Little Things Feel Like Big Things When They’re in the Dark

“Mom, there’s something I haven’t wanted to tell you, something bad I’ve been doing.”

These were the words my young son uttered that immediately unleashed a nightmarish reel of possibilities in my head.

“It’s finally happening,” I thought. “I knew I would raise a criminal. Between the raw fish I ate during pregnancy to the times I let him cry it out in his crib, this kid has been doomed from the beginning.”

Before I could ask him where the bodies were buried, he burst into tears and released his confession.

“I’ve been talking and shouting out in class! In Ms. Parker’s class! When I know the answer and I don’t get called on I get mad and I just say it! I say it without raising my hand!” Another sob escaped, and I could see he was releasing the poison of his shame with his words and wails.

Since I was so relieved his missteps had not been felonious, I was tempted to comfort him by explaining this wasn’t really that big of a deal. But I didn’t want to discount his feelings, or make him feel his tears weren’t warranted. Feelings and tears are real, even if they come from things that seem small once they’re brought into the light.

I also didn’t want to downplay the importance of learning to control the outbursts. Being so desperate for everyone to know that you know the answer – so they know just how smart you are – that you violate the rules of conduct isn’t a good habit to get into – even if it doesn’t usually result in jail time.

We tried logic and talking it through. Why do you do this? What do you think could help you stop? Etc. This helped, but the guilt still seemed to be weighing on him, like he just really couldn’t discuss how to improve in the future because he couldn’t get past the fact that he’d done it in the past.

So we prayed. We asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better next time. This seemed to satisfy him. Tears dried and sleep came easy.

As I lay awake beside him, I chuckled a little to myself about how intensely guilty Brady had felt about such a minor infraction.

But then I remembered the intensity of shame I have felt in the not so distant past about forgetting to call someone back. Or about the dress I borrowed and never returned to a friend. Or for calling in sick to work when I was indeed sick. Or finding old crumbs in my carpet. Or eating 6 handfuls of Goldfish.

Some of these things might be worth feeling guilty about – I really should return things that are not mine, vacuum, and choose fruit over cheese flavored crackers.

But how guilty?

As I am typing this, I feel less guilty already. Know why? Because I’m bringing those dark little nuggets into the light. I’m pulling them from my gut, where they churn, or tug, or choke, or block, and I’m laying them out on the table for examination.

And in the light, they seem smaller.

In fact, some of them just seem silly, and like I could probably just toss them down the garbage disposal and no one would be the wiser.

Others may need to be sorted, or pondered, shared, treated, burned, or nurtured.

On the table and in the light they can be addressed. They can be acknowledged, accepted, and validated (or invalidated). Someone else can help me decide if they’re real and worth keeping around, and maybe what to do about them.

In the darkness, Brady’s shouting out in class felt heavy and troublesome. It felt big and impossible, even though it was relatively small and fixable in truth.

This reminds me of a sermon I recently heard at Park Church. Reverend Petty was discussing the many mentions of demon possession in the Bible, and how it’s possible that the frequency of these incidents in those days could be that it was a time when spiritual forces were stronger, or maybe that things like extreme mental illness were just interpreted differently back then.

Either way, “demons” and “possessions” still very much exist in our modern lives – in the forms of depression, addiction, obsession, grief, and ego.

And while the practice of driving out demons in the literal sense doesn’t happen in most churches anymore, it should still be happening in the figurative sense.

So Reverand Petty urged us not to leave our “demons” at the door. Not to bury down our deepest troubles and put on a smile for Sunday’s services, but to pull our burdens out, lay them at the Lord’s table, and together we will figure them out. Because that sort of work is best done in the light of day, in the presence of others.

While not everyone finds religion or church helpful, I think this principle can easily be applied outside of a faith practice. There is unbelievable power in sharing our experience with others, in bringing the deepest and darkest corners of our heart into the shared light of human existence and taking the weight out of one another’s burdens.

Brady started getting some practice on this tonight when he admitted to shouting out answers in class. Over time, I’m sure his secrets and regrets will grow more complicated, more drenched in darkness, and more difficult to share.

Surely if the worst thing we adults had to confess was speaking out of turn we would be much more likely to share openly with each other. But there would also be far less opportunity for deep and meaningful connection – the kind that comes from baring your realest, ugliest secret to someone and having them love you anyway. And for turning the complicated, dark, and hopeless aspects of our lives into the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes.

The people who can handle our secrets displayed in the light of day are the people who belong in our lives. Being honest is the most efficient way to curate the friends who are best for us, and who we can be the most useful to.

Because there is also great power in giving someone else freedom and relief by letting them know they are not alone – that there are others who struggle with shouting out in class, or managing money, or remembering to vacuum, or getting out of bed, or putting one foot in front of the other each day.

We owe it to ourselves and each other to yank out the little, dark things within us, the ones that feel so big and rooted, and bring them into the light and into the presence of each other so tears can dry and sleep comes easy.

Should Women Engineer their Appearances?

Lately I’ve been grappling with the issue of beauty and appearance, and how it relates to identity. I’ve been trying to decide what kind of woman I want to be when it comes to appearance and style – if I’d like to stay the course of being appearance-conscious and continue investing my time and money in the products and services necessary to look a certain way, or if I’d like to shed this concern, remove it from my identity, and find a way not to care about how I look.

When you sum it up that simply, the answer seems clear and obvious. It seems like the time and energy I spend doing my weekly microdermabrasion treatment and seasonal color makeup planning would be better spent on more meaningful activities like volunteering, reading, spending time with my son, or preparing healthy food.

It also seems that the mental power I expend on thinking about whether a change in hair color would improve the way I’m perceived at work, or if not wearing heels is hurting my career image, would have much more impact if I actually channeled it into my work and the quality of it.

However, these conclusions are naive. They only take into account a portion of the picture. Maybe they would be true if we lived in a different society; maybe they will be true someday.

But maybe they will not. Humans do see one another with their eyes, no? And while we use our other senses to connect with one another and hopefully have the maturity to realize our appearance-based judgements, most of us can not entirely reject them.

When we see a woman with pristine makeup and hair, a polished business suit, a confident smile, and who can walk in heels, we can’t help but make assumptions about her. That she has it all together, and that she can manage other things as well as she manages her appearance.

Though this is not always the case. Sometimes the people who look the best are the ones suffering the most. And their put-together look actually prevents them from getting the compassion they need from others. While our mask can sometimes bring us advantages, it can also prevent us from being authentic or even getting the support that we need.

On the flip side, I have met more than one incredibly smart, talented, and organized person with dreadlocks and a wrinkled shirt. And I so respected that humility – that they were willing to hide their potential in plain sight and force others to challenge their misperceptions and judgements. Those people are courageous trailblazers, who are willing to sacrifice the advantages of a polished appearance to make progress in abolishing looks-based prejudice.

Am I willing to relinquish those advantages?

No. Or at least not yet.

Because I still prescribe to the belief that I can be more and do more if I use my appearance to my advantage. That in my business suit and heels I’ll have a seat at the table to share my ideas and challenge unfair standards in rooms I wouldn’t be allowed in with dreadlocks and stocks with socks.

I realize that this logic is similar to that which House of Cards’ Frank Underwood used to justify shoving a reporter in front of a train. Does the end justify the means?

But we are still only including a fraction of the picture. Because when we talk about looks, expectations, judgment, and perception – we can’t leave out gender.

Both men and women are judged based on their style of dress, their overall neatness, and the other choices they make in how to present themselves.

But women have a lot more choices to make. To wax, or not to wax? Heels or flats? Makeup or no makeup? Color treated hair, or natural hair? Feminine colors and prints, or indiscriminate solid colors? Dresses and skirts, or just pants?

Managing the way we are perceived is a bit more complicated, because there are many decisions to make, and you’re never sure how each decision will be perceived.

A few days ago I had my makeup professionally done and loved the way I looked. However, I found that as I went out in public earlier in the evening, before the event the makeup was for, I felt embarrassed. I felt that other women were staring at me with disdain in their eyes. Like I was trying too hard. I could imagine them thinking, “why does she need to wear such a thick mask?”

On the other hand, I’ve also felt embarrassed and ashamed on days when I haven’t taken time for any makeup. As if others might think I’m falling apart, or don’t care enough about making a positive impression.

And while these thoughts might sound paranoid, they have been validated. I’ve heard a male leader say, “you know, she always looks fresh, no matter what time of day it is,” when discussing why a female associate was so great and deserving of an award. I couldn’t help but wonder how “fresh” my appearance typically is by 3 pm, and if my flaked off mascara and comfortable shoes were hurting my chances of being honored. Perhaps I should work in some time for freshening up in the afternoon, instead of reading industry reports?

What’s most disheartening is hearing the way women talk about each other’s appearances. Instead of uniting with one another to fight the unfair pressures we feel, we often compete with each other. One woman’s poor wardrobe choice or weight gain becomes ammunition for our ego, who wants to use others’ weaknesses to make us feel superior. Because inside we’re terrified. Scared of what would happen if we gained weight, got wrinkles, or had a bad hair day – even though we know those things are likely if not inevitable.

In many ways, you can’t win. While one executive might think your abundant use of makeup shows you care about how you’re perceived and are invested and engaged in your job, others may see it as immature or distracting. Or worst of all, they may appreciate you mostly for your pretty face and fail to notice your other stellar qualities.

As women, we’re conditioned to strongly identify with the way we look. If we didn’t see our appearance as a huge piece of who we are, many industries would fail to exist. The magazine covers you see in the checkout line would be different. The celebrity television shows would lose much of their content. The aisles upon aisles of beauty products at the drugstore wouldn’t exist.

And I wonder what they would be replaced with?

I’m too interested to know what truly beautiful content or products could exist in their place to not try to change society.

I don’t want to be part of the problem. If I have a daughter, I don’t want her to waste the time I have wasted on listening too closely when men discuss women’s appearances, trying to glean a “lesson” and alter my appearance so I can feel valuable in their eyes.

Because in the end, it’s God’s eyes I’m mostly interested in. And until I can see myself with my own eyes without judgement, I won’t be fulfilling my purpose as wholey as I can.

Why 30 is Better Than 20

The main difference between me at 20 and me at 30 is that now I know myself much better. Also, I am much less likely to stand up my family or fight with my roommate.

I know now that when it seems nothing is going right and everyone and everything is massively annoying, there might just be a meaning behind all of it, and I might be thankful for the turmoil that is currently making me grind my teeth in the end, so maybe it would be best not to completely freak out.

Thankfully, I had a chance to exercise this newfound skill on my 30^th birthday. To prove to myself that I was a true adult now, I had decided to celebrate with a family-friendly weekend in Chicago, complete with trips to obnoxious toy stores, naps, chain restaurant food, and before 11 pm bedtimes.

My hope was that by being a little more selfless and focusing on my son’s enjoyment I might kick off the decade in a more peaceful, harmonious, and grateful state than I had entered it – since I celebrated my 20^th birthday by standing up my own family for my birthday party and getting in a dramatic argument with my best friend and roommate.

Hopefully I’d left much of the ego-driven thinking behind me by now – the kind of self-preoccupation that leads you to be so in your head, so desperate to fill your own un-ending needs that you forget your dad is ordering one of those giant, long party subs from Subway for your birthday, and that you’ve been friends with your roommate since third grade and the divide in your current political beliefs (which will all change significantly depending on which classes you take next semester) may not be as big of a deal as you think.

We started the trip to Chicago by leaving too late to make the commuter train we’d been hoping to ride into the city. This was my fault. I didn’t leave work on time, and was unfocused during my last-minute packing session. But this was okay. Mike downloaded an app that allowed us to find a low-cost parking spot downtown for the car, and we concluded we would save time and money with this alternative plan anyway. How resourceful!

But our resiliency wore thinner as the city grew nearer. Instead of being awe-struck by the tall buildings visible from the highway, Brady complained of car sickness from all the stop-and-go traffic. And the crowded streets and necessary lane changes and inconsiderate drivers seemed to be weighing on Mike too. I just sat lazily in the passenger’s seat, absorbing the tension and lamenting the lack of dazzle in this birthday thus far.

Then we got lost. Our GPS failed us, and then lost service to boot. My mind grasped for someone to blame, tried weaving together a sob story about the way my birthday was turning out as I searched for a puke bag for Brady and suggested route alterations for Mike. We got snippy for awhile, then we got quiet.

Finally, the hotel. Brady could get out of the nauseous back seat and breathe fresh air, we could all stretch our legs, and soon we could change our clothes and head out on the town for dinner. Mike dropped Brady and me off at the door, and left to park the car.

When Brady and I approached the Front Desk, we were notified that there was no reservation in my married name, my maiden name, or even any possible combination of my married and maiden names. My mind wanted to blame the Front Desk agent, but somehow I was nice to her. Or at least I think I was nice to her. You never quite know how your emotions might be shining through your façade of pleasantries.

Brady and I sat in the lobby as I scrolled through emails on my phone, searching for a confirmation number.

“Mommy, will we have a place to sleep tonight?” Brady asked. This might sound precious now, but at the time I thought it was the most heinous thing a child had ever said.

“I don’t know,” I snapped, “But it’s not my fault!”

Turns out it was my fault. After throwing in the towel on finding a confirmation email, I decided to start the reservation process all over. In doing so, I realized that when I had made the reservation the first time I had missed the part where I hit the confirm button.

But fortunately, crisis was averted and there was indeed room at the inn, just under a new reservation.

By the time we checked into the room, it was nearly 8 pm and we hadn’t had birthday dinner yet. I thought about rushing us all into new clothes and heading out, but I knew it wouldn’t work out well.

Even though the situations had all worked themselves out, I was still somehow full of the blame and entitlement and annoyance. I considered eating or drinking it away, or maybe just throwing a good ol’ fashioned tantrum to let it out, ruining everyone else’s night. It was, after all, my party – and I could cry if I wanted to.

But instead, I thought about what might actually be effective in turning this night around, drawing on what I’ve observed about myself in the past 30 years. You need to exercise, a wise, 30-year-old voice said to me.

We went to the pool. Mike and Brady swam, and I did a hard work-out on the treadmill, the kind that makes your lungs burn and helps you breathe the fire out, and pushes the toxic thoughts out in your sweat.

When I was done, I went to the pool to check on Mike and Brady, and Brady was swimming for the first time without a life jacket or swimmies. The boy who had been gagging into a McDonald’s bag in the backseat of the car and inquiring if he would have a bed to sleep in 30 minutes earlier was now excitedly demonstrating his range of available jumps into the pool, which included belly flops, 360s, pencil drops, and “just regular”s. After a quick healing shower, we dressed and headed out onto the town with our 5-year-old at the highly irresponsible hour of 9 pm.

When we entered the restaurant, which was festive and filled with all adults, at 9:15 pm I felt a light tinge of worry about being judged for having my kid out so late. But then I remembered how grumpy and unbearable of a family we would have been at 8, and how resentful I would have been if we had not ended up going out for dinner, and that when it comes to parenting it might be more important to be happy than to be good.

And we were happy. We shared the news of Brady’s new swimming abilities with our waiter. He lit saganaki on fire and Brady’s eyes lit up with an irresistible combination of fear and amazement as we shouted, “Opa!” We shared several platters of food, and three Greek men sang me happy birthday, and I was insanely sleepy and contented by the time our cab arrived.

Back at the hotel, Mike went to the bathroom and came out to find Brady and me already asleep and snuggling. It was a wonderful birthday.

And I wonder if any of that wonderfulness would have been possible without all the ickiness earlier in the evening. It’s possible that I wouldn’t have fully enjoyed that fried cheese if I hadn’t had a good work-out, and I never would have worked out if I hadn’t been infuriated, and I never would have been infuriated if both the drive and check-in process hadn’t been a nightmare. Thank you, faulty navigation! I never could have savored the cheese without you!

And it’s also possible that without that horrendous car ride, Brady would have not been pushed to finally conquer his fear of flotation device-free swimming.

I don’t think that good things magically happen after bad things do (though sometimes they might), but that often our own discomfort propels us to do things we otherwise wouldn’t, and that can create positive change. Sometimes nights are just disasters and that’s the end of the story. But sometimes, you can turn them around because you have a little more experience than you once did.

Will I Ever Be Clean?

Tonight I am praying to desire cleanliness.

Because, frankly, dirtiness has never bothered me much. Seriously.

If it weren’t for the fact that it’s socially unacceptable to have decomposing french fries stuck in the floor mats of your car or a thick coating of toothpaste gunk lining the inside of your bathroom sink, I doubt I’d ever give either a second thought.

It extends to the exterior of my body. If I didn’t think people would judge me for greasy hair or body odor, I would probably shower less than once per week.

And if I didn’t know that tooth brushing is necessary to prevent costly dental work and unsightly yellowing, it would rarely occur to me to brush my teeth.

It extends to the inside of my body. If there wasn’t a direct relationship between what I eat and my ability to fit into an airplane seat comfortably, I would have little regard for how my cheese and cracker based diet was affecting my internal organs.

Which is why I smoked cigarettes for the better part if 10 years, and stayed slim on a half a grilled cheese and Mountain Dew diet for a good portion of my twenties. (Noticing a cheese pattern?)

That being said, I am not unteachable. Vast improvements have been made in most departments, mainly because I like being employed and hugged and accepted.

But many of these improvements have been drudgerous and slow and mostly rooted in fear.

Fear of being fat or smelly or judged or labeled or rejected. Why can’t I just crave the joy of a sparkling clean bathroom? Or fresh, well-functioning liver? Or smooth, shiny teeth?

This is an exhilaration I’ve heard others describe, but never experienced with intensity on my own.

That does not mean I don’t experience joy and intrinsic motivation. I just feel it when I play the piano, sing, dance, read, write, make people laugh, and draw absurd pictures with my son.

Unfortunately you can see none of those things when you walk into my house. What you usually can see are the dishes piling in the sink and dirt collecting in the corners while I’m perfecting my crayon depiction of an androgynous Wonder Woman who can shoot love rainbows at bad guys who need nurturing to rehabilitate.

Alas, I would like to change. I have tried justifying my behavior, painting myself as a quirky intellectual, “above” the shallow and tedious pursuit of a clean and orderly home. I have criticized others to make myself feel better, even though I was truly jealous and perplexed by their ability to keep a clean home.

Other times I’ve admitted my faults, and resolved to overcome them with heavy doses of self deprecation, reminding myself how disgusting and lazy I am when I notice the dust caked on my baseboards. Shaming myself with thoughts of what others would say if they saw it, and what a poor reflection on my character it would be.

For a while I purported it was a self esteem issue. “Believe that you deserve a made bed to sleep in, that you are worthy of a crumb-free countertop,” I told myself. This was mildly, but only temporarily effective.

I read a book about home organization. While the tips were practical and good thought exercises, they didn’t seem to tackle the root of the problem.

Which is that I feel angry every time I clean.

And I’m not talking about mild discomfort, the kind you experience when you have to do something you don’t particularly like to do. I know that sensation, and feel it when I have to make conversation with an off-putting stranger in an elevator, take a shot of wheat grass, study for a Biology exam, or watch Fox News.

No, my friends, this is not your yearly trip to the gyno discomfort. This is gut wrenching, soul eating, I-hate-everyone-who-ever-used-this-toilet-and-anyone-related-to-them fury.

I don’t know how to fix it. Recently I read somewhere, “God is there to help you change the things you cannot.”

So I’m giving that a whirl. Clearly all my bright ideas have failed, including dropping the discipline hammer.

I’ve decided to put my anger and dirtiness into the “God box.” This is a brilliantly simple idea I learned from author Anne Lamott. When she’s tortured herself to pieces thinking obsessively about something she can’t solve, she writes the issue on a sheet of paper and places it in a box. Then, she is not allowed to think about it, but stays present and open for signs.

So I’m not allowed to psychoanalyze myself for a while, or complain inwardly about my dirty house.

But in the meantime, I’m giving the person upstairs a little something to work with, and a demonstration that I mean business.

I’m going on a 9-day Ayurvedic cleanse that forbids cheese (gasp!), limits my food options to a porridge called kitchari for awhile and even includes a dose of Castor Oil.

The idea is that I might be able to start being clean, desiring cleanliness, and experiencing the joy of it from the inside out.

And somehow self deprivation makes me less angry than cleaning, if you can believe it.

I will also endeavor to clean a small, manageable square foot of my home each day of the cleanse, and try to feel happy while I’m doing it, with the help of some Stevie Wonder and maybe the promise of a refreshing lemon water when the task is done.

And I’ll stay open and present and ready for signs or inspiration. I’ll pay attention to my dreams and listen to my gut. Though it will probably be rumbling.

So here I go! Cleanse begins Wednesday. My incredibly cool husband has even agreed to join me for the ride, Castor Oil and all. I’m glad we have two bathrooms.

Can You Let Your Kid Wear The Same Clothes Two Days in a Row?

A snippet of dialogue from my morning:

BRADY: I want to wear the same clothes to school as yesterday.

ME: (Thinking….)
(ESSENTIAL SELF CARRIE): Wear what you want! YOLO! In this house, we don’t care what people think!
(SOCIAL SELF CARRIE): You cannot wear the same clothes two days in a row or people will think I’m an irresponsible parent.

ACTUAL RESPONSE CARRIE: Um, you know, it’s good to switch it up every day, fashion is fun…you know, its sort of like a human tradition. Yes, yes, it’s like a fun human being tradition to wear different clothes every day, and not everyone does this tradition all the time and that’s okay, but it’s a fun tradition to do on the days that we have to go to school and work…

I am a firm believer that clothes that do not smell or have markings on them should be re-worn as many times as possible. This belief is rooted in these facts:

1. It is not necessary for health/hygeine. There is virtually the same amount of bacteria in clean clothing as there is clothing that has been worn several times (as a Canadian college student proved in 2011).
2. It is a waste of clean water. With each washing machine cycle requiring about 25 gallons of water, you can look at your semi-clean shirt and equate it to a gallon of water. Is that faint, vague, barely-there odor worth a whole gallon of water? A gallon of water could be a Godsend for someone living in a developing country. Am I really so fancy that I’ll spit in that person’s face and toss that shirt in the hamper? Hell no. I’m hanging that thing back up.
3. It is a waste of time. I would rather be putting on imaginary theatre performances in my kitchen while hoping my neighbors can’t hear than washing clothes.

Last night when Brady disrobed from his favorite Skylanders shirt and cargo pants, I held them up and evaluated them aloud, saying to Brady, “You know, I don’t think these are dirty. They don’t have anything on them, and they don’t smell, so I am going to fold them and put them back in your dresser. What do you think?”

He agreed. I felt good about our practical and logical decision.

But in the morning, when Brady opened his dresser to select the apparel he liked best from what was available, he naturally selected the Skylanders shirt and cargo pants. And when he came out with it on, I immediately said, without thinking at all, “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

“Yes,” he replied, both confidently and non-chalantly.

“You should put something else on,” I said.

“Why?” Brady asked. “Mommy, last night you said these clothes weren’t dirty. Remember?”

“Yes, but…”

“If they’re not dirty, why can’t I wear them?”

“Well, you can, but just not two days in a row…”

My egoic, social self was setting off alarms in my head – ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! His teachers will think you are a totally irresponsible parent and that you aren’t even paying attention to what he puts on. The kids at school will make fun of him and he will be labeled the smelly kid forever and will become too psychologically damaged for college and he will live in your basement and it will be all your fault.

But these alerts were muffled as my essential self was screaming – YOLO! YOLO! YOLO! Who cares what people think? Let him wear what he wants! If you tell him he should care what people think, he could get too consumed with it and become a sell-out people pleaser when he could have been the world’s next revolutionary. Be his hero, put your pride away, and let him wear that Skylander’s t-shirt!

More words started to come out of my mouth, but I wasn’t comfortable with any of them. So I consulted my husband. Because that is my pet thing to do when I feel both my options are wrong, because then when he picks it, and it is wrong, at least it isn’t my fault.

“Um, just tell him you can’t do that,” Mike said. No help at all.

With the need to get out the door in time for school becoming more urgent, I grasped for some light-hearted rhetoric.

“Um, you know, it’s good to switch it up every day, fashion is fun…you know, its sort of like a human tradition. Yes, yes, it’s like a fun human being tradition to wear different clothes every day, and not everyone does this tradition all the time and that’s okay, but it’s a fun tradition to do on the days that we have to go to school and work…,” I said, while pulling the Skylanders shirt over his head as he forcefully battled to pull it back down.

He did complete the clothing change – but grudgingly – and we finished up the tooth brushing, putting on of shoes and coat, application of backpack, seat belt buckling, hugging, kissing, and parting just in time for the start of school.

As I walked to the car and breathed my sigh of relief for having made it through the morning, I observed the other students and their parents, also hurrying into the day and making their last-minute zip-ups, hair adjustments, and face wipes.

I wondered if any of those kids were wearing the same clothes as yesterday. If they were, maybe it was because their parents hadn’t noticed, because they have five other kids, or a lot going on at work right now, or a sick mother to take care of, or are just binge-watching something on Netflix. Or maybe it’s because their parents are more enlightened than me and less concerned with what people think, and find their child’s freedom to express himself more important than complying with social norms in order to manage a reputation that may or may not even exist.

Then I wondered if Brady would notice that one of those children was wearing the same thing two days in a row. And, because of our conversation, he would think lesser of that child. Would he judge them? Would he tease them? Or would he – worse yet – silently proclaim himself better in his own mind, propelling the growth of his ego?

He probably wouldn’t notice.

I’m still conflicted. Should I have just let him wear the clothes? Is there a way I could have explained it better?

Why I Haven’t Been Blogging

Forgive me Internet; it has been nine months since my last blog.

It hasn’t been writer’s block. I’ve started a least 20 blogs in my head, and have at least five almost complete ones saved on my computer.

And their have been hundreds of blog temptations – many of which sprouted up during election season. These are generally sparked by (mostly) immature reactions to Facebook posts, news clips, or bumper stickers I find to be ill informed. But I’m rarely sadistic enough to even begin writing these blogs, as I know they’ll cause more trouble than good.

But there have been plenty of big-girl ideas, the kind that might provoke productive conversation or at least produce a sense of being heard and understood thoroughly. And isn’t that what writing is really to achieve? The opportunity to explain one’s self without fear of being cut off by another’s response before you can finish, and to offer all your apologies and context and rebuttals before anyone has the chance to argue with you?

I’ve been feeling there should be more to it than that.

It is said that we don’t know anything until we know that we know nothing, and I’ve noticed at various levels of learning and accumulation of wisdom there are points along the way when your own naivety or lack of understanding become abundantly clear. And it seems I have reached one of those resting points along the path.

The last couple of years have been busy, challenging, and ambitious ones for me, and at times I’ve felt I’ve learned or realized so much in a day or a week that it would be a crime not to share that revelation with the world.

But the recurring revelations of the last nine months have all been a ditty from the same theme: I have so much to learn.

Often I wonder if there will ever be enough time to figure it all out. And I’m not talking all the chemistry and physics stuff, or even the environmental or mankind stuff. I’m talking about the me stuff. Will I ever get out of bed on time in the morning? Or feel confident raising my kid? Or keep my kitchen floor clean? Or not feel the need to pick at my cuticles? Why have I made bad decisions? Why do I continue to make bad decisions sometimes? Will I ever forgive myself for the friends I’ve wronged, the jobs I’ve quit, the time I’ve wasted?

Amidst all these questions, I don’t feel a sense of insecurity or fear, but rather one of hope. It is comforting to be in a place where I’m humble enough to face down my most monstrous demons with confidence and even light-heartedness.

Being humbler and more honest has also made me feel more connected to others, with a growing sense that we’re all figuring this out together and we actually need each other to figure ourselves out. I’ve been much more interested in what others have to say. What wisdom and hope might I find in their stories?

Thus, I haven’t been moved much to share my own story over the last nine months. And I’ve been flattered and inspired by how many people have inquired about my writing in that time. I haven’t missed writing because I have been writing. But I have missed sharing. And I’ve longed to write something bigger than myself.

I would like to write other people’s stories, and when appropriate incorporate my own story into them. Do you know someone who has a story that should be shared or that you think would be enlightening for me? Please comment and let me know!

Peter Island and the Importance of Nothing

I’d heard widely different reports about Peter Island. Every co-worker, reviewer on TripAdvisor, and commenter on the resort’s Facebook page seemed to have something vastly different to say about the island – a property in the British Virgin Islands my hotel company manages.

Aerial view of Peter Island in the British Virgin Islands

After learning I would soon experience the island for myself, I wondered how my perception might jive with the others. No TV in rooms? Last ferry for civilization leaves at 10 pm? Everything shuts down at 11 pm?  Hm.

This didn’t seem compatible with my typical vacation style. When traveling, I generally want to pack in as much fun as humanly possible. Every passing minute represents an opportunity to take a photo, try a new food, have a margarita, or beat up a dance floor, so every second not spent on one of these activities feels like a waste or a failure on my part.

Not much different from my everyday life. With many responsibilities, commitments, and ideas, it seems every moment not spent checking a task off my to-do list, working toward a more organized home, healthier body, and smarter child is something to be ashamed of.

And this state of mental chaos seemed to have intensified just prior to my trip. Feeling particularly insecure lately, thoughts about how I should be spending my time so I could cure my shortcomings flooded. Every passing second seemed like a mistake, a moment that would have better been spent on a different pursuit. And it seemed I couldn’t win in my own eyes.

Enter Peter Island.

Not long after stepping off the ferry from Tortola, wiping my brow with a cool, Eucalytpus scented towel, and accepting a Ginger Lemonade from the island host, I began to wrap my head around what Peter Island was all about:

Nothing.

Peter Island is about seeing nothing. And by nothing, I of course mean everything.

The view from the sunset look-out on Peter Island

Peter Island is one of the few places in the world where you can stare out at massive areas of undeveloped land and water. A place not riddled with the myriad of distractions placed before our urban eyes, finally giving you the opportunity to slow down and look inward.

There is one true activity on Peter Island, and that is drinking in its beauty. The activities available like swimming, snorkeling, and hiking are all variations on the same theme – they are ways of experiencing the island and being exposed to the wonders, both big and small, waiting to be discovered around each corner.

Looking out at the beach during lunch at Deadman’s Beach Restaurant

Even eating is another opportunity to take in the island view. There is something rejuvenating and delightful about combining the pleasurable experience of dining with taking in a majestic view. At lunch, as I enjoyed an excitingly spicy Cajun wrap at Deadman’s Beach, my meal took a backseat to observing the children playing in the sand, the birds swooping playfully around the palm trees, and listening to the waves rhythmically lap onto the shore.

The view of the beach from my lunch table.

The next day at breakfast, I chose a seat on the Tradewinds Restaurant patio closest to the rocky lining of the ocean.

My throat slightly raspy and my eyes still groggy from sleep, I craved and savored the soothing, lemony flavor and gentle energy jolt from a mini pot of Earl Grey tea. But what really awakened my spirit for the day was observing the shades of vibrant blue that made up the moving mosaic of the ocean, and the birds that perched on the nearby rocks, puffing out their crisp white chests  as if modeling for me.

Beloved island staff member Jean Kelly’s famous coconut french toast

Drinking in the vibrancy of the morning along with my breakfast somehow made each morsel of coconut French toast more than just a bite. Every moment of the meal became an experience – I relished in the way the slightly crisp, coconut-coated outside of the toast contrasted with the soft, chewy texture of the inside, I noticed how the syrup collected at the corner of the toast as I lifted the fork to my mouth and how it dripped slowly onto the thin orange slices on my plate. And I realized it had been so long since I had really enjoyed and appreciated food, and that it was no wonder I seemed to always yearn for another helping to feel satisfied.

I also found myself suddenly satisfied and present in the moment as I toured the beach. When was the last time I had noticed the shape and texture of the clouds floating overhead?

Clouds on Deadman’s Beach

I noticed how the nature of the clouds evolved each day – dark storm clouds blanketing the sky upon my arrival, and cottony, gliding clusters the following day.

Ocean tide on Deadman’s Beach

At my feet, I watched as the water curled and rushed to the sore, dissipating into  foamy bubbles and then retreating back into the ocean.

Foamy tide on Deadman’s Beach

I caught my own shadow in the frame as I photographed the oscillating waters. My presence was somehow surprising and seemed out of place.

Tide with my shadow

It was as if the camera lens represented worlds of distance between me – a complex human being immersed in the complications of life – and the simple perfection of the water’s routine, and that we couldn’t possibly be occupying the same portrait. But there I was, intertwined with the rippling shoreline by mere virtue of blocking the sun’s way. I came to feel a part of this masterpiece of natural beauty, perfectly simple and balanced, and the idea that I was never doing enough or spending my time correctly seemed more and more preposterous.

When I returned to my room at the ripe old hour of 9 pm following the festive-yet-intimate Caribbean buffet at Deadman’s beach, I stepped out onto my little deck to breathe in the night air.

View of the nighttime moon from my room

I stared for a long time at the perfectly circular full moon that shone in the sky, it’s light reflected in the waves that dutifully continued moving onto shore into the night. I felt overwhelmingly grateful. Not just for the opportunity to visit the island, but for everything. For the people at home that I missed. For the never-ending work both at the office and at home that I was actually blessed to have. And for the unending opportunities life provides to start over, reset, and chart a different course.

On the way home I found myself noticing things I wouldn’t have otherwise given a second look, like the giant shadows the puffy clouds above Tortola cast on the landscape,

Cloud shadows over Tortola

and the aquamarine water churning into white and dancing energetically in the wake of the ferry as we sped away from the port.

Water in the wake of the ferry boat

The reality of life would inevitably set in soon with the commotion of the airport, the return to responsibilities at home, and several screen-fuls of emails to catch up on. But within me there was a new sense of calm, a sureness that all would be okay, and a gratitude for even the challenging moments.

The view of nothing from the Falcon’s Nest villa on Peter Island

How important it is to look at nothing. To remember that there are trees and waves and caterpillars where no one is there to see them, and that the universe carries on its natural rhythms whether we are there to see them or not.

Found this little guy outside of the Crow’s Nest Villa on Peter Island.

And if the natural world can carry on without us, maybe every moment of every day isn’t a responsibility but rather an opportunity to love, grow, or just be.

Now that I’ve been home a week from Peter Island, the island glow may have worn off and the realities of life fully resumed. However, after having visited Peter Island I feel privy to an extraordinary secret, as if I have a home many miles and planes, cabs, and ferries away where people know my name and everything I’m looking for awaits – which is, of course, nothing.

A Quick, Conscientious Meal with Help from The Hotel Kitchen

Last night I prepared an exquisite meal, if I don’t say so myself, amongst the screaming children, disorganization, and typical chaos of my endearingly colorful household.

The occasion was my fiance’s birthday – yet, don’t be deceived – this delicious dinner is not the only event to commemorate my beloved’s 26th year. He’s one of “those people” who enjoys multiple birthday celebrations. Alas, there wasn’t too much pressure on my meal.

Since I knew this meal would be prepared on a weeknight filled with its usual shenanigans, I was afraid making something truly crafted and special would be difficult – especially considering my recent pursuit to utilize mainly locally source ingredients.

Therefore I enlisted the help of the collection of gourmet dressings, salsas, and chutneys made by the hotel collection I work for called The Hotel Kitchen, along with the advice of one of our chefs, Joshua Gaanzevort.

The Menu:

Salmon marinated in Citrette Dressing, topped with Michigan Jalapeno Cherry Chutney

Roasted fingerling potatoes topped with goat cheese and Roasted Three Pepper Salsa

Steamed green beans with butter and Herbette Dressing

Chickpea salad with Herbette Dressing

Ambitious for a Thursday night following a full day of work, picking up Brady from daycare, and making a run to the grocery store.

Fortunately, I picked up a few items from the Fulton Street Farmer’s Market earlier in the week, like:

Cucumbers

 

Fresh Herbs

 

Tomatoes

Garlic, potatoes, and other stuff that grows in the ground

The Process

Out of the gate, I knew my two priorities were to:

1. Get the salmon marinating
2. Get the potatoes cooking

I had considered marinating the salmon the night before, but Chef Gaanzevort advised against this, since salmon can become mushy when marinated for more than an hour or two.

First things first, I preheat the oven for 400 degrees and seasoned the salmon with a little salt and pepper.

Salmon seasoned with salt and pepper

Then I dumped on the Citrette Dressing, and stuck it in the fridge. I noted how this saved significant time from my typical salmon prep, which includes mincing some garlic and herbs, squeezing lemons, etc.

Salmon with Citrette Dressing on top

Next, I cut the potatoes in half and threw some evoo, salt, and pepper on them before putting in the oven.

 

Potatoes destined for the oven

Next, I filled a pot with water and threw the beans in. Though Chef Gaanzevort recommended steaming the beans, I don’t have a steamer and didn’t want to set up a rig for steaming after I’d already gone through the dreaded process of snipping beans (my pet peeve). This ended up being too soon to get the beans started – I had to stop and restart cooking them later, which took away from the flavor and freshness.

 

My prematurely cooked green beans

Next, I needed to get the chickpea salad. I realized I hadn’t read Chef Ganzevoort’s recipe closely – the chickpeas were actually supposed to cook with the rosemary, garlic, mustard, and vinegar before being combined with the other salad ingredients.

I got the little beans going in a pan while I tore the rosemary from the fresh plant I’d bought at the market, along with some minced garlic and water.

Chickpeas marrying with some rosemary and garlic

Now the pressure was on. The green beans were boiling, I could hear the evoo surrounding the potatoes snapping in the oven, the chickpeas were heating up, and I hadn’t even begun the salmon or chopping of vegetables for the salad.

Fortunately, the salmon was looking great after just a few minutes marinating.

Marination creation

I got a pan screaming hot with olive oil and seared the salmon on both sides to lock the juices in. It was looking beautifully brown before heading into the oven.

Seared salmon

Now I had just enough time to season up the chickpeas and chop the rest of the salad ingredients. I added some salt, pepper, mustard, and red wine vinegar to the chickpeas and gave them a stir.

Chickpeas gettin’ steamy

‘Twas time to get a choppin’. I used my extremely layman chopping techniques to get the cucumbers and tomatoes cubed up.

Cutting Cucumbers

Woo-hoo! Home stretch. I went outside and gave Brady and his rambunctious friends (not to mention the birthday boy) a 10-minute warning.

I put some goat cheese on the potatoes and put them back in the oven so the cheese could melt and become awesome.

Mmmmmmmm….

I combined the salad ingredients, tossed with the Herbette Dressing, and topped with some parsley pulled from the farmers market plant. Lookin’ good!

 

Chickpea salad – done!

Once the table was set, it was time for the finishing touches. Honestly, being able to finish everything off with something unique and gourmet (not to mention locally sourced and packaged) without a ton of extra work was a Godsend.

I topped the salmon with the Michigan Jalapeno Cherry Chutney…

Bam!

Garnished the cheesy potatoes with Roasted Three Pepper Salsa…

Sha-zam!

And tossed the green beans in butter and Herbette Dressing…

Bringing sexy back

Aside from the fit thrown by my offspring about having to stop playing and come to the table, and the shipment of clutter that needed to be relocated from my dining room table to make room for the spread, this meal was a complete success!

Brady and I sang Happy Birthday to Mike, which caused him to smile awkwardly, which is always a joy.

Mike isn’t typically a salmon guy, but he LOVED this salmon. Along with 4-year-old Michael Scott, our neighbor boy, who actually put an entire filet in his mouth, later pulling the skin out.

Getting two humans under age five to eat salmon has to be among The Hotel Kitchen line’s greatest accomplishments.

Next up, I’ll be using these to tackle the appetizer party – the kind of spreads that are always pain-in-the-you-know-whats for those of us who like to be pretentious and have fancy organic stuff but have no time.

Now, to get home from work so I can dig into the chickpea salad leftovers…I have a feeling that bowl of vibrant goodness is going to be even better after chilling the the fridge for a day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humbition for Millenials

About a year ago, I caught a piece on NPR about a new internal buzzword at IBM called “humbition.” The phrase stuck with me, and I’ve chewed on it as my career has evolved over the last year.

Since moving to the hospitality industry at the Amway Hotel Collection, I’ve heard a lot about having a “spirit of service.” While this may be a new term for me to employ in my work life, it’s certainly not a new concept.

Growing up in Fremont Wesleyan Church and amidst a hard-working midwestern family, phrases like having “an attitude of servitude” were imprinted into my adolescent brain. The idea is that the ability to serve is a privlege, and therefore serving is not just a gift to those you serve, but a gift to yourself.

This came up a few weeks back as I was chatting with the General Manager of the Ruth’s Chris Steak House recently added to one of our hotels. I asked him why he had chosen to work in the restaurant business, and what kept him going through the sometimes grueling hours.

He explained that the job truly made him happy unlike a regular 9-to-5 would, because he has the opportunity to serve. And no matter how he’s feeling each day, he has to put on a smile and a warm demeanor for his guests. In that process, his mood actually becomes brighter and he truly becomes the joyful servant he must act like to do his job.

I’ve certainly noticed the effect of this in my work environment – the people I work with don’t just treat guests with hospitality, they actually seem to be more accommodating to each other than typical co-workers.

Immersed in a “spirit of service,” it seems we’re more likely to offer our co-workers a beverage, hold a door for them, and say things like “it’s my pleasure.”

Since having a servant’s attitude seems to have such an effect on how we treat each other, I have to think it also has an effect on how we treat ourselves.

So back to IBM’s humbition – the NPR piece I heard was presenting IBM’s concept as the counter to a recent statement Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg had made about talented employees. He said that one exceptional employee is “100 times better” than a pretty-good employee.

While valuing the talent and ambition of its employees, IBM noted that those traits must be combined with humility in order to maintain a productive, harmonious workplace. Hence, an employee musn’t think of himself as being “100 times better” than others in order to be exceptional.

It seems that what IBM realized – and I agree – is that ambition fueled by narcissm is dangerous. And I think it’s not just toxic to the co-workers who may be annoyed or even belittled by this attitude – it’s toxic to the “superstars” themselves.

Why Selfish Ambition is Harmful

Working hard because you feel you have to prove how great you are creates an environment in which people are rooting for you to fail.

One of the most powerful assets we young professionals can have is a network of more experienced folks rooting for us. And we’re not helping to build that network by repeatedly looking for “boo-yah!” moments.

The result is that we millenials are getting a bad wrap, and we’re going to end up cheating ourselves of the invaluable mentorship and opportunities that humility attracts.

Showing that you have humility shows that you have more than the seven years of table waiting experience on your resume – it shows you have promise. You’ll listen, you’ll learn, and you’ll play well with others. “Take a chance on me!” your humility shouts.

Along with robbing us of the support of our elders, a lack of humbition is damaging my generation personally, right down to our mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

God doesn’t care how awesome you make your life look on Facebook, and neither does your sub-concious.

Doing acts – even charitable ones – for self-serving reasons isn’t truly rewarding. And by serving or working just for the pay, the recognition, or the Tweet, we’re robbing ourselves of the momentous rewards of living a life rich in meaning.

I think we’re also harming our own self-esteem. While we may be able to craft our resumes and LinkedIn profiles to appear that we’re awesome, we know the truth about ourselves. And putting on the charade chips away at our confidence. “Why do I have to pretend I’m great?” our sub-conscious asks. “I must not really be.”

I believe that we are all worthy and valuable beings that were created in the image of God, and that we were each created to do something unique and amazing that will positively impact the world. I think a necessary component of humility is actually a belief in yourself.

So let’s believe in ourselves, by all means, and believe in ourselves with vigor! Let’s believe in ourselves so much that we ignite the ambition to serve others and figure out what fabulous, amazing, and meaningful print (or lack thereof) we can leave on the world.

For “there is no happiness in having or in getting, but only in giving,” said Og Mandino.

So is an exceptional employee worth 100 times more than a pretty-good employee? Only if he doesn’t think he is.

The Lifetime Movie of My Mind

I have a tendency to turn a challenging parenting moment into a Lifetime movie in my head.

This happened recently, and it made me realize how absolutely unnecessary and potentially destructive it is when we parents take a temporary situation – like a crying child, a streak of bad eating, or maybe a delay in potty training – and pile on a slew of assumptions, and allow the weight of societal expectations to come crashing down on us, crying “Why, why, why?!” in a Nancy Kerrigan manner.

I have an example.

Last week, Brady had an extremely busy day. He started the morning at my mom’s house, where he played with my nephew. Then his dad picked him up to accompany him on a drive where they stopped to visit family members as well. Shortly after returning to his dad’s house, I picked Brady up and drove him 40 minutes away to my house. He had no nap.

Things were a little chaotic when we returned home, and by the time I got dinner made, eaten, and cleaned up, it was well after his bedtime. I could see the weight of all the hours and destinations in his eyes, and I thought he’d be out like a light once nigh-night time came around.

I was wrong.

When bedtime came, Brady had a meltdown. Exhausted and overwhelmed by all the running around of the day, he cried hysterically and said he missed his dad. When I called his dad so that they could talk on the phone, his cries only grew louder and he wailed, “I want my dad! I miss my dad! I want my daddy now!”

Once I realized reasoning with him was not going to be an option, I turned off the lights, turned on his fan, and layed down next to him. When I rubbed his back he swatted my hand away. When I tried singing to him he yelled, “Stop!” between cries. So I just layed with him and listened to him cry, trusting that sleep would eventually come.

Once his back was turned to me, the screenplay for the Lifetime movie by Carrie’s mind began.

“With a single mother who didn’t care enough to plan out his days well, Brady Tolliver was doomed from the beginning,” said the movie trailer voice-over of my mind.

“The kid got hauled around like a sack of potatoes,” said a witness sound bite from the Lifetime documentary. “Sometimes three different locations in a day – and without a nap to boot.”

Then of course the scientific research came.

“Children of separated parents are blah-blah-blah more likely to become ax murderers,” says the expert in his white lab coat.

And then came the memories of my parents making negative remarks about other parents. Am I like so-and-so’s mom? Oh my gosh, I’m just like so-and-so’s mom!

How did this happen? How did I create this situation for him? There’s no hope for him! No hope!

I burst into tears, and the tears continued to flow as Brady’s weaned off and he finally succumbed to the sleep his body was begging for.

Once I had the release of the tears, I realized how overdramatic and unproductive my mind’s movie was. And I remembered how many times I had let situations like these inspire a negative movie reel that continued for hours and days – maybe even months – and set myself into a downward spiral of negativity that led me to believe I was hopeless as a parent.

This time I changed the channel.

I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and told Mike it was a bummer that Brady never got a nap. We had a five-minute discussion about what we could do from preventing this from happening again – like maybe picking up take-out on such nights so cooking and clean-up doesn’t push bedtime back so far. Then I talked to Brady’s dad about how we should start keeping him in one place prior to a switch from mom’s to dad’s or vice versa. He enthusiastically agreed.

Simple. Not a big deal. He woke up the next morning and asked for fruit snacks. I said no. All was well.

I think that many parents – not just parents in non-traditional situations – have a tendency to get so caught up in what science or society has to say about children, parenting, and family, that they turn a simple situation into a symptom of a huge problem.

Probably because humans LOVE drama. If we didn’t, there would be no Lifetime network. I mean seriously, for relaxation and entertainment we human beings watch stories about women who are beaten by their pastor husbands and run to the shelter of a neighbor who turns out to be an ax murderer whose daughter is a secret agent but has a crush on the abusive pastor.

So naturally, we try to turn our lives into dramatic movies, because we love to sabotage ourselves. I’m awesome at sabatoging myself, and for many years this was almost harmless. But now there is a little person who depends on my ability to think like a logical person.

So for Brady’s sake, I’m giving up my mind-Lifetime-movie-scripting, and focusing on the simple facts of the situation at hand. Doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to a good cry every now and then, thought. Or a “good” Lifetime movie.