What puts the Ap in Apricot?

I spent that morning, thirty years ago, in training, learning how to jump out of an airplane. I took off my prosthetic leg and jumped from a three foot platform and practiced rolling upon landing. My mouth was dry as we boarded the plane. My breath became shallow as we ascended to 3,000 feet. When my turn came, I looked at my boyfriend and could see my fears reflected back at me. But we were in this 100% so, without another thought, I scooted over to the edge of the plane and followed my instructor’s directions to a T. I reached outside the plane and grabbed onto a bar that connected the wing to the plane. I inched to the edge of the plane and placed my foot on a lower bar. When the instructor counted to three, I released my vice grip and stretched my arms wide. My eyes were half shut from the speed and the wind whistled in my ears. I forget how high I had to count, but once I got to that number, I reached up and pulled the cord. My parachute escaped in a flurry and opened up like a swimming jelly fish. I was the lone tentacle. My world suddenly became quiet. And peaceful. The view was breathtaking.

Jumping out of a plane, while exhilarating and terrifying, required focus, determination and a dose of pride (after all, I couldn’t tell people I chickened out!).

Because I did activities like this in my early years as an amputee, many people told me how courageous I was, but I didn’t believe them. I understood that I appeared courageous, but on the inside I held a deep, dark secret: I was terrified. I was afraid that I would get in another car accident. I was scared I would appear foolish when I tried to do things with my challenged body. I was frightened that I wouldn’t be successful at anything I did. In my naiveté, I thought that being brave meant that I couldn’t be afraid.

In my quiet moments, I sat with my fears. Small, constricted, safe, and known. That’s what fear looked like. Stay right here, right where you are, don’t let anything change, don’t try anything new and everything will be okay. That’s what fear sounded like.

Courage was a choice inspired by my fears.

If I knew anything about living with my amputation, it was that I had to make something of it. If I wallowed in my fear, anger or sadness, I ran the risk of being consumed by the wallowing itself. I was too young for that. So, I looked fear in the face and then I turned my back.

But fear was always there. Sometimes fear screamed at me, like an irrational toddler demanding to be picked up. Sometimes fear growled at me, like a menacing dog. Sometimes fear whimpered like a doe-eyed puppy and I always looked back. But I saw fear for what it was: an illusion.

Fear actually propelled me toward my courage. Like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, I was filled with self-doubt. I didn’t think I had courage, but in the process of looking for it, I found I had it in me all along.

The choice to walk through my daily fears was a far more courageous act than jumping out of that plane.

Courage required patience.

I could have given up and surrendered to the anger I felt at my limited body, the impatience I felt at my physical slowness, and the rage I felt at the man who hit me. Though I did feel all those things, I just couldn’t give up on myself. I figured enough people in the world would give up on me or be inpatient with me. I couldn’t be one of them. I knew that I had to cheer myself on and cut myself a break.

My rehabilitation in the hospital served as a great metaphor for how I lived my life when I was released: know where you’re going, take it one step at a time, and breathe.

Taking life step-by-step requires both forethought and staying present. I always had to know what my end-goal was, but I had to stay focused on the step right in front of me. I learned early and quickly to have always have the end in sight. If I didn’t, if I only focus on the easiest way to take the next step, I often ended up in the wrong place.

This required patience. Not the waiting kind of patience, but the kind of patience that comes from taking small steps toward a larger goal with faith that the end will come. Knowing I’m in it for the long haul. Without patience, I would have lost my courage.

Courage becomes a habit

What I’ve come to realize is that courage does not need to be grandiose, like jumping out of an airplane. Bravery does not need to be flashy, like rappelling down a rock face. In fact, living courageously is a lifestyle. I’m reminded of the parable of two young fish who swim by an older, wiser fish. The elder fish says, “Hey guys, how’s the water?” After the elder fish swims on, the two younger fish look at each other and say, “What’s water?” This is what courage is to me now, a part of who I am, part of the air that I breathe. Courage sustains and feeds me, inspires and motivates me.

 An Invitation

 What about you? What quality in your life is so ingrained in you that you hardly give yourself credit for having it? How can you more fully own that part of you? Or are you like the Cowardly Lion, searching for something that already lies within?

Forgiveness revisited

I am honored to have been asked to write the cover story for Complete Wellbeing, an awesome, positive-thinking magazine from India. This story appeared in the August 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing magazine.

Take a look!

Complete Wellbeing Article

Living Into the Question

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke

In my desire to let go of The Struggle, I’ve been walking my labyrinth every morning holding the question, “How I can bring more ease and joy into my life?” I don’t necessarily need to answer the question. I would rather live into the question.

My behavior over the past week makes me wonder, what is the difference between “ease” and “easy?” You see, I did minimal work last week. Instead I found myself swinging in the hammock reading a book. And then another book. Was I finding the “easy way out” of doing my work or was I actually finding ease?

It got me to thinking. Is ‘ease’ a state of mind and ‘easy’ is a physical state? When something’s easy, I don’t have exert much intellectual or physical energy, but when I hold the intention to bring ease into my life, that’s a state of mind.

I think I need to continue living with this question. I hope it’s not difficult.

An Invitation

How do you bring ease into your life? What’s one question you can intentionally live into?

Taking a Stand

I recently attended Quantum Leap, a four-day workshop through Excellence Northwest. This is the fourth in their series of self-improvement workshops aimed at helping us find our passion and live Big. During this workshop the facilitator, Peggy Merlin, talked about how we create patterns of decision-making early in our lives. She likened these patterns to the training wheels on a bicycle. And, as adults, some of our decision–making patterns serve us about as awkwardly as still using training wheels while trying to ride a Century. They get in our own way. We get in our own way. It made me think of a conversation I had with myself a few weeks ago. I was looking in the mirror at the 5 – 8 pounds I’ve gained in the past year. I had lost 13 pounds two years ago when I had breast cancer. Not because of the treatment, but because of the stress. I could eat anything I wanted and still lose weight because my adrenal glands were in hyper-drive. As I stood in front of the mirror a few weeks ago, loathing the extra pudge around my middle, I said to myself: Well, if I got cancer again, I’d probably lose this weight. Then I said to myself: That’s kind of sick to even think about. Then I said: Yea, I know, but it’s true. Whenever I go through hardship in life, I lose weight and have the body I like having.

So it’s kind of like, I can only have the body I like if I go through hell.

Well, if that’s my belief, then I’m kind of screwed. First of all, might I attract/create/seek out disaster when I’m feeling fat? Secondly, is that really the only way to lose weight?

I looked at this belief a little deeper and realized that another pattern of belief I hold is that life is a struggle. Which means I am always waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Which makes thinking positive kind of challenging. This realization was one of those Ah-Ha moments that should have come years ago, it is so obvious, but there it finally was, standing right in front of me as clear as the extra pounds on my hips.

Since I’ve had children, I’ve known how much fear has gripped my life. Fear has been like a noose around my neck as I stand on a teetering stool. I know that every moment holds the potential for disaster. I know where this fear comes from and now it’s time to take the training wheels off my proverbial bike, let it go and ride free.

So I am taking a stand. I am taking a stand and declaring that I can lose weight and be happy at the same time. I am taking a stand and expecting good things to happen.

 

An Invitation

What old beliefs do you live by as a matter of habit? What training wheels are getting in your way? What kind of stand can you make once you take off those training wheels and fly into your future?

Walking on Stars

Ten days after my accident I was lying in my hospital bed griping the sheets and forgetting to breathe. My prosthetist was standing on the left side of my bed changing the bandages on my residual limb while my surgeon stood on the right side of my bed changing the bandages on my right leg. This leg was saved from the deep twelve-inch laceration I suffered in the accident. They were bantering back and forth. Even to my limited seventeen-year-old sensibilities, I could tell they were pulling out all the stops to keep the atmosphere light and happy. Joke followed laughter as bandages unrolled in a furl of white, grey, red. This was the day I was going to see my legs—or leg and a half—for the first time since the crash. When the bandages were removed and thrown into the garbage, the doctor gently touched my leg; the prosthetist tenderly touched my stump. “Well this looks great. Healing nicely,” the doctor said. “Nice work here, doc. You’re better than a seamstress!” More laughter. The doctor pushed the button on the hospital bed to elevate my head. When the bed reached forty-five degrees, he stopped. “Okay, Colleen, take a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

These two men, lovely as they were, had become immune to the power of a mutilated body. These two men didn’t anticipate the horror I felt. These two men could not understand why I wanted to throw up after looking at myself.

I first turned my gaze to my stump and was surprised by how wide it was, bloated and inflamed, as if angry at this sudden turn of events. In this distorted state, I looked at the top of my thigh to see if the constellation of freckles was still there, as if the accident could have taken them from me as well. The three dark amber spots forming a triangle, poked through the myriad smaller spots littering my thigh. I looked further toward my knee, just above which, my leg ended. The leg was stitched together in the back, so the scar wasn’t visible during this first viewing. I looked further down and saw only the white, rumpled bed sheet. No impression of my remaining leg was even there. The immediacy of my leg’s absence took my breath away. A lump lodged in my throat, constricting access.

Then I turned my gaze to my right leg. The laceration started behind my knee, curved around to the front of my leg and flowed down along my shin bone and stopped three inches above my ankle. The length of the scar was shocking, but what was even more appalling was the width. At its widest, the scar was an inch and a half wide. Dried blood, scabs, and black stitches had hidden the freckles on this part of my leg, like a meteor had swept through the galaxy of my leg and left this scar in its wake. If looking at my stump took my breath away, looking at this massive scar made me want to throw up. I fell back onto the pillow trying to breathe and keep the bile from rising at the same time. The weight of a thousand questions all jumbled together and sat heavy on my chest.

The prosthetist put his hand on my arm, “We’ll get you a new leg made after the swelling goes down, Colleen. I know it won’t be as good as the one you had, but we’re going to get you walking again.”

The doctor put his hand on my arm. “Give it time, Colleen. This scar will get better. In about a year you can see a plastic surgeon. Maybe he can make this less obvious. Right now you just need to heal.”

I did get my first leg made a few months later. I did go see the plastic surgeon a year later. But he said there was nothing he could do to improve the scar. I was crushed. I was nineteen years old and all I could see when I looked at my legs was a mangled mess. The only thing I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though it was a rubber one.

I was in the shower this morning shaving my leg. I caressed my scar, barely visible through thirty-seven years of healing and added freckles, full of gratitude for what this leg has given me.   I have hiked up mountainsides, skied down mountainsides, walked myself down the grassy aisle to marry my husband and limped my way through pregnancy. I have given chase to my toddlers, in my own gimpy kind of way, walked them around the neighborhood and into life.

The devastation I felt about the physical scars I carried wasn’t simply a matter of vanity. When so much is lost, the bigger fear is about loss of control and self-direction. In those first few years I learned that long, skinny, tanned and toned legs couldn’t carry me nearly as far in life as a positive attitude, and open heart and roaring courage.

 An Invitation

What physical or mental limitation started out as a deficit and has become, over time, your teacher?

What I Learned When I Asked For Help

Birthing my Book Part VI:  Asking For Help

Okay, raise your hands if you think that asking for help is a sign of weakness—or incompetence.

Yeah, well, me too.

I think it all started after I lost my leg. My mom has a favorite story, the kind of story that makes me roll my eyes in an oh-not-this-one-again kind of way. It was one of my first nights home from the hospital and the family had just finished dinner. We all took our dishes to the sink. I was still using crutches, so that was a bit tricky for me. I stacked my silverware onto my plate and precariously held the plate in-between my thumb and forefinger while simultaneously grabbing onto my crutch. I had almost made it to the sink when the knife fell from the plate. “Oh, here, Colleen, let me get that for you,” my mom said as she rushed over and picked up the knife. I’d have nothing of that. No sir. After she placed the knife on the counter, I picked it up, dropped it back on the floor and bent over to pick it up myself.

So, yeah, I have a few issues with asking for help.

I can admit now—though I certainly didn’t see it then—that after I lost my leg, getting help from other people made me feel even less whole than I already was. Not on the outside, but on the inside. When I out went for hikes with my friends when I was in my twenties, I felt abnormal when I needed help crossing a stream or climbing a hill. While they all scampered through the woods, I was the caboose, navigating the path with whoever stayed behind with me on that outing. I absolutely hated that. I wanted to be carefree and wild like they were and instead I was lugging around the ball-and-chain of my prosthetic leg.

I had a fierce need to show the world that I was competent and complete the way I was, even though a huge part of me was missing. It’s not that I never needed help, it’s just that I tried to be sure it was on my terms—and usually only when I asked for it.

This attitude certainly helped me get me back on my own two feet, kept me active and alive, but the shadow side to this attitude was that I associate asking for help with weakness—or lack—or contracting into my smallness.

When I was pregnant with each of my two kids, I needed a lot of help—about something that had nothing to do with my amputation. Creating and birthing a baby is a lot of work. Every step of the way was a new learning curve. How do I eat? What do I wear? What do I prepare for when the baby is here? How will I manage the pain during labor? How do I keep physically fit while I’m gaining all this weight?

Fortunately, there were a slew of resources and people out there ready to support me with each of these issues. I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting, I talked to friends about the best car seats and cribs, I hired a midwife, I went to birthing classes with my husband, and I went to prenatal yoga. Getting so much help was liberating and expanding.

I’ve discovered that publishing my book—birthing my book—is very similar. The actual process of writing the book was such an intensely solo experience. But now that I’m here at the point of publishing, I’m calling on all sorts of experts to guide me on the journey. My midwife—um, I mean, my publisher—is guiding me though each contraction. I’ve had to reach out and ask for help a number of times: from a developmental editor, a copy editor, cover designer, endorsers, and a publicist. And it’s humbling. It’s humbling to say, “I don’t know how to do this part. Can you help me?” And then it’s humbling to trust the very person I hired to help me. Will that person deliver? Does that person really know what she’s doing? Will she treat my book with the love and care that I have for the last five years?

What I’ve discovered through this process of birthing my book is that people want to help and, in fact, people want me to succeed. Their generosity of talent, time and spirit isn’t given to mask a lack of something on my part; it’s given with the understanding that we need each other, we are all playing a part in each other’s story.

An Invitation

Do you have a hard time asking for help? Where does that come from? Think of something you need help with – a household project, getting a job, finding the love of your life. What would happen if you reached out and asked?

My Internal Status Barometer

When I chose to quit my job as a non-profit manager in 1997, my son was two years old and I had no idea what I was getting into. On the first Monday in my new role, when I normally would have gone into work, my son woke up with the flu and threw up everywhere. I could hear the universe talking to me: “You want to be an at-home mom? Well, here’s what that looks like. Have fun!” I couldn’t help but laugh as I wiped up vomit from the couch. As an at-home mom, my wardrobe sucked. In fact, I wore crocs almost every day – they were cheap and practical. The pay was lousy; I scrimped and saved, took clothes to consignment, bought clothes at consignment. It didn’t matter what other people thought of my choice to be an at-home mom. What mattered is that that job was what I had to do. My Internal Status Barometer (IBS)—my self-concept and self-respect—inched higher when I did the work my soul was calling me to do. After my husband lost his job eight years ago, we decided that I should re-join the workforce. After my nine year hiatus, it took a long time to find a job, but I did find one: a starting-level position at a non-profit. Though I was happy to be part of an agency whose mission I supported, my Internal Status Barometer took a dive. I was 47-years-old and I felt like I was starting my career at square one. I ditched the crocs and dressed the part of a casual professional. I climbed the miniscule ranks and within eighteen months was the program director, a position similar to the one I left to be home with my kids. My IBS inched higher. It climbed higher still as I implemented quality practices into our program, and even more as I earned the respect of my staff. When I was promoted to the executive director position, I was surprised that my Internal Status Barometer didn’t spike as I expected it would. I learned that it isn’t the title that earns my respect, it’s what I do in that position that matters. Unfortunately, I was only in that position a year before we had to close the agency due to issues that were years in the making. I suspect that had I been executive director for longer and had more successes, the needle on my ISB would have indeed risen.

After nearly seven years of working, I’m back at home, without a traditional job. I am an at-home mom again, back to wearing jeans every day. And my ISB is spiking. You want to know why?

I am pursuing a dream: publishing my book. I didn’t realize how much weight I gave this particular life path until I found myself on it.

Ironically, though I’m pursuing a life dream, I don’t wake up every day eager, overjoyed and excited. On the contrary, pursuing my dream puts me face to face with myself and my issues. I often wake up with angst: What will my learning curve be today, what brick wall will I be hitting myself against? I often question the path: Should I just get another job? Am I using my time productively? Does what I do matter? Am I worth the money we are putting into this?

But my IBS, that touchstone within myself that tells me when I’m on the right path, is humming.

I feel like I’m morphing into someone new. That’s what dreams do, they help us shed what we don’t need from a previous identity and help us morph, like a caterpillar, into who we need to be.

When we trust our dreams, our dreams deliver.

 An Invitation

Do you feel your Internal Status Barometer? When does it spike? What one small step you can take today to inch your IBS a little higher?

How I’m Learning to Put Myself First

The end of the school year draws near. I always forget about the frenetic energy that starts swirling through the house toward the end of May. The kids hustle to finish school projects, assignments, and activities so we can put a hastily-tied bow around the end of the school year. For the first time in seven years, I am not working a traditional job. Gone are the days when I had to ask permission to flex my schedule so I could attend end-of-the-year activities. Gone is the guilt when the answer was “No.” Now my time is my own to schedule as I please.

My challenge this year is not having a daily structure that I must adhere to. Some days I find myself floating through my day like a lazy river. Other days, it’s like the floodgates have opened and I barely keep up with the torrent of activities. Perhaps because my kids are getting older and their imminent departure from our daily lives feels real in a way it never has before, but I’m saying “Yes” to almost every opportunity to help out at the schools that comes my way.

The problem with that is I have a book to publish! I made a commitment to myself at the beginning of the year that I was going to get my book out into the world. And that requires consistent attention and work.

My willingness to fill my time with anything BUT my book sheds light on an issue I’ve been dealing with since I lost my job last fall: It’s so easy to fill my time tending to the needs of others and put my own needs in second place.

If I can’t honor the commitment I made to myself, then how do I expect to honor commitments I make to others? If I put others first, I’ll eventually burn-out and feel resentful. So, I’ve come up with a system to keep myself accountable to myself.

Here are my tricks for keeping myself on track:

1. I schedule time for myself. I know this sounds compulsive, but I am using my Outlook calendar the same way as I did at my former job. Back then, whenever I had a project at work, one which required my undivided attention, I blocked out some time to devote to the project. At the appointed time, I let my staff know I was busy and I shut my door. I’m doing the same thing now. I am blocking out time on my calendar to write and to work on the marketing of my book. But setting aside the time is only the first step.
2. I set my intention. When it’s time to write I have a sticky note on my desktop with an inspiring quote to remind me of why I’m doing this.
3. I just do it. There comes a time when the planning is finished and it’s simply time for action. That’s when I have to do the project at hand. I start with whatever I’m resisting most. I know that whatever makes my chest constrict—be it research or asking people for something—I need to get that out of the way. If I don’t, my resistance will get in the way of whatever else I’m doing.
4. I reward myself. That means I take the dog for a walk, get something to eat, or do some chores.

 

An Invitation

Do you find yourself putting others’ needs before your own? Do you make promises to yourself that you keep breaking? What small steps can you take to ensure you are staying accountable to yourself?  Write them down and place them in a prominent place.  Make your dreams a priority.

My Cover Revealed

So, here it is:  the cover to my book.  I am over-the-moon thrilled with this cover.

I would love to hear your feedback!

Birthing My Book, part V

Judging a Book By Its Cover They say that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but we all do it, don’t we? It’s not dissimilar from buying a bottle of wine based on how attractive we find the label.

One of the benefits of publishing with She Writes Press is that they hire an artist to design my book cover. About a month ago, I received three possible covers the designer created. When I looked at each one, I shrugged my shoulders with a lack of enthusiasm. We tweaked and finessed two of the options—which made them more palatable—and then I sent those to a small group of friends to get their feedback. No one was very excited by either one. A few weeks had passed and I felt no closer to a cover than when we first started.

I talked with my publisher who explained why it‘s challenging to find an image for my cover. We have to find an image that tells the potential reader what the book is about. My book tackles some issues that are hard to capture visually: Disability, abortion, and acceptance. How does one depict those in single image?

I sent the designer an image that I thought would work and she created some beautiful covers based on that picture, but ultimately, they were all on the dark side (read “downer”). Another week passed and we were no closer to a cover. I was getting frustrated. How do I capture the essence of my book in one single image?

The publisher suggested we start with a new designer. Within a few days she sent me her first attempt. When I opened the email, I gasped. In a good way. It needed only a few small changes for it to feel just right. Woohoo! I had my cover image.

But then my publisher said the title didn’t fit the cover anymore. Pregnant Pause, A Memoir of Acceptance, had been my working title for three years. I was quite attached to that title. I was resistant to change.

I was in the midst of editing my book and then I found myself having to come up with a new title. I like to think I’m a glass-half-full kind of gal, but these set-backs were draining me. Was this some kind of sign from the Universe to stop publishing? Or perhaps I was being tested: How much do you want this, Colleen?

Ultimately, these setbacks and challenges reinforced my desire to publish.  So I sat down with myself for a brainstorming session to come up with a new title. It took a few hours, but I finally landed on one that actually works far better than my working title.  The new title of my book is A Leg To Stand On: An amputee’s walk into motherhood.

How do you respond to challenges and set backs? Do they inspire you or defeat you? What keeps you going? Is there a challenge in your life right now? How does that challenge fit into your overall view of life?