perfect

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and we were sharingscomplaininglaughing about our up-until-now funny, failed attempts at dating.

She claims that her problem is that she is like a teenager trapped in a woman's body upon meeting a man of interest for the first time. Where all of her teenage insecurities rise to the top and she reverts to a young insecure girl who pushes men away romantically before they push her.

I, on the other hand, am fine with the flirtation dance. I'm good at that piece. My failure is how to function within the relationship once the casual, performing phase is over and sh** gets real. That's when my "pushing" begins.

Laughing about our collective awkwardness we decided that if we could merge our strengths into one woman we would be unstoppable. We'd be close to perfect. We'd conquer the world.

When I was a little girl, a family member pointed out to me that my ears stuck out like Dumbo. I was a pretty little girl...but from that day forward, I never wanted to wear my hair pulled back. I refused to wear pony tails or barrettes in my hair for fear my ears would show.

And then in middle school an older boy pointed out that I had thick ankles. And that my calves were too big. From there-on-out, I was self conscious about wearing shorts or short skirts.

I had a great singing voice and had dreams of becoming famous...singing on Broadway, recording an album...but I literally told myself that I couldn't really be a singer or be famous because physically I wasn't perfect. And how could I go to Hollywood and not wear my hair pulled back or show my legs? Because once people saw that "flawed" part of me...that would outshine all of my talents...they would stare at my ears, my legs and all of that admiration would dissipate.

I think most women do this to themselves. We think "if only I had this", "if only I did this", "if only I looked like this"...my life would be so much better. I know women who isolate from the world--who are unhappy with how they look...or their careers...or their relationships. And they are waiting to come out of their cocoons until they get to a point where they are closer to their visions of perfect. They are afraid of being seen. Of rejection. Afraid of life being less than what they want...because they are telling themselves that "they" are less than ok. Being afraid of a lesser life becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

"You are too sensitive Beth"...is the critical statement echoing in my head right now. A voice tells me that if only my skin were a little thicker that I would be a better mother, a better friend, a better partner/lover/girlfriend/wife. I've thought if I could somehow get a hold of this trait and squish it into a new and improved shape that my life would be different, be better.

I've been writing about this trait a lot. It's the pendulum swing. I've gone from hiding it to screaming it. I look forward to when the pendulum simply centers on acceptance.

So who is the "perfect" woman? Couldn't "I" be the perfect woman? What if everyone in the world was as sensitive as me? Maybe we would be kinder to each other... Appreciate the sound of the ocean more... Create more art...

But that would be saying that there was something wrong with people who are different, who are more analytical, more cognitive. So creating a new version of "perfect" is simply the mirror image of the same problem.

Everyone talks about the issue of women striving to live up to false ideals. The true irony of it is that we now all feel flawed because we are worried about striving toward "perfect". So we are hard on ourselves for being hard on ourselves. It's a never ending plummet down the rabbit hole. It's the image of a mirror facing a mirror and on and on.

So back to my friend and I discussing how we would be the perfect woman. If we could merge into each other we would have perfect legs and nice curves. We could walk up to a man and charm the heck out of him. Enter into a relationship where we can talk art and sports. And cry appropriately. And be patient. And fun. And live happily ever after.

But when I think about the most beautiful parts of life...they are often imperfect...

my 2-year daughter saying "what dat noise was"?
the scar on my lover's lip
an ocean after a storm
family laughing about an inedible dinner
a singer's voice whispering, cracking with emotion
oyster shells
stretch marks
watercolors
fall leaves
an elderly couple holding hands
crackle glass

So I think we all know that there is no perfect. And that we shouldn't strive for something we can't attain. We know there are false ideals that exist. And that we beat ourselves up for not being better.

We "know" all this. But we don't feel all this. I think we just have to be more aware of what we think. And say. And do. And not do. Because it does become a self-fulfilling prophecy when we assume by "being" that we will create a less-than-perfect life. We miss out on all the beauty of the imperfections by closing our eyes out of fear.

Over and over I've read the phrase "perfectly imperfect". I think I prefer "imperfectly perfect".

Happy Birthday Joshua

When Joshua was three years old he placed his forehead against mine and whispered "I will always protect you from the monsters". No truer words have been said.

 

My son is courageous and strong.

 

He feels deeply and loves hard. He has a fiery temper but apologizes after the blaze.

 

Joshua loves hip hop dancing and he head-spins like a pro.

 

He still wants to cuddle with his mom and dad. But is fiercely independent and hates the word "no".

 

Josh likes pizza for breakfast and chamomile tea at night. He proudly sports a Mohawk. But secretly watches Disney movies about princes falling in love.

 

Everyday my son protects me from the monsters of idleness, impatience, selfishness, stagnation, fear and isolation. He helps me be a better person.

 

Joshua and his sister are the reasons I am here and my biggest dream is for them to happy.

 

Josh is seven today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY my precious son!

 

 

Feeding the Crow

Feeding the Crow

Blue-black wings
shiny onyx
close enough
I see her eyes
peering at me sideways
knowing
the question between us.

Outstretched palm

facing the sky
toward her, I answer
with my bread;
“take this” and eat.

Expecting gratitude,
communion
I catch her gaze
knowing her.

And then she knows.

Falls back, lifting
coal wings skyward

in difference.


--Beth Northup

Tear

I admit...I cried two times this week. And I have been thinking about it quite a bit. I haven't been thinking about the reason for the tears....but instead why crying is something about which I'm pondering.

When I was a little girl, I would watch myself cry. If I was sad enough I would sit in front of a mirror and study myself, which, strangely enough, brought me peace. Sometimes I would think of sad things just to see myself cry. I thought tears were pretty...like rain on a window. like rain on my cheek.

I've caught my son doing the same thing actually. I wonder why he is doing it...why I did it. To see what sadness or anger look like? To validate grief or hurt or anger? I remember thinking that I looked pretty crying--a strange thought for a shy little girl who was unsure of herself. Perhaps kids inherently know that tears are good. Healing. But somehow as I grew up my beliefs changed.

I'll give you something to cry about
big boys don't cry
you're faking it
cheer up
don't manipulate
suck it up
have a tissue

In other words, "Don't cry". It's no wonder we hold back our tears.

I find it interesting that "tear" not only means the "watery fluid that comes from the eyes when feeling emotion"  but also "to pull apart and leave ragged edges or rip into pieces". I think there are so many negative messages--overt and subliminal--about tears that we become afraid to cry for fear we will rip apart or fall into pieces.

I was in a play once where my character burst into tears. When practicing that scene, I immediately cupped my face in my hands. The director said "Beth, we need to see your face. We need to see that she is crying". At first it was really hard to do--I was incredibly self-conscious. But eventually I was openly sobbing onstage with snot pouring out of my nose.  It was empowering. A woman came up to me after the show and told me that she cried for the first time seeing a play. I'm not sure my performance was that stellar but I think somehow seeing me cry gave her permission to do the same. It was a powerful moment for me. It was a step in the right direction.

And then there was the time I was sitting in a counseling office during my divorce trying not to cry. My counselor sat beside me and told me to touch my tears and look at them and see how beautiful they were. Frankly it was a completely awkward moment and there was no way I was going to stare at my tears and revel in their beauty. But when I do begin to cry these days, I do hear her whisper in my ear. And it comforts me.

So I have cried twice over the past week. I am hormonal. And I'm dealing with the life stressors of being a single mom and running a business and household.

And I am also dating. Which is terrifying. I'm good at a lot of things. But I cannot claim that dating is a strength of mine. So something happened this week which was a complete misunderstanding. I began to cry on the phone to this new guy. Sadly enough I feel shame even typing this. But acceptance is half the battle right?

I'm summarizing this story but he was really kind about it. He said he wanted to hear me cry. That it would help him know me. And that it was real and what he wants in a relationship--genuineness and honesty. Whether or not this relationship materializes into anything is still unknown. But it reinforces that I want to be with someone who is ok with my tears. That quality has made it onto my "must-have" list.

There are so many articles about the benefits of crying--that it releases endorphins, reduces stress, etc. But I think on a deeper level, and most importantly, it is about expressing who we are.

I want to be ok with my tears. 2014 is all about speaking my truth even when it hurts.

Even when it makes me cry.

RIP, Billboards and Curly Hair.

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”--Nelson Mandela

A piece of my past life that I will always miss is the up-close diversity of my ex-husband's family. David had 2 siblings who were adopted. My brother and sister in law were black. I had this dream that my children would grow up unaware of any difference beyond what makes us all diverse and human.

Sometimes I joke and say "I must have been a black lesbian in a past life" because the issue of discrimination is such a hot button issue for me. There is nothing that makes me more angry than the injustice of people judged by color or sexual identity. I poke fun at myself about the depth of anger I feel about this issue because it really runs deep....more deeply than my personal life or experience could provide adequate context.

I took a personality test once during some career counseling--Myers Briggs--which indicated I was an ENFP. Apparently this personality type has a real issue with perceived injustice because of a strong values system. I can see this about me. I cry over things that are wrong. Over people that are hurt. Injustice makes me want to scream.

An example of my deep-felt sense of "fair" is my feeling about a really popular church in town. I have many friends who attend this church and love it. The speaking is good, the music is amazing. The church does do terrific things in the community. I know they give back through service and donations in massive ways. I, however, have sad feelings about it because of a perceived injustice toward others. It is not so much anger...but truly hurt.

When I moved back to Louisville having just left an advertising career, I was familiar with the cost of different media buys. Soon after I became a resident and got my voter ID, there was a billboard campaign that was funded by the church regarding the "Marriage Amendment". "One Man + One Woman=Marriage" on billboards throughout Louisville. I knew how expensive this billboard campaign was. These Billboards were on major, well-traveled thoroughfares throughout the city. I'd say it was over a six-figure investment.

There are over 13,000 homeless children in public schools. And a church was spending money on a political campaign to prevent two loving people from committing to each other for life? I just couldn't get over it. I knew too much. It was money that could have fed children. I think a modern-day Jesus would have spray painted the billboards to make a point. The road to hell is paved with "good intentions". To this day I just think it was wrong to promote something that points to the differences of others as bad. I think that is discrimination.

All of that said, I feel passionately about equality for all. People should just love each other. We should love ourselves so that we don't project our own self hatred on the people around us in the form of racism or homophobia. If we truly love ourselves, we don't care what other people look like or what they are doing. I am not a psychologist so I can't explain the "whys" about it...but have you noticed that the most confident, peaceful people project love onto most everyone? It just seems whatever you use to fill up your cup--love or hate--that is the overflow that spills out onto others.

I believe it all begins with our kids. I have had very lengthy conversations with my daughter about what I think is right or wrong. And one time she said to me "Mom, why would anyone care who someone else loves. God is love. He wants us to love." And her feelings on love go beyond sexual orientation. She thinks racism is evil. And that evil is cruelty to women. And children. And animals. And the environment.

The first person to visit my daughter after she was born was my brother in law, Joshua. She was born at 4:39 am and he was holding her at 7:30 am. He loved his tow-headed niece so much and had her picture on his desk at Humana where he worked. Joshua died suddenly at age 30 of a heart condition. Meaghan was almost 3. A few months after he passed away, Meaghan was standing in her crib pulling on her hair.

Meaghan: "Mommy, I have curly hair right?"
Me: "Yes, you do"
Meaghan: "I have curly hair just like my Uncle Josh"
Me: "Yes, you have your uncle Josh's curly hair"

Children see the similarities. Not the differences. Just like Nelson Mandela said "love comes naturally"....but we have to nurture this and teach love.

This is my post to honor Nelson Mandela. It may be a bit scattered but ultimately I just hope to see more love in the world and I appreciate his example.  RIP Nelson Mandela. Thank you for what you gave us.

Loss

I love when my life gives me a story so hilarious that I have to put it on paper. But no matter how much I looked for humor in this past week....there was little. This was a sad week. Booooo

If I had to pick a theme for the past year and a half of my life....it would be Loss. Losing a friend, a lover, a dream, some of who I've always been. The universe is slightly cruel because it must realize by now I am really bad at loss. And I have managed to do really well in spite of grief because I have a career I love, and two precious children and so many friends and family around me all the time. But still....

As I think back through my life about my earliest feelings of loss...I struggle to find something solid. I don't remember feeling specifically like something was gone from my life. I remember being scared in my room at night sometimes. Imagining an angel sleeping beside me. If you ever read "The Littlest Angel"--the tiniest angel crawls into the lap of this beautiful older angel who comforts him. I would picture that beautiful comforting angel holding me to sleep.

I had an attachment to a silk pillow as a very young girl. In a moment of prodigy creative genius I named it "Little Pillow". I once left it outside in the rain and begged my mom to go find it. She did. So I got my pillow back.  Soggy and dirty...but no more sad.

We moved to a new house when I was 9. That was hard. Growing up in the Highlands as a child was incredible. The homes were close together and full of kids. We'd run through each others backyards all summer long....it was one giant playground. The new home was big and beautiful with a huge yard. But the houses were far apart and there weren't many children nearby. But I still don't remember too much grief over leaving the neighborhood I loved.

There was a moment when my brother and I were playing in the dirt as our new home was being built. There was a baby bird on the ground. The trees had been cut down so there wasn't a mommy bird. We tried to build a nest on the ground in hopes of the momma finding him. I was young enough to hope...but old enough to not hope too much. When we drove away I felt incredibly sad because there was nothing I could do. The unknown felt really scary because deep down I was aware that the bird was going to die.

So maybe that's it. Maybe it's not so much about the loss of someone or something but rather the loss of control. The gaining of uncertainty is hard.

And then there is the excess love with nowhere to go. I wish I had some magical gorgeous wood bureau where I could store my love for whatever is lost. Like a silk scarf or a comfortable quilt, tuck the loss into neat square folds. Put it in it's proper drawer where I know it is safe but stored comfortably most of the time. A place where I can drape it around me at moments to remember....and then kindly and purposefully place it away.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the extra weight of something with nowhere to go. Something the wind keeps blowing in your face. A loose hair that won't stay tucked behind your ear. A cry outside your window with no source to be found.

Regardless I realize loss is simply a part of life. I'm not sure I will ever get used to it. Who does? I just hope to learn to coexist with it a little more peacefully.

Michelle's Book Foreword

I see a skinny smiling girl with long blonde hair swimming around in my neighbor's shiny grass. She is laughing and flirting and I think she is probably the same as me--three or four years old. I wonder if she has words because she won't say anything back to me no matter what I say--she just keeps rolling around in the dewy yard laughing and smiling like she has the best secret in the world.

That is my first memory of my best friend, Michelle, imprinted in my mind like a really peaceful dream--hazy and happy. I can't help but think of the irony of me writing a foreword for her book. At the young age at which I met her, we didn't have the language, the words, to communicate fully. And here we are as adults, conveying finally in this book, those precious secrets of a giggling girl rolling in the grass.

 ***

Snow days mean sledding! Michelle's father warns us to not go near the ice-covered creek at the side of the hill. Michelle holds the reins at the front of the sled. I man the rear with my arms around her waist. After her dad gives us a push down the hill, I hear Michelle giggling; I realize we are veering toward the creek. Shrieking as we get closer--half horrified, half excited--I brace myself for the flight over the creek bed where we land head-first in ice-covered water.

 At Michelle's home, we are stripped out of dripping wet snowsuits and wrapped in cozy blankets by the fire. Playing with our dolls, we drink cocoa with marshmallows until it is night, and time for me to go home.
 
A few years ago, Michelle and I visited her father who, at the end stage of Huntington's disease, resides in a nursing home. We laughed and recounted that memory to him and in spite of the catatonic state he appeared to be in...his eyes lit up...crinkling into what I know was a smile in his eyes. Broken rules can make magnificent memories.

***

Huntington's is a genetic disorder which carries a 50/50 risk for inheriting it if you have a parent with the disease. Michelle knew for a long time she was at risk for Huntington's because of her paternal grandmother's diagnosis. And then her father's.

She was always a bit of a wild child. I was slightly more shy. The perfect yin to my yang. Childhood was one adventure after another. On one family vacation as teenagers, we swore to her parents that we would stay together on the beach until curfew at dark. Of course we lost each other almost immediately, choosing to kiss boys on the boardwalks. Upon realizing we were late and lost from each other--we raced home separately. I walked in the front door first...swearing to her parents that Michelle was just behind me knocking off sand. She ruined the story mid-way through by running in the back door breathlessly. We lived large together.

Michelle graduated college in three years. At 21, she biked through Africa and almost crashed into a cobra. She met a man at 22 and, one month later, moved to Nashville with him. She jumped out of an airplane. Learned to scuba dive. Switched careers. Got married. Traveled.

And was told she had Huntington's.

Looking back, I believe that from the beginning the author was gifted with wisdom and fearlessness. Perhaps the universe blesses those who will carry heavy burdens down the road with illumination on living. On getting the most from life.

She wrote most of this book after she was diagnosed but before there were visible symptoms. The amazing thing about this book is that the story after her diagnosis continues to be so unfair.

Once she had written the book and became symptomatic, her husband left her. She also had to resign from her high-level advertising position because she could no longer do it. She gave up driving and dating.

But she also travelled to Nepal, climbed Mt. Everest, visited Vietnam and hiked the Mont Blanc trail in Switzerland. She volunteered in Haiti, after the earthquake, for 2 summers in a row at an orphanage and decided to sponsor her favorite, special needs child named Rachel, by sending money each month.

Despite the continued hardships after her diagnosis, she still never felt sorry for herself or changed how she lived which gives so much credibility to the tenets of this book.

Today I drink coffee with a beautiful woman with shiny blonde and silver hair. She has entered the middle stage of Huntington's which means difficulty walking, talking, uncontrolled movements and cognitive impairment. She is throwing her head back laughing although she has lost the words to fully express her joy or her sorrow. She has asked me write the foreword for the book she wrote years ago when she had language to capture her wisdom; her learning from living with the presage of a terminal illness that slowly strips away your life until only your essence remains.

This book teaches how to embrace your essence and thus, happiness. Michelle's is beautiful and fearless. And fearlessness is a magnificent teacher. It doesn't always mean breaking rules. It can be breaking out of our molds or habits. Building the courage to show exactly who we are to the world. Or tougher yet, showing who we are....to ourselves.

So many people get to the end of their lives with regrets on how they should have lived. The blessing of being diagnosed with a long-term terminal illness is that it provides a motivation to live more abundantly. And it teaches the people watching close up, like me, to change how we live.

Meet Michelle. Be happier.