Healing Feels Like

Healing feels like suffering at first. It feels like pain that comes in pulsing waves that sometimes lap over, sometimes crash into the shore.

It looks like wide-open eyes at night when you should have fallen asleep hours ago.

It looks like friends who know the pain is too great to talk or hug away, and so they simply sit and breathe with you.

It sounds like angry questions you ask God even if you don't believe in him.

It sounds like the same song repeating, repeating, repeating as it sings and sews the sutures that barely hold you together.

It feels like sliding down an icy hill which takes you toward something, somewhere new against your will.

It tastes like the tears that swell in your eyes, roll down over your cheekbones, and cascade over your lips.

Healing feels like awkward transitions.

It feels like the itch of scabs that form over your wound that you want to scratch.

It feels like the fear that chains itself to your ankle and makes you wonder if you'll ever be right again.

It looks like the squinting of your eyes when you first leave a dark room and meet the bright, burning embrace of the sun again.

It looks like the mess of pebbles, rocks, and dirt all over the road and sidewalks after the snow melts.

It looks like the indecision on your face when you wonder how you feel when you see or hear or run into him or her or it for the first time in a long time.

It sounds like the wobble of the chuckle that marks the first time you're able to laugh about the situation.

It sounds like the tapping of your fingers on the table, your feet on the linoleum, your heart on your ribcage, because you're antsy and ready to be over this.

It tastes like the tears that still come, though less frequently, as you ask yourself that nagging question...What if?

Healing looks like time.

It looks like days, weeks, months, and maybe years.

It feels at first like the days have stretched into the shoes of centuries and walk ever so slowly toward specks in the horizon.

It feels at some point like the days have shrunk themselves to the size of a hummingbird's wings and beat several times a second.

It sounds like the swell of songbirds signaling the sunrise of a spring you were afraid might never arrive.

It sounds like Amazing Grace but in a language you comprehend for the first time in your life.

It tastes like tears that slide down your face and around the corners of your smiling mouth when you realize how far you've come.

Healing is a mess.

Healing is a fight.

Healing is time, and time, and time.

Healing is coming. Healing we'll find.

***

Feature photo ©2013 Duncan Rawlinson | Flickr

Life Is Not Losing

Last Sunday night at the Golden Globes, George Clooney accepted the Cecil B. Demille Award for lifetime achievement. In his speech, he talked about how he had lost much more than he'd won at award ceremonies like this. In fact, 80% of the actors and actresses in the room, he pointed out, don't win.

"And then, you are a loser."

Many of these actors would feel like losers, and many people at the after parties and work the next day would treat them like losers. Clooney went on to say this, though: "For the record, if you're in this room...you get to do what you've always dreamed to do and be celebrated for it.

And that just...it ain't losing."

I've been thinking about that idea ever since. That even when you feel like you're losing, you're not really losing.

You'd think it'd be easy enough for George Clooney to convince a room full of wealthy, talented people that they're not, in fact, losers. The truth, though, is that all of those people at the Golden Globes are mere mortals, like you and me. Despite the success and the admiration they've garnered, they still know what it is to feel defeated. They still bleed when critics pick at their flaws. They still try to claw their way out of the shadow of insecurity.

Nobody's immune to feeling like a loser. Not them--the glittering, glamorous gods of Hollywood--and not us--the ones who are fooled into thinking fame cures the fragile human ego.

No matter our backgrounds, our races, our genders, our socio-economic statuses, our careers, we all know what it is to lose.

We have all been losers.

We've lost games, matches, and races.

We've lost jobs, and we've lost money.

We've lost opportunities.

We've lost friendships.

We've lost our innocence.

We've lost our dignity, or our self esteem, or our confidence.

We've lost loved ones to the slow, measured sunset of aging or the blinding flash of tragedy.

We've lost sections of our hearts sliced off by lovers to whom we've bonded ourselves.

Like our keys, wallets, or phones, we've all lost ourselves in some crack or crevice or some field or forest of addiction, manic romance, or winding, confused pursuit of happiness.

We all know defeat. We all know discouragement. We all lose.

But what if life isn't about the amount of awards on our mantel? What if it's not about how many times we can get a "yes" from people or a prize when we scratch the ticket? What if it doesn't even matter if you've lost the battle but are winning the war?

I think that when it comes to life, if you lose, you're not losing. You're not losing because that's not how life works. It's not about fighting to keep the number of W's higher than the number of L's on the scorecard. We're not trying, like some of our teams, to fight our way to a playoff spot for a chance to make it to the Big One.

Life is not winning. Life is not losing. Life is mending, moving, and making.

Life is mending, about how we heal from our inevitable wounds. We rebuild our broken homes. We ice our strained self images. We rethread our tattered hearts. When someone passes away, we grieve and mourn and laugh and cry all manners of emotions from our eyes. When our hearts are broken, we lock ourselves away. We fight and grab for some semblance of control over anything. We drink wine or whiskey or the cold air of lonely walks at night. And then, time passes. And more time passes. And the bleeding stops, the ache downgrades from jet engine to portable fan, and we realize we're still here. We can still do this.

Life is moving, about oiling our creaky joints and using our limbs again to step out of our static, stuck, self-pitying positions. We move, and we must move forward--because the world is moving, and time is moving, and the people who love us and need us--the ones we know and the ones we've yet to meet--are all moving, and none of that goes backwards. We regain our bearings, we rediscover our goals and dreams, and we begin to walk in that direction. It may feel like we're simply moving from loss to loss, from disappointment to disappointment. I'd like to think we move through losses and disappointments to something better. Something more beautiful.

Life is making, about exercising the power to build and mold the shape of our experiences. We can look at each rejection, each bit of bad news, each slip and fall and fracture and see a discouraging arc. We can see a story whose every scene clubs its audience over the head with this theme: "Count the losses--you are a loser. This is life." If we do that, we make our losses into monsters that grow bigger and deadlier every time we experience them. We'll build a life that buries us much earlier than we should be buried. We'll build our own coffins, box ourselves in panels of pine, and seal ourselves in the dark.

But it doesn't have to be that way. When you experience a loss, when a plan falls through, when a door is shut, when you lose a job, when someone whom you love tells you that you are not worth the fight, when your losses threaten to bury you under the earth--

--you can build stairways to the surface. You can make skylights to let the sun shine on your battle-worn face again. You can create life from loss. Because life is not counted and measured and defined by losing. Because you will heal, and become stronger. Because you will move forward through defeat and toward hope, and love, and all that is better. You can make a life that is made of sturdier material than winning.

You will lose in your lifetime, but you will not be losing at life.

You will move. You will mend. You will make life more than that.

***

Feature photo ©2010 Adam Foster | Flickr

Time Is On Our Side

On most days, I view time as my enemy: everything I do is a race against it, an effort to slow it down or reverse it.

That's most days. But not today.

Today, I want to slow down. I don't want to fight the ticks of the clock's hands. I don't want to try to paddle against its current.

Sometimes, we work and fight and try and work some more for whatever it is we want in life, but the last ingredient we need to bring it all together is time.

This is for those of you who have done all you can do, or are doing all you can do, and now need to let time do its thing.

Some of us, we need time to heal...

...time for our bones to set.

...time for our tissue and tendons to thread back together.

...time for our ears to stop ringing from words fired from the chamber of a gun.

...time for our hearts to find the rhythm of love and trust again.

Some of us, we need time to forget...

....forget the shame that clings to our skin like August humidity.

...forget our old ways, our little destructive habits.

...forget the hands, the lips that bruised us.

...forget the hands, the lips that once loved us.

...forget the hot, burning sting of our disappointments.

Some of us, we need time to remember...

...remember what it's like to be free from our addictions, our regrets, our darkness.

...remember what makes us come alive.

...remember the notes and the melodies of the songs that make us sing.

...remember what's worth the risk and the sacrifice.

...remember why we loved in the first place.

Some of us, how we need the time...

...time to outrun our fears.

...time to find our way out of the fog.

...time to stumble into hope again.

...time to dust off our dreams.

...time for the stars to come into focus.

...time for the sun to finally show its face again.

Let's allow time to do the work we can't do, to carry us beyond our limitations, expand our near-sightedness, and erode our stubborn vices.

Time doesn't always have to be our enemy. Time can heal, and time can reveal.

Time is on our side.

***

Feature photo ©2010 Sean MacEntee | Flickr

What My Pain Has Taught Me

Life will beat us up. We can try to avoid it, but like the IRS, life will come knocking to collect its dues. When it collects, it usually gives us a black eye. Draws blood. Breaks hearts.

It's happened to me. I'm sure it's happened to you. Better yet, I can guarantee there's more on its way.

Encouraged yet?

I don't know why terrible stuff happens to us. I won't try to go there. But I do know our pain shapes us--for good and for bad. I know that we can grow in astonishing ways from our pain--if we're intentional about it.

The best-case scenario for us is not to avoid pain altogether (because it's impossible); it's to learn as much as we can from every fight to better prepare for the next one, and to leverage our pain to live the fullest, deepest lives possible.

To that end, I thought I'd share the top three lessons that my pain has taught me. They're lessons that have changed the trajectory of my life and continue to shape and influence my decisions. I hope they're useful to you, too.

The first lesson is this:

I can't do it alone.

As I've gone through trials, the single best decision that I've made has been to invite people into my struggles.

My story goes down a much different, much darker path if not for the people who provided me with support. I had friends and family praying for me, sending me texts and emails, dragging me out for coffee or dinner or a hike--all to encourage me, to listen to me, to help carry some of the weight, and even to let me know when I was being an idiot.

The support didn't stop with friends and family. In some of my deepest turmoil, I was juggling work at school, church, and grad school on top of maintaining my relationships, all while floundering in heartbreak. I had tried to keep it all together, stay upright as the wind and waves tossed me around, but at some point it became impossible. I needed help.

I'll never forget the unbelievable understanding and compassion my bosses, professors, and advisers showed me when I opened up to them. The best thing a drowning person can do is ask for someone to toss them a buoy.

I still tear up when I think about all of these people and what they've done for me--they saved me. They walked with me through darkness until I found light.

I might have never found it without them.

The second lesson is a resolution that I forged in the fire fueled by years of feeling like I wasn't enough:

 I won't waste another second of my life trying to convince someone I'm worth being loved.

Somewhere along the way, some of us get it into our heads that we have to work at deserving love. That we're not yet worthy of that prestigious honor, and we have to do just a bit more to get there. Sometimes this is because of a romantic partner; for others, it's a parent, a teacher, a friend, or a boss.

Personally, I've spent far too many years of my life in relationships that were one-sided or, at the very least, significantly unbalanced. I've spent too many nights wondering what was wrong with me and what I could do next to deserve someone's love.

To anyone who relates to that, I would start here: Your worth is not dependent upon your performance or how someone feels about you. You are worth being loved, right now. As you are.

If you're married or in a significant relationship, that means that you're allowed to ask to be loved or express that you're not being loved. Yes, there is a symbiotic, two-way street that should compel you to do your part in loving the other person. But you also have the right to expect to be loved. It's not a "When you start doing x, then I'll start doing y." For either party. 

For those of us who are single, this means that one of our top deal-breakers is a simple one that a stunning amount of people ignore: the other person should be into you. You shouldn't have to convince them that you're worth their love or affection. If they don't get that, they're not ready for you.

Some of you are going to disagree. There a lot of couples that seem to be an exception. One person continued to wear down--I mean, pursue--I mean, be interested in---the other until he/she gave in--I mean, reciprocated. I'd say this: if being in a relationship or specifically a relationship with that person is that important to you, I wouldn't stop you. I hope that the investment of your time and heart that you'll pour into that situation will be worth the gamble.

I know this for me, though--being in a relationship is not my end-all, be-all. It would be nice, but my goal is to live my life to its fullest. With or without someone. I have more important life work to do than to try to chase someone down who may never feel the same way.

By this point in my life, I've learned that I don't want to storm the castle for a girl who needs to be saved. I want a girl who knows what she wants.

The third lesson I've learned from my pain has particularly transformed my life:

My worst decisions are made out of my hurt. My best decisions are made out of my hope.

Most of the bad decisions I've made in the last decade were made from a place of pain. Someone disrespected me, neglected me, or otherwise inflicted pain on me. In response, I said or did something that was a knee-jerk reaction borne of anger, vengeance, or self-preservation. When that happens, I always make the situation worse. Always. A person who makes decisions from their pain is like giving a toddler some finger paint and setting them free in the house. There's bound to be a mess.

In some strange, ironic twist, it took some of the most heart-wrenching situations to eventually teach me how to respond to pain better.

I started to think about what I hoped for instead of reacting out of my hurt. When I framed a situation with hope, it gave me perspective. I began to envision how I wanted to recount this painful situation in six months, or a year, or ten years. I began to make decisions that future me would be proud of. I couldn't control what anyone else did in my life, but I could at least let hope inform what I did.

This approach didn't solve all of my problems. It didn't lead to all of my conflicts ending like a Full House episode--sappy music and apologies and group hugs. It did keep tough situations from being tougher. It kept the shrapnel from painful situations from digging in deeper and breaking off into smaller pieces in our flesh. It put me and involved parties in the best position to allow grace and love and compassion and forgiveness to do what they could.

I've had many opportunities to let my pain dictate my direction, or to let my hope do it. I guarantee that one has been better than the other.

And as the famous line goes, "It has made all the difference."

Feel free to share some of the lessons you've learned from your pain. I'd love to hear from you.

***

Feature photo ©2010 Christian Holmér | Flickr

How a Heart Comes Back Together

For some of us, heartbreak comes like a summer thunderstorm. It pounces on us, hammers down heavy drops for a furious few minutes, and passes, leaving us stunned.

For some of us, heartbreak comes like heavy snow on a winter night. It coats everything in white and convinces us for a short while that all is beautiful and tranquil until the weight becomes too heavy for the limbs and lines, and there is breaking and collapsing and crashing.

For some of us, heartbreak comes like drought. We soak in the sun, and...

slowly...

slowly...

slowly...

...our lakes and rivers recede, our throats feel like sand, and we shrivel, and shrink, and crawl to a stop.

For me?

For me, heartbreak was like hurricane season. I came to expect it, anticipate it, brace for it. I lived in constant fear of it. Before I had even finished the repairing and remodeling from the previous season, the winds were upon me (again). The roof was ripped off (again), the basement took on water (again), and I began the work of recovery (again).

Year, after year, after year, after year.

After one too many storms, my home, my heart, lay strewn about in pieces amongst a haphazard scattering of cracked mementos, splintered trust, collapsed vows, and water-logged years.

If you've experienced heartbreak, you've experienced it in your own way, I'm sure. How long we stay in it, how we cope with it, how we recover from it all varies. Mine honestly feels like ages ago. Another life, almost. Somehow, my heart came back together. Here's how it happened, for me:

It was a lot of angry questions and, "God, why have you forsaken me?"

It was a white-knuckle grip on any strands of hope I could find.

It was listening to people who didn't know me well say, "You haven't done enough. Fight harder." It was listening to those who know me best say, "You have done enough."

It was knowing my friends were shedding tears when I had sworn to stop shedding them.

It was drowning in a flood of emails and text messages that said, "I will wade with you," "We believe in you," "We will hurt and heal with you," and "We love you dearly."

It was the extra few foot-pounds of pressure in the hugs people gave me.

It was putting my head down and throwing myself into work and grad school.

It was reaching out for help when I became paralyzed with indecision about work and grad school.

It was choosing to celebrate my friends as they got married and adopting their joy when I felt like I had none of my own.

It was a thousand other little celebrations, mine and others'.

It was sitting in a counselor's office and hearing him say, "Looks like the dreamer in you hasn't died after all these years."

It was lines from songs, like "Nothing is wasted..." and "A better life is waiting..." and "You've held your head up / you've fought the fight / you bear the scars / you've done your time..."

It was distracting myself with Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Netflix, Feedly, and everything else bright and blinking.

It was turning everything off and listening to the sound of my heart coming back together.

It was giving up the security of relationship. It was agreeing to the possibility of being single forever, deciding to not settle out of fear of being alone, committing to live the fullest life possible.

It was experiencing God's goodness in it, through it, and because of it.

All that to say, it was some combination of incredibly hard work and overwhelming grace. Gritty determination and utter helplessness. Intentional steps and blind wandering. Daydreams and harsh reality. Company and solitude. Joy and grief.

It all worked together, we all worked together, to rebuild my heart.

We built it bigger this time. More square footage. On higher ground. Instead of reinforcing it with more concrete, instead of erecting walls and barbed-wire fences, we put in floor-to-ceiling windows. We built it to be open.

It took a community. It took everything, all I had, and it took all of you.

Thanks for that, friends.

From deep within my reconstructed heart, thank you.

***

Feature photo ©2012 Nicolas Raymond