Challenging fears

A woman once told me she never made left turns when she drove. “Never?” I asked incredulously. “Never,” she affirmed. “That must be somewhat limiting,” I remember saying.

I suppose we all have things that limit us.

One of mine is a fear of heights which I discovered when I climbed to the top of a pyramid near Mexico City. Getting to the top was no problem, but when I turned to go down and realized there was no handrail, I was paralyzed by fear. Someone offered me a hand, but I could not force myself to take that first step, and finally had to butt-walk down the steps.

Anyway, I thought of the woman who never made left turns when I was expressway driving four evenings last week, including two airport runs, one during rush hour.

Driving long distances is not my favorite thing to do, but it is one of those things that is a measure of my confidence level. When I was younger, I drove by myself from Philadelphia to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, more than 1,600 miles each way—and I did that trip several times. Last fall, I drove to northern Michigan, about 250 miles each way, which is a more manageable trip for me now.

I was somewhat fearless in my youth, and hopefully I have gained enough wisdom to know what is prudent to do versus what is just plain foolish. What I don’t want to do, though, is to limit myself because of irrational fears.

I like to travel and am perfectly willing to travel by myself, by car or plane.

A few years ago, I went to the Cotswolds by myself, and the first day I went hiking, I realized it was foolish to come without a cell phone or trekking sticks—not out of some irrational fear, but rather because it is more prudent to carry a phone and stick.

I don’t watch the news on tv, but I hear enough to know that lots of fearmongering goes on—from the news snippets I hear on the car radio and the mailings I get for security systems and identity theft protection.

Crime happens everywhere, and in our country, it seems that one is as likely to get shot in a school as almost anywhere else.

Agreeing to the nonprofit fundraiser dance a few months ago helped me see how I had been putting limitations on my life, because my dance lessons were in the evenings and some nights dancing didn’t start until 8:30, which is when I am usually settling in with my knitting or a book. I had to challenge myself to go out at night.

I am glad I did because a whole new world has opened to me, one I would have missed if I had insisted on my being home by dark.

I want to keep challenging irrational fears so that I am living my life to the fullest, and trusting that the best is yet to come.

Should I stay or should I go?

The first reading for Tuesday’s Mass was Acts 16:22-34. The story is about Paul and Silas being arrested, beaten and jailed. During the night, “there was such a severe earthquake that the foundations of the jail shook; all the doors flew open and the chains of all were pulled loose.”

Two things caught my attention. The first is that even after the doors flew open and the chains were pulled loose, Paul and Silas stayed in the jail.

The second is that the jailer slept through the earthquake (“When the jailer woke up….”)

As I imagined this scene, I wondered if I would have stayed as Paul and Silas did or would I have run to freedom.

That provoked remembering other times when I have been faced with the question, Should I stay or should I go?

That question has arisen in relationships, work and volunteer involvement, and I thought about what helped me decide whether to stay or go.

Sometimes it was a commitment I had made that I felt I needed to keep, even though circumstances had changed and what had initially seemed good had become unhealthy. I have often stayed in jobs and in relationships long past the time when I should have left, but I have a strong sense of loyalty that can override common sense.  

Would I have slept through an earthquake so powerful the doors flew open? I hope not, but as I reflected on those times that I stayed when it would have been better to go, I wondered if I was in some kind of sleep, perhaps caused by denial.

I admit I can be clueless. Like the time I was planning to marry someone who was cheating on me. I didn’t know he was cheating but how did I miss the signs? Asleep like the jailer?

My most recent conundrum has been with my church, which I joined when I moved here ten years ago. I like my parish and have been comfortable there. But about three years ago, there was an issue with my donation record—more than half of my donations did not make it to my annual report. I followed the proper steps to rectify the issue (hoping that it was a data-entry error and not a misappropriation issue).

Having worked in the nonprofit sector, I know the importance of correct donation recording and reporting.

I gave the pastor a printout of my bank statement showing all my contributions, so all he had to do was issue a corrected letter with the dates I had provided, but he did not. I stopped contributing but was left feeling dissatisfied and distrustful.

The pastor is beyond retirement age and in poor health. He is wobbly and will not use a cane; and I have seen him fall. Throughout Mass I am preoccupied with his unsteadiness, and I leave Mass unsettled and irritated—and asking myself why I stay.

Should I stay or should I go?

I have decided to go.

Living the questions

I have been trying to pay closer attention to the questions that resonate with me. Recently, I read what defines you? and that question keeps coming back to me.

What does define me? Is it my faith? My values and beliefs? The actions that spring from my faith, values and beliefs?

I was recently nominated for the Athena Award, and I was deeply honored. The Award is for a woman who supports other women in their professional lives.

I thought about the person who nominated me and what she saw in me that was worthy of the nomination.

At the Award luncheon, I chatted with the woman sitting next to me. She had heard me speak at another event and asked about my life and the challenges I have faced.

I found myself telling her about my going-away party when I left Pennsylvania ten years ago, and how people approached me throughout the evening and thanked me for something I had done for them. Many times, I could not even recall the incident they referred to, and I became aware as the night went on how honored I felt to have been asked for help, honored to be entrusted with someone’s struggle, honored to walk a part of someone’s journey.

As I recalled that party, I was filled with gratitude for the people who have touched my life, and I realized that gratitude is one of the things that defines me.

I didn’t win the Athena Award, but being nominated was a wonderful acknowledgement of how I have lived my life. And then recalling my Pennsylvania going-away party and the things people said to me was icing on the cake.

I think that another thing that defines me is that I have overcome the challenges of my younger life and remain open to helping others overcome their challenges.

Yesterday, I had lunch with a friend and her new grandbaby. My friend commented on how I was with the baby, and I admit I can be very silly when I am around children. I want them to know that I delight in them, in their smiles and laughs, and that I desire their happiness. Joy is something that defines me. I delight in babies, nature, beauty, art, food—really all of creation. I believe we were created to live joyfully—even when life is difficult.

I remember when my friend Jim had brain cancer, we laughed about something every day—and we were grateful for every day.

Another thing that defines me is that I try to live my life with nothing to fear, nothing to prove and nothing to hide. This intention is a main part of my spiritual life, a key to living in dependence on God. I set this intention more than thirty years ago, and it is a goal that continues to challenge me and help me move toward greater freedom. Living this way leads to letting go and living a life of transparency.

What defines you?

Do you have a method for writing?

Several people have asked me recently about my writing method. Writing method? I don’t think so.

But, upon reflection, I can see that I probably do have a method, although it may be somewhat unorthodox.

It started when I was a child, maybe ten or eleven, when I got a diary, one of those hard-cover books with lined pages and a lock. I poured out my deepest hopes and fears on those pages, until the day my older brother found it, broke the lock and read it. From then until my twenties, I did not commit anything personal to paper. I kept writing, but only in my mind.

In my twenties, I began journaling, but I was still cautious about what I wrote down—in case there was a repeat of the diary episode. I was still processing my deepest hopes and fears, but they didn’t make it to paper; I wrote about deeper issues in my mind.

At some point, I realized that I was constantly writing in my mind, creating content that would never be committed to paper. Most anything could spark a reflection which became an essay.

 It wasn’t until my late forties that I actually wrote and submitted an essay for publication.

At lunch, sharing this with my friend, I said, “I can write about most anything,” and then, picking up a bottle of water from the table, I said glibly, “even this bottle of water.”

The next day, the bottle of water came back to me, and I wondered if, in fact, a water bottle could be a writing prompt. Then I remembered this:

At Easter Sunday Mass, the priest used a peace lily as a visual aid. He shared that this plant had come into his life his first week as pastor, twenty-seven years ago. He has divided and repotted it several times over the years, but the real key to keeping it healthy is that once a week, he fills a bottle with water and pours it into the plant.

He analogized the weekly watering of this plant with tending to our spiritual life. I realized he was mainly speaking to those people who only come to church on Easter and Christmas, but his homily made me think of how I tend to my spiritual life.

Before meeting for lunch with my friend last week, I had seen my spiritual director for our monthly meeting, one way I tend to my spiritual life. Once a year, I go on a retreat for a more in-depth watering of my spirit. Daily prayer, weekly church attendance, monthly spiritual direction and annual retreat, four components of how I tend my spirit.

And reflection—whether I am walking, knitting, baking or gardening—any quiet time can provide quality reflection time.

How about you? How do you tend your spiritual life? And do you have a particular writing method?

So, Megan, yes, even a water bottle can be the prompt for a reflection. This one is for you.

Moving outside my comfort zone

Me, ballroom dancing in front of 630 people was outside my comfort zone, way outside, and I had surprised myself by saying yes to the invitation to participate in a dancing competition as part of a nonprofit fundraiser.

In my work life, I have spoken to audiences of up to 1000 people, but giving a talk and dancing are two different things.

I had fifteen years of practice speaking to smaller crowds before I spoke to 1000 people.

I had about fifteen hours of lessons before dancing in front of 630 people.

The morning of the event, nerves on edge, I asked myself, “What was I thinking when I said yes to this?” But it was too late to back out, and so I went through with it.

In keeping with my theme for the year to be like St. Joseph, I want to be open to the surprises life brings. I believe God is asking me to step outside my comfort zone, to take risks, to allow myself to feel vulnerable, to remember that God holds me—God has this.

After my friend Jim died in 2012, my co-workers encouraged me to watch Dancing with the Stars because it was fun and beautiful. I got hooked. For the next ten years I watched the show, and whenever I heard a song I liked, I would say, “When I am on Dancing with the Stars, I am going to dance to that song.”

But when, during my first dance lesson at Arthur Murray Studio, my dance instructor asked what song I wanted to dance to for our local version of DWTS, my mind went blank. “Something fast,” I said, but I could not recall one song title.

He started to teach me some basic ballroom dance steps and then a song popped into my mind: I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack. When my instructor played it, I knew that was the one because it fits into my theme of Be like Joe, and it also reminds me of a woman I worked with at the cancer support center.

Shonece Leonard was a cancer survivor and a Zumba instructor. She loved to dance and died unexpectedly two years ago almost to the date when I would be dancing.

In that way that random things sometimes coalesce, not only would I be dancing a week from the anniversary of her death, but the venue is around the corner from where Shonece lived and down the street from the senior center where she taught Zumba.

At her memorial service, her Pastor had read the words to I Hope You Dance, and every time I hear that song, I think of Shonece. She faced many challenges with grace, hope and optimism, and she inspired me.

It all fit together and made me feel as if Shonece would be with me in spirit as I stepped outside my comfort zone and onto the dance floor, knowing that she would be cheering me on.

Dancing queen

“You are so brave,” and “I couldn’t do that,” were the most common reactions when I told people that I was going to participate in a dance competition as part of a nonprofit fundraiser.

Turning Point is a resource center for survivors of domestic abuse/sexual violence, and I have been a Survivor Speaker for them for the past two years. I know how important their services are, and I am happy to be able to share my story to help their cause.

Turning Point’s annual fundraising dinner features Stepping Out With the Stars, a dance competition that pairs a professional dancer from the local Arthur Murray Dance Studio with someone who is involved with Turning Point (called the Star). This year, there were five star dancers.

For the past two years, I have attended this fundraiser and watched the dancing competition.

Last fall, when I received the email invitation to be one of the Star dancers, I waited a few days before responding, asking myself if I could be brave enough to perform a ballroom dance in front of hundreds of people. Could I risk public humiliation if I wasn’t a good dancer or if I forgot my steps?

I decided to accept the invitation because I believe so strongly in Turning Point’s mission and because I know that real courage is what it takes to walk away from an abuser or to report a rapist, to ask for help and to survive. The courage it takes to dance pales in comparison.

Preparation included dance lessons with one of the instructors at our local Arthur Murray Dance Studio, who choreographed the dance and taught me the steps.

I have never taken ballroom dancing lessons, so everything was new to me. At the beginning of the first lesson, my instructor explained the rules of ballroom dancing. Rule one—the man leads. Oh, oh, I thought. We are in trouble. Being led does not come easy for me.

That first lesson, my instructor repeatedly said, you took the lead. and initially I disagreed, but soon I could see he was right. I kept trying to take the lead. He suggested I close my eyes, and that helped.

During the second lesson, my instructor explained the foot positions of ballroom dancing, and I came home and printed out footprints and placed them on the floor in the correct positions so I could practice.

Then I went to as many lessons as I could and also found other opportunities to practice ballroom dancing, even if it was not my routine. I just thought that the more practice I could get, the better prepared I would be.

I wanted to try my hardest to do a good job because the instructor was volunteering his time to support Turning Point, and I wanted to honor his commitment of time and effort.

The event was last Friday, and I was the first to dance. Family and friends came, and I felt very supported.

I felt quite brave.

Waiting to be introduced to the crowd of 630 people

Have you ever been to Charleston, SC?

For twenty years, Charleston, SC, has been on my travel wish list, and I finially visited this past week. The Festival of Houses and Gardens was in full swing, and I attended two events–a harbor history tour and a lunch/lecture on the gardens of Charleston.

On a walking tour the first day, I learned about the history of Charleston and archeticture of the houses and commercial buildings. It will take me a while to process all that information, but what immediately attracted my attention were the flowers in boxes and planters. Here are a few.

Making new friends

“You always have to be making new friends,” a friend said the other day. This friend was one of the first people I met when I moved to Michigan ten years ago; we become friends and have remained friends.

Her observation stems from some recent changes in her life—a life-long friend moved out of state, and another died—and the holes that those kinds of big changes create.

I relate to her recent experience because when I moved here, I needed to make new friends.

Making new friends requires an openness on both sides—as the new person, I need to put myself out there and be willing to try new things; and the people I am meeting need to be willing to create a space for me in their lives.

When I moved here, I tried to keep my expectations of others realistic because I knew everyone I was meeting already had full lives. I was the one who was looking for new friends, so I had to be willing to be flexible and adapt to the ways of new people. I had brought with me an understanding that it would take time to build new relationships and that no one owed me anything; I was willing to put in the time and effort necessary to create a new life.

Above all, I was grateful to and for every person who created a space for me, who reached out to me, who invited me and included me. I have been so fortunate over these past ten years to have been befriended by so many warm and welcoming people.

My friend’s comment the other day was in response to my telling her about a new friend I met on my trip last fall and how this new friend and I are planning a trip together.

One of the gifts of travel, especially on a tour, is meeting like-minded people. We share a love of travel, and shared interests are a good starting point for friendship.

New friends offer many gifts, including the invitation to look at myself through new eyes.

I remember one of the men on my tour last spring saying to me, “I don’t imagine that you are afraid of anything.”

“You don’t know me,” I replied, and I thought of some of the things I fear—starting with my fear of disappointing people and moving through my fears about being out of control and feeling vulnerable. This man, who did not know me well, saw my strength, but he did not see how my strong personality can be a mask for my insecurities.

His comment, though, made me more aware of the masks I wear and was an invitation to make myself vulnerable. I shared some of my story with him.

We often become comfortable with our current state of friendships and are rocked when something changes—a move or death or divorce. Being open to making new friends along the way can create a cushion.

Grateful for you

Ten years ago this month, I started this blog; my dashboard says I have posted 668 times. At the beginning, I committed to posting once a week. A few years ago, my spiritual director suggested I try writing poetry, and I added a second weekly post. Recently, I have been sharing pictures of my garden and reflections from my travel.

I like that my blog has evolved and continues to evolve, that I can be free enough to let the Spirit lead me, because that is how it feels—like I am being led in what I write and share.

Before I published my first piece, I sent it to a friend who was a newspaper editor and asked for his advice. He said that people want to read what is real and raw. He encouraged me to hit “publish,” and I did. Those first few months, I asked for his approval before each posting, until finally he told me I didn’t need his approval and I should just publish.

Several times over the years, I have thought of stopping, because of other commitments in my life or because I was tired of the discipline of writing/posting each week, but every time I entertained those thoughts, someone would reach out to tell me how helpful my writing was. So, I continued.

Writing and sharing requires courage. I have shared many personal parts of my life—my grief when someone has died, my history of abuse, my prayer life, my spiritual journey, my loves (travel, gardening, reading, knitting, etc.); and each time I share something that feels “private” (or as my friend Ted would say, “too private”), I have felt freer.

My life goal is to have nothing to fear, nothing to prove and nothing to hide. This blog has moved the needle and helped me become more transparent. It is because I have shared so much here that I was able to become a Survivor Speaker at our local domestic abuse/sexual assault resource center.

I have overcome many challenges and obstacles in my life and have come through them all with a deep sense of gratitude. I feel so blessed, even by the adversity, because through adversity, I have come to know my own resilience.

One of the greatest gifts of blogging, and one I did not expect, is the connection with other bloggers. Before I began, it did not occur to me that I would get to know people from around the world who share their thoughts, photos, hobbies and passions. Yet I have a feel for so many of you. I know I don’t have the whole picture, in the same way you are only getting a slice of who I am, but I am grateful for what you share, for your willingness to put yourselves out there.

Writing this blog has helped me see strengths I did not know I possessed, and your comments have helped me persevere. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

True love lasts a lifetime

True love lasts a lifetime, Emma Thompson declares in Love Actually, (my second favorite movie) referring to her love of Joni Mitchell, a love I share.

My favorite movie, though, is Dirty Dancing, and I have loved it since it was first released in 1987. Dancing-in-the-basement was part of my teen years in my working-class neighborhood in Detroit, and, well, Patrick Swayze as a dancing, working-class hero hooked me.

Soon after the movie was released, a woman I knew through work wanted me to apply for a job in Atlanta, where she lived. Atlanta didn’t particularly attract me, but this woman had grown up in Houston, near Patrick Swayze, and had taken dance classes with Patrick’s mother. She actually knew Patrick Swayze!

I said that if she could arrange lunch with Patrick I would move to Atlanta (my decision-making criteria was fairly superficial). She could not pull that off, but a few months later, this picture arrived in the mail.

The inscription is faded; it reads “To Madeline, Best wishes, Patrick Swayze.”

I was in heaven. A signed photo from Patrick Swayze. I have carried this picture with me through all my moves and placed it on my desk at every job. True love does last a lifetime.

All of this came back to me when I was in Lucca, Italy, buying a scarf at Zazzi Dalamano. Vladimir is one of the company’s owners, and he was in the store the day I bought my scarf. When Vladimir discovered I was from Michigan, he gasped and said his favorite singer is from Michigan.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Madonna,” he said, with a sigh that reminded me of how I say Patrick Swayze’s name—somewhat dreamy and wistful.

The person I was travelling with, also from Michigan, actually lived near Madonna and went to the same high school although not at the same time. This information brought another gasp from Vladimir—his connection to Madonna had just gotten closer.

He then told us the story of how he has loved Madonna since he was eleven years old and how he took the train to Rome (about three hours away) to see Madonna in concert when he was eleven. He didn’t say he used his First Communion money, but where else would an eleven-year-old get money to buy a train ticket and a concert ticket?

Anyway, he told his mother he was going to Rome to see Madonna, and she didn’t believe him. I can imagine her rolling her eyes and saying, “Of course you are going to take the train to Rome to see Madonna,” her voice dripping with skepticism.

But he did it, and he has not missed a Madonna concert since then.

I offered to try to connect with Madonna and have her visit his store the next time she is in Italy.

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” he said. “I would have a heart attack and die if Madonna walked into my store.”

Okay, then, I will try to get a signed picture.

True love does last a lifetime.