The other woman

Unlike the anticipated birth of newborn joy, the sailboat’s dreaded delivery date arrived. Gestation was almost two years while the 15-year-old boat was being refit with a new design in the boatyard. Time, however, was not all that was needed to welcome this she-yacht into my life. I sensed an unresolved something churning in the dark, deep waters of my soul.

Everything the boat is, I am not: huge, commanding, fast, intrepid, sleek and striking, and extravagantly decked out for adventure. The boat’s all-that exacerbated all that I am not…but would be required to become. Her imposing presence obligates, demands, and expects much of me…too much. The more she commands sea-worthy superiority, the more I notice my she-worthless inadequacies.

Her massive sails harness the winds and her powerful hull heels. Gravity pulls me down into the curvature of her cushioned cockpit. I don’t resist. My silhouette is absorbed into the shadow of her sails. And I tuck into protective comfort while my captain husband actively engages…with her.

Elusive voices drift past like an occasional gull gliding by overhead. “He prefers her to you…you don’t have what it takes.” I pull my hood up over my head against the freshening wind, and secure its cords under my chin into a proper bowknot.

I don’t like the cold wind. I don’t like the swells heaving the boat. I don’t like being in the cold, sunless shade of her sails. And I don’t like the accusing voices, “You are so dull. The ocean is passing you by while you hunker down in your warm, cozy, protected cushion of comfort.”

The depth meter gauge blinked showing that the waters were so deep they could not be measured. I don’t like the uncertainties of deep waters. And I don’t like my response to this other female.  Uncertainty welled up; I wondered whether the female I resented was the she-yacht…or me.  

Bracing my leg muscles against the pole of the cockpit table, engaging my core, and straightening my posture, I turn my head forward with the wind full into my face. The force of the wind catches one of the accusing voices and whisks it off and into the wake behind us. I stretch upwards, grab a table grip and pull up, driving my body against gravity, against the weight of the boat and onto the high side of the cockpit…the side in the sunlight. It takes all my strength to shift to the other side.

From this vantage point, I take notice of commonalities between the two women encountering one another in deep waters.  The sunlight accentuates the curves of the she-yacht, curves designed to replicate what is pleasingly feminine.  Designer son has his handprints all over this shapely ship. My husband has noticed her boat curves, and mine.

Her reach extends into family ties and beyond. Each of us makes use of knots. Knots that bind ship to shore. Knots that bind past to present. Knots that tighten the tension of lines, and knots that strain the lines of relationships. In my shared spaces with this other female, truth and untruth have gotten knotted together. In a similar way, true humility and false humility got bound up too…all requiring disentangling and needing some ship-shaping. Knots, I now know, need untying when venturing from the safety of a homeport.

“Ready to return to the harbor and dock?” the captain’s voice disrupted my momentary boat bonding. From HOT—honest, open and transparent— conversations with husband-captain, he no longer assumes that I instantly recall all the complexities of this sea maiden. Complexities…something else we have in common. We patiently reviewed which of the four dock lines I would first toss up to him once I landed on the dock. Then he calmly identified the second one to toss, and so on. I love the captain for his considerate explanation void of any sarcasm or ridicule of my sailing insecurities.

Though I had leapt from boat to deck many times before from other boats, this was my first solo attempt leaping from this new deck three feet above the dock that is an additional few feet above the water.  Not only was this a longer stretch but a wider once since the oversized fenders were already lowered on the starboard side of the boat where I stood. As the dock drew closer, I eliminated three vertical feet by sitting into my calculated, catapult position.

With pretend courage and wanting to prove my worth as first mate, I launched my whole body forward, fully expecting at least a 7.8 landing score. My leap—from my bottom—was powerful. My next thought…I am underwater! And submerged between a moving 20-ton boat and an immovable dock is not a good place to be. Either I could be squeezed to death, or trapped underneath a foreboding hull like National Geographic divers looking for a hole in the icecap. Amazing how many thoughts can flood through one’s mind in seconds.

I looked up to sunlight above me, sensing a great, dark hull close behind me. Powering to the surface, I grappled for the dock, frantically flailing to hoist myself out of the water and out of danger. Kicking, heaving, panting, pushing…one elbow made it to dock level. Then two unfamiliar arms reached down for me and I awkwardly wet-flopped onto the pavement.

The two, tentative dock hands were not quite sure how to respond to a waterlogged wife of a sailor. I may have caught a glimpse of some exchanged smirks. Relief leaked from my soggy clothes and hair while adrenaline pumped through each new heave of breath. The men firmly knotted she-yacht to dock while I shivered back critical voices gaining volume inside me: “You look so foolish…you are so inept….talk about getting in over your head.....”

My long-legged captain leapt down and enveloped me into a towel, muffling the cacophony within. “Wanna warm shower?” he invited tenderly. I reboarded the boat not daring to look any higher than my toes. Shame dribbled off me and left little puddles after each step to the shower. Warm water washed over me as I peeled saturated garments from my skin. Naked and exposed, I replay the leap, the panic, the voices. More water, more cleansing, more pressing into the discomfort of these strong feelings. And then I think I notice...another voice running off and down the drain.

After my shower and into my hiding time in the cockpit, I overhear the voice of another captain commanding action from his crew as they dock their humongous power boat. “Don’t jump, toss those guys the dock lines.” After big boat is secured to the dock and the engine cut, the captain announces over his loudspeaker, “Nice job crew.”

Mustering levity to the surface, I turned to husband captain, “How come I didn’t hear that when we docked?”

With a playful smirk, he responded, “You must have been underwater when I said it.” 

Girl in the mirror

Her words got under my skin leaching deep into the pit of my stomach…where they churned up what I thought I had resolved decades earlier. Like reoccurring acid reflux, I regurgitated the conversation back with others. “Did I mention that while she vented teeth-clenching bitterness about her first marriage—that ended more than 40 years ago—she failed to mention her own destructive part?”

Yet, retelling the words to friends and husband did not bring relief, only more resentment piled atop hurt. My wise husband—probably wanting his own relief—gently interjected his carefully crafted coaching question, “Follow that contempt you have about your conversation with your mom. What’s really underneath her leaving out some details?”

Planting my feet firmly in place with hands on hips, and chin defiantly tilted up into the air, I protested, “She’s not telling the whole tru….” But the twitch of a noise magnified by the length of hallway interrupted my whinging.

“Back a-gain? What a nuisance,” I muttered.

Scritch-scratchings from unidentifiable places coincided with her appearance. So I wasn’t really surprised by her reflection in the hall mirror. The petulant little girl and I had encountered one another many times before. She was swallowed up in my brother’s hand-me-down shirt, unbrushed hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, arms locked across a flat chest, complete with pouty scowl. “Don’t even think I’m stupid or vulnerable or weak,” she mouthed the words through her pursed lips. Though a mere reflection from childhood, her resolve was palpable.

The tomboyish girl in the mirror tracked with me like precisely painted eyes in a master’s portrait. Wherever I moved, whatever I did, her cynical viewpoint and voice followed. “I’m sorry, mom,” the small, insincere voice told my mom, “that your choice to have five children with my dad was so unbearable.” The little girl’s phoniness nauseated me, even more than a bouncy boat on a wavy ocean. Her fearful and whiny manipulations would sneak in through a crack in the back door into conversation with my husband, “I already had my schedule planned; now I have to rearrange everything…okay, I guess I’ll go sailing with you.”

While her appearance signaled the presence of intruders, I prepared to detect and control the sneaky, squeaky, multiply-in-the dark mousies who nibble away at our safe places. They seem to gather in our garage seeking any opportunity to slip inside. So we set traps in the garage and hurl bait into the attic to fend off their droppings and disease. Vigilance is key when it comes to mice.

Alert to any attack of my personal space, I continued my juvenile posturing to my mother’s offense, “And furthermore,” I told my husband, “I don’t want my mom to think that she is fooling me again.”

Managing mice and my mom can be…disturbing. Just the other day I found a four-legged trespasser ensnared and motionless in the middle of the garage floor. I dared to reach down to pinch the protruding tripped wire with a fingertip grasp…when a furry leg wiggled. I lunged for a shop towel and threw it over him and his trap. There he remained—out of sight—for days, maybe weeks. To avoid him, I changed my course from house to my car. Finally, the stench of his decay convinced me that it was safe enough to pinch the trap tripwire and toss him into the garbage bin.

“I would have scooped him up with a shovel,” my wise friend advised. Honestly, the idea of using a long-handled tool had never even entered my mind when I encountered stinking mousies.

Curious about the girl in the mirror, I returned and peered deeper. I observed a puckered brow pressing into her youthful skin. I noticed the depth of brown in her eyes and a whisp of playfulness in her childlike movements. Separated by almost a half-century of mirror, I dared to speak aloud to her, “I, uh…I was wondering if it would be okay for you and I to get together?”

“Me? You want to spend time with me?” she asked, perplexed and wanting to understand.

Already, this young girl had seized my heart with her response…which was a question.

“I’d like to get to know who you really are. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?” I responded, wanting to acknowledge her sweet value...and yet, respect her boundaries.

She lifted her pointer finger to her girlish grin and nodded a slow up and down.

Granting me permission, I delicately approached her tender spirit, “What happens when your mom or big people talk like that to you?”

“My heart gets frozen up, like it can’t do what it’s supposed to. Clouds come in and fill up my head. My words run away and I want to disappear with them. But my feet won’t move. No one notices. I am alone.”

“That must be scary to feel like that; I am sorry that no one noticed.” I imagined placing her hand in between my own two as streams of tears tumble down my big person cheeks.

Her young hand warmed into mine as she continued, “A long time ago, my mom loved me and then disappeared. I didn’t cry though. My dad said bad stuff about my mom. I didn’t want to hear him. I didn’t have words then either. But I had lots of thoughts.”

‘I’m interested in your thoughts; would you want to share your thoughts?” gently inviting her to trust me.

“I don’t like feeling scared and helpless,” her voice a little shaky. “So I thought of some promises that would keep away people who would hurt me, kinda like the way you try to keep mice away.” Emboldened by promises made long ago, this underdeveloped vigilante recited those well-worn promises: “No one will ever surprise and fool me again.” and “They can’t make me do something I don’t want to.”

Overwhelmed by maternal compassion for this isolated side of me, I open my heart wide to her, “Next time you are afraid, I will be right there with you, so you won’t feel abandoned or vulnerable having to fend for yourself.”

While young Julie softened into my closeness, I embraced all of her abandonment, fear and vulnerability, assuring her with words that the adult needed to tell the child, “I’m not going to leave because you matter to me. You are valuable.”

Childhood promises linger like decaying mice that have been trapped or poisoned. They cause myopia that limit our choices to a finger pinch instead of a shovel. Omissions or distortion of the truth exasperate “You’ll never fool me again.” And “You’re not going to make me do anything I don’t want” resists risky invitations for adventure and fun. Bound by promises and ill-equipped with a direct voice, immaturity will disingenuously agree and then resent the situation or people. Even an inanimate and adventuresome sailboat can become a ‘scapeboat’ for resentment indecision, and defensiveness. 

Let’s face it, mice happen. I mistakenly thought that strength and freedom came with protecting the promises…which were supposed to protect me. But recognizing and challenging those childhood promises is more fruitful and freeing. Not an overnight process but one that requires vulnerability—really?—and a long-reaching tool.

Biblical wisdom is a tool that offers grace and hope with the little girl in the mirror, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, [The Lord] will not forget you!”  This tool has even helped with my mice problem. They are still there but I see mice differently, “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you..”

Posted with permission from the girl in the mirror.

All-in

Whoever joined together the word smooth with the word sailing?

My ideal sailing adventure—my smooth sailing—would be on a warm, clear and calm ocean…with land always in sight. Warm water says jump in…all-in. I love to flop around in warm water. As a young girl, I secretly wanted to be one of those underwater mermaids at Florida’s Weeki Wachee tourist attraction. Yet I am as much mermaid material as I am a smooth sailor.

For me, clarity while smooth sailing means vision in all directions...with no unexpected encounters. Similarly, underwater clarity means I can avoid creepy creatures above, below and beyond…no surprises. Calm waters invite peace and steadiness without threat of upheaval. However, with sailing, the more squally, the better the adventure. It would seem that my ideal smooth sail is as unrealistic as my mermaid-like, no surprises, risk-avoidant self.

I am a sailor…by marriage only. Though my heart is captivated by the captain, my soul would rather be on land. Curious how often I find myself in conflicting, unpredictable, tumultuous, unfathomable waters. Stretching beyond my comfort zone is an understatement when I have one foot on a moving boat and the other foot on the dock.

Even ashore, the ocean’s disturbing motion lingers long after a sail. I walk unsteadily along the beach avoiding more waves, spray, rocks and other impediments in my path. The unending, obstacle-strewn beach stretches ahead of me like my word for the year, pursue. 

My word, pursue, challenges me to consider how to respond in sailing and in life when rough waters are present. Pursue does not avoid, nor minimize, nor unwillingly tolerate, nor precariously straddle the gulf between all-in and all-out. Pursue weighs the options, decides and then moves onward. Powerful waves surge onto shore…all-in. The retreating water washes back out into the ocean…all-out.

All my previous words for the year have contributed to this time and space where pursue now requests something more of me. My words, like waypoints in sailing, mark progress points made as well as setting the course ahead. Pursue beckons me onward, keeping me on course for this year.

I glance back over my shoulder and notice the waypoints I have passed. At embolden, I asked for God’s help. Our grandson’s three-year old voice whispers through the wind. Jack comforted his howling little brother resisting his car seat and sleep, “It’s okay, Lukey, God will take care of you.” Jack’s simple faith contrasts to Granna’s cautious faith…I keep walking.

Release is where I stumbled over an old pattern of avoiding risk. Radical was the illusive waypoint that renounced all or nothing thinking. Willing acknowledged being on the right path. Just past open, I began noticing little treasures along the way…discarded, broken, insignificant bits of sea glass. A friend’s blog title pleasantly brings me back to the moment at hand as I ‘Gather the Fragments’. The sun is high in the sky; I pursue noticing and collecting the little treasures of fragments, words and insights along the way.

Back at home, I add my journey’s bounty to a container with previous discoveries. As my collection grows bit by bit, so does my gratitude, and my perspective…along with extra fragments of faith. My new, bigger, transparent vase is already half-full. This larger container holds all my assorted pieces together in one place, at one time…all-in.

The gift of a word

A calendar screen can simply scroll over into a new year. As for me,  I dawdle, sigh, reflect and mutter when approaching a new year. My transition into a new year is much like the way I approach Christmas morning. I don’t want to be rushed; I want to savor the gift in hand before moving on to the next. I want to fully appreciate the depth and breadth of the gift: the giver, the effort that went into its selection, the connection between giver and receiver, and the gift itself.

And so it is with a new year…a wrestling against the speed of time for space to savor what has been received this year before opening up the next one. A friend communicates similar angst at this time of year in her text message, “Just taped up the last box of Christmas. Some pieces went kicking and in protest of yet another closure.”

Before I can tidy up this past year without regret and look forward to the next, I want to take time to savor the year past and its many gifts. Were I just to recall those gifts packaged in festive paper and celebration, my gratitude and my growth would be lacking. Much like the gift of sea glass fragments found, collected and saved in a large, see-through, wide-open vase, I finger through gifts from last year marveling over the accumulated growth that time has produced bit-by-bit. 

Retrieving those gifts from the past year spotlights a new path for the new year. My recollection of the year is most visible from the vantage point of my word for the year. And it is by the light of my word for the year—last year—that I can best view the gifts I have gleaned. With my 2012 word in hand, I sift through the gifts I received in connection to my previous word, open. I recall, absorb and own each and every gift listed below…

Choice: Taking responsibility for my life opens up many different options. From the book, Boundaries, by Cloud and Townsend

Support: Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any one hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me. Rev. 3:20

Spaciousness: I can't tell you how much I long for you to enter this wide-open, spacious life. We didn't fence you in. The smallness you feel comes from within you. Your lives aren't small, but you're living them in a small way. I'm speaking as plainly as I can and with great affection. Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively!  2 Corinthians 6:11-13, The Message

Freedom: Beckoned from the shadows, from behind walls, I have been released into the open. Into the open, Julie Voorhees, Feb 2012

Love: Breathe in love, exhale captivity. Breathing lessons, Julie Voorhees, March 2012

Acceptance: I want to be Julie. Growing into my clothes, Julie Voorhees, April 2012

Redemption: Life’s traumas are not wasted; they are redeemed by forcing out seeds for new growth…by forcing new steps leading to new growth. The other side, Julie Voorhees, July 2012

Recovery: Buoyancy - the power to recover emotionally...I was okay. Under the surface, Julie Voorhees, August 2012

Value: That day I discovered a personal treasure….unique, fearfully and wonderfully made, and intrinsically valued. The pink one, Julie Voorhees, October 2012

Significance: My dad’s five words were his final gift to me. He heard me…therefore he cared. Loss and found, Julie Voorhees, November 2012

In a December 2012 sermon, pastor Jon Ireland challenged all to “live in a posture of generosity with open hands”. This past year has pried open my hands and my soul…to receive so that I might give.

Anonymously quoted words beckon me into 2013: “Dear Past, thanks for all the lessons. Dear Future, I’m ready!”

And I look ahead with the expanded view that my friend, Lorene, describes, “A windshield is much larger than the rearview mirror.”

I so want for you to look ahead through your own clean, large windshield with hope and promise. I encourage you to select your focus word for this current year. If you would like help in choosing your word, go to my blog post, One Word Challenge, or listen to my interview with Geri Swingle, radio show host and fellow life coach.

Your focus word has potential to enhance the year ahead of you, provided you don’t shelve it within a couple of weeks like a forgotten gift. On the contrary, a good gift is relevant and sustainable. A focus word can be a relevant and sustainable gift over the course of the year provided you ask the pertinent questions along the way. Click here for cool coaching questions that will help you stay focused with your word for an entire year.

My word…you want to know my word for 2013? Hey, thanks for asking. Having tried out several words, I narrowed it down to three. Like Goldilocks looking for the right bed in which to rest, I tested out two other words before settling into the best one for me this new year. I tried NOTICE…uh-uh, too passive. I switched to SEEK…um, not quite active enough. Then I stretched to PURSUE: to seek persistently, strive for something, carry something out…which encompasses noticing, seeking and activity. Yes, PURSUE is the next journey on which I am embarking for 2013. 

Loss and found

He is gone…

The subject line in my friend’s email revealed her father’s passing after lingering weeks of poor health. Her words snatched my breath and swelled in my throat. Two friends, two daughters, two fathers, two farewells, too much. Each of us lost our father within weeks of one other. My disquieted heart leaked out wet, wet, sorrow.

My husband drove; I was content at being his passenger. These long drives often prompted me to call my dad and visit while we clicked off miles. The road ahead appeared blank. The other end of the phone would be blank too. The endless roadside scenery scrolled by as I wiped away snivelly streams from my lip with the back of my hand before any streaks of guilt oozed down my front.

My brother spoke accurately of our father at his funeral: “He never gave up.” More than 50 years after experiencing frozen feet in the Korean War, Dad pursued his case over several years with the Veterans Administration. A few years ago, he was finally awarded 100% retroactive benefits. And he continued to help other veterans submit their paperwork for benefits as well.  Whether it was contending with the VA, enduring dialysis for 7 years, or advising his family, he was unyielding. Perhaps little Irvy, sandwiched in between 6 other siblings, had to be more persistent to be noticed. Childhood patterns can stick to us like pink Bazooka bubbles that splatter all over our face when overblown.

Not unlike my dad’s childhood, my childhood included lots of popped bubbles and many sticky gum faces. Unfortunately old gum can last a lifetime and be passed on to the next generation. I’ve been intentionally picking away at ugly, stubborn gum bits over the years. The counselor and I agreed that the gum was gone. A welcome removal…a welcome relief.  And then my dad was gone too. A tearful loss…a tearful farewell.

I remember well my last conversation with my dad across 2500 miles. My dad told of all things on his mind; I listened. Nothing was out of the ordinary. “Did Adam find a job yet? He needs to contact that boat company in Green Bay. They make big boats there; I know they need designers.”

 “I mentioned this to Adam, Dad.”

“You gotta make him do it.”

Outside, the low September sun cast long shadows across the landscape.

“So, how’s Aric doing? He hasn’t called me.”  

The soothing shadows of Fall invited harmony, harvest, reflection, and connection. My father’s opinions, insistence, and boast could sometimes overshadow the sentiments of my seasons.  Through the phone, across the miles, over the years, my father did not seem to know anything about my Falls. Nor did he know of my efforts to grieve losses in childhood, to grow out of assuming responsibility for rescuing those I love, and to practice directness with him.

Like bruised, immature fruit falling not far from the tree, my response was direct, albeit defensive: “Dad, they are adult men with their own families. I don’t parent them anymore. I don’t pressure them into doing something, and I don’t want to guilt them to do it either.”  I had shielded my adult sons from their Grandpa’s emphatic insistence…in the same way I had often shielded myself from my dad’s indisputable assertions.

But then I heard what I don’t recall ever having heard from my dad before. His five-word response bridged the vast distance between Florida and Nevada. My ears—and my soul—seized my dad’s five words from the maze of airwaves. With imperceptible humility, he slowly articulated each syllable, “It –was–just–a–sug–ges–tion.”

My dad’s five words were his final gift to me. He heard me…therefore he cared. He acknowledged me…therefore he loved. For too long, the unsightly remnants of gum had become the distorted filter through which I had viewed my past, my dad, others, and myself. My dad’s simple response unleashed stores of good memories that had been shoved to the back while I had been focusing on old gum. As I accepted good and gum together, my heart heaved a sigh…and I sucked in fresh Fall air.

“When are you coming to visit?”

“We’ll see you in November around Thanksgiving; we’re coming to Florida for two weeks this time, Dad. We’ll have more time to visit in person.”

I saw him in late September instead. He was no longer worrying about his children, his grandchildren, and his great grandchildren. Even though he was silent with eyes closed, I was reassured of the love of my father. My father and I are at peace. 

The Pink One

The fragments were always there at the intersection of turbulent churning and terra firma. Either I had not known they were there, or I was too distracted to see them over the years.

My happy friend showed me how to spot them. Rhonda is fun and observant; I was eager to find what she had already discovered. There’s one! A little larger than a dried pea but a special find none-the-less. There’s another! A blue one. And another, this one translucent white. We kept moving forward, intentionally searching along the way. A brown one…another brown one. Aahh, a creamy green one.

As waves retreated back into the ocean, we found remnants from discarded bottles broken into little pieces at water’s edge. I tentatively  reached for them in the same way I retracted from painfully, sharp fragments from abandonment, from abortion, from judging at a distance, from missed opportunities of loving with abandon, from storms in life. Broken fragments can hurt. However these battered, glass fragments had now become sought-after treasures.

This intersection of tumbling waves and grinding sand is where cutting glass has lost its painful edges. No longer sharp and threatening, each broken bit of glass had been abraded and honed over time. I rolled the worn fragment between my fingertips. Small, smoothed treasures from hurtful brokenness…I searched for more reminders of transformation.

I don’t do collections. Well, I do have several shells but most of them came from a deceased uncle. I retrieved his shells from the trash after the purging of his house. But beach glass…collecting tidbits of redeemed time was compelling. Before long, each one of us had collected a palm-full of time and tide-honed fragments of beach glass.

Each ‘stone’ has an irregular shape, some lackluster, and many so small they could be insignificant. Only a few were rejected...the unfinished ones. One piece, in particular, was identifiable as part of  a bottle neck, still with sharp, cutting edges that could draw blood and damage. I hesitated holding onto it before finding a trash bin. Instead I heaved it out into the depths of the sea. Over time the movement of the ocean’s dynamic forces would toss it ashore again. And together, the water and sand would refine this bottle neck into a new, redeemed form. Beach glass…exposed, valued, worth-keeping and treasured. My just-enough collection is contained in a small decorative bowl in my kitchen where I notice the worn bits many times a day.

On my last birthday, I walked the beach alone listening to the final chapters of The Help downloaded onto my iPhone. My new friends, Eugenia, Aibeleen, Minny and Celia walked with me sharing their stories through my earbuds. Those women have been broken too…like beach glass, like me. Change has no color consideration and is basically the same: rejection, storm surges, brokenness, grinding, weathering, honing, transformation, humbling, change, rediscovery. Their story ended as I finished the audio book. My heart was so full it spilled over onto my wet cheeks. But my steps kept going, as did my thoughts.

I imagine Aibeleen and friends chattering in the distance, across the horizon near the sunset. All I can make out is Aibe’s voice: “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” Her words stick to my skin like grains of beach sand. I don’t want to brush them off.

As I walked towards the sunset, the sun’s lowered rays reflect back something at water’s edge. For me, the birthday girl? I wait for the next ripple of wave to pass and watch for the shaft’s reflection. And then I saw what it was…a pink one! I didn’t even know that pink beach glass existed, and for that matter, that I would be the one to find such a rare gift. It was almost as if my journey had lead me directly to it. I stooped low to receive my perfected piece of pink.

That day I discovered a personal treasure….unique, fearfully and wonderfully made, and intrinsically valued. I was so excited to share my find, I returned home to patient husband with a pink blessing in my palm and in my soul. And, I continue to notice grains of beach sand in my car, in my shoes, at the bottom of my purse, in my pockets, and in my bowl where my collection of beach glass resides. 

Under the surface

Packing for a week on a sailboat in Belize was a straightforward task: bathing suits, cover-ups, a couple of shorts and tank tops, one sundress and flip-flops. Nothing complicated; nothing encumbering.

I love warm water and could flipper over the surface oogling coral, starfish, stingrays and barracuda from above. But what was deep below the surface and down into the unknown threatened me, kind of like engulfing emotions I tend to reject.

Three men from our group posed for a picture with the beginning Scuba instructor. Stepping out of the frame, I resolved to myself, “Uh-uh, not me, no way.” No one wheedled at my decision, which was another relief. And the photo captured their anticipation for the next day’s dive lesson.

Laura, the female instructor in her late twenties, reassured the men that she had been on more than 5,000 dives. “Where would you like to go but have not dived there yet?” I questioned daring to dip my toe in her ocean of intrigue. 

“I really don’t have a bucket list of places yet to dive. However, I do want to see new underwater life that I know from pictures but have not yet experienced. Just the other day, I saw my first manta ray.” Laura’s passion to experience ocean life pinged me like an errant pebble strikes a windshield.

That evening I snuggled into our boat bunk comfortably reading while all my excuses not to Scuba drifted by on the waves outside. However, as I read, another stray object struck the exact same spot on the windshield through which I narrowly viewed life, and a small crack started. I read about two blind men responding to Jesus’ inquiry into what they wanted of Him: “Lord, we want our eyes to be opened.” ‘Open’  got my attention; that has been my word, my passion and my request for the year. Could this Scuba lesson be an invitation for me? Was the crack allowing me to be open to look beyond my limited view…and face the fears, the emotions, and the insecurities that lurk underneath the surface of my life?

Who would have suspected that a tiny crack would let in a whole ocean?

The next day I squeezed into a full-body Lycra suit for our beginning Scuba lesson with Laura and the three guys from our group. We tightened our vests, weighted our belts, tanked our backs, finned our feet, and masked our faces. This outfitted character was most foreign to me. I wanted to bolt. Somehow my flippers kept me planted while Laura provided truth through precise instruction and grace through our trial-and-error exercises in waist deep water.

“Buoyancy is critical, explained Laura. “The ideal is to find that place in the depths where you are not sinking to the bottom nor escaping up to the surface. You are simply suspended underwater.” The tight Lycra bound my racing heartbeat and me together as I fingered the buttons trying to remember which one inflated and which one deflated my buoyancy vest.

Going deeper was painful.

We were to swim on the surface to the dive flag several yards away. The extra weight pulled me down; I gasped for strength. I wasn’t sure if I could make it to the flag. Laura recognized my labored efforts. She reminded all of us that inflating our vests would create buoyancy and allow us to swim effortlessly along the surface. And to think that I could power to the destination with an additional burden of diver’s weights and tank simply by inflating my vest! How many other times in my life do I sink under everyday burdens when all I need to do is to remember to engage an extra source of support?

At the flag together, we were to deflate our vests and descend to fifteen feet. I concentrated on slowing my breaths, and down I went with the others. But the pressure inside my ears was excruciating. I shot up out of the water to stop the pain. This escape to avoid the pain was somehow familiar. Having been coached earlier to stay together, Laura rose after me along with the other men. My confidence felt just as wounded as my eardrums. And I hoped no one could detect tears inside my mask. Laura and each one of the men joined in to explain and demonstrate the right way to clear one’s ears. Collectively I heard a good solution,  “Pinch your nose, capture your breath and try to push it out your ears.”

Before attempting the next descent, I fought to pinch off the trepidation, recapture some confidence and push through giving up. I became intentional about clearing my ears at intervals as we descended to more than thirty feet during the dive.

Buoyancy ­– the power to recover emotionally, like resiliency.

Buoyancy is critical, I repeated to myself. The buttons that deflated and inflated my vest still confused me. Yet I was committed to making the adjustments to my flotation vest to achieve that place of gentle suspension. While Laura smoothly traced the descent of the ocean floor, I bobbed up and down behind her. And I was okay.

Even with the extra heaviness and pressure, this journey that went deep—to the bottom, in fact—released something in me. I watched free-floating bubbles from my breathing apparatus drift upwards as I began to surface in our ascent to the flag.

The other side

The challenge was to find, comfort and restore the playful, yet smart, young girl. Tucked away in a forgotten envelope of childhood pictures, I found her…a small, lone photo from sixth grade more than forty years ago. Her deep brown eyes caught my attention as did her toothy smile. I recalled the scrawny, eleven-year-old girl with loose strands of hair tucked behind her ears scampering home from school in the humid Florida heat. Her home’s front door with louvered window slats rattled as she jimmied the loose knob to get in.

Reopening that faulty louvered door into my childhood was risky to say the least. I had to step back in time to revisit the young Julie who told herself she was unlovable and not worth enough to stay around before the adult Julie could refute such untruths. I slipped on those scruffy black flats that I used to wear with anklets and tentatively pushed the door open.

We were surprised to see our dad already at home from the brewery. “I’ve got something to tell you kids when the rest of you get home,” he said as he turned his face away from us. My two brothers and I tossed our school notebooks on the dresser, plopping onto the beds and wiggling out of our sweaty shoes and socks. Squeaky bed springs and dad’s agitated pacing reverberated through the house. Our eggshell silence withheld our unexpressed emotions: “What’s up with dad? And where’s mom, anyway?”

All of us were lined up in the only room large enough to accommodate five confused siblings side-by-side with our father facing us. “Your mother left, she’s gone; she blankety-duh-blankety took off today and blah-duh-blah-duh-blah.” His bitterness, anger, and resentment spewed out into our little house, all over our mom’s name, and all over us like disgusting sludge.

Yet I squeaked out my selfish question anyway, “But when will she be home?”

“She doesn’t love you…she left with him,” his spittle blasted the dust particles floating through the shafts of afternoon sunlight. Too much anger, too many secrets revealed, too many losses and changes, too much for the young girl in the photo. No one asked anymore questions. No one confided. I closed the door behind me and went outside to climb the limbs up into the leafy loquat tree.

Daring to surrender to my word for this year—open—I’ve climbed down from the safety of my loquat tree. Opening myself up to my childhood was much like confronting the turbulent stream I encountered on a recent hike. The chaotic waters churned up unaddressed fears and trauma. Its constant thrusting current threatened to engulf. Too much, too much. The frigid cold could suck my last gasps for breath. And the speed would sweep me over the rocks and into the abyss.

Encouraging husband—who loves me and thinks I’m worth it— beckoned from the other side. One had to commit to non-stop fording this emotional flood for the momentum required to make it to the other side. No stopping midway or else I would be stuck in the middle of surrounding turbulence…immobilized from going forward or backward. Stuck in avoidance or stuck in turbulence, I wanted neither anymore.

After much trepidation, I lurched onto the first bridging log, then onto a boulder, then touching over a stepping stone, and finally hurdling forward onto the other side.

An exhale and a smile rushed to surface on the other side. Dr. Henry Cloud simply describes such risk events in his book, Integrity: “ The good [risk-takers] learn something and grow to a point where what they are doing can no longer contain all that they have become. So, they just step out and take the next step. Growth is like that. “  

On the other side, I began hiking the wooded trail away from long-embedded thought patterns. I marveled at the Giant Sequoia trees…not a loquat tree in sight. Such trees live long and strong withstanding fire, drought and harsh winters. Yet their cones do not reproduce and yield new growth unless the trauma of fire forces open the cone containing the seed. Life’s traumas are not wasted; they are redeemed by forcing out seeds for new growth…by forcing new steps leading to new growth.

“People work on themselves, and then they express what they are learning in a further step,” Dr. Cloud affirms. “When they do that, they become more. Then, as a result of taking that risk, new growth happens.“

Growing into my clothes

I thought that I had finally dismissed wanting to be someone else. I now know that we don’t get to become someone we were not originally designed to be. But there is something about my friend, Amy. Amy is vibrant, fun-loving, spontaneous, adventuresome, and friendly. We are different. I wish I was more like Amy; I like the way Amy dresses…it’s so Amy. In a vulnerable moment, I opened up with my friend, “You make it seem so effortless. Your clothes say who you are. How do you do it?”

Did I honestly want the real Julie to show? Too many times I have labored through clothing choices like an acne-faced teenager having to go to school anyway. Choosing outfits had somehow become finding the right cover-up for shameful blemishes. Should the outfit be ill-fitting, then I would reveal my own discomfort in a crowd of peers or strangers. If the outfit was lacking, others could not help but notice my own deficiencies. Should the outfit be out-of-place for the occasion, I could draw attention to my insecurities. Or, should the outfit be too ostentatious, I could be posing as something I have no business pretending to be. What to wear has been a struggle for a long time…until I dared to ask one of the many Amy’s I have known throughout the years.

I don’t know exactly when some of those blemishes had faded. I only know that the day that Amy shared her private tip with me was when I no longer needed as much cover-up. My conversation with Amy that day surfaced unfamiliar feelings. Is acceptance a feeling? I knew I didn’t want to be Amy; I want to be Julie.

“I use pictures,” Amy shared. “I cut out pictures of outfits I like from catalogues and magazines. I tape them up in my closet and use them as inspiration for creating outfits with the clothes I already have. And then I know exactly what to buy when I go shopping…the missing piece from the picture.” She radiated just like her aqua bathing suit with flashy cover-up.

Amy’s private tip encouraged me to choose sample pictures that reflected my own style and comfort. I could do that: Use the pictures of dressed models for inspiration and then personalize it. Mine my closet for what I already have. Where was I when I missed learning these basics?…probably in front of a mirror focusing on my blemishes.

Recently I packed for a week-long conference. I felt like an uninhibited child choosing outfits. The smiling women in my closet whispered, “Good choice, Julie.” Some were holding hands with children, some were walking in the park and some were smiling back at me. All affirmed me, “That looks like you, Julie.”

I flew to my conference having packed five ensembles approved by the voices in my closet. Having my clothes already organized, I was free to concentrate on the topic of the conference….dealing with obstacles that hinder personal growth, effectiveness and success. However, I discovered that I was not fully out of the closet when a well-known author, who was one of the conference instructors, happened to catch a piece of my conversation about my newfound freedom. I suspected he was hoping to hear about a recent breakthrough or insight gleaned from my participation in his program.

Embarrassed and flustered, I rambled on about my theory of adult Garanimals using catalogue pictures and matching coordinating pieces of clothing. “You know, the children’s brand of clothing that helps children grow in confidence by matching Hippo-labeled shirts to hippo-labeled shorts, or giraffe-labeled shirts to giraffe-labeled pants?” Confusion rippled across his forehead.

So what did I do?...kept talking. “I would like to at least have my exterior appear pulled together—even if what’s inside of me is still kind of unsettled."

This kind of statement, especially from a babbling, Garanimal theorist, would perk any counselor’s intuition: “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Uh, I guess I’m using this whole Garanimal thing as a tool to relieve the stress about packing and dressing…” Still babbling, “Okay, so the outfits are a coping mechanism right now.” And it hit me that I wasn’t hiding behind my clothes anymore but becoming what the ladies in the closet already knew….I was growing into my clothes. “That’s why I’m here…to grow.”

To which he astutely replied: “Coping mechanisms are good…for awhile.”

Breathing lessons

Sailing has been an undeniable family adventure for more than thirty-five years. Angling through waves, surfing swells with dolphin, hearing the voluminous gush before spotting the spouting behemoth, diving into the warm sun-streaked waters, lulling into slumber at anchor….STOP! Who really believes that stuff?

When the ocean churns turbulent green, so do I. Traditionally, I have invoked seasickness as the perfect excuse to avoid the nautical threats outside my comfort zone, the discomforts of weather and sea conditions, the expanse of the open ocean, and well, just going green while being trapped aboard until terra firma is reached. For me, sailing, not unlike confronting fears, is about breathing deeply…inhaling fresh wind and freedom and exhaling overwhelming motion and e-motion.

One time the fog engulfed us as we were heading back to the marina. We couldn’t see more than five feet around us. While opagueness engulfed us, different-sized foghorns blasted from vessels about us. Our modest chartered sailboat was not equipped with radar, only a broken foghorn. We were a silent and indefensible target out in the open. Kids and I as crew spaced ourselves around the boat on lookout while sailor husband navigated and worked to repair our foghorn. “Whale!” shouted voices from a very close boat. We saw its fluke and felt its wake as we steered past the splash and the other boat. Through the fog, beyond the green, the wide open yielded the wonder of a whale sighting. Breathe in family, exhale resistance.

Sailing, the ocean, and venturing out into the open—from behind walls, from underneath guilt, from within captivity and through fears—challenges my excuses, and my pattern of self-protection. The words of a fellow struggler, an author, push back: “here-time asks me to do the hardest of all: just open wide and receive.” I lingered long in the motionless, soothing safety of a soak tub. Warmth and peace blanketed me like the foamy bubbles. Receive…the word drifts from mind to open fingertips as I lay suspended, arms floating still, palms up. What was I open to receive? Inhale...exhale…inhale…exhale.

Pondering an invitation to reconnect with a friend from the past, I walked the beach looking out over the horizon of endless ocean. The ebb and flow of swells undulated through the depths forming the waves that tumbled into shore at me. What was she wanting of me? I pulled back from the surf’s intrusion like I retreated from my friend’s invitation to meet. Later, lunch with my friend from the past was simply an open heart-connection between two women having traveled similar paths. Breathe in acceptance, exhale judgment.

Not too long ago, my husband-captain and I set sail to Santa Cruz Island off the coast of Southern California. The winds were pleasantly brisk. By the time we were more than halfway to the island, the wind and waves were beating against us. And everything went green. I lay down in the cockpit staving off the greenness and contempt for sailing, the weather, the ocean, the captain, and myself for choosing to be out in the open. The howling wind and tumultuous swells continued into the night while at anchor…as did my nausea. Choose to inhale peace; choose to exhale helplessness.

The next morning was crisp, clear and breath-less. My husband-captain brought me hot tea in bed and we stayed under the covers reading until the sun warmed the air. On our return, I stretched out on the cockpit cushion in the warmth of sunshine avoiding the wafting smell of diesel (which also makes me green). My husband set our course, adjusted the mainsail, tweaked the autopilot…while I purred like a cat in her favorite sun-lit spot. I awoke to a caring captain asking me what I’d like to drink with my lunch. Breathe in love, exhale captivity.