Finding Your Self

I was in college when the book Eat, Pray, Love came out, and I devoured it, dreaming of traveling the world and, along the way, finding the actual, real me. I’d fall in love with someone who’d see me so deeply that I’d finally understand myself. I’d meet a spiritual teacher who would give me the secret map to what I was supposed to do with my life. To be fair, I was 19, but I left the book feeling even more sure that if I wanted to claim my full potential (I desperately did), I needed to search outside of myself—across-the-planet outside of myself. So when I received funding to study abroad in Italy during the summer between my sophomore and junior years, I told myself that this trip was when everything would click into place. I’d find amongst the ruins of Rome my truest calling or, at the very least, some Mary-Chapin-Carpenter-style passionate kisses.

That summer was remarkable. I spent hours winding through the catacombs beneath the Eternal City, studying the art, iconography, and practices of first-century Christians. Among the final sleeping nooks of those who lived thousands of years before me, I often felt a tingling between my shoulder blades, a sense of knowing or connection or…something. But it was fleeting. Above ground, I drank too much coffee and wine, and I missed my mother back in Georgia more than I’d dare admit. Sometimes, outside the Pantheon or on the Spanish Steps, I’d write inspired lines of poetry, but more often I’d stew about the crush I wished was interested in me. I’d complain that our professor was too demanding. I’d whine about the July Roman heat, secretly dreaming of the beach trip my cousins were taking back in the States. I returned with a journal full of intentions—Look at the moon every night. When you drink your coffee, just do that. When you eat, savor each bite and identify each flavor. I don’t think I made it a week into my junior year without breaking every one. This isn’t to say I wasn’t forever changed by the experiences I had that summer. It’s just that I wasn’t forever changed in the way that I thought I was supposed to be.

Dr. Gabor Maté says that it’s hard to get enough of something that almost works, something that almost or temporarily gives us connection with our deep sense of knowing, of confident calm. Traveling is one of those things for me, and so I kept doing it, always feeling on the edge of discovery. And while each trip helped me better understand the limits of my perspective and gave me invaluable connections, insights, and first-date-worthy stories, I never seemed to be able to hold on to the highs that would come or to fully integrate the epiphanies into my everyday life. I turned to other things that almost worked—chasing degree after degree, training after training. It took me years to realize something so cliché that it’s plastered on coffee mugs and bumper stickers and Instagram reels galore: What you seek is within. I know, I know—I welcome the cringe. I tend to cringe it at adages like that, too, because they reek of being too simple, trite, untrue. And yet. By constantly looking outside of myself, constantly trying to fill a lack with more knowledge or travel or skills, I was overlooking the thing I really needed.

In truth, there is this knowing, calm, loving insight that has always been a part of me. In truth, for my whole life I’ve been collecting different pathways to this place that’s always been available. There’s belting out a song that pings perfectly in my range. There’s spreading out my jacket for a sit after a hike to a rocky outcropping. There’s that feeling, when I’m working a piece of clay on the wheel, pressure in, pressure down, when the wobbles smooth and it glides, centered and easy. It’s how I feel when I read a poem that both reveals and transports me, or when I stroke my dog’s soft belly and gaze into her dark brown eyes. It’s the sensation that slides in after a few minutes of loving-kindness meditation or when I stretch both hands skyward and arc my body first one direction, then the other. Breath moves easily through the tree limbs of my ribs, my heart feels unroofed—my shoulders drop, and my bones lighten. There’s a little rush of pleasure, a delight in being alive. I see intricacy and wonder where I didn’t before. I feel warmth towards the unfolding. I am confident, open, and clear.

What I’m describing is something you know. If you take a moment to soften your forehead, shake out your shoulders, and breathe into your spine, you’ll feel it. That sense of grounding, of clarity. The sovereign, real You. In Internal Family Systems therapy (or IFS), this is called Self—the part of you that isn’t a part, your authentic and unchanging center. As we heal, we learn to more consistently access and operate from this core. This makes it a whole lot easier to work with our various parts (a perfectionistic part or a validation-seeking part, for example) in loving and helpful ways. Things feel gentler. You start to gain a felt sense that, no matter what happens, you’ve got you. You begin make decisions not from an angry or desperate place but from this site of compassion, confidence, and calm.

Being in Self is magic, so it makes sense that we have whole industries built around trying to sell the sensation. And while retreats and classes and once-in-a-lifetime experiences can help you connect with you true Self through movement, nature, art, writing, connection, meditation, and more, the truth is they don’t bring you anywhere that you don’t already have the power go. You don’t need a retreat or an island vacation or the perfect yoga teacher to find you. Your Self is there always, and by beginning to notice how it feels, you can identify all kinds of ways to sink into it whenever you need to, for free.

What kinds of moving or breathing or being give you that sense of sovereignty, presence, and compassion? What simple actions bring you to that place of curious, connected calm? When you have that feeling, what is it like in your body? Do the ridges in your forehead smooth? Does your tongue relax? Is there a gentling in your hips and shoulders? Be a detective. Observe. Take notes. As your data grows, you’ll be able to draw a reliable map for this most precious of journeys, the one to you. All that’s required is the power of your attention—notice what works, and keep showing up for it. All your precious parts will be glad that you did.

Bring the Green Inside

One Sunday afternoon in late September, I stood on my front porch and gently ran my fingertips over each branch of my kalanchoe and purslane and other potted plants, extracting dead leaves and spider webs and feathery seeds and allowing their magic to fall into the flower bed below. When the plants stood shining and new and properly pruned, I watered them until the soil was spongey and puddles gathered around my bare toes. It was late September and nearly 70 degrees, and it felt even warmer on my west-facing porch, the wooden boards baked by the late-day sun, but that night it would be dipping into the 40s for the first time since April. It was time, though it did not feel that way—I lifted the plants from their porch hooks and walked them inside, talking sweet nonsense into their leaves as I settled them in a large east-facing window. As I worked, that window transformed from open viewfinder to the outside world to a space so plant-crowded I could hardly see through. I felt myself smiling as I fussed with the window space, determining which plant should settle where, thinking about what it would mean to do this for myself, to bring the green things back inside. To shift focus to my interior spaces.

I can be a compulsive caretaker. Like many of us, I learned, as a child, to act out the caretaker role. If I was always meeting others’ needs, then, my little subconscious brain told me, I would be safe. And maybe, even, I’d help heal the adults whose sorrow and volatility so worried (read: frightened) me. At 36, my caretaking, other-focused parts are still very present—they show up in romances, in friendships, and sometimes even in my work. Don’t get me wrong, I have compassion for these parts. They have helped me provide a lot of love over the years. They prompted me to become a teacher and now a therapist. They supported me in caring for my mother during her final years of life. Many times, they have allowed me tuck aside my needs when a friend’s or a partner’s were, genuinely, more pressing. And. These parts have led me to push down my needs to the point of burn-out and even anger. They have led me into resentment when I haven’t received back the care I wanted (but failed to ask for) or when, despite my caretaking, people have not changed in the ways I thought they should. These parts of me have, at times, taken their caretaking to such an extreme that they’ve become controlling, manipulative, even. Wanting people to change isn’t love, I have learned. It isn’t care at all.

I want to stay curious about the parts of me that learned to place my worth outside of myself, that still sometimes insist that I will only be safe, good, and worthy if I can help or heal or change someone else. I want to stay curious about them, and I want to help them find ways of feeling safe that will genuinely bring about healing, the only healing I can control: my own. What if the parts of me that are so focused on taking care could shift their energy inwards? What if, instead of trying to help everyone else, they brought the greenery inside?

It’s November, now. In my east-facing window, the yellow kalanchoe, white shamrock, and bright red Christmas cactus flowers are in open-handed bloom, and I sit at my dining table, noticing how the mid-morning sun edges the leaves with light. I notice, too, the muted browns and grays beyond the window pane. Even those hardy species who remain green in the freezing temps—English ivy and fescue grass and mountain laurel—have put on their winter coats, packed away their neon vibrancy until next year. If I had left my potted plants outside, their attention glued each day to the afternoon sun, they’d be dead now. And that would have been okay, too, I recognize—I would have added their nitrogen-rich bones to my garden beds, and they would have continued on next summer as kale and okra and tomatoes.

But instead, inside, they bloom. My shamrock glues its three-fingered hands to the window pane, a small child looking out. I almost expect the plant to exhale, fog the glass, and draw a smiley face in the condensation. I think of my caretaking parts, of how young they are, those parts of me that want desperately to be needed, that believe that only then will they be loved and prioritized. Look, I tell my parts, see the shamrock? Because it’s inside now, because its needs for warmth and light and water are met, it can place its green hands upon the windowpane. It can reach out without getting frozen and depleted, without loosing its bloom.

Meanwhile, the yellow kalanchoe plant has opened one small yellow flower. Unlike the shamrock, this bloom angles in, an interior sun. I cock my head and smile at it as I trickle fresh water into its soil, whispering an offering of thanks. Then I put on a kettle, thumb open my journal, and go on tending to me.

The Final Assignment

Today was the last day of classes at Lovett's middle school. Today was also my last real day of teaching for at least a year. Come August, I won't be decorating my classroom, painstakingly planning the first day of school, or memorizing the names of 70 new students. Instead, I'll be in a new town, with new people and new challenges. 

So today, when my 8th graders took their seats for a final time, I handed out the assignment below and asked them to read over it carefully. 

The Final Assignment

Today is your last day of my class. Next week, you and I will both set off on new adventures. You won’t be middle schoolers anymore, and I won’t be a middle school teacher. We will all be newbies, navigating new halls, learning new rules, and writing new chapters.

So, as we say goodbye for now (but not forever), I am giving you a final assignment. There will be no due date, and it is entirely optional. It won’t be graded. I hope you do your best on it anyway. Don’t forget to ask for help if you need it.

Directions:

1. Look for beauty in every day and in everyone. It may not always be easy to find, but it is always there. Once you’ve found it, sketch it, photograph it, write about it, cherish it. Whatever you do, don’t let it go unnoticed. The more you recognize the beauty around you, the more beautiful you will become.

2. Listen, especially when you’re one-on-one with someone. It’s so easy to get caught up in the game of who talks most. Instead, think about what the other person has said. Ask questions. Be interested. You can change someone simply by letting her know that you care.

3. Give. Of yourself, your time, your heart. And don’t keep tabs. Do for those around you because that, in and of itself, is a reward. Never make others feel guilty or expect them to “pay you back.”

4. Love -- even when people don’t seem to deserve it. Live with an open heart. If your heart’s not open, it can’t be filled.

5. Be honest. Be genuine. Be real. This requires figuring out who you are (and who you want to be). Once you know, be fully you each moment. Then you’ll never have to wonder whether or not people love the real you, and you’ll never have to worry who’s watching.

6. Practice kindness. More often than possible. Follow Atticus’ advice: step away from yourself and into others’ shoes. Empathy will come back to you, just usually not in the way you expect.

7. Take time to reflect. Go on a walk, write in your journal, say a prayer. And when you notice something that you need to make right, do it as soon as possible. Never be afraid to say, “I was wrong,” or “I am sorry,” and be aware that adding the word “but” after either of those statements takes away all of their power and meaning.

8. Remember that it’s normal to be sad sometimes. It’s also normal to feel lonely. Life is full of beauty, but sometimes that beauty comes with pain. There will be awful days. Cry on those; feel what you are feeling. And then go find something beautiful. Because you always, always can.

9. Surround yourself with people who make you happy and make you better. Remove yourself--in a nice way--from people who don’t. You must be kind to everyone, but you get to pick and choose who you give your heart and time to.

10. Cultivate your creativity. Paint messy paintings. Write bad poetry. We are, by nature, creative beings. Never lose sight of that part of yourself, no matter how busy you are.

11. Finally, listen to your heart, and follow your dreams. There are some things you have to do: be kind to others, apologize for your mistakes, follow-through on your commitments, listen, learn, grow. There are also a lot of things that you don’t have to do: fit in, be “cool,” live up to other people’s expectations, be the best at (fill in the blank). Never let those things that you don’t have to do get in the way of your dreams. Write your own story every day, or someone else will. In the words of Thoreau, “Live the life you’ve imagined.” And live it exuberantly.

Note: This assignment will take you a lifetime to complete. That’s okay. If you have questions about the directions, or if you need some feedback, don’t hesitate to reach out. Though I won’t be here, I will always be here, ready to help you, advise you, and encourage you in any way I can.

With all the love in my heart,

Ms. Ray

Just--Still Crying

Yesterday, I ran into a dear old friend at Shaky Knees. 

"I see your posts on Facebook," he said. "The ones about your mom. And I always want to say something. And--" he paused, giving me another hug. "Tomorrow's Mother's Day..."

A beat passed, and we just looked at each other, feeling that hurt you only know if you're in the club no one wants to join, the club of losing a parent too young. There we were, surrounded by thousands of people vibrating to indie rock music, talking about the fact that our moms are dead. The energy and noise of it all swallowed our words as soon as they left our mouths. For a moment, we could be real.

"It happens, and then for the first six months, everyone is so cool, so there," he said. "But then, the next six months, and the next--rest of your life, it's like it never even happened. And you're just supposed to move on. And everyone else is just living life, and I'm just -- still crying."

Yes, I thought. I'm just still crying.

It's been five years. And it is different in some ways than it was during those first six months. But in many ways it's harder. Because you're not supposed to be not-okay anymore. You're supposed to be all glued-up, more-beautiful-because-of-your-scars and stronger-from-the-pain. But no one talks about all the ways you aren't actually stronger, the ways you forever view life and love and humans differently from most of the people around you. 

I'm just still crying.

And I'm just still anxious. And I just still think that if I ever make someone as important to me as my mom is and was, I'll lose that person too. 

These are the things you don't say unless festival music is pumping your words into oblivion.  

But these are the things that those of us who struggle through this day need you to hear.

I'm just still crying. And that's okay. I'm still broken. And I still will be. In five years. In fifty. It's not going away. It will never be like it never happened. 

Don't try to fix me.

Don't try to make everything okay. And, please, don't tell me that the person I loved with my entire being is in a better place. That just makes me feel shitty about missing her so much. 

Instead, know that I still need you. That I will always need you. That's not going to change, and it's not just a grief thing. It's a human thing. 

Make me laugh, and let me cry.

And on days that you know are hard for me, invite me to do something I love. Play music, cook a meal, sit in the sunshine, go on a hike -- whatever it is, come encourage me to do it because then I'll remember how good life can be. I'll remember to savor each moment and to soak up the beauty my loved-one no longer can. I'll smile and laugh and play for that person, realizing that when I live fully, I make her proud.

And maybe everything will be okay for a little while. But don't mention that. Just give me a squeeze, hold my hand, and hold on.

The ride's not ending anytime soon. 

Thanks be. 

Dancing with Mama. April 2006. 

We Shall Overcome

On Sunday, I bounced out of my apartment towards my car only to discover that my someone had hit it. Hard. There was no note to be found . . . only a busted-in bumper and the car itself, which had been moved several feet. 

On Monday, folk-singer legend and community activist Pete Seeger passed away at age 94.

On Tuesday, snow poured out of the Southern sky, stranding thousands of people in cars, schools, grocery store aisles, and, in many cases, the homes of strangers. 

Unconnected stories, maybe. But not for me. 

On Sunday, disgusted that one of my own neighbors had done such a thing to me, I chose to remain in a fog of anger and distrust. How could someone hit my car and not even leave a note? I kept bemoaning, blinded by my minor misfortune. What is wrong with people these days?

By Tuesday morning, I was still simmering. As I drove to work, though, in my actually-very-drivable, really-not-that-badly-damaged car, NPR ran a story about the life of Pete Seeger. I found myself singing along with the snippets of songs they played and thinking that perhaps people weren't so bad after all. Pete Seeger was succeeding: my hate had been surrounded and was considering surrender. 

"What an amazing person," I proclaimed to colleague later than morning. "Community. Community is the answer." She nodded, and I daydreamed, envisioning a Seeger-esque utopia full of people in harmony. Near surrender. 

"If only that jerk in my apartment complex had thought that way too!" I groaned, stomping obliviously on Seeger's goal. "I still just can't believe it. In my own apartment complex! People are so screwed up these days. What is wrong with the world?"

Myopia has always been a condition with which I've struggled. A few hours later, though, something actually worth being labeled a disaster hit.

That morning, Atlanta schools and businesses had largely dismissed the winter storm warnings, sure that they would amount to what they normally do here in the Deep South: exaggerated hype. Around noon, however, snow had begun to fall and accumulate, and commute times across the Metro area were quickly doubling, tripling, quadrupling. 

I was lucky. Thanks to an early dismissal and a short drive home, I was snuggled up with my puppy before the true nightmare began. As I sit here today, Wednesday, nearly 27 hours after the first flakes fell, many are still stranded. The roads remain treacherous, and there is little chance of improvement for at least another 24 hours. 

Amidst these nightmarish conditions, though, signs that Pete Seeger's dreams are more reality than I realized are all around. Local heroes have hiked miles in order to hand out food and water to strangers. Hundreds of people have thrown open the doors of their homes, welcoming in unfamiliar faces and offering warm food, hot showers, and a sense of community. The Facebook Group SnowedOutAtlanta has soared to over 46,000 members, more than half of whom are there simply to offer help however they can. And, well, I've finally realized that my slightly damaged car is not worth one ounce of anger or fretting. 

One of many similar posts on the SnowedOutAtlanta Facebook group

I am always amazed when disasters like these strike. Without fail, we humans come through for one another. Sure, we can be selfish and power-hungry, and we often fail to see beyond ourselves, but we also have immense power to soothe, to save, and to serve. All one has to do is take a peek at the outpouring of kindness on SnowedOutAtlanta; five minutes of scrolling through the posts will confirm that, when it comes down to it, we are all there for one another. At least here, at least today, it seems that we are walking hand-in-hand, that we shall indeed overcome. 

As the snow and ice melt in the coming days, revealing the old roads we know, I hope we resist the temptation to return to old hardened pathways in our hearts. We've proven that here in Atlanta there is true community. May we keep our doors and hearts open. May we continue to prove that humanity is, after all, overflowing with generosity, kindness, and love. May we make this the "some day" that Seeger, and many others with him, dreamed would come.