Boring is the New Brave

"Vocation does not come from willfulness. It comes from listening. I must listen to my life and try to understand what it is truly about — quite apart from what I would like it to be about — or my life will never represent anything real in the world, no matter how earnest my intentions." - Parker Palmer

I spent a good number of minutes reading and re-reading this quote from Palmer's book "Let your life Speak." I pondered for some time, as we all do when reading something inspirational, over what this means in real time. That is, what do I hear when I listen to my life, rather than telling it what I want from it? What do you hear?

For me, the answer is a series of questions: They say you must write for your readers. Can you do this and also write for yourself? What my life is truly about... is this different than what I want it to be about? Can my life as a nurse and my life as a writer stem from the same values? Did I force these vocations upon myself, or was I called to them? Am I doing these things because I want to be "great", or simply because I want to do them?

Which leads me to further questioning: Where has this obsession with greatness come from, and how have we redefined what greatness is? Perhaps our obsession is fed by the headlines we read about over-night sensations. Gratuitous fan-fiction turning into pop culture phenomenons, or what-have-you. We may or may not admit it, but we want what these people have. An average human being one day, a guest on Oprah the next. We want to see our face next to a net worth seven - make it eight - digits long when we enter our name into the search engine. Without investing a kidney into Google Adwords, of course.

We don't read about the everyday heroes. The one's who put their nose to the grindstone day in and day out, because they are passionate about what they do. They may one day be successful, but it could take them years. Decades, even. We won't hear about them until they've already made their millions. What if they never make their millions? What if their life is about providing for their family, and raising children to be healthy, productive members of society, and just that? Would we care? Would anyone read about them? What if we heard that they accomplished this doing what they love to do? To me, that is bravery; that is something worthy of applause.

There was a time when having well-fed children with a roof over their heads was a great achievement. When did that become boring? We've long since left Maslow's Hierarchy in the dust, taking the basics of comfortable survival for granted. Will better, and bigger, and richer ever be enough? Instead, why don't we spend our energy appreciating these basic elements, and let our values that lie deep in the core of who we are guide and direct our vocation? You may be forever anonymous to the world wide web, but if your children see a smile on your face at the end of a day's work... Well, this is the part where you decide if that's worth it.

The Diary of a Cynic

You’ve finished uni, you’ve done some travelling, and you’ve even worked a bit here and there to make some money. It may even be a job related to what you studied, if you’re lucky. But most likely not. It’s possible you’ve even accomplished something creative. You’re approaching 30 rapidly, if you haven’t hit that mark already, and you find yourself asking, “Now what?”

It’s possible that this is becoming the popular age for the initiation of parenting because suddenly we 30-somethings of Western, middle class society are craving a purpose of some kind that is beyond increasing the number of selfies in foreign places on our Instagram. The creation and rearing of another human being provides this sense of purpose.

This will make many young people gag or shudder; the thought of a dependent child requiring your 24 hour awareness sounds like a cruel version of solitary confinement. Other’s may think, “Yes, that’s what I’m missing!” The rest of us, like myself, fall into the other category. Not ready to be a parent, we’ve spent all our money on travel, the creative project is done, and the blues have set in. We realize as we stare into the mirror that we really are a jack of all trades, master of none. The question remains, “What now?” 

If you’ve read this far you may be hoping I have some kind of revelation to share that answers this question. Sorry to disappoint, I don’t. I’m like you, wading from day to day, watching other people accomplish great things and wondering if I have greatness hidden in me somewhere and one day I’ll be inspired, and also make a really rich friend, and make headlines by changing the world. For that day, at least, until someone else comes along and does one better. I am a realist, however, so I ask again (I truly want to know) where does one go from here??

The In-Betweeners

What happiness… “Today marks the beginning of an awesome, exciting year ahead”, my love said on the first day of 2016. Indeed it does. My current happiness is a tribute to to the fact that change is possible. A tribute that says: if one is miserable, one can change their current state… with just a few, seemingly-impossible, incredibly challenging decisions, of course.

 But they are life changing – and isn’t that the point? Was it just four years ago that I was newly separated from an unhealthy marriage, ridden with ulcer-forming anxiety, torn on a soul-deep level, entirely unsure of what my future held and what happiness looked like?

It all seems light years away, as if from a different universe, a different life, a different person altogether.

Here I am, at the dawn of 2016, writing down my hopes and dreams (not resolutions – those are silly) for my life for the next twelve months. It will be my first year living in another country. It will be my first year working somewhere other than the hospital that has more or less borne and raised me for the last 6+ years. It will be the first year in which I publish a book (but certainly not the last).

It will be my third year, however, practicing presence. I have been practicing this most recently with the mantra, “Find happiness in the the in-between moments”. That is, I have been practicing finding beauty and joy in waiting for a train, in walking down the street between destinations, and in those slow, yet brief, breaths taken at the end of one task before the beginning of another.

We think – and read – a lot about being present in every circumstance. We forget, however, about the moments between circumstances, waving them away in our minds as being of no consequence. Think about how much time we waste in these moments, usually looking down at our phones instead of looking up and around at the beauty that surrounds us.

When you finish reading this, and before you move on to the next thing on your agenda, just breathe and think about the happiness that can be found in this moment, right now. Happy New Year.

The Bug

My first trip to Australia occurred in the middle of my second grade year. As the Aussie’s say, “year two.” Oz had everything to offer but a wizard. It was truly a wonderland to my seven-year-old self. To call the large, sloping backyard of my Aunt and Uncle’s home lush would be to make a massive understatement. The sound of a kookaburra’s cackle in the morning is a memory I recall with the utmost nostalgia. 

Australia was heaven for my curious little child-self. With wombats in Taronga Zoo, toilet water that spins in the opposite direction, and Carmello Koalas to satisfy my insatiable sweet tooth, there was no shortage of diverting experiences.

That is where I caught the bug. The travel bug, to be exact. Some people talk about traveling as something one must “get out of their system while they are young.” The people who say this are the one’s who have never been infected with the bug. If they had, they would know there’s no getting rid of it. It’s a chronic condition whose primary symptom is a desire to experience the world. This desire for me is as insatiable as my sweet tooth.

There is no cure, there is only treating the symptom. The treatment is obvious: keep traveling.

Missing Murphy

I’m lonely here, without you.

I like to picture you sitting next to me on the veranda of this little cafe. Laughing and sharing anecdotes of silly sweet things our men have said or done, reading our own books and interrupting the other to read aloud a particular bit we find funny or inspiring, sharing our food and sighing with delight at the delicious first sip of an Aussie latte (because they are the best there is)…

And then I blink and look around and the chairs next to me are empty and the voices I am hearing are only the gossip of the old, pearl-laden ladies at the table next to me.

This salad is lonely with only one fork in it.

Pink Flamingos

My earliest memory is of pink flamingos.

My memory at this age is more like a slide show on a 1980’s projector
than a running film. Short bursts of light-filled scenes indicating
activity and action, colors faded like my grandparent’s polaroid photo
albums. I can remember feeling confined by my stroller as we
traversed the San Diego zoo, choosing instead to toddle along beside
it. Blasted thing never moved fast enough anyways.

“Slow down, Gretchen,” Mama says.  I pretend not to hear. The pathway
before me is wide, inviting. Cast iron, scalloped railing
decoratively barricades me from joining the Alice in Wonderland
birds. Pretty in pink and knobby knees, I identify with them. Urging
my mother to look, I jab a little finger at them as if she didn’t
know in which direction to avert her gaze. I helped direct her
attention, just to be sure. Bouncing, giggling excitement bubbles out
of me. Nothing but complacency and a desire to preen comes from my
new, feathered friends.

Soon, I am tired. The day is long, flamingos fade, and I need a place to
lay my head. Stroller-prison isn’t an option. Daddy can’t carry me –
he is out to sea. Papa’s shoulder shall have to do. Yes, this suits
me just fine. Mama and my grandparents talk about when Daddy will
come home next. “Will you be here to meet him at the harbor?” She
asks them. I drift off. Mama snaps a picture.

So the beginning of my life ensues. In lace bonnets I play. Infinite
sea, infinite sand, waving palms cast dancing shadows on the beach.
Daddy home, and away again, and home again. I am splashed by whale
spouts and dolphin tails, giggling at the swift, shy anemones and
bumpy starfish. Here I dreamt and am dreaming still. Always missing,
never forgetting. Idealized nostalgia in which I lack nothing: Daddy,
mommy, Eric, and eternal sunshine.

Invitation

I’ve decided to start sharing more on this blog. That is, I’ve decided to start writing more. Some of what will follow may be a snap shot from the memoir I am writing, or an excerpt from my “Morning Pages”. Such as:

I envy those people that pop out of bed in the wee hours and run through the mist, working up a sweat in the still, quiet moments when the rest of the city is shuffling to the kitchen in their pajamas, bleary eyed and yawning, fumbling for the coffee pot…

The point of this new decision of mine, to share more, is not about putting things out there that I think are publishing-worthy. No more over-analyzation of every blog post. It is about putting anything out there. Raw and uncut, as long as it’s writing and as long as it’s mine, I’m going to post it. Not to add more garbage to the world of blogs, but to show up, in vulnerability, as an invitation to my readers to join me on this journey of creativity and exploration. 

So, consider this your invitation. You are invited to comment on, critique, or congratulate anything that I’ve written and that I am going to write. Let’s write together.