Gratitude When the World gets Weary

I've been meaning to write something for weeks, but I've been struggling lately. I try not to make my blog about comparing myself to others, or even about anyone who may read it, because I began this process as a spiritual practice, a way to reflect on my own relationship with gratitude over this past year. But lately, I've been reading a lot of blogs and news articles, ones that talk about what's going on in America, the injustices done to black men at the hands of white police, and the protesting that has followed.

Mostly, it's been difficult to write because I just feel very, very sad. I'm sad and angry that black men (and women) are less safe than white men (and women) in this country. I'm sad and angry that we have a broken criminal justice system. I'm sad and angry that white people feel so defensive about race generally, and about what has gone on in the news specifically. And I'm sad and angry at myself, at the ways that I am complicit in and benefit from racism, at the moments I look back and know I could have done more, said something different, said something at all. And that last part is something I'll continue to work through, because I think that part of owning up to my own privilege is about naming my shit, but not getting bogged up in it. Not making it about me.

Which, I'll admit, I've already sort of done, so bear with me. Or don't. Your call. The thing that has been holding me back from writing about gratitude, and my connectedness to gratitude, stems from this: how could I write about something so trivial as letters of thanks when there So Many Things more important to discuss? Why write so small when there are so many big things happening? Why bother with gratitude when there is so much brokenness in the world?

What helped me get back into my writing practice was that the people who I was writing to were my people. Like, my people people. These are friends who help me be my best and bravest self. They see me and love me, just as I am, but they also don't take any bullshit. They help me work through what needs work (hey there, white privilege!), and they hold me accountable to the things that I say I value. They help me to not be a hypocrite. Well, at least less of one.

And that, I am grateful as hell for.

So as I think about who I am in the midst of this world, there are many ways that I respond. Large and small. Through teaching and learning and listening and relationships. And through absolute gratitude for the people who make me brave.

The Mothers Who Made Me

The past several weeks I have been writing letters to women who have been mentors and mothers to me in deep, profound, and lasting ways. These are the thoughts that came together.

The Mothers Who Made Me

For mothers who spent long nights

tracing the curves of my ears to help me sleep

who rocked me in the dead of night, who made

special magic to keep the monsters at bay,

for the ones who taught me the Good Books,

the stories that winnowed into my bones and

reminded me of what it means to live.

For mothers who ushered me through adolescence

the perpetual tide of emotion and

the power of the undertow, but somehow

taught me not to drown in my own self-image,

in my compulsion to be seen.

For mothers who helped me to see myself clearly,

even the faults

even the shortcomings

And to learn the bittersweet tang when the words hit your tongue

words like,

I was wrong.

I am angry.

Let’s talk.

I’m sorry.

Women who taught me it is a brave thing to cry.

I have many mothers who made me

teachers, mentors, preachers, mothers, best friends, aunts,

and all human, too.

For those who say it takes two to make a family,

how lonely life must be.

Because the mothers who made me

are legion,

like spokes on a wheel

like clusters of stars who shine bright for the world

(the light I have seen by

on many dark nights)

for one mother cannot be

Everything or Everyone

and there are so many mothers in this world

waiting

just waiting

to help the ones who come after

to teach them to

teach themselves

what it means to be alive.

On Spontaneous Gratitude

After two weeks of sending smaller, shorter cards of thanks rather than the long-form letters I had been sending this year, I've noticed the ways in which these gestures are different. For one, the cards feel much more spontaneous. It allows me to recognize the moments of gratitude I feel for others throughout my day, as if I'm keeping a kind of written record of all the goodness I experience from others. It's also a great practice to begin or end the day, like a kind of prayer. An ancient form of prayer called "Praying the Examen" encourages this kind of reflection. In the prayer, you look back on the last 24 hours as if it were a movie, noting all of the moments where God was present. These cards are kind of like that. It's an opportunity to remember small blessings, and to affirm that goodness in others.

The other thing I noticed is that paying attention to gratitude in the small, mundane moments of my life forces me to turn away from the harried, worried, reflexive, grumpypants thoughts that may have been spinning around in my brain. I'm a pretty positive person, but, particularly when I'm stressed, my thoughts can spiral down into doubt, impatience, and negativity. When I notice those everyday moments at times that I'm feeling grateful, a candle lights inside me and those shadowy places don't have as much power as they did moments ago.

Next week I'll return to my longer letters, since that is what I set out to do. But I'll try and continue sending small gestures of thanks, to help keep alight those everyday moments.

Gratitude for the Holy Places

Over the past several weeks, I've been talking with colleagues and friends about what and when and how and why they practice gratitude. It has been interesting to see how different people respond to these conversations, and to see what I can learn from the ways that others share their gratitude to their communities. I have many colleagues who send several thank-you notes a week (some send several a day) to parishioners, colleagues, volunteers--those with whom they work on a regular basis. I do this to some degree; after large events where individuals spend a lot of time to make something cool happen for their community, whether that event is a youth mission trip or a spiritual retreat, I will thank those involved for their efforts. But the nature of setting up a practice of thanking others several times a week means that a person ends up sending notes of gratitude for cleaning out the fridge after a potluck, or for saying a kind word to the grieving friend, or for praying for others, or one of many small but important tasks that happen in my line of work. As I have been writing letters of gratitude, this different method of thanking others begs the question of whether all gratitude is the same. How do we serve others, and how to we serve ourselves by being grateful in multiple, multifaceted ways?

What I am learning from my practice is that letters of gratitude require that I "go deep", that I reflect on the entire span of my relationship with others so that I can fully recognize and acknowledge the many different ways that individuals have affected me. It takes some time. And it forces me into a different heart space than my normal routine. It's the same emotional space that pastoral emergencies require. Gratitude is not an emergency, for sure, but emergencies require that I be fully present to what is going on; everything else--pettiness, fretting, doubt, complaints--those things fall away in the midst of urgent pastoral needs. being grateful requires that same presence in order for me to be able to write what I feel I must write. Gratitude is a holy place.

I think for the next several weeks, I will write short notes of gratitude, to see what ways that experience might be different. I'm sure holiness is there, too, and I'm curious to see how God shows up in those moments.

Summer Breaking

After a break of blogging this summer, I'm returning, so very grateful for the wonderful, supportive friends in my life. I love the gift of celebrating a new marriage between two friends, and the kindness they shower on me. Check out this week for a new post!

In the meantime, check out this awesome gift from the happy couple:

On Naming Love

The last time I went to visit my family, I had a long discussion with my sisters about love languages. The idea of love languages comes from a book by the same title, and in it, the author identifies different ways that we communicate our love to each other. The five languages are words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. We talked about how this affects our relationships, whether they're family, friends, or romantic. Some of the more difficult moments in many relationships in my life has been the result of not understanding how they were trying to love me.

Quality time is my primary love language, which is probably one reason why I sometimes feel outside of my comfort zone in this practice. Although it is true that we should be aware of and respect one another's ways of loving, it is also true that exploring other ways of loving expands our capacity to love. When we identify resistance in our experience, maybe we hate receiving gifts, for example, we can look a little deeper and uncover why we resist certain ways of loving and being loved.

Gratitude, at it's heart, is about loving others through naming the ways they have loved us. It is identifying the ways that a person has positively affected us--maybe in ways that aren't our natural love language. Gratitude is about letting others know that we see that love, whether it's a hug, or a care package, or a letter in the mail.  

On Giving It A Rest

Since I started this practice, one thing I've started to pay attention to are moments when I feel resistance to gratitude. What is going on in my life and my soul when I don't feel like writing a letter, and what kind of excuses do I make to not follow through with my practice? The latter tends to be busyness, which can sometimes be a strange conflation of events that makes my life truly jam-packed, but usually its a kind of self-induced self-importance, a way of retreating from others rather than leaning into life and the complexity that it brings.

Everybody likes to say they're busy. Out here in the suburbs, it's the litany of the day. "My God," folks say as they breathlessly walk to a meeting five minutes late, "Sorry. I'm just so busy." And they are. But many people (myself included) stuff their lives (and the lives of their children) so tightly that there is no room to take a pause. No room to appreciate their lives. No room for gratitude.

That's not to say that we should all rescind our invitations to parties, stop doing activities we enjoy, and join a hermitage. But I meet so many people who seem to take a weird masochistic pleasure in being perpetually overwhelmed, maybe out of fear that their lives are only meaningful if they'e exciting, maybe out of a worry that standing still will mean they actually have to be alone with themselves or family. God forbid if they don't like the company.

I do my best to practice Sabbath, a day set aside to rest and to appreciate God's creation. Historically, this is a weekly practice, but I also believe that Sabbath time is an important element to the day, every single day. These letters are a type of Sabbath. It's a break in my routine where I devote time to express gratitude for God's creation--creation manifest in people I love, and who love me in return. It's a time to direct my attention outside of myself; each letter is related to my experience, to be certain, but it provides me with a lens to see my own experience through an emphasis on another.

If busyness makes us the center of the universe, maybe gratitude is a natural deterrent for the kind of self-centeredness that teaches us to forget that the world is an enormous and incredible place, full of all kinds of people, most of whom are not me. Maybe gratitude helps direct us toward those moments and loved ones who are so vital to our wholeness. It steers us in the direction of love, and to a kind of living that takes time to be lived fully.

On Getting to Practice

Last week, I got to write a letter for a friend who was celebrating a milestone birthday. It gave me some time to reflect on our friendship, to wax nostalgic over old photos, to find the words to say what our friendship has meant, all that good stuff. Now that I've been doing this practice for several months, it's getting more fun as I go along.

Taking time for gratitude also means taking time for reflection. It requires remembering past moments, funny stories, meaningful events, tragedy and love, and how all of those elements weave together to form friendships, family ties, and romantic relationships. It helps me reflect on how far I've come, and all of those important people who have and are teaching me important lessons.

This particular letter was nice because it came by surprise. I was asked to write a note by their partner. This person was already on my list, but this time, an opportunity came by someone reaching in rather than me reaching out. Tuning my brain to the gratitude I have experienced these past months has made me more astute at picking it out in others, too. Like warm up scales at the piano, like rehearsals before a performance, actions of love, movements toward peace, toward spiritual attentiveness, and toward gratitude requires practice, too.

Power in the Low Places

On this Maundy Thursday, my favorite in the church year, I am grateful for so many things. I have never been a "high church" person, and I support liturgy when it works. But when it comes to worship, I am the first in line to mix something up or break something down if it's not working. I'm one of the first to ask, "why is this important?" when it comes to sacred space. But Holy Week? Holy Week works for me. As a pastor, there are certain things that I find particularly sacred. I love the smell of lilies when they arrive and fill the church with the scent of new life and beauty. I am grateful for the ways that the whole community comes together to create these extra worship opportunities--the choir on Friday, the lay worship leaders all week. Most of all, I love the heartache and tenderness that is at the heart of Maundy Thursday.

 In our community, the ministers lead the church in a foot washing ceremony. I am so grateful to those who open themselves to the vulnerability of this practice. They allow themselves to be served, and cared for. That's not always easy. This act of service and love  is followed by the story of the last supper, and the subsequent betrayal of Jesus by his friends. I find power in hanging in the low places, the vulnerable moments, the times where I most find myself at work in the scriptures. Nobody wants to be a disappointment. Nobody wants to be a betrayer. But everybody is, at some point in their lives. I find the discomfort of those moments strangely comforting, because at least I'm not alone. It is the nature of faith and life and love. There is power in staring our imperfections in the face. There is courage in hanging in the low places. Easter is coming. But not yet.

On Being the Open Door

I've spent the past few weeks studying and reading about vulnerability, shame, and empathy for a retreat I led this last weekend. Most of my studying has focused on the work of Brene Brown, who is a therapist, researcher, and speaker on these subjects. In her work, she talks about how essential vulnerability is for our lives, how those who are capable of vulnerability show the highest percentages of joy and meaning in their lives. (If you're interested in her work, check out the link to her Ted talk below).

As I have continued to write letters of gratitude, I'm finding that vulnerability is like an open door. It's the way that gratitude connects to me in a deep way. The people who I am most grateful for are those who have seen me in my most vulnerable places, and who love me deeply. And they, too, have been willing to be vulnerable to me. The people I love live all over, but those open doors still follow us, no matter where we are.

 I am finding that my gratitude deepens the wider the door is. In certain traditions, there is the notion of "thin space"-- a place or moment where the our world and the world of the Divine is thin--a place or moment where holiness can walk through. It's like an open door. Does that mean that each of us can be thin spaces, that moments of vulnerability allow for opportunities of magic and grace to seep into our lives? I think so. Who knows, I could be wrong. But I'd rather be an open door.

Brene Brown TEDx:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0ifUM1DYKg

Pleasant Surprises

I'll admit it; I've been slacking off a bit on this blog in the last couple of weeks. Maybe I'm still recovering from my grandmother's funeral, maybe it's because Lent is in full force, maybe it's because recently I led a youth retreat weekend--probably some combination of the three. But if I'm going to be intentional in my practice, I'm going to move forward and on, and not let busyness interfere with the business of gratitude.

Which is why a recent drive to work felt a bit serendipitous, when I felt an unexpected surge of gratitude. It was a sunny day, and I had birthday plans with some friends over the weekend. As I was thinking about them, it occurred to me what amazing people I have in my life. Not that this had never occurred to me before, but it struck me by how many thoughtful and caring friends I have, friends who live near me and celebrate and share with me important milestones. Friends who live far, yet stay connected, friends who I know are there in a heartbeat if I need their support. My family, too, are loving and kind, even if we get irritated with each other from time to time. I know so many people who love me unconditionally, and who appreciate the weirdest parts of me, who love even the parts of me that I like least.

I wonder if practicing gratitude is like opening an old faucet. Once you start, even if it only trickles in at first, if it eventually begins to seep into everyday parts of our lives, infusing within us and spreading out towards others. Surprise bouts of gratitude. I have to say, they're pretty fantastic.

The Unsent Letter

My mom called me last week, only a few hours after writing last week's post, to tell me that my grandmother had died. I've spent the past week with family, funeral planning, mourning, and remembering her. This week, as I return back to my regularly scheduled programming, I have realized I never got to send her a letter. The truth, is that I have a get well soon card sitting on my desk, unsent. I thought I was going to have more time.

It's one of the things I'm realizing through this practice, that gratitude demands that we not assume there will be more time. More time to say, "I love you", more time to say. "I'm sorry", more time to say, "Thank you for loving me the best you could." What I often do is fill that time complaining, being unsatisfied or irritated about things that are absolutely inconsequential. Part of this practice is my attempt to do more of the former and less of the latter. But sometimes, the letter remains unsent. So in lieu of her letter, I'm going to post the eulogy I read at her funeral. They are the truest words I could write about her, and it is, at heart, a letter of gratitude. Miss you, Grandma.

          When my family and I were talking last night, we spent some time discussing some of the things that we were grateful that Grandma had passed on to us. We all appreciated the many British qualities she passed down, particularly a dry sense of humor. When I was little, I remember being very proud of our heritage. I told my class that my grandma was English. You know, from England.  The truth is though, that she was always a very private person, and I only learned about her in bits in pieces. I learned more about her as an adult, hearing about how she was born in London, and was moved into the country during the blitz after part of her house was damaged during a bomb raid. She was a singer as a young adult, and performed at different venues before recording a record and moving to the States. While I never have heard her sing, I think that’s where B---- gets her vocal talent, and is probably why my sisters and I love to harmonize to the Indigo Girls on long car rides.

            I was glad to see Ecclesiastes 3:1-11 scrawled in the front of her bible yesterday, because it’s one of my favorite passages of scripture. I love this passage because it simultaneously comforts and unsettles me. There are moments in my life where I feel like things happen when they should, when I find meaning behind change and blessing, when I see a reason to disappointment and even loss. But there are other times, when I hear “to everything there is a season, to every matter under heaven”, and I think, “God, this is the worst possible season for this thing to happen to me.” And the truth is, is that like all of our lives, Grandma’s life was not all rainbows and sunshine. She went through many hard things, some outside of her control, and some of her own making.

Many of us who love her deeply, our lives are informed by her life, decisions, and circumstances. She spent many years as a single mom, at a time when it was not socially acceptable to be a single mom. And she did it far from her family. But to everything there is a season, and there is a time to plant, and where there was no family, she planted one, and built a family in her children, and in the people she met and loved like Aunt K--- and Grandma P----. And any woman who can grow a garden in untilled ground is a hero in my book.

I didn’t know her during those years, but I reaped the rewards of her strength and love through my mom, aunts and uncles, and through her presence in my life. And I learned about her quiet way to love as I grew up.

Grandma was able to articulate a lot with very few words, and one of her favorite memories of me, that she would tease me about was not one of my finest moments. Grandma was able to convey her disapproval without saying anything. And one lesson I had learned from my mom was don’t sass Grandma. One day, when I was 7 or 8,  she was at our house with my mom and Grandma had given me some advice about something. And I remember thinking, I don’t know who this woman thinks she is, but she has no idea what she is talking about. So I turned around and said, “Grandma, why don’t you mind your own beeswax.” And her face that said, "I cannot believe you just said that to me", and my Mom's presence behind me, that I can only describe as the wrath of God, taught me a valuable lesson. The writer of Ecclesiastes said there is a season for many things. But there is never a season for sassing Grandmas.

I will miss Grandma a lot. I will miss our phone conversations about politics. I will miss her loving birthday cards, and her sweet tooth, and her love of animals. But I will carry her with me through all of the seasons of my life, and I will cherish what she has taught me about family, and faith, and the power of love.

Living the Time That's Left

I attended a funeral this morning. This isn't a particularly uncommon in my profession, since funerals, death, and grief are as much a part of faith as anything. This morning, however, I attended the funeral of a parishioner, whose spouse is Catholic, so rather than officiating, I attended. Sat in the pews, sang the hymns, listened to the homily. You know, worship. It is a rare gift as clergy to be able to receive worship rather than to be the one making it happen, even on sad occasions. 

The priest shared a great deal about the way this person had lived. The joy he had spread to others, the generosity he had had for the community, the way he had shared himself to those he loved. The man being memorialized was an embodiment of gratitude--it permeated every aspect of his life. He had been a walking, talking letter of gratitude. It got me thinking about what kind of effect gratitude has had and will continue to have on me. My hope is that as I continue this practice, gratitude will slip into other aspects of my life, tucked into quiet conversations and important moments. My hope is that this practice will become infectious, so that I will feel gratitude in unsuspecting places, and will feel free to share gratitude with anyone. 

So far, to be honest, it's still hard. It makes me feel vulnerable and sometimes uncomfortable to put myself out there, even to people I cherish. But someday, my loved ones will be gone, and I don't want to spend the moments after regretting the things I've left unsaid. And somedays after, I will be gone, too. I want those who have known me to know gratitude, through the ways that I lived, for the things that I said, for the ways that I was afraid but didn't let fear stop me. If I can do that and know with my last breath that I could and did embody gratitude, then I will be satisfied. That is worth the risk. 

Reunioning

This past summer, I officiated a wedding for a couple of friends from college. It had been a year of officiating a number of weddings for friends, actually. Despite the fact that I consider myself a romantic at heart, I tend to be a curmudgeon when it comes to weddings. One of the downsides of being a minister is that you see the worst of weddings. People who don't show they love each other well. Bridezillas or groomzillas (yes, there are plenty of both). Families who can't get along and aren't emotionally mature enough to knock off the drama for one. damn. afternoon. Family members or friends who can't manage to stay sober until after the ceremony is over. People obsessed with perfection. Weddings, I have learned, can go from lovely to a hot mess in a matter of minutes.

Yet last year's weddings have reminded me of how beautiful and touching the day can be. They were testaments to the fact that for those couples who have their priorities in the right place, the day will be just fine. And the wedding I officiated over the summer were for two lovely people, both of whom are generous and warm and kind, and love each other deeply.

It was a double blessing, because it gave me a chance to see many friends from college who I hadn't seen in years. I wondered whether it would be awkward, and whether we would still have things to talk about after the long stretch of time and distance. I shouldn't have worried. It's the wonderful thing about having chosen friends well; even after many years, you're able to pick up where you've left off. The weekend of the wedding felt like a reunion; it was so good to see old friends who knew me in a particular way during a formative time in my life. Which is why I felt so much warmth when I selected this week's person to write a letter to--one of the friends from that group. I lived with Maya* in a house with 10 other people for a year in college. It was one of the best and weirdest experiences I had. Living with 10 people taught me a lot. Maya taught me a lot, too, and it was in that house that we and other housemates would exchange ideas, philosophies, theologies (or reasons against theology), beliefs, fears,  and jokes. Maya has this hilarious dry wit that only comes from someone who pays attention and is smart as a whip. One of the things I realized this summer, and that came back for me as I wrote this letter was that I missed that space, and I missed those people whose lives changed me in subtle but important ways.

It's one of the growing pains of growing up; you can't always be in touch with all of the people who have impacted your life. People move away. People get married. Some have babies. Priorities change. But even if time or circumstance or miles change your relationship, it doesn't change the effect those people have had on you. Sometimes you get the blessing of reconnection. Sometimes you don't. But it feels good to be grateful for moments already gone by, and moments yet to come.


*name changed

On Mysteries and Mentors

My grandmother believes in angels. In many ways, she has much more of a metaphysical kind of faith than I do. I grew up learning about stars and science from my dad.  He taught me to uncover the mysteries of the universe through the slow churning creation of of galaxies, from the power and precision of the Big Bang, and through him I learned the art of speculation, the scientific method, and a healthy dose of skepticism. So angels and miracles, prophetic dreams and visions that I read in the Hebrew scriptures and that I heard from my grandmother seemed far away from me for many years.

I meandered my way into spirituality--love for meditation, for transformation, for truth-telling---through important people who entered my life at right places. One thing that has never been lost on me is the presence of important mentors who have appeared in my life at a critical crossroads. Someone who could stand with me and see me as I am, a person who would allow me to be wherever I was in my life and take those experiences seriously.

I wrote a letter of gratitude to one of those women this past week. The letter was itself a sort of spiritual practice. It allowed me time to reflect on where I had come and who had helped me get to where I am now. Mentors have taken on many forms for me--this person in particular, she and a group of women, in fact, were with me as I was being birthed into adulthood.  I was reaching moments of awareness about the world around me and injustice, I was coming into a truer sense of myself as a feminist and a person of faith, and I was trying to figure out how to love and be who I was. And like birthing does, sometimes I screamed and fought and grieved and pushed and hurt my way through. The women in this group that I was a part of saw me clearly, and loved me unconditionally, and challenged me greatly. Most importantly, as a young adult, they took me seriously. Not "for my age". Not with any "in my day" caveats. Period. The ways they modeled womanhood and adulthood gave me permission to be imperfect, gave me space to speak (even if in hindsight the things I said were not particularly revelatory or meaningful), and held me accountable to those things that I had said I valued.

When God came to Sarah and Abraham in the desert to tell Sarah that she was pregnant, she giggled to herself in her tent while she was baking. "Apparently God don't know I'm old," she laughed. I don't know that I believe in angels the way my grandmother does, but I do believe that God sends surprising people into our lives when we're ready to give birth to something new, even if we don't believe that new things are coming. So for all of the angels who have been there with me in the screaming and the fighting and the grieving and the pushing and the hurting and the insurmountable love, I thank God.

Gratitude for the Hard Roads

This past weekend, I was talking with some close friends about this blog specifically, and gratitude in general. I asked them who they would send letters of gratitude to, and why. We talked about who we would definitely not send letters to, and why. We talked about the spectrum of people who have walked through our lives--those who have done miracles, those who have done harm, and those who fall somewhere in between. The three of us have all learned things about ourselves through a spectrum of experiences. What does this practice have to say to that? Moreover, what should we do about those people in our lives who have taught us something very important, something for which we are very grateful, but it's something we learned through pain, or trauma, or betrayal? Can I, should I, how would I write a letter of gratitude for someone who has wronged me?

One one hand, sending a letter of gratitude to a former bully, particularly one that indicates how their misdeeds made me a better person, is a pretty passive-aggressive way to get revenge. But let's be real, I can't say there isn't some part of me who is tempted to send a few carefully crafted letters to the handful of people who have caused me some serious and unnecessary pain.

Maybe something like this?

But that's not the purpose of this project, and I want to make less space for that kind of behavior, not more. My purpose is to create more good in this world, in my relationship, and in me. And I'm pretty sure spiteful vindication isn't the best way to achieve those goals. Yet there is more at the root of this desire than vengeance. There is deep soul-healing in naming painful experiences that also taught me very important lessons. Learning the hard way is sometimes the only way to learn, and I want to honor the hard roads I've been down as well as those who have helped me lift myself into a better place. On the hard roads, I learned fundamental things. I learned to trust my intuition, but to keep my mind open to those few trusted friends who will tell me hard truths. I learned that negotiating by withholding is a surefire way to burn a relationship to ash. I learned that people who leave are not worth waiting for. I learned that I deserve mutuality, love, and trust. All of these I have learned the hard way, sometimes at my own hand, and sometimes at the hand of others. Although they were painful, they were also essential to my growth and maturity. 

However, I want to include one huge caveat. Sometimes, maybe even most times, trauma is just trauma. Maybe the only lesson to learn is "that never should have happened to me". I have known and loved too many survivors of abuse and neglect to believe that pain is redemptive. It absolutely is not. Individuals may find some redemption in the midst of or in spite of their experience, but that is a very different thing. 

I also don't want to give a pass to those who cause others pain. Which is to say, I don't want to give a pass to anyone. Just because I may have found meaning in a painful experience, does not take the perpetrator off the hook. Nor am I off the hook when someone has found meaning from pain I have caused. Each person is responsible for their actions, and its is their responsibility to do right by whomever they have wronged. Sometimes, that means reconciliation. Sometimes, that means ending a relationship. Sometimes, that means jail time. But it is the choice each of us make when we are processing grief, trauma, heartache, anger, or pain, to choose how to respond, and how or whether to find meaning in our experiences. Every person should feel empowered to take the path that leads to healing, regardless of whether lessons are learned or rejected. 

In my life, some of those experiences taught me how to love and live better. Recognizing those lessons have helped me to heal some of that pain. I will write a letter to those who have hurt me and taught me painful lessons. But I won't send them. Those letters are for me, really, to remind me of the hard roads I've walked, and how I came back. To remind me of how far I have come, and to point me to where I want to go from here. 

The Mechanics of Self-Deception

One letter sent, one letter written and on my desk. I wouldn't call it a compendium yet, but it is exciting to have started. I am doing a thing! It is getting completed! That momentum in writing and doing has always been very motivating for me. For the first letter, I decided to explain my project. This person, Amy*, knows me well, but it seemed a little strange to randomly send her a letter of gratitude. Would I feel weird if someone did that to me?

This time, I decided just to start. The more I tried to write another explanation of my project for this second letter, the more it felt like I was explaining away some of the feeling behind it. If this letter was just a project, then I wasn't sending it because I wanted to; I was sending the letter because I had to. My gratitude was just a part of a project; I wasn't allowing the message to stand on it's own.

Why was I doing that?

Sometimes, I have a tendency to hedge feelings in something more comfortable, in a reason or intention other than what it is. It's a way to detach myself a bit. It's an interesting form of self-deception, one I think many people are guilty of. I'm going to share my feelings with you, Amy, but it's for a project/a holiday/because Mom told me to say it, so, you know, don't get too excited, because I'm not that invested. It's this notion that someone could share their feelings in stealth-mode, so that no one has to invest without a way out. Because, FEELINGS.

The truth is, though, is that that is not what I'm looking for anymore. I don't want to hedge my bets, I don't want to couch my feelings in something feels more palatable. Because the two women I wrote letters to? They're amazing. Brave, thoughtful, loving, kind. Amazing. And they should know.


*Not her real name.

The First Letter

As I sit here, starting at a blank open word document, I realize I'm a little nervous about this project. I'm glad the first name I drew was someone with whom I have a long, close friendship. This letter will be easy, since I have so, so many reasons why this person has blessed my life. Yet, still, I'm nervous. I've been thinking a lot about why I've chosen this particular practice as my spiritual practice for the next year. I could have chosen to write more poetry, or to sit and meditate for so many minutes each day. I could have chosen to volunteer at a food pantry, or to start up yoga, or any number of things that are listed in articles that have titles like, "10 Ways to Live Your Best Life Now!"But those practices wouldn't really stretch me, and I want to be challenged.

As a friend once told me, I'm very good at getting the truth out of people, at helping others reach some kind of understanding of their own inner life--turmoil and blessings alike. What I'm not very good at, is doing this myself; it takes me a while to figure out what I'm feeling, and sometimes I struggle to share those feelings openly and freely with others. I've been intentional about sharing more of myself with those I love for the past few years, but it still doesn't come easy for me. I grew up as a pretty emotional kid, and would often get teased at for crying, or get yelled at for being angry, so I spent many years feeling ashamed of openly expressing my emotions. I hated (and still do, if I'm honest) to cry in public. I also grew up in a family that showed their feelings through their presence, through being supportive, through doing rather than saying what they felt. I learned to become adept at interpreting my family's feelings through their actions. I remember once, several years ago, I was absolutely heartbroken after a relationship of mine had gone sour. I had called my mom, sobbing on the phone, explaining what had happened. The next day I got an email from my dad that said, "Your mother said you want me to visit next week?" Which meant, "I love you and am worried about you."Love shows up in many different ways, and this practice will help me hone one way of loving a little bit more.

The truth is, is that loving others requires us to share a bit of our true selves, it requires that we reveal the places in us that are vulnerable to pain, that are raw from past trauma, the places in ourselves that we're afraid to look at. Even with those we love and trust, there is always a risk in sharing the deeper parts of ourselves, even if it's sharing our gratitude. Ultimately, this year is going to be a practice in vulnerability. A year to remind my younger self that feelings are not something to be ashamed of. A year to celebrate all of the deep and abiding love I have in my life, those who share with me, who offer me so many blessings. It will probably intimidate the hell out of me, but that's okay, too. If I'm learning anything, I'm learning that loving others is worth the risk. Protecting myself from pain requires that I shut off all the doors where love can reside. The cost is far too high.