Encountering my own white-privileged heart

Today I received a gift. And it was an extravagant, unmerited, painful, beautiful thing.

At work we had a Lunch & Learn for African American History Month. I found myself seated at a table right in the middle of the room with three of my colleagues. You’ve all been to an event like this. They gave each table a topic to discuss and we were supposed to share our insights.

Our topic was the Civil Rights Movement. As the discussion time came to an end I magnanimously, humbly, handed the sheet to my colleague across the table – encouraging them to report out since it wasn’t my place as a white girl.

Ah, if only this was how it really went.

But the truth is I, without thinking twice…

Wait. Rewind. I actually did think. I intentionally thought I was being anti-racist and self-aware by singling out the one black colleague at my table and “suggesting” they share.

And do you know what she did? She gently, deliberately, quietly, boldly said,

And you just made me a token.

Ah…and there it is. Her words, the truth that she generously named for me, landed squarely on my own heart. She doesn’t know me. She had no obligation to risk calling me out. And yet…

She gave me a gift.

I, who have spent the last few years deliberately examining my privilege, wrestling with what it means to lend my privilege to those who don’t have it, found myself mired in the racist worldview that persistently holds my privilege, holds my whiteness, yet again. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t in private. I was embarrassed by myself. And all I could say was,

You are right. That is exactly what I did. I’m sorry. Thank you for calling me out.

I am reminded of a passage in Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis about Eustace. He is a boy who is turned into a dragon as a result of his selfishness and his greed. He described his undragoning this way.

Then the lion said - but I don't know if it spoke - 'You will have to let me undress you.'  I was afraid of his claws.  I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now.  So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.  The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart.  And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt.  The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know - if you've ever picked the scab of a sore place.  It hurts like billy-o but it is such fun to see it coming away...Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off - just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt - and there it was lying on the grass...And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been.

I can’t extricate myself from the privilege that my skin clothes me with on my own. And I am not so naive, most days, as to think that today will be the last time that my unexamined power, privilege and advantage will make me reckless and allow racism to thrive. Who I listen to, who I read, who I spend time with, the battles I choose to fight all need to change.

But tonight, tonight, I am grateful and humbled by the gift of an almost stranger who was willing to speak brave, unambiguous truth to my dragon-like heart.

Becoming is Messy

A year ago, today, I wrote my last blog entry. Eleven months ago, today, I lost my job…for not the first time (see last blog entry). Over the course of these last months I finished a dissertation, bought a minivan, turned down perfectly good job offers, moved back to a city I love, twice, spent time with dear ones until my heart overflowed, came to know more deeply who I am and what I am made for and what I am not. And it wasn’t always pretty. In fact, it was downright messy.

My mom has a thing for monarchs. I was already out of the house when she developed this passion, so I never experienced it personally.  This year in my jobless, nomadic state I happened to be present for the extravaganza that was Chez Monarch at a nondescript house in a small town in Maine.

The monarchs made abundantly tangible, that becoming requires (produces?) a lot of…well, a lot of poop, to put it delicately.

And it isn’t the glamorous sort of mess. It smells and it is everywhere. The caterpillars are growing so much and so quickly that they shed their skins five times before going into a chrysalis. And the byproduct is…well, mess. And so it is with us, so it was with me. Growing is messy and along the way it often gets stinky and appears, if you only look quickly, to be just a whole lot of s@$%.

And yet.

I have come to believe that the messiness is the way to becoming. I long to increase my tolerance for the messiness of my growth and those in my care. I still wonder what it will take for me not to get distracted by the smell and my longing for order and neatness, for control, so that I can lean wholeheartedly into my own becoming and that of those I love.

Here is what I learned from the monarchs.

We come equipped with what it takes for our becoming, with a little help. I never knew that the tiniest of monarch caterpillars contains its own chrysalis. The chrysalis isn’t an external adaptation it is the bursting out, in the fullness of time with the necessary nurture, of what was inside to begin with.

In spite of this truth, a lot can go wrong along the way. And at least at Chez Monarch, the environment required to allow those tiny caterpillars to become who they were made to be required terrariums and milkweed runs and shielding from sun and rain and wasps and a whole myriad of unseen terrors.

And yet.

Here is the thing I have come to believe. Growing and becoming is hard and messy and often doesn’t go as we hope it will go. But when it does…oh when it does, it is stunningly beautiful. And it demands a sense of awe and wonder and joy. My youngest nephew is 3.5 and he unabashedly reveled in the gift of being witness to becoming done well.

It got me thinking about how often I, we, as humans begrudge the messiness and the uncertainty of becoming for ourselves and others. And our begrudging seems to blind us when it comes to the holy, sacred moments where we ought to pause and be filled with wonder at what we are witnessing.

If nothing else, on an anniversary I sometimes would rather not remember, on the eve of beginning a new adventure, I hope I will revel in the messiness of becoming, as I hold tightly to the picture of the awe and joy and wonder embedded in its heart.

In the rearview mirror

I have to admit, I am one who marks anniversaries. Maybe it’s because I’ve been reminded too many times over these last years that life is short and one ought to pay attention to what matters all of the time. Or maybe my brain has trouble letting go. Whatever the reason, here it goes.

A year ago today I was fired. It was the “effective immediately, here are some boxes for your stuff, we’ll take your keys” sort of exit. I was given a reason without details, there wasn’t a chance to ask questions or answer any. And I’m sure I did something. I respect the people I worked with and for. They weren’t in the habit of making stuff up. And yet…it wasn’t pretty and I was in shock and heartbroken and humiliated.

But here is where it gets messy. Over these last years, I’ve worked really hard to be a human who leads with her growing edge, who doesn’t hide the messy parts of me, who believes that people only grow through the hard stuff. So, I told people I had been fired, I mean I told everyone. And I’ve tried to own what was mine to own. And I leaned into my community, even though to be honest, my instinct has always been to lean out and away when I feel vulnerable.

I felt like it was a test to see if I would live up to my own beliefs about how people grow, and what leadership might look.

And it has been hard but mostly it has been beautiful.  That is really what I reflect on here as I mark the moment, of an awful, humiliating thing that became this grand adventure of knowing, I mean knowing at the core of my being, this amazing gift of grace and love and community.

A couple of days after the day, a former colleague sent me a quick note. He ended it with, “Wishing you perspective, grace and confidence.” I have carried those words like a blessing and a challenge over these last 365 days.

I have been reminded over and over and over again that I lost a job, a thing. 

I didn’t lose my mom.

I’m not battling Stage IV cancer and having to leave a job I love because the chemo is ravaging my body.

My marriage isn’t falling apart.

Perspective.

I’m a hot mess and the people who love me know that, it wasn’t actually a surprise to them.  And they love me still.

Having lived my own story deeply over this last year, I know that life is complicated, we humans are complicated, and there is almost always more going on than we can see.

I am employed, again, by this organization I love, by people I respect and who respect me, even still.

Grace.

Being loved so abundantly that it honestly hurts my heart, allows my roots to grow deep.

After I was fired, I had conversation after conversation with people who wanted to tell me about the impact I had had on them, on the world as they saw it. Truly, it was a bit awkward but mostly it was a generous, extravagant gift most don’t get in their 45th year.

I had already planned to celebrate my 45th year by spending time with people who are dear to me. And as I did that I came to know myself and my gifts and my responsibility to the world and my growing edges ever more deeply.

Confidence.

Here is the deal. I would love to not ever be fired again. But it didn’t kill me. In fact, there is something amazing about coming to know, again, that life is both/and. To know that I messed up and yet that isn’t my whole story.

And mostly, I am grateful, in a way that makes me unwilling to un-choose the road on which I learned it, for the chance to learn to be more present, more wisely vulnerable and to be brave in the company of an amazing tribe of humans who love me enough to hold steady, to challenge me, to create the space for redemption.

So here’s to anniversaries!

meeting my deficiencies

I turned 41 this week so I find myself in a bit more reflective mood than usual.  I think it’s my first birthday in three or four years where I haven’t met with my therapist…on my birthday.  I’d say my 40s continue to look hopeful!

I received the following email a few weeks ago from the university where I am “getting” my Ph.D.

“Janet, all of your deficiencies have been met and have been removed from your account.”

Most of you who read this know that I’ve been working on my Ph.D. for 8.5 years now.  And until a few weeks ago I still had official deficiencies from back when I was accepted into the program.  I have to admit that my first thought upon receiving this was, “I definitely need to frame this!”

Momentary celebration aside, I’ve found myself thinking about what it really means to “meet my deficiencies.”  What does it mean to intimately know those places of weakness and not-yet-reached-maturity parts of my character and capacity?

I have loved being 40.  Now, I’m not just saying that.  I intentionally celebrated the year leading up to my 40th birthday and while it was good, if I’m honest, it was an act of discipline and maybe even pure stubbornness. 

But being 40…now that has been joy.  Not the kind of joy that means everything is easy and picture-perfect.  My brother Steve’s cancer has come back…twice…this year - which epitomizes the sort of joy that does not equal easy.

Here are a few of the things that have been joy over the last twelve months…not a complete list – or in any particular order.

Daniel & Lillian – getting to watch these amazing little ones start becoming who they were created to be.  They are funny and smart and clever and strong-willed.  They = joy

A spontaneous Disney World weekend with my brothers, my sister, the kids and my mom (we missed my dad and brother-in-law!).  I am not the biggest Disney fan but I love my siblings and would think they are three of the world’s best even if they weren’t related to me.  Time with them = joy.

Running the Maine Marathon Relay with my mom, brother Mark, sister Liz, raising $6000+ for  Steve and for LIVESTRONG = joy.

Here’s the thing.  I think I am loving 40 because over these last years I’ve met my deficiencies, we’ve become intimately acquainted and danced intricate steps  and I am beginning to understand that they are part of what makes me authentic and capable of vulnerability. 

Those tender spots in me that ache and feel pain are the same that make me capable of both loving play time with my siblings at Disney World and bursting into tears at unexpected moments when I think of what my brother Steve is going to go through…again.  These sorts of deficiencies make me more, not less.  Meeting them, knowing them, makes me capable of being both vulnerable and strong.  Having met my deficiencies, I think I might know better how to love.

For all of these reasons and likely more I have yet to apprehend, I am finding this to be a decade of joy so far…in the midst of tears and laughter and kids and cancer.  I’m reminded of Charles Handy’s assessment that “Being comfortable in one’s skin is the beginning of strength.”  Bring it on I say - deficiencies and all!  Here’s to 41!

a million miles

Yesterday I flew my millionth mile on United Airlines.  To be honest, it was a bit anti-climactic.  I’m not sure what I expected but it seemed like it was significant somehow, that it marked something.  There was no fanfare, no acknowledgement, no upgrade even!  But it’s made me a bit reflective.

I told you last time about what my parents did for my 6th birthday – how they put me on a plane with my cousin of the same age, and told me…

We’re doing this so you will have fun…

But mostly, we’re doing it so that if God ever calls you to go far away you won’t be afraid to go. 

(Check out this video of courage being nurtured – thanks to my traveling partner Greg – it’s pretty awesome!)

Don’t be afraid.

That is serious advice to a five – about-to-be- six year old.  It embodied a lot.  It implied that grand adventures were imminent.  It suggested that courage would be necessary.  It opened up the world to a young girl from a small town in Maine.

So yesterday, when I flew my millionth mile, it caused me to reflect on my stewardship of that experience almost 35 years ago.  Am I living with courage?  Am I willing to go far away and be authentically present?  Am I creating opportunities for others to have experiences that catalyze growing?

If I added up the time I have spent sitting on planes it could be a pretty depressing number.

At the same time, I think of all of the people I have met, the amazing conversations I have had, the stunning honesty and vulnerability I have witnessed and been the beneficiary of…I tweeted last week that often have awesome conversations with perfect strangers on planes.  I try not to miss the opportunities of engaging with the amazing humans that end up in my path.

I am different person than I was a million miles ago.  I wonder how long it will take me to truly learn to not be afraid, to be courageous, to do what I am made to do without hesitation…

But, I think that I am beginning to live the reality of Charles Handy’s words “To be comfortable in your own skin is the beginning of strength.”  And for that I’m grateful.  We’ll see what the next million miles bring…