Momentum in March: Handling the "Right Way Worries"

I don't know why but for some reason this year I am enjoying this month's name being "March". Not that I'm much into the martial, military flavor of "forward march!" sort of commands, not to mention that if March is derived from the Roman god Mars, the god of war, then the martial and military associations are full on.

But I like the sense of momentum that "march" implies. Which has set me pondering momentum a bit. I'm afraid I am more fully acquainted with impediments to momentum and momentum's opposite, inertia. Which my American Heritage dictionary defines as "the tendency to do nothing or remain unchanged"--and it cites the bureaucracy of government as an example. Ouch! That hits home! How much time I can waste thinking I'm not sure what to do next (or afraid to try something and find out I was wrong), thus resulting in doing nothing and remaining virtually unchanged, except perhaps more frustrated and annoyed with myself.

And momentum? "The impetus and driving force gained by the development of a process or course of events." Aahhh. That's way more appealing, isn't it?

In my brief ruminations about March, momentum, and inertia, I am aware of the roles played by fear and perfectionism (which may mostly be one of fear's clever disguises). I put off blogging because I worry I don't know the "right way" to blog--is it OK to make my blog be a catch-all for the writing of my memoir as well as present day observations about the process of doing so? "Should" it be one or the other rather than both?

I put off all sorts of things, or get all tangled up when I try, because of the "right way worries"--am I doing this right? am I going to look stupid, the way I did that one time in first grade when I got called on to read and had been daydreaming and didn't know where we were in the book?

Really. I only think that happened to me once. I was a near-perfect student ("ahhh...that's her problem!") and I remember that one moment of embarrassment--can feel my face burning red with mortification!-- with my beloved first grade teacher, Mrs. Phillips as if it were almost only yesterday instead of 50 years ago.

Is there no cure for this momentum-stopping, wheel-clogging perfectionism? No antidote for the right way worries? Well, yes, in fact there is. Christine Kane, a friend and mentor and momentum master (I just made that title up), talks a lot about perfectionism and encourages deliberate imperfectionism as an antidote. So does Martha Beck in Finding your own North Star. And Karen Fagan, local "empowerment expert" and life coach.

And, come to think of it, so did David Barney, my former "boss" back at Trinity Episcopal Church in Concord, Massachusetts. He was the first person I know to have quoted the line: "Anything worth doing is worth doing badly." And I remember thinking he was crazy! I have a feeling he got a lot more done than I did.

Sometimes the cure for inertia is a Nike-ad-style pep talk: just do it. Sometimes it's a bit more thorough an investigation of just what's going on in there, recognizing the "right way worries" and saying, "Oh, yeah, that again. Not going to let you keep me from doing what I really want to do."

Sometimes it's a matter of talking back and saying: "Look. Let's get things straight. There is no one "right way" to do this. There are all kinds of possible right ways, and the best of those right ways is the one (or ones) that works best for me; the one that gets me to do something, that gets me to take action, to get moving again. It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to get you unstuck."

Which is how I got myself to sit down and write this blog this morning. And right now, I am very glad that I did.

Renouncing my Ordination Vows: One Year Out

To continue the story from my latest post, "Looking back, looking forward," I consider my renunciation of the ordained ministry to be a break for freedom, a coming out party, and the laying down of a very heavy burden. Yet however light-hearted that may sound, it was anything but easy. There was death, there was grief, there was fear. There were no guarantees. 

Was I making a mistake? Would I some day come to regret taking this essentially irreversible step? Maybe. Maybe not. 

On Sunday, March 31 I awoke feeling heavy, raw, and vulnerable. The enormity of what I was doing had really taken hold of me the day before when I'd received in the mail copies of the documents that I and the bishop and witnesses would sign on April 3, Thursday, just a few days away.I had read and discussed the contents with the bishop, but this was the first time I actually held copies in my hands. 

Grief for what I was leaving behind and fear, especially fear, obscured the clarity I had known for most of the past several weeks. Tears were just below the surface. I told myself to tread softly, to be gentle with myself, and maybe I could avoid a major meltdown. 

"It's not that I'm changing my mind," I told David on Saturday after the mail had come. "It's just hard. Really really hard."

On Sunday, per my usual morning habit, I sipped my mug of tea and wrote  a little in my journal, though that didn't seem to help any. I found myself remembering something a friend had told me several weeks before, that when she is struggling to get clear about something, she finds it helpful to clean out clutter. Meaning: physically sort and clear out material stuff from some part of your home. I had already found this helpful, though never in a clear, linear, cause-effect kind of way. It was just that things I'd been mulling over would somehow resolve and get clearer after I did some sorting and tossing.

"OK," I said to myself as I left my small upstairs study and headed downstairs, still wearing my morning outfit of nightgown, hooded fleece, and sweatpants. "Just pick one small task, one shelf of books. That's all you have to do. Just do that." 

I chose one short section of bookcase in our dining room where the extra books were tucked sideways over the upright ones. A box for collecting give-aways was already there from the last time I'd worked on these shelves. 

I worked along quickly and easily without stopping to browse or to give much thought to each book. I seemed uncharacteristically decisive: some I left on the shelf; some went in the box. No looking back!

I worked from right to left until only two books remained. I saw their titles and stared. 

Death in Holy Orders, by P. D. James.

And  Living Free, by Joy Adamson.

"OK," I said. "I get it." I started to laugh, and probably cry, too.  "I get it. I remember why I'm doing this."

Somehow I knew I would be OK. Not that everything would be rosy and simple, but that I would survive. I could renounce my ordination vows, and I would be fine, maybe even more than fine.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

When Thursday morning rolled around, I knew I would tell this story at my "renunciation ceremony" in Emmanuel Chapel at the Cathedral. I had asked the bishop for a chance to say something, although at the time I hadn't known what I would say. I brought the two books with me as visual aids and to add a little drama and humor to the day.

I also gave out cards of a drawing of yellow tulips I had done for David's good friend Nat on his birthday. I've been wondering just how to mark this day today. Maybe a bunch of yellow tulips would be just the thing.

Looking back, looking forward

Moments ago as I sat at my computer trying to decide whether I wanted to post this image or not, the sun broke through the morning clouds and illuminated the trees out the window (some of the same trees as in the painting). They were  brilliantly yet fleetingly ablaze with what I call "Irish light"--the particular quality and intensity of sunlight born of overshadowing clouds' breaking up, and clear air, often after a rainstorm has washed things clean and left surfaces ready to glisten. 

(A digression: Maine light and Irish light have a lot in common. But Ireland gets lots more rainbows, probably because the rainstorms are more frequent, and more often mingled with sunshine, and (if you're lucky) they are more fleeting.)

The trees this morning were briefly illuminated as in the painting, but of course from the right rather than from the left, that would be from the east rather than from the west. It was enough to prod me to include the painting in this post.

My hesitation? I think there's a little touch of sadness for me in this painting, although I don't believe I was feeling sad when I painted it. I think it's something about that dark, somewhat brooding background, and also the knowledge that it was painted in September (its title is "Afternoon light, September"). There's always something poignant about the beauty of autumn, at least for me, due to our knowing that the earth is entering its dying season, and that winter's hunkering down is not far off. (And here we are, back in real time, and it's the last day of March, and the snow piles still linger, though they are dwindling daily!) And the beauty of afternoon shares that same rhythm on a smaller scale; we know it is the prelude to the dying of the day (which of course allows for the very different, mysterious beauties of the night).

Somehow this painting, with that hint of sadness (do others see and feel it? or is it just me?), feels appropriate to the present moment for me. Last year at this time, I was just days away from formally renouncing my ordination vows, and the enormity of that step, however much I felt it to be right and good, was very much with me. Those last few days were kind of an autumn/winter time of allowing myself to let go of something that had been part of me for almost half my life (twenty-six of fifty-four years, if you count the years I spent in seminary). I felt very vulnerable and quite sad through those days, and I tried to give myself room to grieve in anticipation of the big day. I sense that I'm revisiting those days right now as I approach the first anniversary of my renunciation on April 3. 

"Renunciation of the Ordained Ministry" is, by the way, the official, canonical name in the Episcopal Church for what I chose to do. It's a somber, serious name for a somber, serious step, one not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, if I may borrow some language from another, more familiar, liturgy. I consider my renunciation to have been more truly a break for freedom, a coming out party, the laying down of a very heavy burden--you get the idea. 

But however lighthearted that sounds, don't be fooled. There was death, there was grief, there was fear. There were no guarantees. There were also some surprising gifts in those days (and not exactly the kinds of gifts one normally associates with dying and grief). Which is to say: more stories are on the way.

Election Season Fears

Not long ago I read that people in South Africa, when facing the unknown future between apartheid and a new order, used to gather in groups to offer up their positive visualizations of a peaceful South Africa. This was not just a matter of words and thoughts, but of engaging all of their senses and their fullest imaginations to envision a peaceful and prosperous future. Some would even say that their communally shared imaginings made a real difference. Even if you're not willing to believe that doing this helped to shape the future reality of South Africa, perhaps at least you can imagine that it helped to allay people's fears and  allowed them live from a more positive and hopeful place.

I began thinking about this as a personal (and potentially communal) strategy for dealing with my own pre-election fears shortly after the announcement of Sarah Palin as McCain's running mate. I remember all too well how I was gripped with fear four years ago,  how exhausting it was to live yo-yo-ing between panic and buoyant hope, and of course how utterly devastating it was to experience yet another W victory (never mind that it was actually W's first true victory). Inspired by the story of South Africa, I decided to make this a personal practice until November 4: whenever I feel the cold claw of fear begin to close in on me, I will stop and take a few deep breaths and invite myself to imagine election night with all my senses and cylinders firing. Where will I be watching the returns? Who will be my companions? Think of the food and drink, perhaps there's music playing as well as the TV--Jim Lehrer, Gwen Ifill, Judy Woodruff and the PBS gang--and the voices of friends and neighbors. And especially, what will it look like, sound like, feel like, taste like, even smell like when it is announced that Barack Obama is without a doubt the next president of the United States!  Imagine the cheers, the tears (of joy and relief!), the excitement and exhilaration--I can SO get into it!! And you know what? It makes a difference. It removes the cold claw, or at least pries loose its grip a little bit. Perhaps that in itself isn't enough power to turn an election, but it sure beats fear and panic. With a few companions, it could even be fun! (Everyone can pitch in a piece of the imaginary picture.)

Today I was asked by a small group of friends to lead an impromptu "positive visualization," so we simply stood in a circle and held hands, and I offered the briefest guidance, even briefer than what I've written above. The only "rules" are that you don't have to believe anything; you don't have to have a clue how this is actually going to come about--no fussing about the electoral college map or who wins Florida; and you don't even have to think that doing this will have any impact at all on anything other than your own (and your close others') state of mind at the moment. And that's enough. It sure beats fear.