The Weightlifting Muscles of Acceptance and Gratitude

First, I think I totally earned a gold star with that title, right?  But seriously, it just seemed to make sense.  Accept, be grateful, and there is a weight lifted.  I'm getting ahead of myself, though...

Have you ever heard of the Kubler-Ross model, or the 5 stages of grief?  A very simple description is that someone grieving will go through the following stages (not necessarily in this order, and not necessarily just one time per stage):

1 - Denial
2 - Anger
3 - Bargaining
4 - Depression
5 - Acceptance

I have revisited this model from time to time in therapy, but I haven't fully recognized its significance in my life.  For one thing, the model was developed in a study observing terminally ill patients.  Since that isn't my situation, I haven't fully appreciated how the model can apply to any situation where you are grieving.

Yet on Monday, after a particularly great, spiritual weekend, I found I was feeling so peaceful and so content, and it wasn't for any of my typical reasons.  No one had told me that I was smart or talented that day.  I don't know that my kids were particularly well behaved.  I'm still not on top of all of our bookkeeping.  The house is pretty messy in various rooms.  I am still 10 pounds above my weight goal.

Admittedly, we are planning some fun travel and home improvement.  So maybe there's a touch of excitement there.  Still, I'm not romanticizing these events in my head.  I know the travel will be pricey and messy, a real adventure likely full of complaints and a head cold or two.  The home improvement undertaking will be crazy and SO expensive.  (Know this, BIG mess ahead at Dianna's house).  Just the same, I felt and feel good about it.

There were even sad things happening this week.  Someone I didn't know, but who was very dear to many of my friends, passed away much too soon.  I was very sad for this loss and for all I know who are suffering because of it.  Yet I didn't feel consumed in it, nor did I feel the need to do something big as a gesture or to show solidarity.  It wasn't needed.  I am also grateful to admit that I didn't feel that awful, primeval impulse to ask myself "would anyone mourn me this way?"  No, I only felt compassion.

Why was/am I so content right now?  Ironically, the stages of grief came to my mind, and I looked them up.

Bingo.

Here is a humbling acknowledgement:  I've been grieving over some things for a long time.  A tough childhood.  Missed opportunities.  My own mistakes so far as a wife and mother.  (Those are not listed in order of importance, of course.)

From the outside, someone who looks at my life might condemn me for grieving at all.  I have a good life and a lot to be grateful for.  That said, saying, "I/you shouldn't feel this way" has never helped anyone change for the better.  Shame and judgement are no way to peace and growth, and we don't deserve it anymore than others do (and, no, they don't deserve it, no matter how silly their behavior).  My point is, regardless of how good your life is, you may still find yourself grieving over something.  It's okay.  Honor those feelings for a time.  They are legitimate.

Describing my journey would make a Tolstoy-esque blog post, you don't need that on a Wednesday.  I can simply say, though, that there are some things in my life (in all of our lives) over which I (we) have NO control.  We are powerless.  We can't change the past.  We can't control other people.  We can't be in 50 places at once, leap over tall buildings, or see through iron.  In the face of that powerlessness, it is not reasonable that we might go through the stages of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, and Depression?

The bigger question is, will we arrive at the most beautiful of all stages:  Acceptance?

Acceptance can be frightening, like a monster of some sort from which we hide.  What does it mean to accept?  Retreat?  Recognition of failure?  I think many of us fear that acceptance is giving up, that we're choosing to not act, not fight the beast, not pursue our dreams.  Maybe if we accept that something is what it is, can things never be better?  Are we settling?

We're not.  Acceptance just means to stop fighting against what you cannot beat.  You cannot do away something that is.  You cannot turn back time, nor should you.

On that subject (tangent time!), I'm reminded of a beautiful play written by an old school mate of mine.  It featured a futuristic society where psychiatrists improve everything by altering peoples' memories.  They erased trauma, and so everyone seemed happy and adjusted - less crime, more peaceful society, etc.  At one life changing moment in the play, a patient remembers a devastating repressed memory and falls to his knees, pleading with a psychiatrist to remove this painful memory.  I will never forget one of the responses of the psychiatrist:  "But this is part of who you are."  The night I saw it performed, I fell forward weeping into my hands.  So much truth in that line!

We must learn to accept our journey to this point.

Powerlessness is addressed a great deal in the brilliant, inspired 12 Steps of addiction recovery.  When we admit "that we are powerless over our addiction," we stop trying to convince ourselves that we're not addicts.  We stop shaking our fist at the universe.  We stop denying, being angry, bargaining, mourning.  We see it for what it is, and we accept that it is what we're dealing with.

I'd forgotten this beautiful principle of acceptance.  We don't talk about it enough in the LDS church, because we're so focused on change.  Yet we absolutely believe in the grace of Christ.  We know that we are incapable of saving ourselves and can only be saved through Jesus' atonement.  Just the same, our recognition of the good we can do in our lives and our desire to minimize suffering often keeps us more focused on change and improvement.  While change is good and necessary - it helps people turn to God and have better lives - there are some things that you cannot change.

I think that as I've come to realize that there are many things I cannot change (Denial coming to an end), I've spent so much time feeling Anger toward God for the disappointments and tough parts of life. I've remained in a frustrated, anxious state too much.  I've been impatient with others, with life, with myself.  (More Anger.  I'm really good at this one.)  At certain points, I've wanted to say, "Okay, God, let's make a deal.  I'll do this, but you have to promise me this..."  (Bargaining)  As my powerlessness had become more clear, I've struggled with serious bouts of Depression.

Here's the thing.  Powerlessness does not need to be Hopelessness.  It's okay to let go of what you cannot change or control.  The phrase that came to my mind on Monday was, "You are allowed to be happy now, no matter what."

I think a few good things triggered this for me.  One person whose opinion I really value reminded me that there is more than one path to fulfillment.  Another encouraged me to not assume my story has to have a sad ending.

BTW, I apologize for being so archaic.  You don't need me to flesh out details.  We all have them.  We all get it.

So, what's the meaning in my title?  As I have come to accept more and more what I cannot change, I've realized that I have so much to be grateful for, but I haven't felt the joy of gratitude.  There is a difference between acknowledging your blessings and actually being grateful for them.  You can see what you're given, but if you are angry or feel ashamed and unworthy of your blessings, you won't feel the love that comes with real gratitude.

Choosing gratitude is like exercising a muscle, and it's kind of easy.  We can look around and ponder each specific gift, even just things like clean water and air.  In time, we can see what a gift it all is - the relationships, the moments, the memories.  Every fine detail that is good is worth receiving, and actually receiving can bring a lot of joy.  It's important to remember that God wants us to recognize and receive these gifts.  Otherwise He wouldn't have given them in the first place.

The weight I felt in that last bout of depression has started to lift with these realizations.  I know it's not a silver bullet.  I'm not cured or anything.  My moods are still fun and changeable.  Alas, my anxiety isn't magically gone.

In fact, last night I fell apart when I realized I wasn't paying attention to an important deadline.  At first, I felt angry and defensive, and I sank into despair.  After a few minutes and some perspective, combined with support from my husband and one of my kids (the most intuitive young man who knows just when to hug me and say it's okay), I accepted my own error, and peace returned.

So, I will end this long epistle by quoting the Serenity Prayer, which is regularly recited at the start of AA and NA meetings:

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference."

If there is one change that is very easy to make, it's choosing gratitude.  The peace that can come when we realize how loved we are, and accept that love without shame, is huge.  I'm grateful to learn this.  The weight is lifting...

Confession: A Pet Peeve of a Coulda Woulda Shoulda

I have a confession, one in a similar spirit to many of my blog posts.

Sometimes I want to punch people, or at least I want to run as far away from them as possible.

This is more figurative than literal - sort of.  But I'll explain.

I am, as most of you know, a believer, a wife and mom, and an artist.

The artistic world I live in is full of extremely talented people, some who've really "been someone" others who are "going to be someone." There are the few who "are someone" right now, and yet more who "could've been someone."

I am one of the "could've beens."  (Aren't we all, really?  I mean, at least in Utah we are...)

For reasons that only we Coulda Beens know (and sometimes we need reminders), we chose to stay where we currently are and make our lives here, at least for now.  The reasons were/are good, and made/make sense to us.

(Raise your hand if you're one of these people, BTW.)

Now I will tell you that on my best days, I am filled with gratitude.  I mean, I honestly have a beautiful life, one much richer than what I had once hoped for myself.  I have it all, so to speak - a great husband, great kids, great friends, great home, great creative opportunities with tons of truly great artists.  I am SO blessed.  My husband and I are humbled and grateful, and we try to be thoughtful about how we live our lives.  I know we could do more.

My husband has made and continues to make many sacrifices for our family, and I'm terribly proud of him.  The children and I are very secure in his love (maybe too secure at times, almost taking him for granted).

I've made some sacrifices too, and I assure you none of them were forced upon me.  Every choice was inspired.  Every child was inspired.  I hope that, despite my personal struggles, my children and husband also feel secure in my love.  I'm working on it.

But sometimes...

Sometimes... I'm screaming inside my head.  (I swear I've said this before...)  I look at my acquaintances who "were someone" or "are someone", and I turn the ugliest shade of green.  And I'm screaming.  Sometimes it's not even inside my head.  It's out loud.

(Wow, I'm really confessing a lot here.  Someone else needs to hear this, I think.  Or I need to own it.)

Once upon a time, a promising path of opportunities was before me.  Triumphs occurred.  Disappointments occurred with lessons learned.  Hope for more triumph.  Words of encouragement came from people whose opinion I valued greatly.  Ambition and a love for the journey burned in my belly.  I'm not pretending it was this inevitable stardom or anything like that, but there was hope for success.

In some cases, phone calls were received with offers to which I responded with an enthusiastic "yes!"  Eventually, things changed, and the answer was more often an unfortunate but necessary "no."  Doors began to close, at least for a season.  They were the right decisions at the time, I know it.

There is, however, a bizarre phenomenon often referred to as a "mid-life crisis," and I'm smack dab in the middle of one.  I never quite understood what one was before, but I'm assuming that what I'm experiencing right now is it.

Questions.  Regrets. What ifs.  Oh my goodness, the frustration that floods you when those questions, regrets, and what ifs come!  Frustration cascading down, followed by deep shame.

No one can have it all and especially not right now.  All will have to sacrifice something for a season, or possibly forever (please, no, not forever), in order to have something else (hopefully something even better).  And in choosing one thing, the other thing has to wait.

Okay, so here's the pet peeve:  Despite the fact that I believe everything I just said, and despite the fact that I live in a culture that overwhelmingly shares my values, I regularly face reminders that I never "was someone."  It is never in the form of "too bad you didn't do this."  Rather it is consistent reminders of "look how amazing this person is, because they did it!" or "They're doing it!"

It's so strange how our culture of believers openly agree that spiritual and family pursuits take precedence over worldly pursuits, and yet we are constantly heralding the big achievers of worldly pursuits.  I mean, of course we should!  It's amazing what people are accomplishing.  I'm brimming with pride over them when I'm not crying in my pillow wishing I was in their shoes.  I want them to succeed.  They deserve it.      

This is a real thing, though.  Books have been written by people in my culture about how they were on the brink of huge success, and then they chose this other more spiritual thing.  And then we celebrated that person to the hilt.  They still became celebrities.  Others have done some pretty cool things, and that was all anyone needed to know.  Golden standard met!  Doors wide open.

It's at such moments where I feel like punching or running or just crying.

(Do you see how petty I'm being here?  I mean, this is like EPIC pettiness. And at my age!  Sheesh!)

Ouch!  I struggle with it.  In one case, I was in an environment where the reminders were so consistent that I finally chose to run as fast and as far away as possible.  I was barely making peace with my own path, and then every week or so, I'd get another, "Yay!  Check out that amazing person who has done such cool things!" or "Aren't I pretty great, because I've done some cool things."  And then my peace would shatter.  It wasn't real in the first place, I guess.

Well.  That was a load off.  Please don't judge me, I'm really trying here.

So where am I going with this?

I have no idea whatsoever.  Sorry.  I've got nothing.

I guess there is one thing I have.  I have a house full of people with blond hair and brown/hazel eyes who make my heart ache with love, whom I can't imagine life without, and who not only deserve to be loved by me but who also need me.  (Poor weirdos!)

That's really it.

Okay, I guess I have something else.  Somewhere, tucked back in my memory are moments of clear, undeniable inspiration.  "Go here."  "It's time for this."  "One more."  "That can wait."

"You still matter."

I MUST dig in deep and find those moments again.  I must plead with the Life Force - that Life Force that not only led me down this path but has also rescued me from more than one black hole.  I must know why?  How?  What's next?

There are some regrets in life which could dwarf all other regrets.  A tall, white haired man once echoed the sentiment in the following words:  "No other success can compensate..."  Well, you can look it up.

I guess that's it.  That's my path right now - to remember when someone spoke peace to my mind concerning a matter, and to find that peace again, no matter what is going on around me that might shake it.  

In the meantime, while questions loom of "what's my path, and what's my next step?" I must not forget the clarity of this call:  Love them.  Now.  

Things I Learned From Teaching and Directing High Schoolers

I'm baa-aaack...  I know it has been quite a long time.  (BTW, wouldn’t it be fun to count how many blog posts have begun with something like “sorry it’s been such a long time?”) 

Anyway, I’m back, and I realize that I sort of had a few cliffhangers in my last post.  I was directing my first play, I had just had an audition disappointment, and I was teaching musical theatre at a performing arts high school. 

So much has happened and changed in the last several months, and I want to share it with you.  I’ve chosen the above title, because in the process I learned a tremendous amount that I may never have otherwise learned.

First, the play I direct ended up so great!  The kids rose to the occasion and performed wonderfully in some very difficult material.  I’d inadvertently chosen something that was beyond a high school level, and I didn’t cut very much of it all.  Subsequently, the students and I grew a lot in the process, and the final product was awesome!  During our brief 4-show run, I repeatedly fought tears while introducing the piece to our audiences.  I was so grateful for the opportunity and insanely proud of them.  I was also proud of my own work.  I was able to guide them in telling a fun, meaningful story with some vision and artistry.  Most audience members loved it, and it was a memorable experience.

That said, it was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hard!

Oh my goodness, it was hard!  I mean, what was I thinking?!  Okay, I’ll just admit what I chose.  We did… (deep breath)… Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. 

No, do you understand?!  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, hereafter referred to as R&G, is such a difficult piece.  It’s existential and absurdist, and the two leads are onstage and have dialogue the entire time.  My R&G were both fabulous, but they had a million lines to learn.  On top of that, a lot of the dialogue is similar throughout.  So they’ll have a conversation and then have another one later in the play that is almost, but not quite identical, at least in theme.  Plus I only had 8 actors to work with in a play that usually has a cast of a dozen or more, AND I was the director, designer, and technical director all rolled into one (though I did have some wonderful support from my artistic director).  It was such a challenge for all of them, and I couldn’t memorize everyone’s blocking and lines for them.  Which leads me to the next hard part…

I was completely powerless at times.  It just came with the territory.  I had no control over who would audition or what conflicts people had or what was going on in the students’ lives or their health or if people would be on time or if anyone was really paying attention during rehearsal.  I had no control over the fact that our rehearsal space was less than ideal and I didn’t have much of a budget and there was barely any advertising, etc.  It all came together, but it was so humbling. 

Add to all of the above the fact that my then kindergartner was in tow at almost every rehearsal (often after a struggle to get her there and be on time), and my anxiety was through the roof much of the time.

1^st Lesson:  Sometimes worthwhile things are really, really hard – so hard that, if you knew beforehand how difficult it would be, you would run instead of saying yes. 

Let’s talk about my kindergartner.  She loved the structure of kindergarten, but she had no desire to go anywhere after school.  She just wanted to relax and enjoy being at home with me.  It was important for her to learn that mom still had a life and shouldn’t have to stop everything for everyone else.  Still, I understood how hard it was for her.  I felt guilty, and my consequent anxiety made me touchy and impatient.

 

To be very honest, while I had a strong sense that I should direct this play and learn the lessons that it would teach me, I am still not 100% sure it was a great idea.  Okay, I’m glad I did it, but it took a toll on my relationship with my daughter at the time, and we had to recover a bit afterward.  For that reason alone, I will think twice before taking on something else that will affect my family so much. 

2^nd Lesson:  It’s not always clear when something is a good idea or not.  Sometimes you have to study it out, act on faith, and follow through (as long as following through is not a dangerous thing).  Then you may step back and get some humility and learning along with the triumph or failure.

3^rd Lesson:  There was a lot I didn’t know about directing.  I’ll just leave it at that.  I’m glad I did it, but the process taught me a lot about what it takes to direct a play.  So consider me humbled on that front.  That doesn’t mean I don’t want to direct again, because I do really want to... someday, but still…humbled.

To continue with my update, I had mentioned a recent audition disappointment.  Honestly, it was just one of those things that come with being an artist (or being anyone who is hired by other people).  I know I can’t win everything, and there are tons of talented performers in my area.  All of that was clear at the time.  I’m grateful to say that I’ve gotten another turn in a different show playing a crazy fun role.  In addition to that, after my current project ends, I’ll be part of a workshop of a new musical slated for Broadway, and I’ll be playing such a beautiful role.  (No, I won’t be playing the role on Broadway, just in the workshop.)  So creative doors opened, and, once again I’m reminded of the following:

4^th Lesson:  When one creative door closes, another door often opens.  As long as you don’t quit, it can happen!

On to my final, and frankly most significant update:  I’m no longer teaching musical theatre at a performing arts high school or at a performing arts studio (which I was also doing for part of the last school year). 

One might look at me and say, “How did she fall so far?”  In a matter of months, I went from teaching at a charter high school and a performing arts studio to not teaching at all (barring the occasional private lesson).  How did this happen?

Well, first listen for a second.  Do you hear that?  That’s the sound of my heart not beating a million miles per hour most minutes of the day.  That’s the sound of me not screaming in panic at my kids nearly as often as I once was.  J  

Sometimes you have to step back and reevaluate whether you want to keep everything that is on your plate.  For a few years, I was functioning with the motto “If I don’t take advantage of this opportunity, another one might not come again.”  To be honest, there is some truth to that belief.  I LOVED a lot of the students and the other teachers with whom I worked.  The places where I worked did some seriously cool things, and I loved being involved in them.  At times I was bursting with gratitude to be a part of such wonderful groups and didn’t want to ever leave.  If I'd not said yes, none of that would've happened.    

Yet I was running so hard for my own abilities.  I had limited time to myself to think and plan for my family and my classes.  I made little effort at homemaking, had all the bills on Autopay, and had little emotionally to give to my family when I was with them.  I was there but not really present. 

Leaving the performing arts studio and later the high school was terrifying.  I knew I was lucky to be wanted there, and I did not want to burn my bridges or establish myself as a quitter or someone who is undependable.  I knew that if I walked away, I could not expect to come back at another time.  Indeed, all of this was realistic thinking.  By stepping away from teaching, I did let some connections dry up and lost some amazing students.  I miss the great people I worked with. 

A bigger commitment was calling me, however, and that was my family.  I realized last year that once all of your kids are elementary age and up, the after-school time is crucial.  My kids needed me to get them to activities and help them with homework.  Also, they needed mom around more than just on the weekend.  I’m grateful that I even had the choice to be there. 

I wanted to teach, but I wanted to perform as well.  In fact, being a performer in some ways legitimized me more as a teacher of performing arts.  Unfortunately, I found that doing both was more stressful than I felt okay with.  

The good news is I’m grateful for the decisions I made to stop teaching, and I'm very grateful that I had the choice.  My relationship with my children has improved as I have been more emotionally and physically available for them.  The transformation in my youngest alone was enough to confirm how right my decision was.  In the months that followed the end of the school year, she and I became more affectionate and warm toward each other.  It was as if we were finally able to heal from the tough year.  Also, my oldest child talks to me more, especially in the mornings.  She was so resilient and learned to be very independent.  This year she has a little more security knowing that I’m there and want to be with her and help her more. 

5^th lesson learned, best summed up in a quote by a prophet:  “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” – David O. McKay

Now this post would be disingenuous and incomplete if I made it sound like I was doing SO brilliantly in the classroom that my decisions to stop teaching were entirely inspirational.  The fact is, things got rough, and it was humbling.

First, I was pretty stressed out being so busy.  Some people are probably wonderful with their time management and don’t get frazzled quickly.  I found that I really do have a breaking point, and I was beyond it.  I felt less excited to teach over time and less patient in the classroom.  My teaching style went from positive and enthusiastic to anxious and demanding. 

Second, teaching at the high school was hard.  Teenagers are going through a lot of tough stuff.  Without going into too much detail, I had a student or two who were dealing with depression and harming themselves.  A bunch of my students were mourning a peer suicide.  Most of my students were too busy, and one of them became really hostile towards me in and after a difficult term.  These good people needed an environment and teachers who were collected, organized, patient, and prepared.  I tried very, very hard to be all of those things, but I did not succeed.  Plus I needed more support than I got.  

Experiencing the hostility from a student was one of the hardest parts of the job.  Actually it was the hardest part.  When you are in a classroom, a student yells at you or speaks to you with aggression and hostility, and everyone around you is silent from shock and doesn’t know what to do, it’s scary and mortifying.  Then, when some of your students go up to that student and give them a hug after class, you are conflicted.  Yes, you are more concerned about them, and you want the student to get support.  But when you realize that you are no longer safe in the classroom, it is pretty hard to rationalize staying (at least that's how I felt).

I wish I had been better qualified as a teacher.  I wish I’d managed my emotions better, kept my language clean 100% of the time, been warmer, better organized, communicated more, read minds better, been more patient with the shortcomings of the school and the kids and even my own shortcomings.  I wish I’d not taught last year…

I wish.  I wish.  I wish…

No I don’t.  I don’t wish any of it different.  If I’d never been crazy enough to take on everything I did last year, I would never have learned all of the things I learned. 

More lessons learned:  

I learned that my kids need me more than other peoples’ kids do. 

I learned that charter schools can be a good idea, but they come with challenges and need parents to really engage. 

I learned that ideas that look great on paper don’t always work out in the execution. 

I learned that sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do to make someone like you or let you help them. 

I learned that, as a parent, I want to support my children, BUT I’m also determined to never give my child an out or write off a teacher and assume the worst about them. 

I learned that it’s very wise to get all of your facts straight before you react to something (though, this lesson was mostly learned from the receiving side). 

I learned that behind even the clumsiest actions are often the very best of intentions, and in the end you need to forgive people who accidentally throw you under a bus (learned from under the bus).

I learned so many things, and if I had the opportunity to go back in time and make different choices than I did last year, I’d say no thank you.  It’s not that I’m thrilled about the stress I caused my family or because I loved falling short as a teacher.  It’s just from knowing this:  The lessons learned from our experiences are among our greatest treasures. 

I type this as I sit in my quiet house.  In a minute, I’ll eat lunch and dig into to some housework, prepare for a rehearsal tonight, do some bills, and practice the piano and sing, grateful that it’s Friday. My kids will be home in a couple of hours, and I’ll be here when they arrive. 

The journey can be rough, but the wisdom and serenity that can follow makes every bump worth it.

Look, I Made a Hat...

Last night, my husband and I went to the symphony.  We saw a wonderful community orchestra play a Dvořák, a Tchaikovsky, and, one of my favorite pieces, Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5 "Emperor."  If you don't already know this lovely piece of music, I commend it to you.  (This link is just the 3rd movement, because the video I found of the whole piece was interrupted by a fast food ad, and that's just not right. Still you should hear the whole thing!)

I first fell in love with Beethoven's music when I saw the film "Immortal Beloved." (Yes, I know.  A movie...)  The film was great, and I discovered the magic of Gary Oldman.  It was the music, however, that affected me the most.  I quickly purchased the soundtrack, entirely comprised of some of Beethoven's greatest hits, and I listened regularly to it throughout my college years and beyond.

The orchestra we saw last night was unique.  Though most members had trained extensively, and some were likely former professionals, none are full-time musicians except for the pianist, who was a guest artist.  The first violinist was extremely pregnant, probably not with her first child.  My own good friend in the orchestra is a busy mother of 5.  The conductor had been a professional software engineer for many years.  The ages of the musicians varied from 20s to 60s.

Considering none of the musicians play full-time, their work was completely beautiful.  I was thrilled to experience the Beethoven concerto live, played so well and in a great venue.  That said, having heard it hundreds of times on my professional recording, I noticed small flaws in the playing.  I won't point them out, and that's not the focus of this post.  Suffice it to say that it was still a community orchestra, albeit an exceptional one.

Just the same, I needed the concert and the music this week.

A few days ago, I had an audition defeat.  I went out for a role that I knew was a bit of a long-shot, but I still brought the same ambition that I bring to every audition.  At callbacks, however, I got my butt totally kicked by everything.  The competition was fantastic, I clashed in look, size, and/or age with all of the leading contenders for the other roles, and I struggled to give the best reading of the sides.  In one case, we were given a song on which I spent 30 minutes preparing, hoping to blow them away with my lovely A flat.  At the last minute, we were given something else to sing.  It was a long, draining 4 1/2 hours, which was then followed by my own sense of defeat as I climbed into my car and made the drive home to my husband and sleeping children.

It's all good.  I just closed a successful show with an amazing cast a month ago, and hopefully there will be others before long.  I like to win, though, and I didn't this time.

On another front, I'm currently directing a high school play.  The cast is a group of wonderful, talented young people, the script is brilliant, and I have great ideas for how to make it exciting to watch and perform.  This is also the first time I'm directing a show, and we have limited time and means to do this.  I'm as terrified as I am excited.

Finally, the song "Finishing the Hat" from Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George has recently been on my mind.  Months ago, I saw Kelli O'Hara perform the song in a concert, and it was so glorious.  It was also the first time I realized what the song really meant and, moreover, how much it applied to me.

For those unfamiliar with the song, George (based on the impressionist Georges Seurat) reflects on how he is incapable of compartmentalizing his work in order to save his relationship.  He is always returning to the "hat" that he knows he must finish.  He laments that "the woman who won't wait for you knows that however you live there's a part of you always standing by, mapping out a sky, finishing a hat."  At the end of the 1st act, George loses the woman he loves forever due to this failing.

I get this.  A friend and I recently commiserated over how difficult it is to stay present with our families, because we obsess too much over our creative endeavors.  There is a part of me that is always thinking about my next audition, something stupid I said to a director or a student, my current project, my unending to-do lists (artistic and domestic, to be honest), etc.

How do these four things - the symphony, my failed audition, my directing debut, and Sondheim's brilliant song all relate?  Well, I have to go back to the symphony to explain...

Halfway through the 2nd movement of the concerto, I was crying.  The music had sparked such strong memories of a time in college when all I imagined for myself was life as an artist.  I was going to be a professional actress and singer, and that was as far as I could see.  I had promise, but I had even more passion.

As the music played, I reflected (for the millionth time) on how different everything was from what I'd mapped out.  I never fulfilled my big dreams of working full-time as an actress. I never worked in Chicago or did a tour or Broadway.  I never did anything outside of Utah or Wyoming.  I never became the dancer or singer or actress I'd dreamed of becoming.

This time, however, I did not struggle with feelings of regret or resentment over how far I never went.  Instead I felt...grateful.

Like those talented community musicians fitting their music into the windows of their lives and then reaching me with that music, I too have that privilege.  I can do these great creative things in the windows of my family life.  I feel so lucky.  I can't have it all, but I can have it all.

My work will never be perfect.  I will never be able to devote as much time as I'd like to my craft.
I have no idea what the next show is or how my directing debut will turn out or what the future holds, but I'm doing something.  I may never know the full satisfaction of "finishing the hat" the way George did, but I'm so grateful that I can still make great art without having to pay the same price George paid.

By the 3rd movement, tears of joy flowed down my cheeks.  All I felt was gratitude - for Beethoven, for those musicians, for the memories invoked by the music, for my failed audition, for the last show I was in, for the opportunity to direct, for hope for the future, and, most importantly, for my greatest opus - my family.

Every time I weep at a professional concert, film, or play because I can't "finish the hat" to perfection the way I would like, I need to remember those glorious community musicians who helped me last night.  Their gift was more than enough to make a difference for me.

At the end of "Finishing the Hat," George feels the work is complete, and declares "Look, I made a hat where there never was a hat."

I am here to declare that you can redefine what it means to "finish the hat."  The hat doesn't have to be perfect.  It rarely will be.  You don't always have to win in order to still matter.  Sometimes always winning comes at too big a price.

You just have to keep making hats.

Make one, then another, and keep going.  Make it the best you can with the time and skills you have. Give it sufficient time and effort within reason, and then accept when it's done and you can't do anymore.

I have a family.  I believe in God and serve in my church.  I teach Musical Theatre part time.  I perform part time.  I am directing a play and hope it will be a great experience for my students and those who come to see them perform.

In the perfect words of Stephen Sondheim, "Look, I made a hat.  Where there never was a hat."

The Swearing Mormon, or The Shift

Today this expression kept floating through my mind:  The Shift.  (Some of you might have thought I was going to say, "The Swearing Mormon?"  But I'll get to that later.)

Some call it "a mighty change of heart," but what on earth does it mean?

I guess that's a weird way to start this blogpost, but I had an interesting exchange yesterday with a young woman that brought this concept to my mind.  Since then, it has been just wafting through my brain.

It began with confessions a number of us were making about our youths while prepping for a show. As I shared that my first "real" kiss was from a stranger on the beach when I was 13, I blurted out something to the effect that I was "an anorexic teen drinking a wine cooler after a long day on the beach."  (The nerdy story, BTW, is evidence that underage drinking often leads to silly behavior.)  I continued on, and awhile later, our 16 year old cast mate pulled me aside.  "Do you mind if I ask?  Were you really anorexic?"  As a dancer, she had known a number of anorexic women.

Then I had to own that, aside from a brief chapter in my life when I would eat one meal a day (usually a biggish meal) and then chew diet gum the rest of the time, the answer was no.  It was a bit of an exaggeration.  I was never truly anorexic and/or not long enough to negatively impact my physical health.  I had other unhealthy habits, but not that one in earnest.

Still, she continued, I clearly had a rough spot in my life.  Yes, I did - rougher than some, smoother than others.  It is one reason I am so drawn to teenagers.  I feel deep empathy for them in the crazy season of life they are traveling through.  Even when I'm lecturing them in my high school performing class to be more professional, get some sleep, learn their lines, etc., I can feel their young adult hormone/over-scheduled/tough social environment-induced anxiety radiating off of them.  If it wasn't a high school, I'd hug them regularly.

We then talked about the change that came to me when I joined the church, and it was humbling. I was so grateful for how my life had changed, and yet I wished I was doing better.

Before recovery and the church, I was in survival mode.  It was not street survival.  There was sufficient food, clothing, and shelter, but there was little sense of security and purpose.  I view myself as pitiful and was subject to my fears and my cravings.  Then I started to learn about Christ and a better life, and I had a Shift in how I viewed life and myself.  There was meaning in the difficult experiences.  I had potential for a good future.  There was Light after the Darkness.  This was the "mighty change of heart" as described in the Book of Mormon.

Yet, sometimes I shift backwards and revert to older views of myself.  I stop seeing myself as a divine daughter of God with purpose and light.  I see my cravings, my fears, my frustrations, and my weaknesses.  How is this possible at 41, a mission, a degree, a glass slipper, a prince, a castle, and 4 mice later?

This brings me to the "swearing Mormon" part of the title.  I think that's part of my shift that I continue to struggle with.  I've held on to that little bit of dark and still find some unhealthy comfort in expressing my frustration through strong language.  It's foolish, I know.  I'm just neglecting the better part of the English language when I revert to base talk.

Hence the conversion continues, and the fight to Shift over is real.  Who will I see myself as today, and how will it affect me?  While it goes hand in hand with action - we often see ourselves in a better light when we are making healthier choices - it is so much about our view of ourselves that will either motivate or sabotage us.

It's like the people of Ammon from the Book of Mormon, whose conversion to Christianity transformed them from bloodthirsty warriors to a people willing to prostrate themselves before a hostile enemy in order to avoid taking up their weapons again.  The tragic inverse may be the bishopric member who stops seeing his potential, gives up on his family and spiritual well-being, and breaks the law or cheats on his spouse (or both).

The good news is:  Repentance.  Is this the shift we must continue to make?  We come to know what we know, and then we see ourselves through His eyes.  As we shift our view, we have the courage to change our actions (or our words perhaps)?

Trying today to Shift in the right direction ...

Be Ye Reconciled to God

This week something happened that shook me, and my peace left me.  Actually, it has been months now, and I will avoid details.  I can only say that, not very long ago, I had some peace and hope.  Then it went.  Then it returned.  Right now, it's apparently on holiday again.

A week ago, I had peace, clarity, and gratitude.  Right now I feel small, foolish, and insignificant.  I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed.

This vicious cycle to and away from peace is never ending, it seems?  Right?  (Please tell me I'm right... Of course I'm right...)

Why do we do this to ourselves?  Why is it so difficult to find peace and keep it?  Isn't that supposed to be the greatest bi-product of faith?

Or maybe I need to renew my faith.

Not many weeks ago, in Gospel Doctrine, we discussed Paul's invitation to reconcile ourselves to God.  In Paul's words, "Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ’s stead, be ye reconciled to God." (2 Corinthians 5:20)

This phrase:  "be ye reconciled to God."  What is that?  How do you do it?

I guess I have two personal interpretations of the phrase.

The first is to align yourself with what God wants for you.  The second is to align your life so that it follows God's pattern.  You could say they go hand in hand together.

Let's talk about the first, though.  What if you're not always okay with what God wants for you?  What if you are sometimes angry about the path He put you on?  What if you sometimes want to give God a few choice words about your failings and shortcomings, your disappointments and weaknesses?  What if you repeatedly struggle with resentment about the potential you were never able to tap, possibilities never fulfilled, not even by an inch?

That's one of the times when I find it difficult to reconcile myself to God.  And yet it feels like I have to make peace with God's plan before I can change so that I'm following God's pattern.

Okay, wait.  Let me see if I understand this.  To follow God's pattern, you have to make peace with His plan.  Is that right?

Actually, no, it isn't.  That's not right.  I think the answer is actually the reverse.  To make peace with God's plan, you must embrace His pattern?

So if, say, you are struggling over a wound you have from sin, abuse by others, or disappointment, the answer may be repentance or simply choosing God and obedience?

I think I know an illustration of this, though I may be reaching.  I have thought in recent months about addiction, sin, and the vicious cycle of self-loathing.  It began when a friend opened up to me about a difficult addiction this person was dealing with.

I didn't know what to say when we hit that point in the conversation.  I was not repulsed.  I understood better than they knew.  I felt love and empathy.  I was humbled, though, because it felt like if only I could convince this person how much God loves them, they might feel inspired to repent and get clean.  But how could I do that?

Then I had an "a-ha" moment many hours after the conversation was over.  It wasn't about coming to believe in God's love that could empower one to change.  It's about aligning ourselves spiritually - not intellectually pondering and considering, but actually making a real change - and then we come to know God's love for us.

I don't know how perfect this formula is, but let me give an example.  In 12-Step recovery programs, you can meet some really healthy people who have been in recovery for awhile.  The first thing they had to do - often years before - however, was abstain from their addictive behavior.  This is a real action someone can take.  They don't say in the meetings, "Come to the meetings until you feel happy and lose the desire to use."  They say, "Get clean now and come to the meetings, and eventually you'll find clarity, enlightenment, and peace."

Clarity, enlightenment, and peace.  Those don't come to using addicts.  You have to get clean first.  The addictive behaviors don't let you see clearly.  They don't let you find enlightenment.  They don't give you peace.  As long as your addiction is poisoning you, you can't even feel these things let alone receive and embrace them.

So the addict must choose to abstain one day at a time.  (Sometimes one minute or hour at a time.) Then the addict keeps going to meetings, reads books, gets a sponsor, learns to pray, and follows the steps.  Through time, she finds clarity, enlightenment, and peace.

Can this pattern work when dealing with anger and resentment over life's wounds and disappointments?  Is the anger like poison that clouds your mind and body?  Will it not go until you change your behavior?  To become enlightened... no, to become reconciled to God, do you have to follow His pattern and His path first?

I will experiment on this.  In my deepest anger, I'm tempted to give God a piece of my mind and scream out, "Why did you do this to me?  Why did you set me on this path when you knew that I'd struggle again and again with feelings of loss and inadequacy?  Why do you continue to let me feel beat down and small like this? Do you really love me?"

Doesn't help.

I'll try something else:

I'll go where you want me to go.

I'll say what you want me to say.

I'll be what you want me to be.

Then I see where I am, how blessed I am, and how much possibility there is for change, growth, clarity.

I choose the latter.

My 1st Great Awakening, or the Uncoolness of “Rehab”

Earlier in this blog, I mentioned an “awakening” I had before receiving the gospel.  I’d like to share about that now.

It began in 9th grade, October 10th, the day before my 14th birthday, when my guidance counselor called me into her office.

The dialogue went a little something like this:

“How are things going?”

“I’m okay.”

(silence)

“Is school treating you well?”

“Fine.”

(silence)

“Any relationships?”

“Um, I don’t have a boyfriend right now?“  (beat)  “I hang out with my friends?”

(silence)

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.  Is there something wrong?”

The guidance counselor proceeded to tell me that two of my friends had visited her concerned about the fact that I had been doing some cutting on my ankles and wrists.

I should probably take a moment to admit that I was really a big wannabe.  I’m not proud of it.  I didn’t “wannabe” someone accomplished or bright or pretty.  Well, of course, I wanted to be those things.  When I was convinced that I could never be any of those things, however, I wanted to be…cool.

What qualified someone to be “cool?”  Well, in my high school, there were a lot of things that could make you “cool.”  There were cool kids who were friends with everyone and did well in their classes or excelled in a sport or other extra-curricular activity.  There were cool funny guys who made people laugh or pretty girls whom everyone wanted to date or befriend.

Then there were the rest of us who never felt they could measure up to those standards.  So we, who came in all shapes and sizes, tried different means of being cool.  The easiest way, it seemed, was to pretend that you didn’t really care about anything.

My previous school year, 8th grade, was rough.  I was a new girl at the school, homely, with a limited wardrobe, and lacking social skills.  As a result, I was severely picked on in the hallways and lunchroom for the first two months or so until people finally got bored and found someone else to torment.  Some of the boys on the bus loved sexually harassing girls, and I was one of their favorite victims.

Life sucked for the first part of 8th grade.

Even after the bullying and harassment died down and I found success in schoolwork, choir, and a few friends, the memory of the pain was seared into me.  I still audibly gasp a little when a young woman tells me she’s in the 8th grade.  To me, 8th grade was hell.  The whole school year is stained for me with memories of suicide poems, death wishes, and dreading the bus and the hallway.

At the end of that school year, I determined that someday I would be cooler, prettier, and care less.  I put “sun” in my hair so I was golden blonde and spent the summer staying up late, swimming at the pool all day and tanning, hanging out with friends, and limiting my diet to about a meal a day.  I listened to Pink Floyd and knew the lyrics to popular nasty rap songs.  I got stoned once on a hash joint with some friends, and had a mental list of every drug I’d be willing to try.

Teenage boys (who had cars!) would tell me I was so “fine.”  My first kiss happened on July 4th, when I was buzzed from drinking a wine cooler after a long day of tanning and not eating much.  I didn’t even know the guy’s name.

At the start of my 9th grade year, just a month or so before my 14th birthday, I was 5’6 ½”, blonde, tan, and weighed about 100 pounds.  I went to the occasional keg party with friends, smoked when I could get away with it, snuck beers at night when I sat down to homework, and I had had a couple of boyfriends.  I went from being a straight–A student in the National Junior Honor Society and a choir star to being someone who rarely completed homework, hid from my family, and showed disrespect to my teachers.

I was a mess.

To any youths who may stumble upon this blog, please let me assure you, this was a very unhappy time.  I no longer had a vision of my possible future.  I no longer saw myself as capable of anything worthwhile.  I was just piling on armor to protect me from potentially cruel classmates, my family, or anyone or anything else that could hurt me.  The armor wasn’t reliable, though.  Any hurtful word from family or peers would send me spiraling down into self-mutilation, substance abuse, or suicidal thoughts.

This brings me back to my encounter with the guidance counselor the day before my 14th birthday.

After she explained that my friends had “outed” me for self-mutilation, she suggested I talk to a therapist at the mental hospital.  I reluctantly agreed to, and by bedtime I was encouraged to check myself into the adolescent ward.  I again agreed to, not because I felt that I needed it, but because I didn’t want to go home that night knowing that my family thought I should be in a mental hospital.

I consider my willingness to commit myself in order to avoid being guilted for not committing myself one of the greatest ironies of my life.

It was also an extremely important event in my life.

I will try to be somewhat concise about my two months in “rehab” (the term we all affectionately used for our new home, because we thought that it sounded cooler than “inpatient in an adolescent psych ward”).  It is necessary to give some detail, however.

First, I met some of the saddest people I’ve ever met, most of whom considered themselves “cool.”  I find it easiest to just list them (by fictional name) in the interest of time.

There were the following:

Joe, a 16 year old male with cystic fibrosis, who became my boyfriend for a few weeks.  Despite being warned that he was giving himself 6 months to live if he continued using drugs, he never took the hospital seriously and went AWOL at least twice.  He was also an unpredictable, manipulative boyfriend.

Marie, a 14 year old girl who had done practically every drug in the book and had been sexually active since she was 12 or 13.

Mike, a 16 year old juvenile delinquent who had been in and out of detention centers for more than a year, where he had been raped more than once.  He rarely bathed or brushed, talked with a severe speech impediment, and had a heart of gold.  We adored each other over time.

Josh, a 16 year old who permanently had the shakes from a medication that had disagreed with his system.  He had been an inpatient for at least 1 year.  He kept every rule and cared about everyone, but his depression was severe.  I think he may have also had schizophrenia.

Annie, who had severe schizophrenia and didn’t interact with any of us.  We laughed at her antics, like when she pretended to be a cockroach, because we were idiots. (The memory of it still breaks my heart).

There were a few more people of interest:  A crack addict who checked himself out after a few weeks, a gang-rape survivor who mixed in well with the coolest crowd, a manic depressive who fought her mood swings daily and was a pool shark, a young man who had experimented with drugs and Satan worship, and a few others whose challenges I can’t recall.

“Rehab” was a mess but a necessary turning point for me.  The other inpatients terrified me, especially when they chose to balk at the rules and ignore their treatments.  At times, I joined in with the stupidity, but only for so long.  Thankfully, I was a wimp and unwilling to fully commit to behavior that I was convinced could ruin my future.

Three influences/events in rehab stood out the most to me.

One of these will sound a little cliché.  I loved most of the counselors.  They were strict with us, but they were accepting and at times funny.  I particularly loved one who encouraged meditation and played great music on Sunday evenings with us.  He introduced me to Cat Stevens, and I’ll be forever grateful.

Sitting in those hallways expressing our feelings together and then listening to music and feeling acceptance brought me peace.  It removed the sense of isolation I had dealt with for so long.  I believe we all felt understood.

Another important influence came from two life-changing documentaries.  One was called “Streetwise,” and I can’t remember the name of the other one.

“Streetwise” is probably the most powerful documentary I’ve ever seen, featuring homeless youths in Seattle in the 1980s.  Scenes from these kids’ lives were heartbreaking and humbling.  They dealt with drugs, STDs, family abuse, street violence, etc.  In fact, it ended in the most tragic way when one of the young men hung himself.  They couldn’t have planned a more sobering ending.

The other documentary was mostly about the dangers of popular drugs at the time.  One drug that frightened me more than anything was angel dust or PCP.  I had heard of PCP before.  When I was a little girl in Lake Worth, Florida, a story had circulated about a young mom in our area who did PCP one day and did something horrendous under its influence.  I won’t share the details that I had heard.  True or false, they are not worth repeating.

In this chilling documentary, they showed a young man sitting in a chair in an empty room.  He had done PCP 2 weeks before and was still tripping, singing random songs and reciting lines from the openings of television shows.  It was sort of funny and shocking.

These two documentaries bored most of my peers, but they entranced and terrified me.  I still don’t know why the other kids weren’t frightened.  Maybe I just hadn’t seen as much ugliness in life as they had.  Either way, seeing those images was a wake up call to me.

The final important influence was a painful event.  It started with Joe, my poor messed up boyfriend.  We became an item after he expressed an interested in me and then went AWOL when I gently declined him.  Before running away, he wrote me a letter telling me that if he couldn’t have me, he couldn’t stay in rehab.  Knowing that he needed to get clean in order to survive into adulthood, I welcomed him with open arms when he returned.

It was somewhat melodramatic, I admit.

Despite this total breech of the rules, I ascended through the “level system” established in the ward, which was based on obedience and earned me increased privileges.  The most sought after privilege was a 12-hour release to be with family.  I was so happy that it enabled me to spend Thanksgiving Day with my mom.  When I returned to the hospital that evening, however, none of the other kids would talk to me.  I quickly learned that, during dinner, Joe complained to the other girls about all of the ways I wasn’t nice to him.  It seemed to come out of nowhere.  In fact, he seemed thrilled to have me back and gave no hint of the exchange.

I had convinced myself that these people were my family, that they had accepted me as one of their own.  Their coldness broke my heart.  I was shattered.  Then I broke down and ended up on suicide watch for a day.  Then I woke up.

I realized that I had been wasting time and that I no longer cared to play the politics of rehab social life.  I wanted to be healthy and happy.  I broke up with Joe and committed to my treatment.  I was released a little over two weeks later on December 7, which I still consider my clean date.

In the final weeks in rehab and in the months to follow, I fully committed myself to the Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous programs.  I got a great sponsor and made weekly 12 Step meetings a priority.  I was not perfect in following the 12 steps, but I made progress and got some recovery.  Most importantly, I came to believe in a Power greater than myself.  It was the beginning of my spiritual awakening that prepared me for my conversion.

What became of my rehab peers?  I only know about a few.  Some went AWOL again, and I don’t know if they returned to the hospital.

Joe, my naughty boyfriend, was eventually released and started using drugs soon afterward.  His parents lost track of him.  At the age of 19, he was found dead somewhere.  His drug use had destroyed his ability to survive his cystic fibrosis.

Mike, the juvenile delinquent, admitted to the rehab group that he was gay, facing much rejection.  After being released, he was in and out of jail.  He often used his phone call from jail to call me, even though I couldn’t do anything to help him.

I only maintained brief contact with the friend who had survived the gang rape.  She was a wonderful, bright girl, but we lived far away from each other.  The friendship soon fizzled out.

My time in rehab was an important milestone in my life.  I learned that with all of my wounds, I did not really know Ugly.  These stories were much uglier than mine.  Yet it was not for the reasons one might assume, like socio-economic status and home environment.  I saw and heard about their families, and we all came from similar backgrounds.

The sobering thing - the real Ugly - was that some kids were less frightened of the dark than I was.  It was as if they were more determined to self-destruct.  Either that, or they weren’t afraid to play “chicken” with their future.

I’m not saying I was smarter.  I was just more scared.  Sometimes fear is a good thing.

I know that God allowed me to go on this path.  I could’ve slipped so far, but He didn’t let me.  He showed me what could’ve been, and when I ran away in horror, He set me on a better path.

This frightening foray into a mental facility was my first great Awakening.