Title IX and Me

Here I am, sixty years old, and I have never played team sports.

It is uncomfortable for me to give, or receive, a high five from the person next to me on the treadmill, even after we both completed the same Orange Everest climb, just at different speeds.  It feels awkward.  While I appreciate the thought, I don't understand this supportive team mentality.  I am shocked when the coach comes up to me and says, good job or good form.  When they correct what I am doing wrong it is easy for me to feel embarrassed that I didn't get it right the first time, instead of grateful they noticed and cared enough to help.

In 1972 Congress passed the Educational Amendments. One section of this law, Title IX, prohibits discrimination against girls and women in federally-funded education, including in athletics programs.

Growing up, there were no girls sports teams.

We were never taught the fundamentals - not in gym class and certainly not as part of some summer program.  We were steered toward more appropriate activities like badminton, square dancing, and maybe tumbling (not to be confused with gymnastics) where we rolled awkwardly across padded mats.  Little League baseball, intramural basketball, football clinics, wrestling - all just for the boys.  Girls learned to cook, sew and maybe, if the family could afford lessons, play piano.

Girls just did not participate in organized team sports.

We were encouraged to be cheerleaders or pompom girls and if we couldn't make either team, pursue some academic achievement in our spare time.  The feminine social hierarchy was well defined - cheerleaders, pompoms, and everyone else.  For one glorious year I dipped my toe into girls athletics, such as it was.  I earned a spot as pompom girl, mainly because my friends were on the team and not because of any true desire or ability.

I was in high school when I first felt the effects of Title IX in my small town.

Suddenly, we had girls cross country, girls gymnastics, girls volleyball, and girls basketball.  We didn't know the rules. Most of the us had never handled a basketball or volleyball before.  No one had taught us to dribble or spike. It was mostly parents who attended games (or the occasional boys who liked to see girls run around in short shorts).

By the time this happened I was happily entrenched in my non-athletic activities, falling safely into the academic tier. I was on the forensics team, was the token girl on the high quiz bowl team, and was the year book editor by my Senior year,  I dabbled in the greasepaint of musical theater, sang in the choir and wrote a weekly High School Happenings article for the local paper.

This is why it is so hard for me to see myself as even remotely athletic.

I instantly become that seventh grader who tried to run the half mile but failed to realize how much commitment to daily practice was required,  I didn't know you had to build endurance and learn technique.  I revert back to that little girl who, running in her first race, hears the crowd yelling run faster and just couldn't.  Instead of patting myself on the back for finishing in the top three, I berated myself for not coming in first.  So twisted.

In almost every activity, I often feel like I could have done better, done more.

I may not have played team sports, but I do feel empowered when I accomplish anything physically challenging.  I understand the draw athletes feel to their sport.  I, too, feel competitive and want to win.  I don't want to give up in the face of adversity.  Only problem, I lack confidence in my abilities.  Confidence younger adults seem to have in abundance.  Was it because I was never pushed physically?  Or felt like part of a team?

As I get older, I realize I like the muscle aches the day after a tough workout.  It helps me remember how far I have come...how much my body can achieve.  I am getting used to the encouragement of my fellow OTF members and good job doesn't feel so foreign.  I am grateful that little girls can embrace team sports in a way that was not afforded to me, all because of Title IX..

I am finally learning the pleasure of physical activity and team support.

It is a good feeling.

Cucumber, Tea and the Everly Brothers

Donny and Lorraine were the COOLEST parents in my neighborhood.

For one thing, they were young - much younger than anyone else's parents. They asked us to call them by their first names, something you just did not do in the late sixties.  And they seemed to have more time - and energy - to spend with all the neighborhood kids.

I grew up in small town Wisconsin during the turbulent sixties.  I vaguely remember President Kennedy's funeral as broadcast on our black and white console television.  I remember listening to WRIG (Wisconsin's Big Rig Top Forty on your AM Dial) while singing along to Brandy by Looking Glass.  As children, we ran freely around the neighborhood barreling from yard to yard.  It was all one big playground for us.  In the summers we played all day, then ran out again right after dinner and came back in when it got dark, figuring out the time by peering into the neighbor's window to see what was on television.

We were the quintessential small town family.  My mom stayed at home and ran the house.  She always had some sweet treat baking in the oven and the family gathered around the kitchen table every night, promptly at five.  My dad worked in the local door and sash factory, tinkered on his car parked in the driveway and smoked Pall Mall cigarettes with no filter.  Our vacations consisted of road trips to our Uncle John's cabin where we swam in the lake, fished, hand pumped drinking water and used an outhouse when necessary.  We read books, danced to the radio, played board games and card games, giggling the whole night through.

Kids ran around our neighborhood with no worries about getting hit by a car, or being abducted, or having anything more serious than a scrape on the knee happen to us.  We rode bikes without helmets, went swimming in the river, and drank water out of the hose.  Life was simple...and fun.  We put on neighborhood carnivals, played SPUD in the street, and made up running games.

We spent a lot of time hanging out at Donnie and Lorraine's house.  We played jump the hedge in their backyard, school in the playhouse, flashlight tag at night and radio disc jockey during the day.  They had the best records to use when playing disc jockey.  We discovered the stash of forty-five's from Donnie and Lorraine's teen years.  We learned all the words to the Everly Brothers' Wake up Little Suzie  in that upstairs playroom, understanding there was something risque about the song, but not quite putting our finger on what.

Lorraine introduced us to the art of sewing.  She helped us pick material, taught us how to lay out the pattern for our matching jumpers, cut, sew, and hem our creations.  I still remember mine - dark green corduroy with patch pockets in the front...a little shorter than my mom usually let me wear.  I loved that dress.

Lorraine introduced us to healthy snacks.  Cucumbers sprinkled salt and cut into precise medallions, raw carrots cut into spears, and peas eaten straight out of the pod. In the cool months, we stopped playing at midday for tea time. She served hot tea with milk and honey in fancy cups.   Even if I didn't really like the taste of tea, I sure did like drinking something that seemed so grown-up from a china cup and saucer.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I was learning another way to be a mom.

Lorraine taught me to stay young at heart and fit of body, to try new things and play when maybe I should be working.  My own mom taught me the importance of stability (and a good book).  She was dependable, a hard worker and kept a meticulous house.  She was a planner and a saver.  She kept our family together.  She taught me to how to persevere and make my dreams a reality.  She taught me how to smile in the face of hurt.  She taught me how to be independent, how to repair just about anything, how to plan for a future that improved upon hers. 

I am forever grateful I had both of these women in my life and happy to be (to paraphrase Donny and Marie) a little bit Lorraine and a little bit Ruth...the best of both worlds.

Coping with Stress

My phone froze the other day and panic immediately set in.

I didn't realize just how dependent I was on that little piece of electronic wizardry.  My life was on that phone and that phone was my lifeline to everyone and everything.  All I saw was a picture of a charger cord on my screen and an Apple website URL.  I tried to manually reset my phone - nothing.  I did it again and again and again - still nothing.  I could not do anything more until I returned home to plug into my own computer and I-Tunes account.

I emailed the critical people in my life from work to let them know my phone died...and waited.

I hurried out the door promptly at closing time and headed home - no podcast, no audio book - just the radio and me.  Once I got home I turned on my computer, started I-tunes and realized I had to upload the latest IOS version.  UHG!  After thirty minutes or so I was able to plug in my phone, click update to reinstall IOS and run out the door to my Pilates class - without a phone.

I was more than a little distracted during class.  Was my phone updating?  Would all my apps and data still be there?  Would I be able to make a phone call?  If it didn't work, how would I manage until I could get a new phone?

About an hour later I hurried home to find the reset did not work.  Since I was not there during this reset, I tried again...and again...and again.  While I was waiting, I decided to fix myself a bite to eat.  Lance was at a meeting, so it would just be me.  Pull out something that's good for you, my brain suggested, you have been so conscientious for so long, don't blow it now.  But, whine, whine, my phone isn't working!

So, out came the sharp cheddar and Reduced Fat Triscuit's.  Fill up a plate with crackers, add cheese and microwave until it is gooey and ready to devour.  Repeat, because you can. So good...and so bad.  Next up, some Dove dark chocolates.  I haven't had more than one in a day for ages!

Did this temporary fall off the food wagon make my phone magically work?  Nope.

Did the junk food make me feel good about myself?  Nope.

To fix my phone I ended up doing a total factory reset.  Thank goodness most of my information was backed up to the mystical Apple cloud, so I lost very little.  I was proud of myself that I did not panic but thought through my options and acted on them.

But, my other reaction to the minor stress bothered me.  Why did I turn to food, the recliner and a dumb television show while I figured out what to do next?  Why didn't I go for a walk?  I try so hard to live a healthy lifestyle, but my immediate instinct was to feel sorry for myself and think, who cares what I do? 

Obviously, I am not perfect - far from it.

I make mistakes, bad life choices and over indulge on occasion.  I try really hard not to permanently beat myself up about my irrational urges  I know it sounds cliche, but I try to remember that tomorrow is a new day and a fresh start - and we all need a clean slate some days.

My daughter (https://www.annieandthelion.com/) wrote that we must confess and repent when we make a mistake  I think that to move on we must remember God knows us, loves us, and forgives us all ours sins....and that we should follow His example  I believe in His forgiveness and redemption - even for something as minor as mindlessly eating a plateful of cheesy Triscuits in times of stress.

So, I am trying to follow His example and forgive myself...as often as needed.

Sixty My Way

"If you don't do it this year, you will be one year older when you do."
 - Warren Miller

I hit a milestone a few months ago - the big six-oh.

It's funny, I don't feel like sixty.  Isn't sixty a grey haired grandma who spends her time baking cookies, weeding her flower garden and taking slow meandering walks?  That is not me!  While I do all those things on occasion, it is not all I do. As for the slow meandering walk - I may meander, but I have never walked slowly...just ask my husband!

And I have a job that occupies more than thirty hours a week.

I am not my mother's sixty.  She raised four kids, spent her days cooking, cleaning and doing laundry.  She worked her garden, canned her vegetables and made preserves out of the fruit.  Her life was not easy.  By the time Mom was sixty she had six grandchildren she doted on, had bid two of her best friends a teary farewell and had yet to spend any time in Minnesota where I lived.

My mom's world was small and familiar.

My world is frequently large and challenging.  A little discomfort is good for me...even at sixty.  Acting  outside my comfort zone is what made me tackle the Muckfest 5K last year and what prompted me to sign up again this year - despite my irrational fears.  I am more physically fit than I was last year, so I have no idea what I am afraid of... other than worrying I will not live up to my own personal expectations.  At the encouragement of friends, I take a Pilates class twice a week and an Orange Theory (high intensity interval training) class once a week - both of which are mentally and physically challenging.  While I will never be excited about exercising, I do like the the sense of accomplishment I feel after completing a class.

"You must do the things you think you cannot do."  - Eleanor Roosevelt

Unlike my mom, I will not be a grandmother at sixty...and that's okay.  While my daughter and husband want a family some day, there is no hurry.  They are young and busy.  As strange as it sounds, one of the reasons I want to be fit at sixty is so I can be fit at seventy.  I want to be a "fun" grandmother.  I want to do active outings with those future grandchildren.  I don't want to be afraid to try new things...or have that fear rub off onto impressionable minds.

So, I fight the aging process.

Wrinkles on my face - don't really care about that.  I will never be my college weight again - that's okay, too.  My menopause belly will probably never go away, but the stomach muscles underneath will be strong.  When I look into the mirror I often see my mother look back at me - and that is okay, too.  What is not okay is to give up trying just because I am getting close to the age of Social Security.  Good health is important and should not be taken for granted.  I need to work at it.  If that means eating less junk food and drinking less wine, I can handle that.  If it means exercising when I would rather be watching Netflix, so be it.  If it means committing to a muddy race to support my friend - sign me up!

No more sitting on the sidelines...

A Second Chance

Has it really been five years?

It has. And I am still here to tell the cautionary tale.  You see, five years ago this month, I ignored my body's signals and ended up hospitalized for four days followed by several weeks of recovery at home.  I left the hospital with a tube in my abdomen, an oxygen tank, and a feeling of shame and embarrassment.  You see, my appendix was infected and instead of listening to my body and that inner voice warning me something was wrong...very wrong...I second guessed myself for more than twenty-four hours and ended up in the emergency room sometime after midnight with a ruptured appendix.

Not an experience I would recommend.

Five years ago I wrote several blog posts about my ordeal. I thought about just re-posting the main one on this anniversary, but wondered if time wouldn't allow me some insight I was not able to verbalize five years ago.  If you want to read my original story - or any of the related posts - please search under Appendicitis in the Label section of this blog. 

"Pain nourishes courage.  You can't be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you." - Mary Tyler Moore

It really didn't occur to me at the time, but I could have died.  One of my good friends, after hearing what happened, shouted that very thing over the phone at me.  She was really upset - and all I could do was say, but I am still here, in bewilderment.  And then later - I AM STILL HERE!  How lucky am I to get a second chance at life?

I was familiar with appendicitis, but thought it only happened to little kids and young adults.  I thought the pain would be distinctly in your lower right abdomen...or was it your left?  I heard horror stories of how the pain is so unbearable you would not be able to handle it.  That you would know immediately if something was wrong.  Surprise, none of that is true.

First, anyone can get appendicitis at any age.  And for me, the pain was not on one side or the other, it was in the center of my abdomen - like I had over exercised by doing too many crunches.  If you, like me, have a high pain tolerance, the cramps can be written off as the flu.  If you, like me, have been pretty healthy most of your life, appendicitis will probably not be your first thought.  It wasn't mine.

After a day of pain that was not getting any better, my mind did start to think outside the box. Yours should, too.  Google your symptoms and believe it when the most obvious answer is not the one you expected, but is the one you secretly feared.  Don't be embarrassed to believe your suspicions may be correct.  Go to the doctor.  Don't self diagnose for too long or you will end up like me...hospitalized, weak, sore, and with a scar that travels from your belly button to your pelvic bone and looks kind of like a baby butt.  If you are treated before your appendix ruptures, at the first signs of pain, you will have a simple laparoscopic surgery and be back to normal in about a week instead of facing two months of recovery.

Once your appendix ruptures the surgery is very invasive.

The good news is I did recover.  I am as physically strong as I ever was.  I take better care of myself and watch out for my loved ones.  My faith in God was strengthened.  I started to write.  I found my voice.  I appreciate life and see God's hand in places I never bothered to notice before.  I try to be more patient, more loving, more aware.  I try not to be so fearful, to attempt new things, to go beyond what I think I can accomplish.  I've traveled near and far.  I cultivated new friendships, re-energized old ones, and learned to appreciate every moment I have with my extended family.

I wonder at God's canvas as he paints the clouds in a beautiful sunrise of pinks, oranges, and reds.  When He brightens the end day sky in Broncos blue and orange.  When He prompts me to notice the sparkling white mountaintops in the distance.  I laugh at the bunnies hiding in the front yard, marvel at the abundance of flowers cascading through the bushes, and smile at the sweet music of birds in the morning.

I was granted a second chance to discover what my life should look like...and it is good.

Just Do It!

I am in this weird in-between state right now.

I went back to work (after a failed attempt at retirement) about a year ago.  I work for the same company I left, now calling my time off, a year long sabbatical.  I do pretty much the same job I did just before my premature retirement...a lot of expediting orders, compiling various reports, and random employee training.  I am the safety net for my co-workers..

I feel like I am waiting - but for what?

I committed to work for another two years and I can't spend those years in limbo.  So, I try to figure out how to feel fulfilled while working a job mainly for the paycheck (and insurance).  Don't get me wrong, I work for a good company.  They give me all I could possibly ask for - a four day work week, good health insurance, a nice paycheck, lots of vacation time, and a group of great co-workers.

But I still feel like I am in limbo - between what is and what might be.

The Artist's Way reminded me that I am not defined by my job.  Still, when people ask me what I do I usually refer to my job title.  But, that is not really who I am.  I have so many other interests.  My job is simply a means to an end.  So why the delay in being who and what I want to be?  I find myself thinking,  I'll try something new when I'm retired, when I have more time, when I won't look silly...  If I wait until I am retired (again) to figure out what I want for my life, what will really have changed except that I became two years older?

My husband worries I am overloading myself.

I take a Pilates class twice a week and just signed up to do Orange Theory (another exercise class) once a week.  I recently attended a meeting with a group of mostly retirees who do storytelling at elementary schools. It intrigued me, so I am trying to figure out how to fit in the four week training, learning stories and telling them to school children one day a month while I am still working.  I help at church and do some random volunteer work.  I want to write more, maybe take a class, but when?  And what happened to learning the ukulele?  Or painting more?  Crafting?  Quilting?  Instead of maybe doing too much and then cutting back, I do nothing.

I think it is time, as the Nike ad says, to Just Do It and stop worrying so much.

Irrational Guilt

Some days, I carry a lot of irrational guilt.  

My father died when I was six months pregnant.  I didn’t even know he was in the hospital.  My family thought they were protecting me by not letting me know.  Instead, I carried the guilt of not being there for him in his last days…his last hours.  I carried the guilt that my daughter would never know her Grandpa.  That maybe if I had been there, he wouldn’t have died.  Which, I know, is ridiculous.  But, I still felt the guilt.

1 Peter 5:7 - Give all your worries and cares to God, for He cares about you.

My mother died five years later.  This time, unlike with my father, I knew she was in the hospital and had visited with her for a short time before we hit the road.  You see, we were on a family vacation in the Wisconsin Northwoods and my mom was supposed to be in that cabin with us.  Instead, she was in the hospital…and died the night before she was to be released and a few days after my last visit.  Once again, the guilt of not being there filled me with an ache I can’t describe.  I was mad because she was not in the cabin with us and instead died alone in that hospital.  I was filled with guilt.

Psalm 55:22 - Give your burdens to the Lord, and he will take care of you...

My sister was diagnosed with cancer shortly before we moved to Colorado.  She was too sick to come to my daughter’s high school graduation and I was angry she couldn’t be there…and felt guilty because I was celebrating while she was suffering.  A little over a year later, Linda died while I was in Florida attending a street lighting conference for work.  I was the only family member who was not with her in the end.  Bring on the guilt.

John 14:27 - Peace I leave with you, My peace I give you...

About five years ago, my brother-in-law and his fiancé were supposed to visit us for Christmas.  Instead, they stayed in Wisconsin because they were having furnace issues.  A few days after the new year began, Lorin died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his old farmhouse in Wisconsin.  If they would have come to Colorado instead, if I had insisted, I thought, he might be alive today.  Even though I had no control over his actions, I felt guilt over what might have been…but wasn’t.

Psalm 46:1 - God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble...

I feel guilt over a lot of things.  

Not being there for the death of family members is just the tip of the iceberg. I feel guilt when I don’t recognize the physical and emotional hurt of myself or others.  I feel guilt when I put my own self-care over attending to others. I feel guilt when I ignore my self-care and put other people’s needs over my own.  I feel guilt that I am not kind enough, compassionate enough, considerate enough.

Logically, I know I should not carry guilt over any of these feelings.  

But, logic doesn’t always triumph over emotion. It helps to remember that I am not in this alone.  It helps to remember that God is there to support me and give me peace.  That He wants me to give my burdens to Him and that He will take care of me.  But it is still hard. I want to be in control, but to be truly free I know I must give up that control to the Lord.

Psalm 56:3 - When I am afraid I put my trust in You...

And.. now...what?

I finished The Artist's Way several weeks ago.

Now I need to figure out how to use the insights I gained.  I don't want to go back to my old ways.  I don't want to go back to the days where creative endeavors were at the bottom of my list (if they made my list at all.)  I don't want to ignore my inner child artist by never doing anything silly and fun.  I don't want to lose the excitement I felt trying something new.

I want to be creative.

I still write my morning pages everyday like clockwork.  I find I enjoy putting my thoughts down on paper each day.  Which is funny, since I never saw myself as a person who kept a journal.  But, here I am, writing three pages every morning in my carefully chosen, brightly colored notebook.  I ramble on and on, putting what ever thoughts come into my head down on paper.  Sometimes I have tears streaming down my face while I write.  Sometimes I smile at fond memories.  Sometimes I write a to do list to clear my mind.  And sometimes I write insights on things I didn't realize were important to me.

It is so easy to let creativity fall by the wayside.

I stopped trying to learn how to play my ukulele.  I won't say I have given up completely, but it is no longer a daily priority.  Maybe this is not the right time.  Maybe I am letting that negative inner critic say it is not the right time.  I really don't know  what is going on.  But, I truly believe I will come back to it.  I will not box up this dream and put it on a shelf like I have so many other artistic endeavors.

I am still exploring what my inner child likes to do.

So, I will bring out my watercolors when the mood strikes me.  Strum a few chords when I notice my ukulele, laying forlorn and lonely in my "art room".  Write when I get the chance.  Look for a opportunity to sing.  Spend time with supportive friends.  Get some exercise.  Enjoy a good book.  Try something, anything, new.

The Artist's Way helped me rediscover some forgotten interests.

Now it is up to me to decide what I will do with that reawakening sense of creativity.  Do I let it wither away?  Or do I reach for the stars and see what happens?  Do I become complacent?  Or do I push myself?  Do I give up when I am not perfect?  Or do I remember the joy I felt trying something new?  Do I let my inner child artist out to explore and play?

We were all created to create.  I am trying hard not to forget that.

Past the Halfway Point

I am now well into the second half of The Artist's Way, finishing week nine of twelve.

This is the week in the program we are warned not to give up...on our recovery or our dreams.  Which is ironic, since this is the only week I have thought about quitting the book and all the work it entails.  Sometimes, this journey has been difficult.  It takes a real time commitment.  It is hard to do so much self examination.  Sometimes it hurts.

But, I will not give up now.

I thought this journey would result in my painting again.  It has not.  I spent one afternoon doodling with watercolor and called it an artist date.  I enjoyed the moment, but seem to have so many other things to do that are "more important".  I feel like I need a plan to paint and I don't have one.  I could just pull out my watercolors and play, but I don't.  How do I know if painting is worth my time?  There is no magic eight ball to tell me yes, give it a shot or no, not today.

Maybe we should do art just because we enjoy it and not worry about the rest.

I thought I would be writing more - and not just in my morning pages.  Instead, I find myself falling victim to the numbers.  Fewer and fewer people read my blog pages so I must not be a very good writer.  Therefore, I write less and less.  My inner critic loves this logic.  It ignores the fact that I post at odd times so most people have no idea I wrote a new blog.  It ignores the fact that this topic may have limited interest for my readers.  It ignores the fact that my friends say they enjoy reading my posts.  It ignores the fact that in order to be a writer one must write and write and write. Good or bad.

Fear of failure is a powerful deterrent.

The one thing I have done, which came totally out of the blue for me, is learn to play ukulele.  I find myself eagerly practicing most nights.  The time just flies by.  I am not very good yet.  I only know a few cords, no real strumming patterns, look at my hands a lot and have a hard time singing while playing.  But, I am hopeful.  YouTube is a wonderful teacher and provides tremendous encouragement to a beginner.

I want to learn to sing and accompany myself, a dream I gave up on long ago.

When I was young, my parents gave me an electric keyboard one Christmas.  I learned to play on my own and could plunk out a few one finger songs by ear.  We could not afford actual lessons.  I had a friend who played piano and she taught me the melody on a simple duet.  It was fun.  And I liked to sing.  I was in choir at church and in school.  My friends and family thought I sang well, but what did they know?  The "professional", my high school choir teacher, never gave me any encouragement and I figured he knew best.  Now, I am learning he was just one of many opinions.  He was not an expert, despite being an authority figure.

So, here I am back to my dreams of singing and performing and writing and painting.

Only this time, I am old enough, wise enough and have the resources to pursue my dreams as an adult.  I am learning an instrument.  I have a blog to write in.  I have the supplies to paint.  I have friends who are musicians, artists and writers.  They support me on these renewed interests I am unearthing.

So this week, I am not quitting.

I am not letting my fears get the best of me.  I will push my little artist, kicking and screaming, into a world where it it good to pursue artistic dreams.  And I will try to have more fun, allowing myself the grace to make mistakes, the freedom to be silly and the time to experiment.

I am letting myself be creative.

Artist Dates

The Artist's Way has two requirements - write in your morning pages every day and go on an artist date, by yourself, once a week.

I am really consistent with writing my morning pages.  It is part of my daily routine.  I get up, shower, get dressed, prepare a cup of coffee, make my bed and write.  I find I enjoy filling three pages with no predetermined theme.  I just let my mind flow onto the paper, knowing that no one will ever read these pages and potentially judge me.  It gives me a chance to let go, and I never let go.

It is kind of freeing.

I also noticed patterns.  I write about some consistent issues in the course of my morning pages.  Issues I need to act on.  And my morning pages make me think of random memories I had buried long ago.  Things from my childhood.  Things from my teenage years.  Things from my years as a young adult.  People who dismiss and limit my attempts at creativity.  People who support me.  Fears and uncertainties.  Hopes and dreams.  My rambling turns into insight.

Too bad I haven't figured out how to do the artist date.

It is so hard to set aside time to do something that is just for me.  Other activities on my to do list always seem more important, more productive and a more appropriate use of my time.  Artist dates are hard because I am programmed to worry about what others will think about me.  It is difficult  to justify doing something creative or silly when I have so many other things on my list.  I have to run to the store first, or make dinner, or go to Pilates, or anything else that will help me avoid this assignment.

So strange.

You would think the artist date is the one thing it would be easy to do.  It should be fun, not stressful. I can come up with lots of great ideas - go to the zoo, go to the Botanic Gardens, go to the Butterfly Pavilion, go to the Adams County History Museum, to to the Molly Brown house, go on a hike, go out for breakfast, just go.  I live in Colorado.  The state is full of opportunities.  And artist dates don't have to be complicated.  They can be as simple as painting a picture, doing a craft project, wandering around my favorite store, buying an ice cream cone, listening to a record, taking a walk, enjoying a hot cup of coffee on the deck and simply soaking in the scenery.  Really, going on an artist date means doing anything that is fun just for the sake of fun.  

Why is that so hard?

My little artist is bored and forgotten.  All we ever do are things I was going to do anyway.  We join together in my avoidance activities.  Things like watching TV or Netflix (any program will do), reading a book, cooking dinner, listening to a podcast.  When we could be doing something, anything, that will make us both joyful.  I guess I need to think of my little artist as an actual person separate from myself.  Maybe then I would take better care of her.

No Reading Allowed

No reading for a week.

You have got to be kidding me!   How can anyone not read for a full week?  That isn't even possible.  I have to read for work - sort of.  Okay, mostly I read emails while I work.  And occasionally check out random stories on the internet.  Somehow, I don't think work emails were what the author of The Artist's Way was referring to.  I believe the object was to not read for pleasure in my spare time.

What does giving up reading have to do with recovering a sense of identity?

Reading is such an integral part of my life, I could not believe I was to go a week without doing so.  And technically, I didn't.  I wanted to finish the silly bit of fluff book I was reading first.  A little selfish, a little defiant (for once in my life not blindly following directions), and maybe a little scared.  If I couldn't read, what would I do?

And that is the very challenge of not reading.

If I couldn't pick up a book that meant I had to find something else to fill my time.  I'd like to say I painted a picture, or sang a song, or even organized my closet.  But, nope.  Mostly I watched television.  And it was not even good television.  It was just a mindless time filler until the clock said I should get ready for bed.

Instead of all this creative energy pouring out of me...I watched TV.

This challenge put a spotlight on all I do to avoid letting my creativity loose.  For some reason, I am still afraid to get out there and try new, maybe crazy, activities.  Instead, I get lost in a book - someone else's artistry.  I watch television when I could be doing anything else.  I have yet to give myself permission to explore my creativity.

I am working on creating a space for myself.

I have a corner in my bedroom set up with a comfy chair and ottoman, surrounded by windows and flanked by an end table filled with my morning pages notebook, pens, some books, a pretty lamp and plenty of room for a steaming coffee mug.  But, it is not really private.  It works for contemplation, but not for creativity.  So, I also started to set up an artist space in one of our spare bedrooms.  It will be a space for me to retreat and experiment without interruption.  I will soon have a room in which to paint, sew, write, craft, learn an instrument or anything else I want to try.

My own private space...it's a beginning.

Recovering a Sense of Power

Week three of The Artist's Way was a difficult one for me.

Many of the weekly tasks had me spend time reflecting on my childhood and I have to admit, it was uncomfortable.  Don't get me wrong, my childhood was basically a normal, happy time.  I played make-believe for endless hours with my friends, laughed with my family as we played card games around the kitchen table, and discovered a love of reading.  I remember drawing copies of the sketches from the Art Institute ads in my mom's Reader's Digest magazines (you, too, can be an artist!), figuring out song melodies by ear on my little keyboard, and doing endless paint by number pictures.

I have many happy memories from my childhood.

But, I found myself stumped when asked to list five traits I liked about myself as a child.  I could only think of one.  What was up with that?  I really struggled with this and needed an extra day to complete the task of naming five.  I couldn't think of a single thing that I just listed in the previous paragraph.  It is so strange, I was basically a happy child, but had a real issue complementing myself.

Instead, all that came flooding into my head were the embarrassing, shame filled moments.

After my own consideration, along with some welcome insight from my daughter, I realized I was blocking my embarrassing memories at the expense of my creative self.  Kait paraphrased Brene' Brown who observed that if you "numb the dark, you numb the light."  When I buried my negative memories I was also burying my creative side.

I am not going to detail my embarrassing moments here.

Those are for me and my morning pages to hash out.  This week, however, helped me realize the importance of writing in my morning pages every day.  Not only did all the shameful memories pour out on to the paper, that process helped me let go of them.  I was able to took back with adult eyes and realize that I can give my childhood self some grace.  Funny how looking back without the shadows, I now realize I was creative and artistic as a child, I just forgot.

I can move on.

It is not an easy thing to do, forgive yourself for being a child who does childlike things, especially when you remember the negative reactions of others.  Whether it be a friends laughter at your expense or an adult's reprimand when you didn't realize what you did was considered wrong, it is important to forgive and let go of the negative memories.

I don't want to numb my creativity any longer.

Me and the neighborhood kids (I'm the tall one!)

Recovering a Sense of Identity

How do we recover our sense of identity?

For starters, we need to let go of our secret doubts.  You know, the little voice in your head who says:  That's not very good.  You are making a fool of yourself.  Grow up.  You will never have THAT kind of talent.  Who do you think you are?  Why even bother.  You don't have any spare time the way it is and now you want to do more?  Art is a waste of time, you should be doing something productive.  You are too old to be a beginning artist or writer or singer or musician or anything else creative.  What are you thinking?

Wow.  Where does all that negativity come from?

As young children we think we can do anything.  Each new discovery is exciting.  We want to try it all.  Have you ever heard a child say no to finger painting because they might not be good enough?  Or say no to banging on the piano because they can't read music?  Or fail to break into dance or sing along when their favorite song comes on?  To a child, no is the most dreaded word they could imagine.

How did we move from I'll try it all to Oh no, I couldn't?

I was a shy, gawky, little girl with thick glasses and buck teeth.  I was taller than most kids in my class, skinny as a rail, and wore my sister's hand me down clothes.  In the winter I stuffed my feet into bread bags that lined the inside of my boots, wore pants under my dresses to keep my legs warm and hoped I wouldn't outgrow my shoes until the new pair was purchased in the fall.  I walked to school every day.  If I ever ate at school because it was too cold to walk home, I had a bagged lunch.  

My family was somewhat poor, but I was pretty smart.

I was a top reader, good at math, and craved approval.  In my child's mind, when teachers realize you are book smart, you don't think they care about your artistic side.  I vaguely remember music and art classes, but that was not where I was encouraged.  I was encouraged to enter writing and speech contests, which I perceived as intellectual pursuits, not creative ones.  I don't really remember artistic creativity being a priority in grade school.  My school emphasized the three R's (Reading, wRiting, and aRithmatic).  

Move on to junior high school.

In junior high we were encouraged to take choir, band and/or an art class.  I took choir and art.  I got good grades in both, but don't remember anyone ever actively encouraging me in my more artistic endeavors.  I joined the Forensics team at a friends suggestion and enjoyed the one act plays and other presentations we did, but felt it was just another after school program for the "smart kids" instead of realizing how much this program actually nourished creativity. 

And then we enter high school.

I had to choose - art classes or choir.  I could not do both.  (To be fair, I don't think this was a school rule, but a rule I may have placed on myself.)   I was expected to go to college one day so naturally I had to take college prep courses.  So, for my one creative outlet, I chose music.  I enjoyed the class and our concerts, but the music teacher never really encouraged me as a singer.  I wasn't selected to be part of the Chamber Choir, I was relegated to the chorus in our high school musicals, and I enviously watched as my friends seemed to be recognized and encouraged by their art teacher.  

They were part of a secret society I was not invited to join.

So, I continued to sing in the background, virtually ignored my artistic yearnings, and took up writing for the yearbook while continuing to do readings as part of Forensics.  And even then, going to state as part of the Forensics team, I never felt I was as good as the other students I would listen to.  They were the true talents, not me.  I was just there because they needed someone with good grades to fill a spot.  As a senior, I was an editor of the yearbook, but again, thought I was only there because I got good grades.  I did copy and helped with layouts - the creative kids did photography.

After that, I just quit trying to do anything creative.

Those secret doubts have deep roots.  We need to consider people most important to us, both in our past and present.  The ones who helped determine what was expected from us, whether they realized it or not.  The people who frowned when our creativity didn't match their subjective standards.  The loved ones who kindly nudged us into a sensible major in college so we could have a productive career.  The people closest to us who neglect to positively recognize our efforts to live a creative life, maybe because they have their own fears to battle.

Insecurity is a bear to beat.  But, I am trying...

Thank you for the Music

Dear Pastor Jeff,

Many years ago, you turned around one Sunday morning, looked me in the eye, and asked if I wanted to be part of a new worship band you were putting together.  Why, I will never know.  You saw, or maybe heard, something you knew needed nurturing, encouragement, and community.

With my heart pounding wildly, I said yes.

The years I spent singing gospel music with the worship band at Glen Cary were some of the happiest I remember.  I loved that group of people - you, Carol B, Jim, Roy, John, Becky and Lisa.  We sang gospel songs, improvised harmonies, pushed out of our comfort zones, sang solo verses and duets, and I didn't want our time together to end.

I never thought I was good enough to sing in front of other people.

I never thought I was good enough when my friends and family asked me to sing at their weddings, when I sang solos in church musicals as a teen, even when someone would give me a complement on my singing.  I wanted to be confident in my talents, as good as people told me I was, but I never really believed it.  You told me it didn't matter what I thought, that music came from the heart.  No one expected perfection.  If we were loving what we did and had fun doing it, people would respond.

You were right.

I had fun and made special friendships.  I gained confidence. I wanted to sing and sing and sing.  We made a couple of CD's to share with family and friends.  Then one day you left and the band was never the same.  We lost that creative man who brought us new music, who experimented, who pushed us to try new things.  We lost our heart and soul.  And I pretty much stopped singing.

Now, I volunteer to cantor on occasion, but it is not the same.

I miss that gospel music we all used to sing.  I can still hear your riffs and improvisations, your encouragement and experimentation, even though you are no longer here.  I keep hoping another opportunity to sing gospel will pop up, one that will bring the same joy.  And it might.  I think I just need to pay attention, keep my heart open and be willing to say yes.

Thank you for everything,

Julie

Part of the process of rediscovering my creativity is recognizing those people who encouraged my insecure, budding artist.  Week one suggested writing a thank you note and mailing it to one of those people.  Since Pastor Jeff is now singing with that Gospel Band in Heaven (and Roy, no doubt), this will have to suffice.  

While I am not writing them a letter, I do have two other people I would like to recognize.  A special thanks to Mrs. Mushinski (sorry for the spelling, it is probably wrong), my sixth grade teacher, for encouraging us to think outside the box and be creative in all of our assignments.  And thank you to Mr. Richardson, who encouraged me to write and be part of the yearbook.  As you once told me, not everyone can say they published a book, but I could.

My Inner Artist - Morning Pages

My daughter gave me a book for Christmas called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron.  

I began to skim the introduction and realized this was not just a book to read casually, but a book on how to recover your lost creativity,  Along with insights by the author, it is a workbook full of daily and weekly tasks.  Some tasks, like the morning pages, are to be done consistently every day throughout the entire twelve week process.  Others are to be done once a week, and still others are tasks to be completed as part of a specific chapter.  At the end of each chapter there is a check-in to help determine how things went that week.  Instead of an easy read, this was going to be work!

Work that I decided to commit myself to do.

Over the next twelve weeks, you can follow me as I enter this journey to recover my creativity.  I will try to explain what I am doing and why.  My plan is to  highlight one aspect of my journey each week.  Part of the process is to learn to let go of my rigid habits and way of thinking, embracing the more creative side of me.  So, don't be upset if this initial plan changes.  I have a feeling evolution is inevitable!

To begin at the beginning, what are morning pages and why are they important?

Every day before I get on to my usual tasks, I am to hand write three pages of whatever comes into my head.  In preparation, I purchased a pretty notebook, consciously choosing the smaller steno size for this purpose.  As I grumbled through my first day of writing, though, I realized I chose a college ruled notebook instead of wide ruled.  Smaller pages, but no less writing.  Guess the joke was on me.

My first few days I grumbled a lot in my morning pages.

Funny thing about that grumbling, it made the rest of my day better.  I guess my morning pages got my complaints out of the way...  Why do I have to get up when it is still dark?  How can I write these pages without having to get up a half hour earlier? I have to get up too early!  I hate getting up when it is still dark...

Who knew I had so much negativity?

I think the grumbling is part of the process.  Once I got that out of the way, I found my next days pages were not so focused on the negative.  I found myself rambling on and on.  Some thoughts were important but most were seemingly insignificant.  There was no rhyme or reason to what I wrote, no plan.  Which, now that I think about it, is probably part of the rebirth process.

I am such a planner that writing random thoughts in no particular order is totally out of character.

Some days, I was using my morning pages to unconsciously work out problems.  My pages are giving me insight into what I really want...what I enjoy...and what I don't.  Other days I started out writing about a specific memory, but it quickly evolved into something totally different.  Part of the rules of morning pages is not to re-read what you wrote (at least not until the book instructs you to).  So, there is no way to go back and second guess my previous days pages.  Or to be embarrassed by what I wrote.  Probably a good thing.

Surprisingly, I have been consistent about writing my morning pages each day.

The pages force me to think ahead: get my lunch packed the night before, decide what I will wear before I stare down the clothes in my closet, and get out of bed early enough to write without worrying I will be late for work or whatever thing I am committed to do.  They clear my head and get me ready to start a new day without endless worries bogging me down.  Even if I start with nothing in mind I always manage to fill three pages.  My daughter thinks I sound more positive when we talk.  And, I actually feel more upbeat than I have in a long time.

I guess I am off to a good start!