Pretending

Pretending is a natural, important part of childhood play. It can also be an important part of survival and success. Early on, I found I could pretend my way through difficult situations. It was a skill that served me well for a long time. It was a good way to “try on” some roles and see if they fit. I suspect that many people grow up to be some of the things they pretend to be as children. It was also a good way, for me, to escape the anxiety and despair that seemed my constant companions. With my brother, Wayne, I could always pretend to be in another country, on another planet, somewhere and someone else. Most of my pretending was creative role-playing to get me through things, reframing my story so that it had a different, alternate meaning and reality. It came most naturally, for me, to pretend to be a teacher, a college student or professor, or a writer. My dolls were my students; my family was always glad to welcome me home; my stories, songs, and poems were well received. A couple of times I got hurt, because some roles actually require skill and competence that I did not possess. When I was eleven, I pretended to be Dale Evans, wife of the singing cowboy, Roy Rogers, and nearly killed myself when I fell off Daisy, the sweet mare that did not understand my commands, and later, my panic. In a gymnastics class, I pretended I was an Olympic gymnast (What was I thinking?).  In first grade, when my family moved across country from California to Tennessee, I pretended it was just a dream for as long as I could. Eventually, I had to accept that we were not in California anymore. As I got older, the pretending got complicated, frustrating, and exhausting. In new relationships, especially with the opposite sex, I pretended to be whatever they liked, athletic, intellectual, spiritual, or funny. I kept trying on roles, abandoning them, trying others, failing. The toll I paid for living like this was a crushing shame that led me into deep depression. I wish I could report that this was a brief period in my young life, but I was almost fifty before I apprehended what I needed to be free. To my surprise, it was not the love and acceptance of my family, friends, colleagues, bosses, or any other fellow traveler that turned the key that finally released me. It was ownership, acceptance, love and forgiveness for myself that was the catalyst. This blog would be much longer if I went into detail as to how I finally came to this place. Suffice it to say, it was not magic or miracle. I could, and, maybe should, write the book. However, I no longer pretend to be anything other than who and what I am. To know me, whether you love me or not, is to know me. It feels so good to breathe free. 

Dance

Dance—I recently attended a local dance recital at the invitation of a friend who is part owner and instructor at the studio. The recital took place over three days and encompassed performances by hundreds of students ranging in age from preschool to graduating seniors. It was a monumental task, and amazing. I am not a dancer. My medium is the written and spoken word, and while I am aware of ways in which I use my body to communicate, I have virtually no experience with the fullness of expression I observed at this recital. I was drawn in by the music, sometimes lyrics, but it was the body in motion, the power and the passion, that often moved me beyond words. It was delightful to watch the little ones, the beginners, tapping or twirling, missing their cues, giggling, helping each other, concentrating, or just beaming smiles and waving to their parents and grandparents. There was an innocence and playfulness that made it impossible for anything to break the spell of their magic. It was a joy to watch the in-between dancers, discovering their natural talents and showing off the moves and steps and skills they are learning and developing. Some lost themselves in moments. They moved freely in their element, surprisingly well. Others, hyper-vigilant, intent on avoiding missteps, moved stiffly, painfully. There was something honest, familiar, and endearing about these dancers. Thank goodness for the in-between, where we spend much of our lives. But it was something else entirely to watch the experienced dancers, for whom the years of classes had turned raw talent and isolated skills into able competence. Practice, practice, and more practice had made their bodies beautiful, flexible, and strong. They did not just express emotions or show off skills, they told stories that could clearly be understood. Their routines did not look effortless, however. They looked like life, with all of its ups and downs, moments of calm juxtaposed with moments of intensity, beautiful and terrible, light and dark. And so, I revise my previous pronouncement that I am not a dancer. I am a dancer. A natural? Hardly. But I am learning, practicing, and growing, and I am the only one who can tell my story. I am the only one who can dance my dance.

Why I use a "word of the day."

I have always wanted to live my life with intention, not just letting things happen to me, but making things happen and choosing what I want to happen. That being said, I am in the middle of a job change that I did not choose. My job was eliminated due to budget cuts, and I was reassigned to another job in the same company. When the possibilities first seemed like certainties, I felt I was in a personal tsunami, overwhelmed, disappointed, and angry. But, rather than simmer in that negative soup, I took a respite trip to Indiana to be around one of the smartest, most encouraging people I know, my older sister, Brenda. I needed to be the one to decide my next steps through words, conversation, brainstorming and getting feedback. We had three full days so we chose the word "nourishment," as our theme for our time together. We walked daily, ate healthful meals, and talked and talked. Knowing just what I needed, Brenda had already planned some experiences that were nourishing, but we added things as we went to cover the mind, body, and soul. Each day we started out thinking of a new word on which to focus. One day it was "joy," and we looked for it, we were open to it, and we were not disappointed. One day it was "worship," and though we did not go to a house of worship, we spent our day in prayer and quiet conversation, acknowledging God in our lives, and our place in the universe. On another day, which happened to be Memorial Day, we chose "family," to honor the tradition to gather and remember those who have served in the various branches of the military, especially those in our immediate family. Brenda's two sons, their families, and our sister and her husband, Carol and David, were able to join us. We prepared a wonderful meal, celebrated a birthday, and I shared some of the songs I have written over the last three years of an enormous growth spurt in my personal journey. Since that trip, I have continued to adopt a "word of the day," on which to focus my attention and intention. On the days that I have forgotten to choose a word early in the day, I find myself reflecting back and choosing the word that best describes and defines the day that has passed. It has been a wonderful way to start and end each day. This blog will be the vehicle I use to share my word of the day with you. Of course, my words may not always accurately reflect where or who you are, or be what you need. They will be about what I want to create in my life. Perhaps, however, they will help you to begin to see how simple it can be to have the life you really want.