Only Connect

My TEDx experience was deep and wide.  Over the next few weeks I will share some of my ah-ha moments with you.  

On Sunday, two days before the big event, I gave my talk to a group of about 15 people. My body tingled as I embodied the emotions associated with the different parts of my talk.  A part of me stepped outside of myself and observed myself feeling the emotions.   After I gave my talk, I had another engagement I had to hurry to.  When I left the room with my family, I came back into my body which was filled with the anger, the sadness and the joy I had just embodied.

On Monday, I walked the labyrinth and connected with the purpose of my talk, understanding that my message flows through me, but is not about me.  Though I talk about forgiveness by sharing my story, Forgiveness is the main event, not me.

Tuesday.  The big day.  All the speakers gathered in the theater for a last pep talk.  I listened as the organizers and some of the speakers oozed support and love.  I soaked it in.  I felt a deep connection with each of these people and yet I barely know them.  We were connected by our unified vision to share our individual messages and our willingness to do so with honesty, vulnerability, and authenticity. There was no other way to do this.  We sat in the dimly lit theater affirming, in each others’presence, how precious this moment was.

After lunch; it was almost time.  I listened to a few speakers before it was my turn to leave the theater and put on my microphone.  After it was attached behind my ear, I shut my eyes.  I thought back to Sunday when I felt so open and honest giving my talk.  I remembered walking the labyrinth on Monday and connected again with my message of Forgiveness.  I held the confidence that I knew my talk inside and out.  My mind and spirit were ready.

My body, on the other hand, was betraying me.  My heart was pounding so hard I thought it was going to explode out of my chest.  I found a quiet place to talk to myself.  “Okay primitive brain, you’re okay.  No danger here.  Everyone out there wants me to succeed.  All is well.”  My heart continued its incessant pounding.   I didn’t understand.  I’ve given speeches to crowds twice as big as this one.  I was prepared.  I was confident. The drumming of my heartbeat reverberated in my ears.  My mouth became so dry I could hardly swallow.  I took small sips of water.  When there was just a minute to go until I was introduced, I tapped my wrist with my fingers, trying desperately to calm my body down.

I staggered as I stepped up onto the stage.  My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my mouth.   I stood in the center of the red carpet.

And then I heard someone talking.  The woman speaking after me was in the hallway practicing her talk, but her microphone had accidentally been turned on.  A sudden burst of hustle and bustle as the stage crew tried to turn off her mic and figure out why mine wasn’t working.

I stood alone on stage.  I looked up at the audience and we all laughed.

We just laughed.

My heart, filled with the loving connection I felt from the crowd, immediately slowed down into its natural rhythm. The laughter dissipated my fear and led me right into fear’s opposite:  love.

I continued standing there, waiting.  And, awkward though the moment was, I felt peaceful.  I took a few deep breaths and was filled with gratitude for that serendipitous moment which allowed me to connect with the audience, to connect with the loving energy of forgiveness.

Trusting

My TEDx talk is in two days. Two days.

The butterflies are starting to swarm in my gut.  When I imagine myself on the stage, bright lights piercing my eyes and an audience looking at me ready and expectant, my tummy does a flip flop and my breathing becomes shallow.

The word that keeps coming to mind when I feel like this is Trust.

When I walked the labyrinth this morning I realized that whatever I say on Tuesday is what needs to be said and whatever isn’t said on Tuesday does not need to be said.  I am practicing and I feel prepared.  AND I trust that whatever I say on Tuesday is what needs to be said.  (Yep, I had to type that twice to have it really sink in).

I invite you to think about how Trust - or lack of it - shows up in your life today.  I'd love to hear.

Story telling

Over the past couple of weeks, I've practiced my TEDx talk with various groups.  In one version of the talk I said, "I'm going to talk about the power of forgiveness and I'm going to do that through my own story."  Someone suggested I avoid using the word "story" and instead use the word "experience."  While this person didn't explicitly say that "story" sounds like a contrived narrative, that was the impression I got.  So I kept practicing my talk and replaced "story" with "experience." A few weekends ago I had the honor of hearing Deena Metzger talk about the power of Story at a conference I attended.  She got me thinking.

In my TEDx talk, I AM telling my story.  It is not contrived or made up.  I think the big difference between 'experience' and 'story' is that when we talk about our experience we are "telling."  When we share our story we are "showing."  The golden rule in writing is to show more and tell less.  I am finding that is true with public speaking as well.

But even deeper than the showing vs. telling  idea is that when I share my story, I am sharing not only what happened to me but what I learned from what happened.  Like any good tale, there is a moral that emerges, guiding the reader/listener along, and we find ourselves, the storyteller and those listening, connecting to the bigger Story.  By that I mean the Story that is happening all around us, all the time, the Story of who we are and why we're here.  This is the archetypal Story, the divine Story, the one Story.  Each of our own stories tie us into that one Story into which we are all woven.

So, thought I've scratched that whole line from my TEDx talk, I'm glad my friend made the suggestion.  I realize that this is why I write, this is why I love to speak.  Writing and speaking from my own story connects me to the one Story, to everyone else's story.

I'm curious . . . how do you find connection to the bigger Story?

My Next Big Thing

Okay, here it is world, my next Big thing.  Here is the announcement that I am one of 20 speakers for the TedxBellingham talks on 11/12/13!

You'll be inspired by our next speaker: Colleen Haggerty. Colleen Haggerty is most happy when she is supporting others to live into their best versions of themselves. Colleen is an author, small group facilitator and coach who has worked in the non-profit sector for 15 years. After losing her leg in an auto accident at age 17, Colleen spent many years attempting to repress her anger. It wasn’t until she forgave the man who hit her with his car that she was able to walk into the future she had always wanted.

Standing on the Threshold

Until two days ago, I was the executive director for a non-profit that helped kids succeed in life, but funding (or lack of it) was our downfall.  After being a part of our community for 37 years, we closed our doors on Monday.  That means my job is ending.   I have about ten more hours of work to do before I can say I’m officially finished, but my future is staring me in the face. 

Sometimes it stares at me menacingly as if to say, “So, whatcha ya gonna do, huh?  You think you can really publish your book?  You really think you can do public speaking.  Dream again, honey.”  Other times, and I’m pleased to say more often, my future looks at me with a gentle, supportive expression that sends tingles down my spine.  She is nudging me to live more fully, to be bigger.  And the familiar feeling of butterflies swarms in my gut.

I am reminded of something I heard in a course I took from Excellence Northwest here in Bellingham (I highly recommend their courses):  the physical manifestations of fear and excitement are very similar.  With both, we feel butterflies in our stomach, maybe we get a little sweaty and our palms turn clammy.  The big difference between fear and excitement is that with excitement, we’re pretty sure we know the outcome of whatever is coming; with fear we don’t.

I am currently enrolled in Tara Mohr’s online course, Playing Big (I highly recommend this as well!).  This is a course for women who want to step up their game and live more fully into themselves.  In the Fear module, Tara explains that in ancient Hebrew there are two words for fear: Pachad and Yirah.  Pachad is a fear of imagined or potential threats – the meaning that most of us think of when we use the word fear.  But I was intrigued by the other word for fear: Yirah.  This meaning of this word has an element of fear, but it really means awe or reverence, often toward God.

That’s how I feel right now as I stand on the threshold between my past and my future.  I reverently bow to the power of the possibilities, I am in awe of the potential, I am excited for the opportunities.  Though Yirah implies awe toward God, I hold reverence for the god/des within me, the part of myself that is connected to my soul and is urging me to live bigger.

Stay tuned, world.  I’m expanding!

Rough Waters

For the past five months, I feel like I have been on a wild white water rafting trip.  If you’ve never been on one, this is what happens:  you’re floating along a river in a rubber boat, soaking in the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the views when suddenly you come upon some frantic rapids - big white roiling waves, the kind of water that has the potential to throw you out of your life boat if you don’t pilot them correctly – and you have to instantly determine what to do.  The learning curve is steep as you navigate your way through each wave and around each rock.  Decisions are made both on a gut level and based on past experience.  In order to survive this set of rapids, you must stay present to the moment.  Once you get through those wild waves, you might have a reprieve - to rejoice, to take in the learning, to rest, or freak out, but then another set of rapids demands all of your attention.  And you do it all over again. That’s what my life has felt like for the past five months as I’ve navigated my way through cancer, two major job changes, and helping my siblings move my parents out of our home of 50 years, the house that holds all the memories of, not only my childhood, but all of the family gatherings of my adulthood.

Now that I've come to the end of this river, I am able to start reflecting on everything I've experienced.  My first question to myself is: How did I manage?  How did I get through this?

After my car accident when I was 17 years old, my Grandmother sent me five small Catholic saint medals on a safety pin.  Her note explained that these were my deceased Grandfather's medals and that he had them hanging on his bedpost when he died.  Homer, my grandfather, was a devout Catholic, a man of deep faith.  And while I am not Catholic, or Christian for that matter, these medals have always symbolized the beauty of faith.  On the eve before my biopsy, I took them from my own bedpost, where they have hung since Grandma gave them to me,  and attached them to a long black leather cord.  I have worn them every day since.

Grandpa's medals hang right at the slight "v" of my small cleavage and serve as a reminder that faith in life, in the Universe, in the power of good,  is a daily choice.  I don't question anymore why my cancer happened.  That doesn't matter.  What matters is that I trust that this experience can be, if I allow it, for my highest good.

So I have sat at the helm of my boat this summer knowing that, no matter what happens, ultimately all will be well.   Though I don’t have a bible or church doctrine to assure me of that, I do have my past.  I have survived other white water trips in my life that have threatened to throw me out of the boat. Instead of tossing me into the water, those other trips have brought me right here, right now.

Right where I am.

Dancing at the Shame Prom

I am proud to announce that I have an essay published in a third anthology, Dancing at the Shame Prom, Sharing Stories That Kept Us Small, edited by Amy Ferris and Hollye Dexter which hit the bookstore shelves yesterday. One time, years ago, my brother told me about someone who admonished him for something he did by saying "Shame on you!"  My brothers was incensed.

"Shame on me?  Really?  Why would anyone wish shame on me?  I don't think my actions warrant shame."  It was then that I started looking at shame, what it is and how easily we can throw the word around.  Shame is one of the most debilitating emotions and keeps us from being the people we truly can be.  Why would anyone wish that on another without very good reason?

Shame can be insidious.  For many years, shame was the backdrop to my self-esteem, but I didn't necessarily know that.  By inconspicuously hanging out in the background of my psyche,  shame informed my decisions and choices.  It took years to identify and let go of the shame I held around being a disabled woman.

I even felt ashamed that I have cancer.  I was a smoker.  My diet isn't strictly organic.  Did I bring this on myself?  Am I to blame?  I spent a couple of weeks beating myself up about it.  And then I remembered:  being ashamed of myself doesn't allow me to live into my fullness.  If cancer has taught me anything, it's that my time here is limited.  There's no time for shame.

If you're intrigued by the notion of shame and the myriad ways it can creep into our psyches, then get yourself a copy of this book and see how these women transcend shame.

Itchin' to be Found

Seven weeks ago I had what I refer to as a “plum sauce” itch.  I call it a “plum sauce” itch because of a story my brother tells about when he was in a Chinese restaurant many years ago.  His waitress, a Caucasian, gum chewing, pencil in her tussled up-do kind of gal, brought him his egg rolls.  My brother asked for some plum sauce.  The waitress turned her head to look at the surrounding tables, itched her boob and said, as she smacked her gum, “We ain’t got no plum sauce.” 

So, seven weeks ago, I have a plum sauce itch and I feel a lump.  Yes, a lump.

It’s funny how the mind handles certain information.  It can freak out.  It can get on-line and research.  Or, as in my case, it can pretend the whole plum sauce itch never happened.  Until the next morning with my first cup of coffee.  Did I feel a lump last night?  The whole itch felt like a long forgotten dream.  I tentatively put my hand on my breast, applied pressure and, sure enough, there it was.  As big as a garbanzo bean.  Or as small as a garbanzo bean.  But for my size A cup, it felt big. 

In an effort to minimize, I didn’t tell my husband.  Instead I “went to the store.”  Well, that was my excuse to get out of the house and bee line it up to the Diagnostic Imaging Center where they do mammograms.  It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that they would be open on Saturdays for emergencies, like a walk-in clinic. I was fully prepared to march up to the receptionist and demand a mammogram.  Stat.

My stomach fell when I drove into an empty parking lot.  It was Memorial Day weekend and I’d have to wait until Tuesday morning to get my mammogram.  I decided it was time to tell my husband.  And we worried together, quietly, all weekend.  As I lay in bed on my side with my breast falling downward, I could feel deeper into my breast.  I swore I felt a second, smaller pea-sized lump next to the garbanzo bean.

I did get into the Imaging Center on Tuesday morning.  I called my gynecologist at 8:00 am and she got me in by 10:00 am.  First I had a mammogram.  When I was told me they wanted to do an ultrasound, I knew it wasn’t good.  But I’m a girl with a lot of cysts.  In a desperate attempt to not be a drama queen I kept telling myself these were just more cysts.   After ten minutes of gliding the ultrasound wand over my breast with the warm gel (thank you - great invention!), the radiologist said, “Yep, this looks like cancer.” 

I shot up to a sitting position and looked at the screen.  As he pointed to the images and explained the characteristics of cancer, all I could see was a sea monster.  All the tissue in the background of the image, the connective tissue in my breast, looked like roiling waves on a stormy sea.  The two lumps on the foreground looked like big eyes bulging out of the sea staring at me.  Not in a menacing way.  In a “get me outta here” kind of way.

Now I’m a pacifist at heart and I knew immediately, when I looked cancer in the eye, that I was not going to battle this creature inside me.  This was not going to be the fight of my life. I knew that I was going to confront it.  I was going to see what cancer had to teach me and bring me.  I was going to see how cancer would enhance my life. 

If there’s anything I’ve learned from the loss of my leg, it’s that when I embrace the difficult parts of life, they usually turn into something positive.  Teachable.  Sometimes even beautiful. 

When I saw the surgeon for the first time, she commended me on finding the lumps.  “Good for you for doing your monthly exams.” 

I corrected her.  “I wasn’t doing a self exam.  I had an itch.”

I loved her response.  “Funny how our bodies talk to us, isn’t it?”

I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have Stage 1 cancer.  I just had my lumpectomy and once I’m done with a six week round of radiation, I will be okay.  I am not looking death in the face.  I do get to stick around for the most important part of my life: I get to see my kids grow up.

 I truly think my body wanted me to find that cancer.  I think my cancer was just itchin’ to be found. 

The Ultimate Choice

Why is it when I’m faced with adversity I tense up and get scared?

I’m curious why my default mode is to step into fear and not love.

I am 52 years old and I’ve had my share of adversity.  And do you know what?  Every time, every time, regardless of how much anxiety I have around the situation, regardless of how difficult it is to navigate through it, the real captain of the ship is love, not fear.  Love has always been the driving force behind every success.  So why do I get so scared?

A few years ago I spent time meditating with my “demons,” those nasty voices in my head that nag at me all day long about one fear or another.  They tell me I won’t succeed, or that I’m stupid, or to be careful.  When I spent time meditating with these parts of myself that are, ultimately, afraid, I learned what they each wanted: love.  Or peace.  So, individually, I sent them love and peace.  And as they were showered with my love, they disintegrated. 

I haven’t done this exercise in a while, so my demons have had the opportunity to reform into their fearful selves again.  But what I learned from that experiment was how powerful love is. 

The problem for me is, and this is what makes it so hard for me to stay in a place of love/peace/trust, is that fear is so loud.  What wakes me up in the middle of the night?  Fear’s thunderous roar.  What tugs at my belly and makes me feel sick?  Fear’s menacing pull.  So what I need to remember is this:  Fear is so big and in my face because, I think, it’s screaming at me to remember love.  I don’t think fear really wants me to be afraid.  Fear wants me to just feed it love. 

Self-Definition

I do no define myself by the wrinkles making a road-map of my face,                                                                                                                                                       I am side-splitting laughter; I am anguish and pain; I am joy unfettered. I do not define myself by my jiggly butt or round tummy,                                                           I am nourished and grateful for my food; I am thrilled with my sweets; I am intoxicated with culinary delights.  I nourish myself not just through good food, but by the appreciation of it.

I do not define myself by my gray hair,                                                                                          I am a compilation of every reason my hair has turned gray.

I do not define myself by my swollen, achy foot,                                                                           I am sure footed, confident of where I plant each step.

I do not define myself by my nearsighted eyes that can’t see passed the rainy windshield,                                                                                                                                            I have vision grander than my eyes will ever see. I see the whole picture, the aerial view.

I do not define myself by the bursitis plaguing my hip or the tendonitis in my butt,               I am walking into my future with a steady gait and sure direction.

I do not define myself by my abbreviated body,                                                                           I am a whole woman who realizes that, though parts of my body can be cut off, no doctor in the world can cut me off from my soul.