to be more fully who I am because he is my safe place. In return, I provide a safe place for him to rest. He has found the balance that allows him to be all the things that he is. That balance has become the new focus of my intention.

Overthinker Truth

I was described as weak. I am certain it is not the first time. I have long held suspicions that this was an idea held by others who make assumptions about a life they know very little about. I’ve never thought too much (relatively speaking) about it. I understand how the opinion could be contrived. To be completely truthful, I take a small amount of pride in knowing the secrets and nuances that make it untrue; a knowing others wanted to have but never obtained. Maybe it was larger than a small amount…

Maybe it was that pride that gave me comfort and counterbalanced the feelings of anxiety that come when you put too much stock in another person’s opinions. Before actual words were conveyed, there was also a vagueness to the assumption. I wasn’t entirely certain it was being said and, therefore, couldn’t be certain of the other opinions that extrapolated from there. It was easy to make up the asinine things being said about me and then neutralize their effect with laughter.  After that, the work was pretty much over in this regard. I was able to move past my tendency to lose myself in what I assumed the opinions of others were and I was satisfied.

An unfortunate fact of life is that fake monsters are much easier to defeat than real ones. While getting past made up shit in my own head was great practice, facing the real thing took a bit more work. Instead of assumptions and guesses, it was concrete and tangible. That I was thought weak was definitive and clear. The causes and effects were included. The whole of it was in writing, the gift of which is to be able to revisit and reread as many times as your crazy brain desires. 

Call it out from the push back

I am a little embarrassed to tell you how much this instance affected me. But, my experience has shown that if I speak it, name it, call it out from the push back and into the upfront where we can all see it, the work to dismantle it and make it appropriate is much, much easier.

I was angry. Angry at all of it. Interestingly enough, being called weak was at the bottom of the list of things about the situation that pissed me off. I realized I didn’t even care that this particular person held this opinion. I have learned that we are notoriously famous as people for transferring the things we despise about ourselves onto others. Like if we can identify it in someone else (correctly or not is unimportant) then it must not be true about ourselves. It is for this reason you will almost never hear me refer to others as loud, sensitive, or selfish. These are foremost thoughts I have about myself so I know that I am likely to misattribute them to others. Therefore, I was not surprised in this instance that “weak” was the adjective used to describe me. It is probably one of the foremost things they are afraid is true about themselves. They won’t admit it, they aren’t there yet. I get it.

Here’s where practice with the fake monsters shows its usefulness come game time. The opinion of others – the focus of the fake monster work – is found in the primary “April is weak.” I have fought the illusion of this monster before. I found the actual to be pretty much what I thought: an opinion offered by an irrelevant person whose motive is not in my best interest, born out of their own unaddressed inadequacies as an attempt to shift focus from the consequences of their personal choices by creating a version of reality that allows them to blame someone – anyone – else.

Understanding this made getting past the whole “April is weak” pretty quick and short work.

But the nag in my brain was obviously still there. It became increasingly frustrating and emotionally exhausting as I went back to the old hurt, over and over again, thinking maybe I hadn’t let it all go. But each time I went back, there was nothing there. It occurred to me that I was not finding anything because I was continually going back to a place I already looked – the primary.

The fuckery was in the ancillary. It almost always is. That’s why it is so often hard to get to, tough to identify, complicated to remove from the mess. So I put the entirety of the conversation back together again, the whole of the situation, the perspectives of all the parties. Then I felt around in the weeds, looked for the soft spots. Once again, the primary wasn’t it. But the bruise was all around it.

“April is weak” was couched in a history that wasn’t mine, tactics that weren’t his, and a truth that isn’t ours. And that’s where my anger lived. While I was encouraged that I found it, I was confused at the same time. This was more of the same, it should follow the same path as the original work. It didn’t. The only option was to put it through new work.

Am I afraid

“Am I afraid?” This, in so much that I can control my process, is always my first question. While I hold love as a higher emotional priority, and the question is essentially the same if I phrase it, “Am I feeling love or fear,” I have found that I am capable of being more honest with myself if I directly ask the question, “April, are you scared?”

I am not afraid. The anger comes from a place of protection, not defense. That is my truth. I fought pretty hard to be comfortable speaking it and getting real with myself and those around me. To have others take second and third hand information and have the audacity to attempt to have any confidence that they can begin to know a sliver about me is insulting. I am angry that my story was hijacked, sensationalized, and wielded by mouths who hold no honor for it.  

I immediately went for the easy route, the path that laughs at the audacity of others to put names in their mouth that they have no frame of reference for. That shit really is funny – most of the time. I could not find it funny today. I considered maybe I was taking myself too seriously. I decided that just this once, I was not. I was angry and I felt justified in my anger. Today, that emotion was not going to acquiesce to the more civilized, “Fuck ‘em, they’re stupid.”

There are moments when I will concede that my emotions get the better of me and they are unreasonable. However, that does not mean they are always unreasonable. There are times, such as this, where my ire is created by an encroached boundary.

And now that I have had better than a week to process and work through, I have come to a place where I realize the goal of my anger is to ensure that I have clearly stated my boundaries, not really to you, but most assuredly myself.

Protecting My Truth

My truth is an ever evolving, dynamic discovery that was breathed into being before me, molded in my yesterday, experienced in my today, and unfolding in my tomorrow. It has been hidden, muted, condemned, manipulated, misunderstood, edited, abused, ridiculed, and despised. I did those things. My truth is my responsibility and I take ownership of every unfortunate thing that has ever happened to it. I have apologized to and forgiven myself for living a life that was less than in exchange for what I thought was less strife and conflict. I have also promised to work every day towards becoming a person that protects my truth from such slights.

In that work I know a few things. One, not every argument, accusation, threat, slight, opinion, deserves a response. Depending on the narrative or the narrator, it is often beneath me to address it directly – especially when I haven’t been addressed directly. It’s hard to take opinions about you seriously when those holding them are incapable of adult conversation.

Elicit a Response

Two, because it is mine, I have the option of responding whenever I chose. I need no reason, good or otherwise, to engage when called out. It is ignorance to assume you can continually exhibit behavior for the express purpose of eliciting a response and then clutch pearls over the response you receive. There’s an old saying, Moses maybe, “Don’t start no shit, it won’t be no shit.” Actually, that was Lil Jon, but I am sure Moses thought it too.

Lastly, I am not ashamed to be a complex person. I am love and forgiveness. I am also cut you off and kiss my ass. I am enlightenment and growth. I am also a little trailer with a healthy helping of petty. A little bless your heart, a little fuck you. No, those aren’t the same thing.

Really last, you are welcome to think me weak. Better have thought worse. Smarter have been wrong.

There is so much more going on here…

When I came across this quote last week, I knew there was a lot there. I also knew I wasn’t going to wait to figure out what all the a lot was before I shared it. It is one of those that, on its face is fine…but the more, the more is where the goods are.

Before we go any further, let me clarify that although Morgan Freeman is in the picture, I’m not sure he said this. Even if he did, British philosopher James Allen said it first – or something pretty damn close to it. And since he was born in the 1800’s, he probably is older than Morgan. For those who are super curious, the Allen work is As a Man Thinketh and the actual quote is, “Self-control is strength. Right thought is mastery. Calmness is power.” There, I feel better. On to our regularly scheduled program.

The More. There is so much more going on here. The kicks are in the qualifiers… “based on” … “insignificant” … “others to control” … “overpower.”

Seems like a small thing. It isn’t. It throws back to a bit of the “don’t mistake my kindness for weakness” idea, although not quite.

I’ve been mulling over this idea for a week and I’m still not quite sure how to noun and verb my intent.

Figured it out…it’s in my journal and must be addressed first. Let me go clean it up and then we will circle back…

Making a Home, to Live, in the Now

The Thinking ChairMy Thinking Chair is the gift that keeps on giving. I bought it and introduced you to it in 2016. That was the year I turned 40. That was the year I did a lot of things. My Thinking Chair comforted and inspired. Consoled and protected. It is the space where I am able to continually create new space.

We have talked about one of my Thinking Chair activities where I go through the things I wrote in the time from ago and evaluate them in the light of the now. I finally came across the piece where I described buying and living in my Thinking Chair. I shared the actual dictionary definition of the word “live” and explained how I remain alive in my Thinking Chair choosing that definition of “live” as more appropriate for the feelings at hand.

That piece came to me again in its due time. The second definition was untouched in that previous piece written in the time ago as it held little to no resonance for me then.

make one’s home in a particular place or with a particular person

This idea did not feel attainable for my life during much of my 30’s. In fact, in that last year of my thirties I was far more active in tearing down the facade of a home I tried to build as it had become Munchkin Land crushing to a heart that was feeling unrecognizably more like the Wicked Witch everyday.

For a moment I thought that was what I was becoming – bitter, unhappy, cold, unrecognizable, distant. That isn’t my skin. That isn’t my way. That isn’t my heart. That isn’t my home. It had to become the time from ago or I would lose the person I was always supposed to be. I decided I would rather be homeless than live in a home that wasn’t mine.

It isn’t lost on me that I chose to leave the definition I would not acknowledge in the time from ago only to happen back upon it in the now when my heart is open to it. I appreciate the wisdom of my past self even if I wasn’t always the best at paying attention to all the smart things she had to say. The gift finds me in 2018, in this life, in the now, that I live with my love and heart in tact. I see the rest of the definition.

make one’s home in a particular place or with a particular person

First off, if you have read any of this with the “home = house” disposition, stop and read it again without it. Accept my apologies that I didn’t mention it sooner. Accept then again that I do not feel compelled to edit this to put that little clarifier higher up in the reading. I can’t pinpoint the reason I refuse to do that edit. It just feels wrong some how and I don’t particularly feel compelled to question it any more than that.

Now that I can see this definition of “live” in concert with the capability of feeling a real sense of home, the word “or” smacks me in the face. I don’t like it. I don’t want to choose place or person to describe this freedom of “live” or this comfort of creating home. Then I realize it’s fine. While it only takes either to fit the dictionary definition, who is to say you can’t have the “and”? Maybe because I feel I am filling both qualifiers, the bigness I feel in the “live” is understandable.

A lot of work has gone into the achievement of skin comfort. I am proud of it. I relapse far less often than I use to. Exponentially so. It is a powerful feeling to understand and appreciate ones worth and to honor the self just as she is. I now live in my skin in a real way. I enjoy the home I have created in that place. It no longer feels foreign or unfamiliar.

I have made this home with the love of a man who is more supportive than I ever could have imagined another person being. I realize there is supposed to be some sort of self creation and self propulsion in this era of “I can do it all my damn self”. I have addressed that already and I still make no apologies. I found the one for whom my soul was made before either of us were smart enough to know what to do about that. Our paths did what they did and I am forever grateful that we were able to find our way back to this place of home.

He once told me that during the years we were apart, he would call my name in the moments before he fell asleep. He didn’t know why he did it, but he had developed a method for putting me back into the box that my memory escaped from when his mind was trying to find rest. For all the times I have now fallen asleep in his arms, I have never once heard this happen. Partly in jest, partly in earnest, I suggested to him recently that maybe he was making that story up during the early days of our reconnection. No, he insisted without hesitation. “I think that was just my soul calling out for yours and now it just doesn’t have to do that anymore.”

make one’s home in a particular place or with a particular person

And now in my skin, in his arms, in the comfort of my chair, I live.

 

Writing and Keeping Receipts on Myself

Recently I came across a writing folder that contained my earliest works. I mean like 30 years ago early. I experienced a whole range of emotions flipping through the pages. That is a topic for another day. But I mention it because that feeling of holding a piece of you that you had long since forgot about is a part of why this text from a friend struck me as holding way more meaning than she probably considered.

I looked at a few of the pieces. It occurred to me that while they really weren’t that good, maybe they could be. Maybe that could be a long term project of idea mining and rewriting into something that is actually readable. Maybe I could tap back into the spirit and rework the attempt and make it better.

Then I realized I couldn’t remember writing any of it. I know that it was me. I recognize the format, the paper, the typeset. My name is on them. But I don’t remember the act of actually writing them. It occurred to me how different that was from the project a few months back when I went through all the Turn Around Tuesdays I had written. I could remember all of that. Sometimes I could remember too much.

Then this text came through. “Envious” and “appreciate” jumped out at me. The feeling was a bit overwhelming and it has taken a minute to sort that all out. The text, and my feelings towards it, hold a lot of truth, some of them seemingly contradicting.

First, I am appreciative, both of the text and my writing. I appreciated my friend and her willingness to be a positive influence on my life. I know she is a regular reader of my words and it gave me a sense of pride that she sees growth in it. I do appreciate all the bonuses and benefits that come with being a writer. Much of who I am as a person, who I am able to be, comes from the fact that I can put words together in a way that makes sense to me and untangles all the thoughts. It also allows me to taste ideas, experiences, memories, lessons, in a way that I just can’t any other way. I am supremely appreciative for all those things.

I understand envy as well. I have friends that are accomplished in ways I really want to be but haven’t quite figured out yet. I watch people deal with situations, employ a mental flexibility, that I haven’t quite mastered. I am familiar with the want of that not yet obtained. It is interesting to find that my writing catalog has provoked that, especially when the this huge blessing, like most, has a tiny bit of curse hanging around.

Curse probably isn’t the most appropriate word choice. But it is something akin to that. There is somewhat of a burden that comes with having a great deal of your thoughts manifest themselves in a real way so that later, when you are investigating thoughts, you have this tangible thing from the time before. In essence, I keep receipts on myself.

Today, sitting here, I am more appreciative than I am burdened. As I close this one thought, I am already bursting at the seams to begin another. That, my friends, is a good day indeed.

Grown Ass Conversations

“I don’t want to talk about it. The whole thing feels stupid and ridiculous. That’s why I texted you. I wanted to tell you about it but I don’t want to talk about it.”

But I did want to talk about it. What I actually wanted was for him to simultaneously find a magical way to tell me I was right, I was wrong, I was super smart, I was super silly, and this was the miraculously simple way to fix the whole thing. That should be easy enough, right?

Instead he just loved me through it. And told he some soft truths about myself. Things I already knew. Things I was working on. Things he was proud of me for making progress in. The truths are actually pretty hard. They are things I hate to think about and just want to function in their dysfunction. But they don’t because they are, well, dysfunctional.


“Why do you feel ridiculous?”

“Because I am grown. Grown ass women aren’t supposed to get up in their feelings about this kind of thing.”

“It’s exactly because you are grown ass woman that you are capable of having the grown up conversations.”

“But what if I’m wrong?”

“Then that’s on you. I watch you do this thing pretty often where you feel a kind of way and should do something about it, but you go to your programming that says you are probably wrong and so you do nothing and nothing changes and you just take it. Now understand that I am not saying you are less than, I am saying that you are too hard on yourself.”

“I might do that a little.”

I might do that a lot.

I watch folks who are able to say anything. They are able to engage in confrontation in a way that makes my skin goose up. They are able to have the conversations – provoke them even – and keep moving forward. I am trying hard to be that person. To say the things I want to say fearlessly and openly. To be honest with people even it exposes a weakness or a wrong. To open loops that might close differently than I would like them to, or worse, not close themselves at all.

This season’s Big Brother is the Celebrity edition and it has been very interesting. I am watching these somewhat accomplished folks participate in varying degrees of empowerment. During many of the exchanges I find myself so frustrated that person A won’t just tell person B to go to hell, you are not the boss of me. They should say it. Person A deserves to say it and person B deserves to hear it, but they don’t. I would like to think I would. I probably wouldn’t.

But the real truth is that candidness is part of being a whole, real, honest, decent person. It isn’t fair to people I want relationship with to have to bear the judgement of my unspoken assumptions. It isn’t the way I would want to be treated. I would want them to have the courage to come to say what they needed to say. More than courage, I want to be seen as the kind of person with whom it is safe to have those kinds of conversations. I want to be a grown up and I want to be with grown up people. If I hope for that level of maturity from others, it is reasonable that I have to foster that type of maturity from myself.

It’s a funny little Catch 22 that I notice more in woman than I do in men. It’s the “if I have to ask for it, I don’t really want it” or its cousin, “if you loved me you would just know.” I don’t know where these tendencies come from, but I will be the first to admit that I have them. Further, they make sense to me in an inarticulable way. But it also makes sense that we should be able to ask for what we need, have adult conversations about wants and happys and hurts.

I’ve done much better the past year opening my mouth and exposing my inner thoughts. There’s something to be said for safety and confidence. There is also something to be said for the being able to see a real glimpse of unconditional love for oneself and others – not in the wild or in the pretend, but in your own life, involving your own heart. Like any other behavior, it is easier to understand and adopt once you see it modeled.

The neat thing is that motion creates momentum. The more I speak my thoughts, the more I think, the more I get comfortable with having all the thoughts, the more I feel okay to speak, the more connection I create, the more love I am able to give, the more love I am able to receive, the more positive my thoughts, the more I am able to converse, the more resilient I am when things are funky, the more whole I feel, the healthier I am, the more I speak my thoughts.

Take all the time you need to go through that spiderweb of interconnected healthy. Nothing happens in a vacuum. None of us are labels or defined by one singular thing. Sentient, dynamic, eclectic beings we are. That movement of all things in us and around us is a beautiful thing.

#TeamGnat

I don’t think I have ever been so excited to see a sand gnat in my entire life as I was Sunday. Kids were slapping themselves silly and the adults were reaching for sprays and remedies.

I sat on the bench of the picnic table in my backyard and felt like a kid at Christmas 4th of July.

Weather is not my favorite. I like it one way – hot and sunny. I will tolerate warm and sunny. My face starts distorting at rainy (don’t even ask what my hair does). When the mercury dips south of 70, I get nervous and it is all downhill from there. Fall is my least favorite time of the year because it’s the furthest away I ever am from summer.  Hurricanes? Snow? Just. No.

This aversion to a wide range of weather patterns is not new to me. I’ve known this about myself for a long time. I typically get more moody in the winter and have to pay a bit more attention to my general outlook during those months. I live in southern Georgia for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is our milder, shorter winters.

Listen, I have been known to occasionally have the ability to pull my shoulders back, put my head down, and bulldog my way through situations that are less than fun. I am no stranger to the harder things and I can carry my own in the physical toughness/mental fortitude department. I am typically a pretty positive person with a seemingly deep reservoir for optimism. All that being true, this winter has seriously kicked my ass.

I didn’t realize what was happening until pretty late in the season. I have had a lot going on. There is way more change happening in my life than I am typically accustomed to. I am at this interesting moment in my life where I am happier and safer than I have ever been and that translates into more movement of environment and self than I can keep up with most days. My life resembles a drunken game of speed Yahtzee. Just when I think I have found my groove, I lose it again.

Since I came off the corporate payroll in October, every single strategy I have attempted to employ in my life has had roughly the same life span as a lovebug with about the same level of usefulness. And I have worked really hard on strategies – time blocking, goal setting, accountability, schedule keeping, free range, lists, reminders, affirmations – you name it. But, none of those things have helped. This all get pretty frustrating especially when the things I am attempting to accomplish aren’t even new to me. I would simply like to be a better caretaker of my family (food, chores, availability), a better friend (time, attention, support), and a better steward of myself (health, writing, self care). That’s it. That’s not a lot. I’ve done it before.

I have, surprisingly enough, been pretty gentle with myself in the process. I am very careful to watch how I talk to myself. Even those “better”s in the last paragraph gave me pause as I was worried how others might view them. I know that I don’t mean I think I am less than. I have come to a comfortable place where I know I will always want to be better and that’s okay. I can want to be better while still being happy with the present.

Except when the present looks like me last week, playing Call of Duty, in my pajamas, at 1:30 in the afternoon, hands wrapped around an Xbox controller being the only thing that kept them from being thrown up in utter defeat. I had completely given up on even trying to figure out why I couldn’t get the gumption to go to the gym, why I couldn’t noun and verb, why the laundry pile up was unphasing, why brushing my teeth seemed like the biggest chore in the world at that moment. Seriously, hadn’t I gotten my whole family up, out, and on time? That’s something.

But, the universe loves me and I have the best friends. A text came in completely unrelated to my life or Call of Duty. But because I have friends who think the deeper thought and love without judgement, I found the space to think about it for two seconds longer in a slightly different way.

Holy shit! It’s this effing weather. This is my first winter without a regular job. I have no frame of reference for being prepared to go through this particularly off putting time without a pretty rigid foundation for things I just have to do. I can’t find a center because I have been unable to spend any real time outside and I don’t have the crutch of the job. I wasn’t prepared to go into this season without a plan. The whole thing had caught me off guard.

I was encouraged by the realization. I instantly felt better. There was nothing I could about it at the moment. As good as I am, I cannot change the weather. But there is comfort in knowing. I took solace in that and felt a little better killing zombies.

We had a multi family potluck Sunday. The sand gnats showed up and I couldn’t have been more excited to see them.

 

Tan Toes…Strong Woman

I thought that My Beautiful Chaos was always going to be the mantra of my life. Once I got married, had some babies, held down a job, and occupied some free time, what else was there but chaos?

The chaos is still there…it is still beautiful. I still love it. But it doesn’t compel me to create the way it once did.

“You are a great writer.” Dan says. “But you aren’t writing there very much anymore are you?”

“No,” I tell him. “It seems I am only motivated to write when something pisses me off. I don’t want to write pissed off.”

And that is true. But I do want to write. And where I once wore the badge of chaos as an honor, it now seems to be a place of uncertainty and instability. I have become more settled into who I am, what I am made of, and the wonders of constant evolution. I am proud that I can still handle the chaos. I am more thrilled that I am learning to thrive and wield it. 

So The Chaos still lives…it may even be updated once in a while. More than likely, old things there will strike me in a different way now and find itself migrated here. Who knows? But let me tell you a bit about here.

As you may know, my inner runner escaped last year. It has been a hell of a ride since then. I have been amazingly fortunate to meet some amazing people along the way. Good, encouraging people. Smart, helpful people.

I have been blessed in discovering a whole new part of me that made all the other parts of me make a little more sense. It is interesting how acquainted you can get with yourself during double digit mileage runs. It is amazing how competent you become in other aspects of your life when you realize you are tangibly just that strong.

Please know this is not all about running. But make no mistake, running changed my life. And it changed my voice. In fact, it changed nearly everything about me. My relationship with my God and my family is better. My understanding of myself is more authentic. My confidence in all other areas is stronger. My mental, physical, and emotional well being has been transformed by healthier choices.

In short, life just doesn’t seem that chaotic anymore.

So my journey has shifted out of the chaos and into the world of strong, tanned toes…what do I mean by that anyway? Well, a few things

  1. If you know me at all, you know I hate shoes. I only wear them when I absolutely have to. I live where it is sunny most of the time. Ergo, my toes are tanned
  2. My love of running hit a whole new level when I learned you didn’t have to wear sneakers to do it. In fact, you could (and some folks say “should”) do it barefoot! So, I tried it. It was like being a kid again. Now, because I can’t risk tearing my feet up, I am what is known as a minimalist runner (barefoot purest will appreciate that I know the difference).
  3. I think I was an ocean animal in my previous life. Ok, so I don’t actually believe in previous lives. But if I did, you would have no trouble convincing me I was a dolphin or a mermaid or something. I love the water. I love the sand by the water. I love my tanned toes in that sand and that water.

And the “Strong Woman”? There is a bit behind that too…

    1. I could not care less about being a twig. Twigs cannot, as a matter of regularity, hand mix concrete, use a chainsaw, push a mower, hold a sleeping five year old the duration of a Mass, help her husband move furniture, or run distances some people won’t drive to work in a car. That takes strong. Now understand, if you are a twig and you like that – more power to you. I believe in doing what works for you. I ain’t mad and I am for sure not trying to change your mind. It just isn’t me. And I happen to think muscles on chicks are sexy.

Tough Girls!

  1. I am not interested in being a victim. A strong mind and a strong body work with each other. Strengthening one is empowering the other. I believe in personal responsibility. I believe in the power of the mind. I believe that circumstances change only in so much as we have the mental and physical strength to change them.
  2. I am not sexist, but I am a woman and I am raising four of them. So, while I hope my writing is helpful for the fellas (and y’all are more than welcome here), I don’t really know a whole lot about being a strong man or raising strong men…so there’s that.

So, I am still fixing up the place. Feel free to offer opinions, ideas, and questions…I am looking forward to getting comfortable here 🙂

* Update 9/3/18 – This post was originally crafted for a new blog I created. Last year, I did away with the platforms that held My Beautiful Chaos and Tanned Toes. I consolidated everything here.