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.