Rebuilding on a Firm Foundation

Yesterday, I set out on a beach-walk that brought parkour to mind. I took a zig-zag route around large tidepools, leapt over puddles, walked on a variety of uneven surfaces and climbed over (and under) fallen trees and low branches, all the while keeping an eye on the incoming tide.

The need to navigate the hazards underfoot gave me an opportunity to set my mind on "intuitive" while moving at a steady pace, regularly glancing ahead to see how close I was to my objective, how close the approaching waves were, and what pools of water or muddy areas were in the way. For a good portion of the way, it was necessary to walk on barnacle-covered rocks and slippery seaweed. I've been doing this since I was a little girl, so it wasn't difficult, but it requires balance and a light, flexible step.

Seaweed and round rocks are slippery; barnacles are sharp, like teeth. Walking on this surface is a bit like ice-skating, requiring strength and flexibility at the same time.

In order to access the sandy stretches of beach, I had to weave in and out, backtracking at times. I knew exactly where I was headed, and the route I wanted to take, but it wasn't always possible to take that route. Sometimes, I would get near a sandbar and have to turn back, picking my steps carefully to avoid immersion (and ruining my sneakers), and find a dry way back out to the sand bars.

The air was salty and warm. Steam rose from the sand and seaweed as the sun shone down from the mid-day sky. There were sea gulls, a heron, anemones, clams and moon snails all around, and silence.

This walk was a good metaphor for my life, right now. In the silence, I found time, space and fresh air to do some writing (in my head). I haven't been writing here regularly since the end of 2012, and there is a reason for that:  I was attacked (in writing) by people I trusted deeply, people I considered dear friends. In a matter of a few weeks, a treasured relationship of many years' standing was destroyed by their vicious, groundless claims. While I know that there are two sides to every story, this blog is my place, and it will reflect my truth (a truth which, in this case, is informed, corroborated and supported by expert legal counsel).

Landslides on the beach are due to clay in the cliff; clay is an unstable foundation. I've made the mistake of building on unreliable foundations before; the result feels something like this looks.

This attack has caused me to feel unsafe; it has made me doubt my purpose, my work, myself and my perceptions. It made me pull in, like a turtle in its shell; it also caused me to watch and second-guess everything I want to write here. Bottom line:  I have been intimidated and afraid, and the time has come to stand up and be fully who I am.

I've been a student in the National Speakers Association's Northwest Academy for six months. We meet once a month, are instructed by professional speakers, and do homework in between class meetings. The presenters come from all walks of life:  sales, television, comedy, business consulting, image consulting, drama, etc. Each one has unique gifts, methods and lessons to teach us; I have learned more than I dreamed possible from the Academy, and I would recommend NSA to anyone who wants to develop their business and presentation skills. The fellowship is stimulating, and the leadership is top-notch and supportive.

We had two excellent instructors in the Academy last week:  Candace BelAir and Max Dixon. Both of them gave us valuable, useful, immediately-applicable tools - Candace focused on construction of a presentation, and Max dealt with physical presence and delivery.

Something unusual happened when Max was teaching. He asked if anyone of us was ever told we spoke too quietly. As a young person, I sometimes got into trouble for talking too much or laughing too loudly. Nowadays, I'm often told to speak up, so I raised my hand. Max invited me to join him in the front of the room, and instructed me to speak some lines. He proceeded to coach me until I projected as needed in order to be heard at the back of the room. It took several tries, but I finally did it.

The unusual thing happened right before I sat down again. Max was a professor at the University of Washington; he is an expert on acting, movement, diction, and presence, among other things. He understands, teaches and illustrates what enables us to move freely in this life - not just on stage. He looked directly at me, and said words to this effect: "You deserve to take up more space. You have a good brain, and you need to stop apologizing for yourself." It stopped me in my tracks, and shook me, because I've heard it before.

Where have I heard it? Katie said it, shortly before she died. She said, "Mom, you have got to stop apologizing."

When Max said practically the same thing, I listened. And that's why I am standing my ground here, now. If others want to tell a different version of the story - or if people want to listen to that version, without hearing my perspective, so be it. I wish them well.

I have lost so much that, when I think deeply about it, there is not much left of which to be afraid. By telling the truth here, I am claiming my space, and refusing to apologize - for a wrong I did not commit, for someone else's mistakes, mistaken impressions, or willful misunderstanding and misrepresentation of me.

I don't know what the end will be for my video; I don't know if I will be a public speaker, or not. Though I have made mistakes, I know who I am:  a child of God, a writer, advocate, wife and mother; a person of integrity who does her best to serve and bless out of a good, generous, loving heart; one who loves God and His creation, who seeks to serve with gratitude.

Candace reminded us last week that Oscar Wilde said, "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken" - what a great quote! It is enough to be myself. I am going to do my best to take the space I deserve, stand up for myself, write what is in my heart and stop apologizing - because my daughter said so, and she (and Max) have given me a powerful message.

"Goodness is the only investment which never fails." - Henry David Thoreau

A Lump - A Cyst

I spent an hour or so with my primary-care physician yesterday, being examined, because on Wednesay, I found a lump in my left breast.
It is a cyst. It is benign. There is no reason for worry. But between Wednesday and yesterday, when I saw my doctor, a lot of thoughts went through my mind.

Several of my friends have survived breast cancer; some of my friends and acquaintances have died from it. Because I know people who are in treatment for it right now, I did not want to mention this, or have any kind of drama around it, especially as I knew it might be just a cyst. I have had cysts before, which has meant having follow-up scans after mammograms, and even a core biopsy, during which they placed a clip in my left breast (for future reference). No cancer, but every time a lump is discovered, anxiety arises.

I wish that breasts were not a source of so much anxiety, now that I'm in  what is commonly called "mid-life." Whenever I find a lump, I start to feel as if my chest has two ticking time-bombs on it. I don't want to view any part of my body that way, but it's hard not to feel anxiety when we are told to check them every month, and to come in immediately if we find anything. Is there any other part of the body which is considered so "dangerous," so potentially hazardous? - and yet, also such a beautiful part of the human form! It is a topic that is front and center (pun intended) with a lot of women nowadays.

Gregg enjoying art in Paris

One of the most interesting things about this whole episode is the fact that, though I don't want to have cancer, I am not much concerned about how long I get to live. I have strong feelings about wanting to die painlessly (preferably in my sleep, and before Gregg), but the length of my years is not a real issue with me. I've had a good life and many blessings, so I wasn't worried about dying as much as I was worried about putting my family through the cancer journey again. I definitely do not want David, Gregg or my parents to have to go through that - and I don't want to go through it, either. I'm aware that what I want is of little consequence, so I just tried to stay in the present moment and enjoy that moment, telling myself that whatever comes up, God is with me and will be with me in it. It wasn't easy - I kept having to remind myself that in this moment, everything is okay. And it is, and I am grateful. I wish it were so for everyone.

Prayer candles in Notre Dame de Paris

Sending love and prayers for blessing, healing and comfort to Kay, Robin, Allegra, Panda & Leslie - and all who are in treatment for any kind of cancer.

Fear

Gregg and I have spoken many times about the difference between the effects Katie's death has on us (as her parents) and the effects it has on David (as her brother).

One of the biggest differences that we perceive is that David's life is still in the "building" phase. He is going to be a senior in high school. He is working at his first job. He is making friends, developing his athletic skills, growing taller, stronger, hairier (is that a word?). His voice has dropped to a much deeper tone. He is maturing. Most of his life is in front of him: college, first love, a career, perhaps a family of his own, working years, retirement. It is all waiting for him.

Gregg and I are in (what is politely called) "mid-life." We are always laughing about the Mike Myers skit on SNL that features "Middle-Aged Man." My childbearing years are over. Our hair is more gray than dark brown (the color we started with). Gregg has been with his company for over 20 years. Gravity is doing its work. We have laugh lines around our eyes, and other lines, too, from living.

Our next house will be smaller than this one. We want to simplify, lighten our load, downsize, streamline our life. We want to travel lightly. We are not building and adding, and at 50 and 53, most of our life is NOT waiting for us. We've lived a good life, but we aren't "starting out" anymore. This is not to say that life holds no more mystery nor adventure for us; it does. But we are not in the "expanding" phase, and having Katie pass away was a huge subtraction. She is part of us, our flesh and blood, one quarter of our family, and she is not here anymore.

David cannot produce another sister, but he can get married and have children of his own. He is full of confidence, optimism, strength of will and certainty that he is right. He is healthy. I'm thankful for this.

When we were in Europe, I found that I was hyper-vigilant about his physical safety. I felt threatened about him falling when we hiked on the edge of tall cliffs. I feared that a crazy driver might pick him off as we crossed busy streets in large cities. I stressed about rogue waves on the Ligurian and Mediterranean seashores. I didn't like the look of the super-high gondolas in the mountains, suspended thousands of feet above the ground by the slender cables that supported them. I "felt the fear and did it anyway," as the saying goes, but I felt the fear, and I verbalized it, too. I don't even remember all of the specific fears about safety, but I was besieged by them, and they made me tired. They also made David look at me differently. I could see something like contempt or pity or disrespect in his eyes. It hurt.

When I was David's age, I went whitewater rafting, rock climbing, and summited 14,000-foot peaks. I rode horseback and competed in camp rodeo events. I went to Europe for 5 weeks without friends or family. I applied to the toughest colleges that I could find, and chose the toughest one that admitted me. I spent a quarter in England - my first quarter at a new college, where I knew no one. I drove across the country, alone, in my early 20s. I navigated strange cities on my own. I moved all the way across the country, to the opposite coast, away from my family, by myself. I was NOT a fearful woman, and I did not shy away from adventure. I still love adventure & learning new things.

When I saw that look in David's eyes in Europe, I was deeply saddened. I felt as if he wasn't seeing ME.

Yesterday, as we drove in Seattle, we discussed Katie's death, and he said that he felt that I had been traumatised by it, but that he had not. He was forever affected by it, but he didn't feel it was a trauma, for him.

I agree with him. I told him that I had seen the look in his eyes on our trip, and I thought I knew what it meant. I told him that it made me sad to see it, because when I was his age, I had looked at my own mom that way, and I have intentionally worked throughout my life to be a courageous and adventurous person. I have purposely done things that my mother was afraid to do (of course, now I know that she is very courageous in her own ways). I told him that, after Katie's cancer, I thought I would never be afraid again, but I am...not afraid of death, but afraid of loss. Of another, heart-breaking, life-sapping, world-shattering loss, and of the pain that that kind of loss brings with it.

It does no good to live in fear. Fear is not a protective armor; fear cuts you off from life. I know this. But apparently, in this space, it's what I'm going to have to deal with.