I recently read an article from The Minimalists titled “Prepared to Walk Away.” The Minimalists is a blog about simplifying all aspects of our lives by reducing our physical, mental and technological clutter. For most who embrace this way of living, the first challenge is to declutter. The flip side of decluttering is mindful acquisition, and that’s the part of the essay that really caught my attention.
Some people think of minimalism as something practiced by wealthy elites who live in large, white, coldly antiseptic, ultra-modern spaces. It’s trendy right now to declutter and organize, an interesting push back against the relentless consumerism of the twentieth century. I hate clutter and love to be organized, but that isn’t what most attracts me to the practice of minimalism.
What I have my eye on are the intangibles in life, the stories, beliefs and habits accompanying us through our days. How and why do we acquire such things? How much of the acquisition is conscious rather than unconscious, and how heavily are we influenced by the people around us and their stories, beliefs and habits?
It seems to me the vast majority of our mental clutter is carelessly acquired or thrust upon us as an obligation. We humans are powerful in our ability to absorb influence, and we’re fatally prone to addiction. Our consumer culture has exploited these weaknesses mercilessly, from alcohol, sugar and cigarettes to video games, social media and the Internet. The media grooms us from childhood to be mindless recipients of stimulation to buy, to believe and to comply.
Critical thinking is unfashionable, to say the least. I look around me and see shriveled attention spans. Fewer and fewer people seem to respect or even recognize peer-reviewed, verifiable, fact-based science from the idiotic and ignorant ravings of malcontents, manipulators and madmen who peddle hatred, bigotry and misinformation to the masses from television, radio, the internet and social media.
Thus, we’re positioned, mouths agape, eyes reflecting the sparkle and shine of baubles and distractions, minds numb, stumbling through life with one eye on some kind of a screen at all times, while words and assertions assault us from every direction from thousands of gaping mouths and talking heads and millions of busy fingers.
Mindfulness? You’re kidding. Who has the time, quiet and space to even think about what mindfulness means, let alone practice it? How many people feel that the only way they can face their life is to avoid mindfulness at all costs?
Decluttering a closet is one thing. Can we sort through our ideas and habits and discard what’s unattractive, outgrown, outdated or worn out? It’s agonizing to consider a piece of clothing, especially a costly one that seemed like such an exciting deal when we got it, and realize we don’t wear it, don’t like it or it doesn’t go with anything else we wear. We’ve invested money in that item. It’s in good shape and of good quality. We can’t just discard it. What a waste! We’ll never get our investment back out of it.
Photo by Patrick Brinksma on Unsplash
Ideas, habits and beliefs are even harder to walk away from. We might not have spent money in acquiring them, but they tie us to our tribe, our workplace, our church, our family and our community. They influence our favorite social media platforms, our news and radio purveyors and our identities. Our addictions cement us into communities of other addicts, or at least into communities which enable our addictions.
We know everything about holding on: holding on to power; holding on to identity; holding on to our beliefs; holding on to stuff, either because we want to or someone else expects us to; holding on to grievance, outrage and fear. What we don’t seem to understand is how holding on locks us into place. We can’t grow. We refuse to learn. Fear has killed our natural curiosity and drive to explore.
On the other hand, a willingness to discard any object or intangible in our lives, if necessary, means we consent to grow, change, learn and be flexible and resilient.
Mindful acquisition is a conscious activity, an agreement we make with ourselves to buy that new item or explore a new idea or relationship, fully prepared to walk away if the item, idea or relationship become, at any time, a detriment rather than an asset.
It’s easy to think about objects in terms of money. Beliefs and habits are less concrete, yet our habits cost us far, far more than what we lose when we discard an expensive coat we just don’t wear. Talk to anyone who has tried to be in relationship with a workaholic or a substance, screen or gamer addict about the cost of our behavior. Money is, after all, only a symbol of value we agree to use. Our intangible clutter costs us relationships, connection, our health and sometimes our lives.
At first look, it seems being willing to walk away from relationships weakens our ability to connect. In fact, I think in the long run it strengthens healthy bonds. If I know both I and the other party are prepared to walk away, I’m responsible for making a choice, over and over again, to stay, nurture and invest in a healthy connection — for both of us.
Photo by Cameron Kirby on Unsplash
Practicing mindful acquisition requires me to pay close attention to the thoughts, beliefs, ideas and habits I give time and energy to or consider adopting. Do they increase my power and joy or diminish it? How does my mental and emotional clutter interact with my relationships and ability to communicate and contribute? How do these intangibles affect my heath and energy?
The irritating thing about personal power management is that it takes work and mindfulness. We can’t stay asleep at the wheel. Sure, reclaiming our stolen, lost or dormant power is a rush, but then we have to be responsible for our needs, priorities and choices, choices about what enters our lives and choices about what we discard or walk away from.
Our lives are limited. At 55, I’m beginning to feel the edges. I want to minimize my clutter, from items to intangibles. I want to let light and space into my home and serenity and clarity into my head and heart. I want to feel the flow of energy in the form of money, love and creativity without distraction.
Last month I posted about our power and ability to say both yes and no to others. This morning I’m thinking about another level of yes and no; that is the yes and no we say to life. At this level, the term ‘consent’ is useful. Consent means to “give permission for something to happen,” according to a 2-second search on Google.
Consent is a huge and complex topic and there’s a great deal of discussion about different aspects of it. For the purposes of this post, I’m using consent in the widest sense; the way in which we approach life.
Several interactions this week have made me think about the mysterious difference between people who consent to learn and grow and those who don’t. When I think about my observations, and people I’ve known, it’s clear to me the difference between these two kinds of people has nothing to do with age, sex, money, education, employment, intellect or family. It has nothing to do with the color of our skin or the god(s) we worship, or where on the planet we live, or what kind of horrors we might have endured.
I’m acquainted with a writer who sent me a piece in praise of stubbornness, a quality she admires (as do I) in herself and others because to her it means a determination to survive and do well, regardless of limitations, real and perceived. (Thank you, A!) We might mean the same thing by consent and stubbornness, or close to it. I see the ability to consent to learning and growth, over and over, no matter how many times we’re knocked down and cut off, as a kind of stubbornness — a refusal to give up, to close down, to conform to something that doesn’t work for us.
Without even trying I can identify seven people in my life, past and present, who don’t consent to the experience of life, the flow, the dance, the mystery and uncertainty, the synchronicity and the billions of invitations that arise for exploration, connection, understanding, growing and being.
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These folks are easy to spot. They resist. They argue with what is. They deny, distract, fall into various addictions. They don’t communicate effectively. They care about winning, being right and power-over. They have rigid stories and expectations. Everything that happens to them is a personal insult or a crisis. They’re victims. A good, deep question is a grave threat. To my eyes, they look miserably unhappy. They repeat the same patterns, over and over, dying a little more with each fruitless repetition. They do not consent. They refuse.
Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
Every single one of the seven people I’m thinking of has had opportunities to learn, to grow, to change, to make different choices. They all had people in their lives who loved them and had information, tools and skills that might have enriched them. They all had people in their lives who valued them and wanted their contribution. They each had at least one person in their life who would have done anything to support them in learning and growing, and that person was me.
Most of those relationships are behind me now, because I have this unforgiveable quality of consent. My life now is based on the why, the what if, the whose rule is that, the help me understand. My life is about teachme, show me, share with me and what do you think? My life is about doing more of what works and letting the rest go. People who refuse and people who consent invariably have friction, because their needs are opposite. There’s just nowhere meaningful to go.
People who consent are not perfect or perfectly happy people. On the contrary, their lives have been filled with mess and miscalculations, abuse, addictions and other painful experiences, but they’ve learned from everything and everyone. People who consent don’t look at their lives with bitterness or frame things as mistakes. They see teachers, opportunities and fascinating things learned and yet to learn. People who consent are endlessly curious. They think about what they don’t know and question what they think they do know. They seek the hidden thing. They’re more likely to ask questions than proselytize or lay down the law. They’re not interested in power games or being right or winning. They seek to understand, to explore, to exercise choice, to manage their own power. They can laugh at themselves. They can and do say no, but they say it to protect their integrity and needs, not to shut out or control life.
People who consent choose happiness. That’s the most important one for me. I’m still reaching for that. I’ve always been a person who consents, but I’ve also chosen to stay limited in many important ways. As I’ve learned to discern between refusal and consent, I see that living life from a state of consent results in joy. Again, it’s got nothing to do with age, beauty, money, status or any of the things that the culture says we’re defined by. Joy, at the end of the day, is a simple thing, arising out of being at peace with this wild ride we call life. Joy is consenting to surrender, consenting to feel and experience, consenting to feeling fear and doing it anyway, consenting to give up trying to control the things we can’t control. Joy is composed of tears, blood, loss and disappointment, pain and growth. We already have it. It’s here, sitting on your shoulder as you read this and mine as I write.
In July of 2016 I wrote my first post on this blog, a letter of resignation from people pleasing. Since then, that post has had more than 20,000 views. A comparatively modest number for the internet, but for me personally an astounding one.
Now, in August of 2024, I’m writing another letter, this one a heartfelt thank you to all of you who read my words, commented, and sent my work on to others over the years. I hope my posts will continue to find those who are treading some of the same paths I have.
When I began this blog, the only goal I could identify was to have the courage to do it. I wasn’t sure who I was or what I thought and I didn’t know how to use my true voice. I felt as though I was fighting for my life. I didn’t expect anyone would read it, but I knew I needed to write it. I wasn’t sure why, exactly, but I knew I had to, and I knew intuitively whatever I wrote here would be real and true and honest. I wanted to find that woman, know her, and reclaim her if I could.
Photo by Ryan Moreno on Unsplash
I did not imagine how powerful the practice of blogging would be for me. I did not dream of the healing, the growth and learning, and the self-acceptance I’ve achieved.
I almost never take vacations. I don’t say that with pride or a sense of superiority. In fact, I’m determined to give myself more regular breaks in the future. I’m off work when sick or injured, of course. We were furloughed during the pandemic, but that hardly felt like a vacation. However, for two weeks the pool facility where I work is closed down for maintenance, and I was amazed at how I looked forward to these two weeks, how I longed for them.
I’m not traveling, or doing anything wildly different or special, but the gift of time is exquisite. Time without clocks or my phone. Time in the garden. Hours in which to read and write. Time to sit in the sun, take a catnap. Time like a ripple of playful music, empty, inviting, unpressured. Time to think and feel and drift. Time for inspiration and intuition.
When I feel like I don’t have enough time during normal working life, I’m harsh with myself. I tell myself we all find time to do the things that matter and if I’m not, either I don’t really want to do what I think I want to do or I’m doing life WRONG. Again. I’m lazy, I’m disorganized, I’m ineffective, I’m wasting time, and I’m making excuses. So I work harder, get up a little earlier. I try to be more organized. I simplify my routines. I keep moving, producing, and doing.
In these days of my vacation, however, I discover when I have time, real, unlimited, unbounded time, I fall joyfully into exactly what I most want to do (working on my third book), like plunging into a lazy summer river.
I’ve been asking myself what needs to happen for me to follow my heart and soul into writing this book and all the books after it. Now, when the voice of my intuition says ‘more time,’ I’m listening instead of attacking myself. Maybe my story does need more of me than I’ve been giving it, more presence, more space, more energy, more time.
I’ve been thinking about the shape of my life, what I do in a day, a week, a month. I’ve wondered what I can take out. Not work. Not gardening. Not exercise. Not reading. Not Substack, where I serial post my fiction and occasional essays. It occurred to me to wonder if I’m ready to let go of Harvesting Stones.
This morning, while driving to get groceries in early morning rain, I found myself mentally drafting this post, and I thought, I guess I am ready. And I felt sad. Thunder rolled, as it had been all morning. The wipers went back and forth. I sat looking at a stoplight, waiting for the green arrow, and for a moment I let Harvesting Stones drift away, shining, heavy with words, a creased and folded roadmap of my psyche, so full of effort and vulnerability. I imagined space and time and energy in the place where it had been and I thought about letting die what must.
Sadness was there, yes, but also peace. A sense of rightness. I’ve found an interactive community on Substack where comments turn into discussions and inspiration. I like the creative energy there, the collaborative tools and people. Harvesting Stones has been a solo endeavor, hugely growthful when I began because it forced me out of hiding, but now the challenge is gone and I’m ready for more interaction, more connection, and the endless fascination of writing compelling fiction.
It’s been some time since I’ve seen the path ahead so clearly in my writing life, and I want to find out where it leads.
I’m going to leave Harvesting Stones up, just as it is, in the hopes people will continue to stumble across it and find it useful. I will still receive and answer comments and maintain the site. You can always find me on Substack. My work there is free to read, just as it’s been here.
This blog has been one of the most significant things I’ve ever done. Letting go is hard. I cannot close this chapter in my life without thanking my emotional intelligence coach. Without him, I would not be in Maine. I would not have started blogging. I would not have written two books and be working on a third. I’m not sure I’d even be alive. I certainly would not have reclaimed my health and joy. I did the work, but he showed me the way.
Thank you all for being part of my journey. Come see me on Substack!
I walk the short distance to work whenever I can. My route takes me to a grassy hill between the neighborhood and the hospital (I work in Rehab) emergency room parking lot. A small pond (sadly, lots of trash) is on one side of the path at the foot of the hill. The other side is a watershed, thick with growth and, I’m sure, ticks. The path leads straight up the hillside and walking it is a daily blessing.
This small patch of land surrounded by structures, roads, parking lots, and traffic is abundant with life in spite of the trash that comes to rest there. I frequently see ducks on the pond, though they don’t seem to nest there. I wouldn’t, either. Frogs sing and croak. Birds, insects, and an occasional urban deer, fox, skunk, and woodchuck make this wild area home.
This is what I want my little piece of the world, the corner lot where I live, to look like. I don’t want a neat, unnaturally green, scalped, herbicide-soaked, artificially fertilized sterile lawn with dead soil that looks the same from May to October. I don’t want concentration camp gardens filled with ornamental non-native plants, each pruned, dead-headed, and isolated in beds of dyed mulch.
My time outside in the garden is a lifeline. On Fridays I feel undone: exhausted, hypersensitive, overstimulated, overwrought, and depressed. I wonder what it’s all for, the striving, the giving, the endless tasks not only at work but in general. Groceries. Recycling. Feeding myself. Caring for the cats. Laundry and housework. The news cycle, a never ending hurricane of crashing real estate markets, apocalyptic weather events, fire, pollution, social unrest, war, and politics.
But then I have a day in the garden. It’s not too hot and humid. It’s not raining. I don’t have other obligations. I put on my gardening clothes, spray bug dope against the mosquitoes, gather tools, and step into another world in which my mind is empty, my spirit soothed, and no person needs me in any way. I become part of the green world, just another life in the garden, my knees rooted in dirt, my hands muddy and stained with sap, my nose filled with the scents of life. I remember this is what it’s all for: just the experience of a humble life among uncountable other lives.
One of my neighbors mentioned crabgrass the other day as we chatted. She was complaining about it “popping up everywhere” in her nice, neat, closely shaved lawn. I was conscious of the sprawling crabgrass lining my own sidewalk and driveway a few feet away as we talked, half amused, half embarrassed. She and her husband are retirees. I work 32 hours a week, in addition to writing as many hours as I can. It’s been a hot, humid summer, and I don’t work outside when the heat index is high.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Even if I wasn’t so busy, I wouldn’t be mowing frequently or so brutally as most people do. In fact, my goal is to eventually mow (or better yet, build) a simple path around the property and call it good. I won’t, under any circumstances, use herbicide. I let many leaves lie where they fall in autumn. If I do rake, the leaves and debris go into the compost. I refrain from raking early in the spring because I know winter debris provides cover for countless small creatures just beginning to stir and warm into life.
A weed is defined by Oxford Online Dictionary as “a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants.” I looked up crabgrass, along with purslane and creeping Charlie, both of which I have on my property. Neither crabgrass nor purslane, according to my search, are original natives to Maine. On the other hand, they both grow everywhere around the globe now. I wonder, at which point do we stop distinguishing between native and non-native plants? After 50 years? 100 years? Centuries?
How about people? Is immigration status more important than our shared humanity? How much time passes before we’re “natives” to any particular place, how many generations? Aren’t we all natives on this planet?
To all intents and purposes, both purslane and crabgrass are native to Maine now. Purslane can be eaten by humans and has traditional medical uses. Crabgrass functions to bind the soil and stop erosion. That seems valuable to me in a world full of increasing flooding, fire, and disturbed ground. Anything that fixes the soil in place is helping build healthy soil. Need I mention we depend on healthy soil for all our food?
Who, I wonder, is growing “weeds,” Mother Nature or I? Mother Nature’s agenda is to build healthy, diverse communities, both within the soil and above it, perfectly suited to Maine’s climate and animals. If I spend the rest of my life on my hands and knees digging up crabgrass and other “weeds” and/or spray poison all over the property because of “pests” and “weeds” while nurturing exotics of no benefit to the biome because I (and the neighbors) like the way they look, it seems to me I’m waging an expensive (in more ways than one) war I can never win trying to grow ornamentals that will be out-competed at every turn by native plants that feed native insects and birds.
Photo by Henry Be on Unsplash
I think of all this as I walk up and down the hill to work several times a week. I bring sprigs of plants inside from my garden and yard and the hill to identify. I keep running lists in my head, admire nature’s color combinations and mingling of low understory plants and taller, more showy ones. The hill is always in bloom, from last frost to first. No human designer or planner needed.
I often think about balance, which seems to me a key to life. I often think about diversity. We know now healthy landscapes have a large quorum of plants of all kinds. My “lawn,” by which I mean the grassy areas we currently mow, consists of grasses, yes, (including crabgrass), as well as ground ivy, or creeping Charlie, three different kinds of clover, wild strawberries, plantain, several varieties of aster, and who knows what I have not yet identified? I don’t want fewer “weeds,” I want more.
On the other hand (and isn’t there always another hand?) I do pull out bindweed when I find it. I dig up dock and don’t let it go to seed. I pull wild strawberries and creeping Charlie out of garden beds. I keep certain things in check, but I don’t want to eradicate them altogether. They live here. They feed other creatures that live here. There’s enough genocide in the world, don’t you think? If one variety of plant is out of balance in any given area, I work to understand why. What other natives can I add to that area? How can I amend the soil? What are the conditions dislocating the balance? Certainly, some non-native plants are invasive; they will take over and push out native growth if allowed.
So why insist on planting them?
I also compost and compost and compost. I disturb the soil as little as possible. I build new beds without digging. I don’t commercially fertilize or buy soil or mulch. I don’t dead head much; I want things to self-sow.
Photo by Alejandro Escamilla on Unsplash
Gardening is a practice, one that never ends. My little piece of land doesn’t look like the ones around me. Occasionally passers-by ask me what I’m doing, but a pedantic explanation makes their eyes glaze over quickly, so I usually assure them in time this will be a hedge, this will be a new bed, and this area will be filled with native wildflowers. Maybe they will see the beauty and make different choices on their own properties. I hope for that. Maybe then they’ll be more interested in rewilding, complexity, diversity, and quorums. Maybe.
I wish I could get my human neighbors to expand their definition of neighborhood to include all the life in these few square blocks of a small city in central Maine on the Kennebec River, the life that was here before the streets and structures existed. The green neighborhood, the animal neighborhood, the natives.
In the meantime, this is what I can do. This makes me happy. It feels like the right thing. In the dead end of winter, when the seed catalogues come, I’ll jump online and see if I can find native chicory, so lovely mingled with Queen Anne’s lace, which I already have; wild white daisies; buttercups; more harebells and fireweed; bluets for a low wet spot; pink and orange milkweed for the butterflies; native bergamot; purple vetch; bird’s foot trefoil …
Questions:
What are the names of “weeds” in your area? What roles do they play in your biome?
What would it take for you to redefine a “weed” as a wanted plant?
How do you feel about neighbors (if you have any) who allow “weeds” to grow on their property? Has it been a source of tension or conflict?
How much money do your spend on your garden/yard? Do you feel pressured by the eyes of your neighbors?
Leave a comment below!
To read my fiction, serially published free every week, go here:
I received some second-hand feedback regarding my last post that’s had me thinking further about this idea of taking one’s own breath away.
We exist as individuals, and we also exist in relationship to others, and not only with our own species. In fact, as I reread the last statement, I realize it doesn’t quite reflect reality. We think of ourselves as discrete, separate individuals. “I.” “Me.” Yet it would be more accurate to say “we” and “us,” for we are each a world of microorganisms, internally and externally. Without all these bacteria, fungi, and other tiny organisms we couldn’t live. They facilitate everything from our digestion to our skin and mucous membrane health.
Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash
The point remains; however, we are each a part of ever-enlarging communities, from micro to macro. Oxford Online Dictionary defines ‘community’ as a group living in the same place or having specific characteristic(s) in common. A second definition is a “feeling of fellowship” with others because of common values, goals, and beliefs.
Community, in other words, is a fundamental human experience and shapes us in myriad ways. We are a social species; we need one another. I’ve been fighting with that reality all my life.
I believe much of our journey in life is about managing the continuum between narcissism (grandiose sense of self-importance, lack of empathy for others, need for excessive admiration, belief that one is deserving of special treatment) and echoism (a fear-driven compulsion to prioritize others’ needs).
That unwieldy balance necessarily takes place within the inescapable context of community.
It’s complicated.
We all know communities vary. Most of us acknowledge being part of several communities. Often our identities are inextricably bound with community membership, in the case of religion or family, for example. These bonds are very strong.
As I think about and participate in communities, I think about health. Am I healthy enough to function effectively and appropriately in my community? Is my community a healthy place for me?
Community is both a mirror and a crucible. Communities formed as social bubbles and echo chambers can be deeply comforting and validating. Everyone is like us. Everyone believes what we believe. We experience no discomfort or friction. We’re assured of our rightness, our clarity, our moral ground. We know the Truth. We never have to reconsider, find out we’re wrong, grow, learn new things, or change. We stand on solid ground and look into mirrors reflecting us exactly as we want to be seen.
Communities formed as crucibles, such as work, volunteer groups or neighborhood groups, are not so comfortable. In these communities we will experience conflict and friction. Everyone does not share our values and beliefs. Because everyone is not the same, we get glimpses of parts of ourselves we’d rather not see or have seen by others. We can’t hide our flaws and weaknesses, mistakes and missteps. We receive various kinds of feedback. We feel defensive, exposed, ashamed.
Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
Crucibles are cradles for alchemy and change. They trigger our old traumas and shames without notice. They bring us face to face with ourselves and relentlessly demonstrate the effect of our behavior on others.
I observe that people who primarily interact in mirror communities are often black and white in their thinking. You’re for us or against us. You’re Us or you’re Them.
This kind of thinking strikes me as silly and unintelligent. The older I get, the more shades of grey I discover. Accepting shades of grey, however, is a lot more interpersonal and personal work than black or white labels. Shades of grey mean we have to think carefully about what we value and believe and why. We might have to defend our views. We might ask or be asked uncomfortable questions. Others might become annoyed, offended, or hurt by our position. People might try to make us small and silent, or fit us into a box so they can feel more comfortable with us.
We might let them.
I have often let them. And that’s about my own health. Healthy crucible communities empower rather than disempower; empowerment brings responsibility. A responsibility to be the healthiest and most whole person I can be. A responsibility to practice tolerance and respect towards myself and everyone around me. That means I’m responsible for my boundaries, my integrity, and my resilience.
The health of individuals in the community directly correlates to the health of the community itself; I don’t want to be the limiting factor in any community I’m a part of.
Striving for increased health and wholeness is a practice rather than a destination. Some days I feel like a shattered mess that can never be mended or healed. Other days I feel like a good-enough person, or maybe even a little better than that. I care about the people around me. My challenge is to care about myself equally, to hold my needs as important as those of others, to attend to my own well-being before becoming absorbed in caring for others. I don’t believe this makes me a narcissist, but it does move me away from echoism. People who view my behavior as narcissistic have perhaps benefited from those who, like me, have poured themselves out into others with no thought or responsibility for themselves.
Image by Bob Dmyt from Pixabay
I am fortunate to have a true healthy community; the first I’ve ever participated in with any degree of authenticity and vulnerability. My greatest fears have been realized, more than once. I am seen a great deal more clearly than I wish to be. I am cared about, a very uncomfortable state of affairs. When I make mistakes or my judgment is poor, everyone sees, everyone knows, and it feels disastrous. I am frequently uncomfortable because some of my belief systems and lifestyle choices are different from those around me.
The same is true for everyone in my community. We see each other, and we make room for each other with affection, humor, and occasional irritation that only underlines our caring.
I’m not embedded in a mirror, but in a crucible, and I wouldn’t choose differently. As uncomfortable (terrifying) and messy and even humiliating as it sometimes is, my interaction in my community is making me a better person in every possible way; I see myself in a community context in ways I never would alone or in a mirror community. My community expands my humility, forces me to become more resilient, pushes my boundaries, and teaches me that what really matters is friendship and respect, not lifestyle choices and differing belief systems.
Every day I take things I’ve learned in my community and turn them over, sometimes cry over them, figure out how to grow and change and be more effective. I do it for me … and for them. I do it because it’s a challenge, it’s fascinating, it’s growthful, and I don’t want to be part of a mirror community. I like diversity, as uncomfortable as it can be. Diversity makes me bigger and wiser.
The phrase “the public eye” is so amorphous as to be useless. I’m not concerned with what the stranger on the street thinks of me, if indeed they spare a thought for me at all. But I do care what my community thinks of me, because I know I’m valued for myself, imperfect and weird as I am. I trust them enough to allow them to help me grow. I don’t feel pressured to be like any one of them; rather the pressure is to be the best version of myself possible, which is exactly what I want for them.
The best versions of myself take my own breath away now and then, the root of my last post.
Healthy community is absolutely essential for all of us, in my view. So is the ability to self-reflect and accept ourselves with love and grace. I want to respond to those around me with tolerance and respect, and I learn to do that best as I practice tolerance and respect with myself. As I see myself more clearly and kindly, I see others more clearly and kindly. As I foster my own growth and change, I can better foster the growth and change of those around me.
Healthy communities depend on healthy individuals, or at least communities committed to health need individuals committed to their own health. That’s what works. Neither echoism nor narcissism build health or growth of any kind for anyone.
Questions:
Name three communities you feel a part of. Is each one more of a mirror or a crucible?
Which of your communities feels most healthy? Least healthy?
What do you find hardest about being in community?
Leave a comment below!
To read my fiction, serially published free every week, go here:
