There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~Anais Nin
I made 55, as we New Orleanians say, last Sunday.
I remember the day my mom made 55. I called to wish her a happy birthday, and reminded her that the speed limit was 55. This was a sure sign, I teased, that she was supposed to slow down.
When I hung up my legs buckled. I needed to sit down.
I realized (this is a 31 year old talking, remember) that my mom was OLD. I felt terrified. How could my own mom get old? How could that be? And if she was getting old, it meant some day she could die. Again, how could that be?
Fast forward 24 years. And whoa ... I'm 55 this week, not my mom. And my mom is now, indeed, dead.
How did this happen? All summer I contemplated this moving into 55, surfing big internal waves of change.
I realized in June that if I was really gonna make 55, like my mom, and die someday, like my mom, I better take that deeper risk to blossom. Not in 10 years, not in 5 years. Not even in 1 year. NOW.
I got that the biggest thing standing in the way of that blossoming was a subtle (well, OK, maybe no so subtle sometimes) level of frenetic pushing to make life happen the way I thought it should.
You probably know the routine: I should be more successful. I should be making more money. I should be working harder to Get There. I should be marketing myself more if I want to publish another book. I should be publishing another book if I don't want to fade into failure and obscurity.
I should be walking 4 miles a day, not three. Actually I should be running those 4 miles. Which means I should be losing 10 pounds so I don't injure myself running. I should know exactly where I'm going personally and professionally, and what to do for the next 5 years to get there.
Geez.
When does a girl get a break? Never, if you buy into this stuff. There's no such thing as enough, if you believe all those voices, internal and external.
That translates to a merciless schedule and a boatload of stress.
You know those times in your life when you've just had enough? This summer was one of those watersheds for me.
I was ready to blossom. And I knew that pushing back wasn't going to do a thing but make all those voices bigger. So I decided to stop either capitulating or pushing back. I just let them be, and got on with what I loved.
The voices got bigger and hairier for a while. I learned to keep breathing, soften around them, and come back into kindness and connection with myself. And return to what gave me life and meaning.
Easier said that done, I know. But I'm learning the power of softness and letting be. And I'll be learning it for the rest of my one wild and precious life.
What's different? I have more time and energy and love for the clients and retreatants I work with. More zest for that which sustains me, makes me more generous and openhearted with everyone (including my sweet self): tai chi, friends and family, knitting, reading, long walks in the woods by my home.
It is from this richer, simpler, and quieter life that my juiciest creativity wells, and my body and soul flourish.
I feel a little anxious letting go of being so relentlessly busy. What if I discover They Are Right, that I do turn into some backwater failure? What if I am worthless unless I'm kick-butt trying hard?
I feel scared sometimes because I've cleared all this space, and I don't know what's coming in to fill it. I'm being called to dance a deeper faith and trust in life, in myself, in the ground of my being.
But sisters, you know what's happening as I breathe into that Bigass Unknown?
I feel more lusciously alive than I ever have.
And I'm remembering, as I write this, that my mom entered a whole new life after 55: marrying her childhood sweetheart. Becoming a well-known portrait artist in the Southeast, with plenty of hard work but doing what she most loved. If Mama were alive, I know she'd tell me in her husky voice: Keep going toward what you most cherish, and don't look back. Keep choosing what you most love. Life's too short to do anything else, Meliss.
I'm remembering too what Rabbi Zusya once said, "When I reach the next world, God will not ask me, 'Why were you not Moses?' Instead, he will ask me, 'Why were you not Zusya?'"
Well, whatever happens after I die, I don't want to have to defend the fact that I was more whom this culture dictated I be than I was Melissa, the real thing, in all her bumps and glory.
And so, sisters, I say to you: where are you holding tight in bud, safely comfortable but less alive? Where are you being called to take that risk to blossom? And, sisters, what the dang heck are you waiting for?
We're in this garden together. I'm reminded of Marianne Williamson's poem (see below). When you blossom and flourish, it gives me courage to live honestly, deeply, passionately. And, hopefully, vice versa.
We do this not just for ourselves, but for all life.
See y'all in the garden.
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