Something

It is so easy to want to retaliate. To reciprocate with like for like. To strike back in order to defend ourselves in the moment. To give tit for tat. It isn’t a good tactic, but it sure feels like one at the time.

This morning over coffee, we had one of those moments. One of us brought something up. The other shared the frustration that “something” surfaced for them. Which then led the first person to bring up a different “something” that had caused them frustration in the past. Most recently the day before, although they hadn’t mentioned it at the time. Which meant that because it wasn’t expressed as a separate “something” then, it became tangled up with the other “something” now. All of a sudden the “somethings” and the frustrations around them were coiled up together, making it more difficult to actually get the to “somethings” that were asking to be addressed.

Thinking back to this morning it occurs to me that like every messy interaction that comes with every close relationship, there is wisdom to be found in the midst of the tangle. For instance, if I feel something, say something. Maybe not right at that moment, as sometimes a deep breath, a walk down the road, or a good night of sleep can clarify, simplify, and soften the message so that it can be expressed with respect and received with grace. It is such good, and yes, hard, practice to "say what isn’t being said”, because that’s usually where the truth hides out.

As the day and our conversation continued, we got back on track to address our respective “somethings”. And that’s nothing if not something to feel good about, especially considering that neither of us got rattled.

The Pushback

Well, just when you think you have it all figured out, you find out that you don’t.

If you read my last piece, Here’s My Card, you’ll know that I created a new business card. Not so much as a way to market myself, but to introduce myself. The me, myself, and I that is now 70 years old.

In that blog I make no bones about the fact that I’m not a fan of the camera. It’s the rare photo of myself that I like, which means that every time another photo op comes along, I’m already tense and pretty sure it’ll quickly become another deleted photo. Which it often does. It’s a vicious cycle that’s been hard to break.

In real life, not in front of the camera, I actually think I’m pretty cute. Beautiful, even. I walk through life, into a room, or up onto a stage with confidence. Confidence in who I am, what I bring, and, how I look. But bring in a camera, and all bets are off. It’s like, “Wait, that’s not how I look.”

The blog was waiting for subscribers to my newsletter when they woke up this morning. My eldest daughter texted me about what I had written. She wanted to push back against what she had read. Her text brought me to tears as she talked about how she sees me. In her eyes, I’m beautiful. Always have been, always will be. Even when my hair was permed. (That might be taking it a little too far. If I was meant to have curly hair I would have been born with it.)

After our text exchange, she followed up with a Marco Polo. I learned three things from her beautiful, honest, and insightful message:

Even though she no longer lives in my home, she’s still paying attention.

We are always modeling what it looks like to the generation behind us. More than anything I want them to see what it looks like to age with grace. To embrace the changing face in the mirror with love and respect, wrinkles and all. To fiercely tend to the needs of a body not meant to live forever. To laugh at ourselves because it’s good medicine for whatever ails us at any age. To look through the camera and connect to the people on the other side of the photo.

It’s time to make friends with the camera, because every photo captures an irreplaceable moment in a never-to-be-repeated life.

How we talk about ourself matters.

Our thoughts create our words. Our words create our stories. When we tell our stories, others are listening. What is the story I want others to hear? If, as I profess to believe, that we are all created in the image of God, then every single one of us is beautiful in our own unique way. And that includes me.

It’s time to talk to and about myself as one who reflects the beauty of the One who made her.

Deeply rooted stories require uprooting.

My daughter reminded me that my dad feared old age. He fought it. He denied it. He made some of us a little miserable in our efforts to love and support him well as his time on the planet grew shorter. I wonder if my apple doesn’t fall too far from his tree. There isn’t a ready answer to that question. Maybe yes, maybe no, probably a little bit of both. Regardless, there’s still plenty of time to do something about it.

It’s time to dig in, dig out, and cultivate a better story. A more accurate story. A story that I want my children to be able to tell their children about who I was, how I lived, and, how I left.

Like I said, just when you think you have it all figured out, you don’t. Which is why we need people in our lives who love us enough to push back.

Going First

One Friday afternoon in February I sat down to watch a virtual keynote I’d recently delivered to a live leadership development event. While the message was good, my delivery was anything but. I certainly wouldn’t have been inspired by me if I was watching me. Granted, it was the day after the sudden death of my brother, and I knew I could give myself a pass for that. But even still. The energy, juice and mojo that usually characterize my work were missing. Were they gone for good? Could I get them back? Was I losing my relevance?

The following Monday I wrote an email to two friends about the experience of watching myself in sub-par action. The three of us have had a standing monthly virtual meeting for several years now, and together have created a safe space where we can show up in whatever state we find ourselves. Once I started my email to them, the words wouldn’t stop. Lump in my throat, I uncovered a fear that has been lurking inside for some time, and the longer it lurks, the stronger its grip.

Re-reading what I had written, it felt so raw, so real, and so exposed, that I was tempted to hit delete.

I hit send instead.

“As much as I believe in the beauty of aging, and the importance of doing everything I can to be the very best, most vibrant, strong, wholehearted, and attractive me possible, and of being an example of what real aging looks like to my daughters and the world at large, it is a lot easier said than done when it's me staring back at me.”

Both friends got back to me in short order. Not with words about why I shouldn’t feel that way, or to boost my confidence, but with gratitude for having told the truth, and inviting a conversation they were eager to have and in need of themselves.

Putting my experience into words and sharing them loosened fear’s grip, and paved the way for me to find a new interpretation of an old story. Rather than sliding into irrelevance with each new trip around the sun, I am being invited to step into my role as a teacher of the well and hard earned wisdom collected along my way. I can even say that I’m (mostly) looking forward to bringing my communication skills to a new kind of stage.

As it turned out, after watching the video, one of those same friends left me a voice mail that brought us both to tears. While my message might not have been delivered in the visual way I would have wished, she said that she couldn’t take notes fast enough on what I’d shared, and it paved her way for a new interpretation of an old story too.

That’s what happens when we tell the truth.

What happens is that we find out that we are not alone.

What happens is that we give other people permission to tell the truth too.

What happens is that we start a conversation where it is safe to tell the truth, which in the long run, is the only kind of conversation worth having.

Ours is an if-you-show-me-yours maybe I-will-show-you-mine kind of culture. It simply feels too risky to go first, and so usually, no one does. Better safe, isolated with our own fear, pain and insecurity, than risk being sorry to have shared them at all. It’s a vicious cycle. One that can only be broken when someone dares to go first.