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The Only Way To Do It

I have a grandmother (the grandkids call her baba) who turned in her gray hair for a red-brown dye job. Instead of sweet loving words, she cusses a lot and has an inordinate amount of energy. Her tiny frame carries enough energy to match two 5 year-olds jacked up on mountain dew and Pixy Sticks.

A friend of mine has a photo of Amelia Earhart with the quote,

“The only way to do it, is to do it.”

That’s my grandmother’s anthem.

So when she decided to move, she did it. Like the seaweed clumps tangled in the shallow water along the beach, the dysfunction in our family floated to the surface. As my grandmother leaned in and out of reality, the rest of the family struggled to engage in real relationship. Unwilling to give up her independence or matriarch status, my grandmother dug her heals deeper into the slipping sand beneath her feet.

Seven of us (‘us’ being my family) came to Florida to help her move so I’ve been here for a few days now. Long enough to have some good stories but short enough to still appreciate her. Earlier tonight I grabbed my phone and let her know I’d be walking to the end of her street (about a half mile). She asked if I wanted to take a whistle. I didn’t want a whistle—she lives in the geriatric version of the Truman Show. No whistle needed. What I did needed was some fresh air and a listen lady. So I called my mom and exploded with all of the stories from the past days.

During my short walk, my grandmother called twice to see where I was. Concerned she declared if I didn’t answer my phone she was going to call the police. I told her I was at the end of the street and on my way back. Five minutes passed and I received another phone call. Exasperated she exclaimed: Where are you?! Why didn’t you take my whistle?!

Still trying to redeem the original intent of my walk, I called my mom back. I told her that I feel sort of numb. And she said that’s how you have to survive there.

And there is truth to that. Some relationships require protection and numbing. But what if you’ve become so good at numbing that you are afraid to do the feeling part?

Most times my grandmother is her jovial-loving-life self and other times she shows despair or anger or confusion for irrational reasons. And I don’t always know what version of my grandmother I’ll be talking to. Which makes this more complex because my heart has grown up knowing her as safe and thoughtful. And every time she does something a little strange—a little uncharacteristic—I have to fight against a tiny brick being put up around my heart to protect me from her. I love her and I choose patience most of the time. I don’t want a brick wall around my heart to keep me from her. What I want is this change to not happen right now. What I want is things to go back to the ‘normal’ that I was used to. But that’s not reality either.

This week I learned that navigating clumps of dysfunction and change takes time—and love. The only way to do it, is to do it… one damn (that word’s for you, baba) step at a time.

Curtain of Darkness

When Sunlight glows through the curtains, I can sometimes catch the breeze making fabric jellyfish swaying with the slightest movement in the room. It’s as if the sun can even make the curtains come alive with its unrestrained glow. The energy quietly pouring through the windows makes my insides light up like a lightning bug with no off switch. I pretend the sun has secretly seeped into my body through every exposed cell that it touches. Light meets life. Watching the sunlit curtains shimmy through the afternoon is like seeing God’s warm brown sun-flicked eyes wink at me with a smile. You are beloved. I like thinking of God like that—using curtains to get my attention.

Pilots use a term called the “curtain of darkness” when flying at dusk and into the night. In an unusual set of events, I was on a private plane on my way to Colorado for some meetings. Entering the cabin, I did my where-am-I-going-to-sit-scan of the plane and realized that being the first one on the plane has its advantages. And being the last one on the plane leaves you with the tiny seat next to the cockpit facing the door (not facing the front of the plane like the other seats). Oh well, less talky talk over boring bore topics and more quiet time for me.

As dusk was closing in, the pilots invited me to look out of the front of the plane to experience one of the most striking skies I have ever seen. While an orange sunset brushed the view with colors that must be declared as holy (or magical… or something), I was distracted by how the darkness was closing in. It wasn’t subtle like the color was fading to dark gray. Instead it was a distinguishable line that separated the light from the dark. The curtain of darkness happens as a result of the earth casting a shadow into the sky and blocking the sun as it sets. We’re cant see it from ground level, but from 35,000 feet, the world looks different.

Instead of thinking of the dark curtain as a thief stealing color from the sky, I found it beautiful and enchanting. Like the curtains in my sunlit windows, this seemed to have a place in this world with its quiet but steady advancement. How can you shame the earth for her wide hips blocking the sun each evening?

There’s a place for steady and quiet darkness in our lives—where the curtain is pulled back each evening to reveal the relationship between what we keep hidden and what radiant colors we let shine. It reveals that we’re both not as great and wonderful as we think we are and we’re greater and more wonderful than we can imagine.

Curtain of Darkness

When Sunlight glows through the curtains, I can sometimes catch the breeze making fabric jellyfish swaying with the slightest movement in the room. It’s as if the sun can even make the curtains come alive with its unrestrained glow. The energy quietly pouring through the windows makes my insides light up like a lightning bug with no off switch. I pretend the sun has secretly seeped into my body through every exposed cell that it touches. Light meets life. Watching the sunlit curtains shimmy through the afternoon is like seeing God’s warm brown sun-flicked eyes wink at me with a smile. You are beloved. I like thinking of God like that—using curtains to get my attention.

Pilots use a term called the “curtain of darkness” when flying at dusk and into the night. In an unusual set of events, I was on a private plane on my way to Colorado for some meetings. Entering the cabin, I did my where-am-I-going-to-sit-scan of the plane and realized that being the first one on the plane has its advantages. And being the last one on the plane leaves you with the tiny seat next to the cockpit facing the door (not facing the front of the plane like the other seats). Oh well, less talky talk over boring bore topics and more quiet time for me.

As dusk was closing in, the pilots invited me to look out of the front of the plane to experience one of the most striking skies I have ever seen. While an orange sunset brushed the view with colors that must be declared as holy (or magical… or something), I was distracted by how the darkness was closing in. It wasn’t subtle like the color was fading to dark gray. Instead it was a distinguishable line that separated the light from the dark. The curtain of darkness happens as a result of the earth casting a shadow into the sky and blocking the sun as it sets. We’re cant see it from ground level, but from 35,000 feet, the world looks different.

Instead of thinking of the dark curtain as a thief stealing color from the sky, I found it beautiful and enchanting. Like the curtains in my sunlit windows, this seemed to have a place in this world with its quiet but steady advancement. How can you shame the earth for her wide hips blocking the sun each evening?

There’s a place for steady and quiet darkness in our lives—where the curtain is pulled back each evening to reveal the relationship between what we keep hidden and what radiant colors we let shine. It reveals that we’re both not as great and wonderful as we think we are and we’re greater and more wonderful than we can imagine.

Fragile Bird

She took a deep breath as she changed her gaze from casual conversation eye contact to dont-look-away-this-person-is trying-to-say-something-meaninful eye contact. I tend to feel shy when people look at me with that intensity. It’s as if my soul suddenly becomes visible and available.

She spoke. “I used to think I was strong enough to overcome anything… But now one little thing can throw me off. Too much sugar… not enough exercise… not enough time with God…”

I’m grateful to have some wise honest women in my life.

I have been able to handle things that life has thrown at me by believing that I can solve any problem. I may not be the quickest but I, Hanna Lynnette, can take on anything that comes my way. But I’m not so sure I believe that anymore.

There are some things that can’t be solved.
Some things that need to be walked away from.
And some things that shouldn’t be solved by me.

Those sentences make me feel a little uncomfortable. Like a piece of me is gone and I need to learn how to be whole with a chunk missing from my side. That’s how growth can happen though, a chunk drops off like a melting glacier and in the empty space new room is available. Vacancy. Relief in the form of one of the things I clung to leaving to make room for whatever else is next. In my quiet shy time, I’m able to get in touch with the tender empty space and realize, with incredible potency, that I’m not tough in the ways I thought I was. And even more poignantly…I realize that being tough in the ways I thought I needed to be isn’t important at all.

Becoming aware of your fragile form is scary.

It isn’t until recently that I’ve been able to embrace my fragility. There’s freedom in that. When you realize how fragile your body and soul are, you start making choices that fill them with goodness. You know, you fill yourself with the things that make your soul leap for quiet joy and your body light up with health. I’m a fragile bird and I’m choosing to fill my empty space with relationships and thoughts and things that I love.

I, Hanna Lynnette, can take on almost anything that comes my way.

Fragile Bird

She took a deep breath as she changed her gaze from casual conversation eye contact to dont-look-away-this-person-is trying-to-say-something-meaninful eye contact. I tend to feel shy when people look at me with that intensity. It’s as if my soul suddenly becomes visible and available.

She spoke. “I used to think I was strong enough to overcome anything… But now one little thing can throw me off. Too much sugar… not enough exercise… not enough time with God…”

I’m grateful to have some wise honest women in my life.

I have been able to handle things that life has thrown at me by believing that I can solve any problem. I may not be the quickest but I, Hanna Lynnette, can take on anything that comes my way. But I’m not so sure I believe that anymore.

There are some things that can’t be solved.
Some things that need to be walked away from.
And some things that shouldn’t be solved by me.

Those sentences make me feel a little uncomfortable. Like a piece of me is gone and I need to learn how to be whole with a chunk missing from my side. That’s how growth can happen though, a chunk drops off like a melting glacier and in the empty space new room is available. Vacancy. Relief in the form of one of the things I clung to leaving to make room for whatever else is next. In my quiet shy time, I’m able to get in touch with the tender empty space and realize, with incredible potency, that I’m not tough in the ways I thought I was. And even more poignantly…I realize that being tough in the ways I thought I needed to be isn’t important at all.

Becoming aware of your fragile form is scary.

It isn’t until recently that I’ve been able to embrace my fragility. There’s freedom in that. When you realize how fragile your body and soul are, you start making choices that fill them with goodness. You know, you fill yourself with the things that make your soul leap for quiet joy and your body light up with health. I’m a fragile bird and I’m choosing to fill my empty space with relationships and thoughts and things that I love.

I, Hanna Lynnette, can take on almost anything that comes my way.

Hello 2014.

I don’t know you yet but we have 364 first dates to get to know each other. So far….similar to 2013, you’re pretty much the same. Except snowier. So we’re not off to a good start. But I still have hope that we’ll get along.

I hope that I’ll start to build a relationship with time rather than dread it and see every moment that isn’t filled as the enemy. I hope you’ll teach me the meaning of rest.

I hope that you’ll teach me how to be nice to myself. Sometimes I’m nice and sometimes I fake that I’m nice. But sometimes, I just say mean things to me in my head. Why do I do that? Why do people do that? If people started nice self talk, the world would be a better place.

I hope that I will learn the meaning and proper use behind every emoticon on my iPhone. Emoticons are weird. I’m sticking with smiley :^) until i feel less fake and awkward using emoticons.

I hope that my marriage will be the model of two very different people who have decided to be each other’s biggest advocates. When the world is crushing I hope you”ll remind us to decide to act as the anti-crush.

I hope that I can be honest with myself. I hope I can discover what that means.

I hope that I can unlock the inner creative artist that lives within me. PS- There’s a tiny artist that lives within each of us. Don’t neglect her, because when you do, she’ll attack your gall bladder and if your gall bladder fights back, she’ll find something else to attack.

I hope that my hands will stop being so damn cold all of the time. 2014, this one probably won’t happen and I’m okay with that but I felt like adding this to the list… incase you feel like being generous.

I hope that God will speak to my soul in profound ways that I can understand- or at least stop ignoring.

I hope that I can become a country singer and professional line dancer. Just kidding. Not really.

As you can see, 2014, I have high hopes for you. Please deliver. And when all of these things don’t happen in the next 364 days, remind me that you have a sister in 2015 that you’re laying the ground work for. I’m always better when you state your intentions.