For years I’ve had a recurring dream about tidal waves. I’m standing on the beach, and the tide rises and rises until it’s rising so high that everyone on the beach, including me, becomes alarmed. Then the tidal wave approaches, and as it does, everyone around me is in a panic. But I become calm. I remember. I’ve been here before. I know the wave won’t hurt me, so I let it wash over my head and it seems to have no power over me except to get me clean. It is refreshing and exhilarating as I stand still within the heart of the wave.
Although my tidal wave dreams lack the “fear and anxiety” element within the dreams themselves, I do find that I often struggle with the circumstances said to trigger them: procrastination, sticking my head in the sand, or being on the verge of some kind of life transition. Rather than creating anxiety, my wave dreams are very healing and reassuring to me during these times. They give me the courage to face my fears and go with the flow.
When I first heard this Brian Littrell song, Over My Head, I immediately thought of my tidal wave dreams.
I also thought of the negative connotation we tie to being “in over your head.” It’s often about taking on a task that is too large to handle, or having overwhelming life circumstances. This is something that I was taught to avoid, although I have to admit that I haven’t followed that teaching very well.
I’m not afraid to get in over my head. Well-meaning folks have occasionally criticized this trait of mine, but perhaps it is not such a defect after all. Whenever I find myself in over my head, I must rely on a higher power to get through it. I have learned to trust God by getting in over my head.
I don’t usually do two “Musical Meditations” in one week, but this week is different, and this song is totally worth it.
For King & Country is one of my new favorite groups, and their song Middle Of Your Heart just started playing on Pandora, as if on cue for the soundtrack of my life. This is a great little lyric video:
I literally had just gotten off the phone with a friend of mine after a chat about the transitional state I’m in right now. I’m letting go of 20 years or more of self-rejection and the accompanying sadness that goes along with feeling those feelings before finally releasing them. The last 24 hours have been filled with enlightening revelations: first, that I cannot and no longer want to replace the people I’ve loved and lost. I’m sure most “normal” people understand this intuitively, but it has taken me a quarter of a century to learn this simple lesson. My tactic for relief had always been using one relationship after another to fill a void, or using volunteering, work, politics, video games (yes, video games!), and “drama” to keep me distracted from my feelings. I’m not beating myself up about it, but I do have to call a spade a spade; I was doing the best I could at the time. But today, and for the past several weeks, I’ve just felt so SAD, missing people that I’ve loved, mourning the mistakes I made with people who loved me that I completely misinterpreted and even rejected. But I can’t change the past, and there are no takebacks. And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to try to “fix” it by getting into something or someone new. This is progress! I’m maturing!
Another revelation is about the nature of the hole I’ve been trying to fill. It’s not a hole left by a relationship with someone else. I had always assumed that my pattern of serial monogamy was about the fear of being alone, or not being able to handle when a relationship (or even a job or a stage in life) met its natural end. No, the hole in this holey heart of mine is the emptiness that has been left each time I rejected myself, little by little over the course of my life. I’ve stubbornly refused to accept myself as I am and offer that self to God. In refusing to accept myself, I have rejected and lost myself. I’ve withheld myself even from the God in whom I profess to believe. The person I’m mourning is the perfectly imperfect me that I’ve tossed away, minimized, controlled, tormented, abused, hidden, and hated.
Today’s most recent revelation is that other people are noticing what a funk I’ve been in. When people who barely know me ask if I’m okay, I know it must be bad. And I’m not someone who wants to walk around with my heart on my sleeve. I want to pull myself up by the bootstraps and look strong, capable, happy, and “together.” Apparently, you all can see through my ruse. I do not feel comfortable with this. I feel naked. I feel vulnerable. But when I took this feeling to God in prayer, He very plainly told me that this is a good thing, because it means I’m being authentic.
So here I am with my bag of revelations – the truth about my self-rejection, the grief I’m finally allowing myself to feel (instead of self-medicating it away with people, places and things), and the vulnerability of knowing you are seeing me at my messiest right now.
I’m entirely ready. I know. And those who understand what this means know that everything I’m experiencing right now is cause for great joy. They know I’m on the journey into the very heart of the power that can save me and restore what is lost.
When I was a teenager, my mom had this t-shirt that said “49% Bitch, 51% Sweetheart – Don’t Push It!” I the wake of almost three years of intense self-examination in the midst of separation and divorce, this is the conclusion I’ve come to about myself, and I’m at peace with it.
I don’t know why I’ve needed to spend so much time and energy to “discover” this about myself. Ten years ago my then-husband bought me one of those new-fangled iPod thingies, and one of the first tracks I loaded onto it was this one:
I knew even then that I’m a little bit of everything, light and dark. But I wasn’t ready to admit my dark side, much less accept it. I wanted to hide it, from myself especially.
A while ago I posted one of those silly Facebook statuses like, “Use the second letter of your first name to come up with one word to describe me,” and this guy who barely knew me at all nailed it when he called me “livacious.” Spellcheck insists that it’s not a real word. Spellcheck obviously hasn’t met me.
I AM livacious! I laugh loud, cry hard, fall fast, love passionately. That’s who I see when I look in the mirror every day, and I love her. My biggest regrets in life are when I was too scared to embrace my livaciousness.
Today, I’m not ashamed to be my best, and still fail. I’m not ashamed of my inner bitch, and I’m no longer scolding my inner child. I still have a ways to go before I can say that I’ve “arrived,” but I’m freer every day thanks to those friends who loved me when I couldn’t love my livacious self. Who have loved me even when I’m a bitch. I love you!
I heard this song on my way home the other night. From the moment the first notes of the piano came through the car stereo, I knew it was an anthem for my life right now.
It’s called Worn, by Tenth Avenue North.
I’m worn. Worn out from overdoing, overloving, overlooking. Worn like an overused flannel shirt that is frayed and missing buttons and stained with dirt and paint, but is too familiar and comfortable to throw out.
Some days I wake up worn out. Those are the bad days.
Other times I go to sleep worn out from fitting in too many commitments and feeling guilty for breaking commitments to myself.
Used and discarded. Worn.
Yet, being worn doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Just a small shift in perspective changes “used” to “useful.”
Displayed with pride. Protective. Well-loved, like an old blue baby blanket that has survived decades of comforting service.
I’ve heard several versions of this song. Heard it played at wedding receptions. It can be appropriate for so many types of relationships. But when I first heard this version by Adele about a year ago, I knew it was the voice of God, speaking directly to me.
It’s official. My kids are going to have a stepmother.
They don’t know yet, of course. But since my ex has posted photos of the ring and yesterday’s proposal on Facebook, I figure it is okay for me to talk about it. It wasn’t a surprise, and my own feelings are a bit mixed. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel. Part of me is genuinely happy for him, for them. He’s a good man and he deserves the love that for whatever reason I was not able to give. I’m also sad and still grieving the loss of the dream we both shared of a happy, intact family that would go to Disney World together and host sleepover parties for our children. I feel jealous, not of her, but of him – that he is ready to move on while I’m still working through the emotions of the divorce. I feel grateful that she seems to be a kind and caring woman, especially since she will be a stepmother to my kids. And I feel fearful. Just because.
There’s a song by Missy Higgins called Where I Stood which captures almost word for word the emotions I’m experiencing right now.
“I don’t know what I’ve done or if I like what I’ve begun.” After almost exactly two years since he moved out, I’m ambivalent about what my life looks like. On one hand, I can see that I’m a much healthier person, physically, mentally and spiritually. But I don’t always like it. I don’t like being without a partner, nor do I like the confusion and vulnerability that comes along with dating and getting to know new people. I don’t like having to share my kids with someone, even if she is very nice.
“I don’t know who I am without you; all I know is that I should.” I lost myself in the relationship with my ex-husband. It’s not something I intended to do, nor is it something either one of us recognized as it was happening. In fact, when I look back, I can see how much I deliberately fought being swept away by the relationship, acting independently and refusing to yield my own individual will to what was best for the marriage. It was in this fighting that I lost myself. I didn’t lose myself so much as hide myself. I was in a lot of pain when he and I first met, and the relationship was a perfect place to hide from the pain, from the truth about some of the decisions I’d made up to that point. Once we were married and my expectations were thwarted, as happens with every naïve newlywed, I then hid in my resentment until the pain of my resentment was greater than the pain of my past.
“You taught me how to trust myself, and so I say to you, this is what I have to do.” I don’t regret getting married, nor do I regret ending it. It was what I had to do, both times. Regardless of my current unpleasant feelings, the one thread woven through it all is peace, serenity, and trust that everything has happened exactly the way it was “supposed to.” Both of us had to learn the lessons we learned in our marriage in order to become the people we are today.
I learned that I need to wait and face my pain before I can be ready to give my heart to another person. I learned that I need to accept who and where I am, instead of pushing headlong into a life I think I want. I learned to trust – not just trust myself, but trust the prompting of the power that seems to be guiding my life. Call it God, call it the Holy Spirit, call it the Over-soul or Higher Power, but I’ve gained a faith that I can trust thanks to everything that has happened.
I don’t know what his lessons were, but he says he’s learned a lot. If he has, she’s a lucky woman to stand where I stood. He’s funny, creative, and has a lot of integrity. And excellent taste in rings. Sincere congratulations to them both, and welcome to this beautiful, broken little family.
Over the weekend I spent a lot of time meditating and writing, and as often happens when I go to that “place” where my ideas collide with the inspiration of my higher power, I heard music. It was very faint, and I could just make out part of the refrain:
“Call it love . . .”
It seemed so familiar, yet so distant. I did a search on YouTube and rediscovered one of my favorite tunes from my high school days –Call It Love by Poco.
This song is more than twenty years old. I know that because the Hermitage Class of 1993 is planning its 20th reunion. I haven’t bought my ticket yet because I’m still in denial.
Which brings me to the subject of this little musical meditation. What I used to label as “love” I now recognize as “denial,” and nothing helps me see it better than a peppy little late-80s pop song, generally not the source of great spiritual wisdom.
Like most teenagers, I had some pretty distorted perceptions about love, and I carried them with me into my twenties and marriage. Love was what made me feel better about myself. Love was finding someone who would tell me their secrets and listen to mine, preferably in the first hour of knowing each other. Love was having crazy-making conflicts about religion and politics, because the opposite of love was not hate, but detachment. Love was putting up or shutting up when it came to sex (and it wasn’t always me who had to “put up,” either; I issued my fair share of ultimatums). It was about security and stability, especially financially. It was about saying what you wanted to hear and hearing what I wanted you to say, eyes wide open. It was about finding the right “fit” – someone whose strengths made up for my weaknesses, and whose weaknesses allowed me to shine.
I’m so grateful I’ve gone through a divorce, because without it I may have carried these distorted perceptions to the grave with me, never knowing that calling these behaviors “love” didn’t make them love, just enabled me to deny how immature they were. When all you’ve got is ego-boosting, hyper-bonding, arguing, manipulation, fear, lying, appeasement, and co-dependency, you call it love. To call it what it was would be admitting I didn’t have the first clue about what love really is.
I don’t claim to know now, either. But at least I know what it is not. And I think it goes something like this:
When it’s all you got, don’t call it love. Let it go. There’s something better.
The Christian radio station I listen to “gets it.” They have been playing Christmas music all December long. ALL December. The secular stations go back to their playlist on December 26, and I’m sure the DJs are thrilled. They don’t realize that the Christmas season, at least liturgically, does not run Thanksgiving through Christmas Day. For those who celebrate the birth of the Savior, December 25 is just the start of the Christmas season. It ends 12 days after Christmas, on Epiphany, when we celebrate the visit of the Magi – an early foreshadowing that this Savior was born not just for the “chosen people” of the Hebrew nation, but for all people in all corners of the world.
So, my radio station has continued to play Christ-centered Christmas music and extended the holiday for me. This is the first year I’ve listened to the station during the Christmas season, and I have to admit, I am experiencing less of that post-holiday let-down than I have in years past.
There are two fantastic arrangements by Casting Crowns that I’d like to highlight – Joyful, Joyful and I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day. They are kind of “old school” carols, and chances are you are familiar with them. But the lyrics of these songs have been set to different music, which makes me stop and actually hear them with new ears.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
I Heard The Bells has now become my favorite Christmas carol. This holiday becomes increasingly bittersweet with each passing year, and never more so than this year in the wake of some terrible violence in our country, especially the senseless loss of life in Connecticut. I know I’m not alone in finding Christmas to be a difficult holiday to endure, especially when the secular world is painting it as “the most wonderful time of the year.”
I took my pain to God in prayer, and He reminded me that He, too, was born into a world of terrible violence and terror. I saw in my heart the unjust death He endured. This song, especially this arrangement of it, has given me a peace in knowing that even though we all must continue to fight and sometimes fail the battles in this earthly existence, the war has already been won.
The reflection I published yesterday inspired me to investigate the ancient Advent carol, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I found several versions that got me in the “Advent Spirit.” It doesn’t take much these days. Advent is about being in darkness and hoping for light. It is a season that the ancient Christians merged with the pagan traditions of anticipating the winter solstice to bring deeper meaning, and ultimately truth, to new converts of a rapidly spreading faith. Centuries later, I sit by the glow of an artificial gas “fireplace” on a cold, rainy night, painfully aware that the people still walk in darkness.
I was never a big fan of this song. It sounded so depressing, and Christmas to a child growing up in a loving family is anything but. It seemed out of place. As an adult who has experienced just enough pain to allow me to feel compassion for those who don’t get into Christmas the way I do, the song has become more appropriate. Especially the Latin version, like this one by Hayley Westenra:
Sojourn Music has produced a very modern version of the song, definitely worth the listen:
This version by Selah is incredible, not only because the arrangement is so hauntingly Jewish, but because the accompanying video with scenes from the film The Nativity are so beautifully edited.
Today my pre-Christmas season is less about waiting for Santa (although I can’t wait to see the faces of my kids on Christmas morning) and more about remembering that seasons of darkness are part of life, and that this too shall pass.
I love this season, especially the Christmas music. But on the typical Adult Top 40 station, you don’t get much more that “All I Want for Christmas” by Mariah Carey or the iconic “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” sprinkled with a little Nat King Cole.
Not that I’m complaining. I love the standards. But sometime last year I started a habit of listening almost exclusively to the local contemporary Christian station, and I have to say, their selection of Christmas music has stretched me and gotten me in the true spirit of the season in a very different way.
One of the songs I just heard is”I Celebrate The Day,” by Reliant K. It invites me to reflect on where I’ve been, where I’m going, and where I am right now. On one level, I can see how very different my life is today than it was a year ago, or five years ago, and I can be assured that the surprises waiting for me next year this time and further down the road will be just that – surprises. But on a deeper level, I’m in the exact same place today as I was last New Year’s Eve. And deeper than that, I realize that if I’m truly living in the present (and living in His Presence), then I’m not really moving at all. In fact, my troubles seem to come when I do move from that one place where I am safe and saved.
