Category: life (Page 1 of 10)

Against the grain

To say I’ve been buried in home renovations for the summer is a slight understatement. We took on what is not a little weekend DIY – it involved contractors, HVAC, plumbing. It will someday be beautiful. At the moment, however, it is a blend between drywall-gray and primer-white, accented with the earthy tones of plywood and subflooring. (Please, don’t be so jealous of my glamorous life.)

I simultaneously refinished our dining room table so that it will be ready when we have a dining room again. Originally I had simply spray painted the 70’s table and 8 chairs, but time and children had its way, and now I have to do a real version of painting it. Sanding, primer, primer, paint, paint, touchup, and then a good lacquer to prevent the process from needing a repeat.

Day after day as I dipped my brush in yet another can of pigment, I noticed patterns and, of course, noted the lessons. Namely, if you want the paint to cover the surface well, you need to take it across all angles. I noticed this especially in working with wood, but my ceilings and walls were no different. If you worked in only one direction, yet didn’t get good coverage, you essentially just kept adding paint and then watched it leave drip marks on your hard work. But if you applied horizontally, vertically and with a few angled strokes, the paint would blend into the entire area.

When painting my furniture and walls, my goal is not to get as much paint on the surface as possible. The goal is transformation. I want to change the space I’m living in. 

It made me think of how, on the yoga mat and in life, we so often attempt things from only one angle. We try and we try, thinking if we just do more of that thing (eat better, go more often, push harder) that we’ll reach the goal. Often, we end up with just more of the same. But the goal is never more yoga, less carbs, more learning, less toxins (or to make this more spiritual: more books, more prayer, less sin). The goal is transformation. 

If adding more of the same isn’t changing your work, perhaps take it from a different angle. Come at it sideways. Ask a question, look at it from the other side. Walk around the thing, change the lighting, maybe even ask a friend to lovingly put their fresh eyes on it to see where you might have missed.

And for heavens sake, wash the brushes thoroughly when you’re finished. The paint is harder to remove with age. (That idea begets its own separate writing. But I have to go paint another room.)

Who tells your story?

In case I didn’t shout it from the rooftops of social media enough, I married the best of husbands, best of men. He sent me to see Hamilton – I flew out the day after Christmas.

The number one question asked to me is, “was it worth it to see it live?” I mean, if you’ve listened to the soundtrack, you’ve heard 99% of the show. Nearly the entire thing is in song (as is Rent, my other favorite musical I sing to people ad nauseum).

The staging is fantastic and the movement of the choreography makes it worth the ticket price. There’s a hidden character that I’m grateful I read about before I went. The piece is so layered and brilliantly woven that,  as impossible as it seemed to me – having heard and dissected the themes hundreds of times before seeing it – I walked away with a better grasp of (one of) the true questions the story was out to reveal: Who tells your story?

It’s easy to sing, but watching Eliza walk across the stage and explain to the world that she chose to write herself back into the narrative broke me. She told his story, because of love.

Hamilton wanted to Live Big. “Don’t be surprised when you read about me in your history books.” His sense of limited time and limited life drove him to produce and work and drive and create and make change. In the words of 98% of pastors of today, he wanted to “make an impact”. The thought of his legacy drove him toward Bigness.

Yet.

The masses never truly told his story. Wall Street only speaks his name when the news crews are around covering a broadway play. Banks pay little tribute to him. The crowds rarely tell the story, the truest story, the story that captures your heart and not just your numbers.

But Eliza. Eliza. (Yes, I just sang that.) She tells his story. His writings, his soldiers. His heart.

We can do Great Things in this world. We can be World Changers. A Founding Father. A Global Economy Infrastructure Creator. All awesome, much needed. But that doesn’t give you your legacy.

Your love creates your legacy.

Hamilton was far from Perfect Husband (and the show is clear on that one), but he loved his wife and family. And that’s what I packed into my bag to bring home from NYC. You can do everything short of becoming President, and if you don’t love well, it’s not a great story. You can do big, great things for the masses, but if you can’t love the people under your roof, your story is mostly reduced to numbers.

Can I be real a second? Just a millisecond? Let down my guard and tell the people how I feel a second? 

This is hard for me. In the thick of it – convincing toddlers to quietly go (back) to bed or teaching for the 8 millionth time to put things away and treat our things with respect – it seems petty. Miniscule. After the 78th time of interrupting my attempts to put dinner on the table to intervene in a nerf gun war gone awry, I’d much rather turn my attention to the bigger battles of society. Truthfully, I feel like I might make more progress dismantling the patriarchy than my feeble attempts to keep a floor without socks strewn about everywhere. (WHO is wearing all these socks?!)

At the end of my days, even if I manage to cure world hunger, the millions of people fed won’t have my story. It will be told by those who I tuck in each night and by the one who always checks to make sure nothing is in the washing machine. The people who share my table and the deep center of my heart – they will tell my story.

Hamilton convinced me to fill the pages with material for them to tell the best story possible.

The Birthday of the World

The Birthday of the World

(as told by Rachel Naomi Remen to Krista Tippett in Becoming Wise)

In the beginning there was only the holy darkness, the Ein Sof, the source of life. In the course of history, at a moment in time, this world, the world of a thousand thousand things, emerged from the heart of the holy darkness as a great ray of light. And then, perhaps because this is a Jewish story, there was an accident, and the vessels containing the light of the world, the wholeness of the world, broke. The wholeness of the world, the light of the world, was scattered into a thousand thousand fragments of light. And they fell into all events and all people, where they remain deeply hidden until this very day.

Now… the whole human race is a response to this accident. We are here because we are born with the capacity to find the hidden light in all events and all people, to lift it up and make it visible once again and thereby to restore the innate wholeness of the world. It’s a very important story for our times. This task is called tikkun olam in Hebrew. It’s the restoration of the world.

And this is, of course, a collective task. It involves all people who have ever been born, all people presently alive, all people yet to be born. We are all healers of the world. That story opens a sense of possibility. It’s not about healing the world by making a huge difference. It’s about healing the world that touches you, that’s around you.

 

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