Cutting away the net

My emotion of choice lately seems to be fear.

In particular, a fear of "not enough:" not enough time to do what needs doing, not enough skill to do it well, not enough clarity to know what comes first.

It's a paralyzing fear that, left unattended, feeds off of its own inaction.

A bit of freedom came yesterday when I imagined my situation as being trapped in a big fishing net.

Caught in the net were all of my incomplete "to do" items: the outstanding deliverables at work, the emails and phone calls I owe people, the cleaning that hasn't happened for weeks, quality time with my family, and so much more.

It was as if each time I'd thought to do something but didn't do it, it got caught in the net as an outstanding debt. Over many days the net got so full, and I was so tangled up in it, that I could barely move. There was no way to sort through the mess of prior plans and ideas.

The only thing I could do was cut the whole thing away and start fresh. Let everything go and simply ask what there is to do now.

Cutting away the net meant experiencing some regret and disappointment over things undone. It also meant letting go of my own self-image as someone who is always responsible, reliable and good.

But oh, the freedom on the other side of that! It was a magical reset. The ability to start over, to choose just one thing to do in this moment, shifted the entire course of my day.

I don't know if there's a way to prevent the tangled net experience from happening again.

Part of me would like to think that if only I were more disciplined -- if I were better focused and didn't procrastinate -- then I would only ever have a small, easy to manage net. But that doesn't seem very realistic.

In life there are infinitely more wonderful things to do than we will ever have time for. Not even the most efficient person on the planet could keep up with all of the possibilities. No matter how much we do, we will all die with things still left undone.

In other words, there will never be enough time.

Perhaps the best I can do is to simply remember that, and come to terms with it, more often. To practice cutting away the net, over and over, so I can start fresh and alive right now.

What would actually make a difference?

I've been thinking this week about the little ways I try to help people be good to one another: the cards, the signs, the writing.

It's fun and rewarding, but does it really make a difference? Enough of a difference?

Assuming there are even harder times ahead for us all (and I don't think this is a stretch), where do I belong in it all?

What else might I be able to do to help ease the pain of the transition to whatever is next for our country and society?

What more am I willing to do?

These feel like worthy and important questions, and I'm curious if (and how) you're also thinking about this for yourself.

What needs do you see on the horizon -- or right in front of you -- that you would be well-suited to help meet? What resources would you need to help you do that?

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Maybe some of us can even help each other.

A message a day... creates a streak!

I've been thinking more about the idea of streaks. Specifically, what discrete action could I take each day that would really be a gift to myself?

What I've decided to do is to pull a kindness card at random every day, and share something about it that feels true and real.

I started on January 1st, and thought I'd share my first three messages with you.

Day 1: Integrity
A perfect message for Day One, solidifying my commitment to giving this practice a fair chance.

Integrity, to me: doing what you say you will do, and acting in ways that are consistent with how you say you want to be.

For me, this meant writing thank you cards for Christmas gifts I'd received, and dedicating time the following morning to send a slew of long overdue emails.

I don't know why I put off these things that feel so good to complete. But I feel blessed having completed them.

Day 2: You are Beautiful
My first reaction to this card was Ugh. So much superficial, judgmental, comparison-laden baggage connected with this word.

But I still want to be beautiful. I want people to see beauty in me. I want to see beauty in them, too.

Then I remembered this song that Marshall Rosenberg wrote and often sang in his Nonviolent Communication workshops:

See Me Beautiful
See me beautiful, look for the best in me
That's what I really am, and all I want to be
It may take some time, It may be hard to find
But see me beautiful

See me beautiful, each and every day
Could you take a chance, could you find a way
To see me shining through in everything I do
And see me beautiful

I added a post to Facebook, asking people to share what brought them joy, and got so many wonderful responses.

I think people's joy is beautiful. It was just what I needed.

Day 3: Ease
Just because I randomly picked a card with this word on it did not make this feel like an easy day.

Ease is not something that can be forced.

But I did notice this: If you add two letters to the word, it becomes "Please."

A prayer for ease.

It is a step in the right direction.

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A few days in, I'm liking this practice a lot, for many of the same reasons that I like writing this newsletter.

It also just feels like a really good use of my cards.

I like using them for little acts of kindness, but even more than that, one of my big hopes has always been for people to think about and engage with all of these different messages in ways that are meaningful to them. So maybe this will be another way to encourage that.

If you have reflections of your own, please share!

The gift of everyday action

Seth Godin talks about the power of streaks: committing to do something every day such that there's no question whether you will do it. Streaks are their own reward, he says. Not only do they help you build skill, but they create their own momentum, and are easier to maintain than regular commitments.

I'm inspired by my friend Julie JordanScott, who recently completed a 377-day streak in which she took a photo each morning, wrote a haiku about it, and shared both on her Facebook page. She's also begun a new 377-day streak: hugging a tree every day, and sharing about the experience. (You can see her latest post here.)

I love both of those streaks for their simplicity, and because they give a unique and special window into Julie's life and mind. She wasn't trying to prove anything with them, wasn't using them as a gimmick for some other purpose; they just felt good and right for her to do. So she did them. And inspired a whole lot of other people along the way.

As the new year approaches, I've been wondering if there is a similar activity that would be satisfying for me to do on a daily basis.

I'd love to hear about your experiences with this. Do you have an activity that you do every day, no matter what? If so, what has that been like?

If not, can you imagine something that would feel good and right and wonderful to do every day, that you could sustain long term?

What, do you think, separates those things that will ultimately be joyful and sustainable, from those that will end up being a tedious chore?

A lesson in karma

I was cleaning out some old files this weekend and came across some feedback forms from a workshop I offered a few years ago.

I'd had high hopes for it, and worked really hard to prepare. It ended up not being all that great, though. The participants were kind and respectful on their feedback forms, but they had a lot of suggestions for how it could have been better.

I remember feeling really ashamed and embarrassed for falling far short of what I'd wanted.

I'd like to say that I did what I'd encourage anyone else to do: show myself some compassion, ask for some support, and make improvements for next time.

Instead, I tried to forget all about it. I buried my notes in a drawer and never offered the workshop again.

They say time can heal wounds, but that wasn't the case here. Unearthing my workshop notes this weekend, all the shame and embarrassment came rushing back full force. It felt awful, and my first instinct was to throw all those papers in the trash.

But I didn't.

Instead, I decided to offer myself some long-overdue kindness, and try to glean what there might still be for me to learn from the memory. I reminded myself that this was the first time I'd ever led this particular class, and that there was just a lot I didn't know. Also, one disappointing experience wasn't a final judgement on me or my teaching; just a snapshot of one moment in time.

I felt compassion for the "me" of a few years ago, who really believed in what she was teaching, and wanted so badly to offer something valuable to people. She was doing the absolute best that she could.

This made me think about the many times I've been in classes myself and judged instructors harshly. Instead of looking for things to appreciate, I am often quick to notice and be bothered by a teacher's shortcomings, and to have those shortcomings color my evaluation of them as a person.

I normally think of karma as other people giving back to me in some form what I've previously given out. But in this case I suffered simply having my own impossible standards turned back toward me.

Feeling the impact of that karmic boomerang was so helpful. It made me want to pay attention to other judgments I may be making about others at the risk of my own self-compassion. And it made me want to be extra gentle to all of us who are simply trying to live our lives the best we can.

May you experience that gentleness, too.

Criticizing vulnerability and recognizing courage

I listened to an online conversation this weekend where the interviewer went off script. Instead of going into a typical Q&A, posing questions he was receiving from the audience, he asked his guest (John Kinyon, a Nonviolent Communication trainer) for some coaching on a personal situation.

It was a gutsy thing to do, and I would like to say that I immediately saw and honored that.

The truth, though, was that it made me extremely uncomfortable, and my knee-jerk response was harsh. I judged him for doing the interview "wrong," and for wasting the group's precious time on his own issues.

Digger a little deeper, his vulnerability made me nervous. I didn't like feeling the embarrassment he risked by putting himself out there like that, in front of a live international audience.

It's not safe, is what I was thinking. You can't just be honest about who you are and what you are experiencing. People are mean and unforgiving, and the world is going to hurt you.

Given those thoughts, no wonder I was feeling nervous. (Thoughts like those make the world a scary place!) But as is often the case with thoughts, they were inaccurate. Or, more accurately, they were incomplete.

It is true that sometimes when we are open, honest and vulnerable, people don't like it. We do get judged (just as I judged this interviewer). We do create discomfort for people. We can feel small and embarrassed.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't do it.

On the flip side of fearing hurt and rejection is courage.

And courage is powerful.

This interviewer's act of courage ended up creating an experience for me that I pondered all weekend -- leading to thoughts and insights I wouldn't have had if he'd just gone the normal Q&A route.

I also expect that it made a difference to him, leaving him feeling strengthened and grateful despite whatever self-doubt and uncertainty was also present.

In my life I am trying to practice finding courage. More leaning in and showing up. Less shutting down and running away. Getting my sense of safety not by eliminating threats, but by asking for help and being willing to receive.

It is messy and imperfect, but it is good.

I hope you can relate.

And whatever might be making you anxious these days, I hope you find your own courage, too.

A practice of hope

Yesterday I listened to this interview with Bryan Stevenson, founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama, and author of Just Mercy, about his experiences providing legal defense to people on death row.

Of all the things he said, here's the quote that stood out to me the most: "Hopelessness is the enemy of justice."

"Either you are hopeful," he said, "or you are part of the problem."

What I love about that quote is that it counters the myth that hopelessness can be dictated by circumstances. Rather, it's possible -- perhaps even our responsibility -- to make hopefulness an active, conscious choice.

To live toward a better future, we have to be willing to visualize it. To me, that's what hope is: the ability to visualize what is wanted, and to trust that it is possible.

I've been practicing a new habit lately, where several times a day, I check in and ask myself three questions:

1. What is something I am feeling?

2. What is something I would like to feel in the next segment of my day?

3. What is something I will do to help myself feel that way?

My goal in starting this practice was simply to be more present and intentional, with less running on auto-pilot. But I'm realizing it is also a kind of hope practice.

Question 1 grounds me in reality, which is critical. Hope isn't about denial or pretending. It's about noticing what's actually there, and allowing myself to feel about it however I feel.

Question 2 is the core of hope: the willingness to imagine and invite in a new experience. I know I've hit on a good answer when I can already sense what that new experience would feel like -- and it feels good.

Question 3 commits me to action. Even if the action is as simple as sending an email, or checking in my kids, or doing a set of jumping jacks, making good on the commitment is satisfying.

When an action is fueled by hope, I'm also much more likely to do it, than if it were just another item on my list. It becomes an expression of agency and empowerment, a reminder that I'm not just at the mercy of my circumstances.

All of the actions I'm taking as a result of this hope practice are tiny, but they have an energy and momentum behind them that feels wonderful, and can sometimes carry me forward to the next activity, and the next.

"I think hope is our superpower," said Bryan Stevenson, later on in the interview. "It's what gets you to stand up when others say sit down. It’s the thing that gets you to speak when others say be quiet.”
I think he is right.

What is something you are willing to imagine for the future?

What do you want just for today?

Let's practice hope together.

Some lessons in anger

I got into an argument with my husband earlier today.

Responding to this tweet that Jeff Bezos could -- and perhaps should -- have given much more than $300 to each Amazon employee this holiday season, he began defending Bezos's wealth, and listing all of the good that multibillionaires do in the world.

We love to hate rich people because inequality feels so awful, he said, but would the world as a whole be better off without them or their riches? Not necessarily.

He was right, and it infuriated me.

I realized I'd been holding on to the simplistic idea that rich, powerful people are the "bad guys" in our system -- symbols of greed, unfairness, ignorance, irresponsibility, and more. Yet in a few well-argued minutes, he took my enemy away from me.

I was left with a powerful rage and bitterness at the state of the world — with no one to blame it on.

Empathy pioneer Karla McLaren calls anger the "honorable sentry," the emotion that arises to protect and restore things that we care about. I have to admit, I tend to push it away, because it can fuel a kind of meanness and awfulness that I don't want anything to do with. But the actual purpose of anger, says Karla, is to help us clarify our values and maintain our boundaries -- both of which can be done without attacking anyone or being hurt ourselves.

In my post-argument moments, with my rage no longer pointed at specific people, things that I deeply care about, and have been troubled by, were so much easier to see.

I care that we humans are so disconnected from each other, and from God/Life/Truth/Peace/Beauty/Grace (pick your synonym) that we spend so much of our time focused on stupid, meaningless things.

I care that so many of us -- myself included -- spend so much time feeling small and victimized, when we have so much to offer the world.

I care about how common it is for people -- again, myself included -- to be more committed to defeating our "enemies" than standing for what we want. The two are not the same, and they lead to very different results.

The interaction with my husband wasn't a lot of fun, but it contained some great lessons and reminders about anger:

1. It doesn't require that there be anyone to blame.

2. When it's there, it just means there's something I really care about.

3. Tapping into those values is powerful -- and easier to do when I'm not distracted by seeing people as enemies.

Life on earth being what it is, I don't see my anger going away any time soon, but I'm excited to get better at working with it so it can be a force for good and not just more suffering.

If you've got any related stories or insights to share, I'd like to hear them!

What would true unity require?

In the days following the news that Joe Biden had won the 2020 U.S. Presidential election, I found myself thinking a lot about how liberals could help heal the massive polarization and distrust in the country. What would it look like to actually unite the country right now? What would it take to make good on that promise?

To roughly half of our fellow citizens, a Biden presidency is scary, and they are going to look at all this "unite" language with eye rolls and suspicion.

I think they're right to be skeptical.

We liberals are good at including some kinds of diversity under our umbrella of care. We affirm that Black lives matter, LGBTQ lives matter, immigrant lives matter.

But do conservative lives matter? Do the lives of people who voted for Donald Trump matter? Are they part of the diversity that we say we are committed to in this country?

Or are those millions of people just "wrong," making us justified in ignoring, shaming, and condescending to them?

I can't tell you how times I've heard my fellow liberals say things like, "Yeah, I'm all for tolerance and inclusion, but not when it comes to bigots and white supremacists." In a matter of seconds, they paint half of the country with a God-awful stereotype, and use it to justify not caring, not listening, not even wanting to know their neighbor.

How is that different from someone painting all Black people as lazy or stupid or criminal, and writing off any social obligation to them? To me, it's the same dynamic.

Do we really think that all Trump supporters are the same? That we know who they are or what they most deeply care about because of the sign on their lawn or the way that they voted?

Do we think they accurately know and represent us, when they call us liberal snowflakes?

No, of course not. Because we -- all of us -- are much more complex than that.

As long as we are trapped in this us vs. them thinking, though, we won't see that complexity in the “other.” And we most certainly won't do the work of actually uniting this country.

What do you think it would take right now for your conservative and Trump-supporting friends and neighbors to trust liberals right now? What would it take for them to trust a Biden presidency? What would it take for them to trust you?

My guess is that it's not much different from what you wish they'd done these past four years. For me, it includes:

Be curious. Slow down. Listen to what I'm actually saying. Trust that I'm not an idiot, or an enemy. Try to understand what's driving me. Be open to learning something new that you may have been blind to. Consider that I may actually have a perspective to offer you that is important. Take deep breaths. Be courageous in your honesty about where you're coming from, and why it really matters to you. Trust that I will also listen and not hurt or condemn you. Trust that I really do believe that we are all in this together. That we are capable of having hard conversations. That we can actually co-exist in this world without having to wipe each other out.

For the most part, this is not the nature of the conversations that have been happening -- or at least not the conversations that are widely publicized and shared. But they are possible.

We have a chance to be leaders here. To stand for what we say we stand for by living our commitment to true diversity and inclusion.

It is messy, but it is possible. And I believe it is the only approach that is going to get us to the kind of future we truly want.

A simple card-writing opportunity

The same wonderful person who has been designing shirts and tote bags for me has also started a group called Club Kindness. Mostly it's for kids, but this month it involves a simple card-writing activity that she's opening to everyone.

You can choose to receive a card, send a card, or both.

If you sign up to receive, you will get a kind letter in the mail. If you sign up to send, you will be writing the letter to a person whose name and address will be given to you.

Of course I signed up to do both.

My favorite thing about the sign-up form is that it asks people receiving to give a little information about themselves, to help senders write letters that they will enjoy reading.

This is so key.

As a sender, this information will make it much easier and more enjoyable to write my letter. I'd much rather write to someone who I know loves dogs and corny jokes, than to someone who says it doesn't matter; just send me anything.

As a receiver, it was a good exercise to picture what would really make me smile. (My request was for people to tell me about things that recently made them happy or proud or excited, which never fails to lift me up.)

If you'd like to join me in this fun little activity, here's the form to fill out. The deadline is this Thursday 11/12/20.

And if you really want to get into it, you can request a set of kindness cards from my website to supercharge your message. I'll mail 5 of them for free, anywhere in the U.S.

Have a wonderful week!