Too Good Not To Share

re-spon-si-ble

having an obligation to do something, or care for someone, as part of one's job or role

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Especially during COVID, staying connected matters more than ever. Thanks to technology we can still meet, gather, collaborate, celebrate, learn, remember, worship, and share a meal or bottle of wine together. We can work with a therapist, doctor, coach, personal trainer, or spiritual director, all from the comfort of our home office, closet, car, or tree fort.

As good as all that connecting is, sometimes it’s just too much.

Our devices ring and ding and vibrate, alerting us that someone somewhere is reaching our way, and we, or at least I, feel responsible to answer right there and then. It’s as if not picking up the phone, responding to the text, joining the video call, or answering the email immediately communicates that I don’t care. That that person isn’t a priority, and as someone who values connection and relationships above all else, I never want to convey that. Ever. And yet I have this fear that I do.

This was the quandary I brought to a monthly video conversation with my spiritual director. One of his many gifts is his practice of parsing words. He will take a word apart, maybe switch a letter of two, all in the service of looking at it in a new and more helpful way. In this case, rather than feel responsible to answer the phone or respond to the text, decide if, in that moment, I am response-able to do so.

Do I have the emotional capacity, at the time, to respond with the best of myself? Is my tank, at the time, empty, full, or somewhere in between? Do I have what it takes, at the time, to be fully present? In that moment, am I responsible or response-able to answer? It isn’t about not responding. It’s about responding well.

Some things are simply too good not to share.

(Once again, a grateful shout out to Dane Anthony.)

Photo by Wendy Wei from Pexels

With, At, or For?

Last week I made a stop at Target before heading back up the Columbia River Gorge and home. I needed a few groceries, a couple of bottles of wine, paper towels, and for good measure and an alert drive home, a Nitro-Brew With Sweet Cream from the Starbucks on my way out.

They didn’t have any of the groceries I needed, the wine selection was subpar at best, so I consoled myself as I checked out with my paper towels that at least I’d be able to enjoy my caffeinated beverage of choice on the drive home. Except they didn’t serve Nitro-brew at that Starbucks. I might have given the barista a dirty look.

Leaving the parking lot, my Irish-throated Siri told me to turn left, but I was pretty sure he’d gotten his directions mixed up, so I told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. Turning right onto the road I reached into my jeans pocket to grab my Visa card (since I no longer carry a handbag into stores thanks to COVID) and put it back into my wallet. Except it wasn’t there. At the next stop light I frantically checked all of my pockets, the floor of the car, my wallet in case I’d forgotten that I’d already put it away, since forgetting things seems to be my latest new skill.

I thought I was going to explode.

Our credit card was compromised a couple of weeks ago and I’d just spent the better part of a day linking the replacement card to all of the necessary merchants and auto-pay accounts, and the thought of having to do it again was enough to do me in. I screamed at the top of my lungs, pulled a u-turn, yelled at every stop light between me and the Target parking lot, and prayed—well more like yelled at God as if it were Her fault—that by some miracle could I please f-ing find my card on the pavement where I’d parked. Which I didn’t.

Stomping back into Target I had to turn around because I’d forgotten my mask. I stomped back to the car, masked up (I’m a believer) and stomped back inside. Where, in short order, my credit card, which had been turned in by a kindly stranger, was safely in my possession. My little tantrum paid off, it just wore me out.

These days I can get so mad so fast that it makes my head spin. Like a Tesla, I can go from 0-60 in 2.3 seconds, and I never know what is going to set me off. If there were Anger Management Cops handing out tickets, I could wallpaper a room with them.

I’m not the only one either. Almost everyone I know is talking about it too. There are plenty of reasons to be majorly pissed off right now, and it can feel really good to be angry with someone or about something. But it’s exhausting too. Every eruption lets off just enough steam to keep going. Until the next outburst.

In the last conversation with my spiritual director, I told him about all of this anger that seems to come out of nowhere and spill out everywhere. As is his way, he let some silence sit between us before asking “I wonder, Molly, what you are angry for?”

What?

Not angry with.

Not angry at.

Angry for.

And just like that I knew what I was angry for, and what I could do about it.

Anger for is a different kind of animal than that which is with or at.

Anger for doesn’t erupt at, but energizes towards. It motivates us to fight for what we want, not against what we don’t. Rather than explode and cause harm, it exposes what is calling for our help. Anger for shines a light on what is missing, which is the first breadcrumb on the path to finding it.

Anger can get a bad rap. We’re taught to push it down, hold it in, or lock it up. Until we can’t. Which is when we get wrapped around the anger axle and take it out in all the wrong ways for all the wrong reasons.

What are you angry for?

Whatever it is, it’s worth fighting for.