defining moments


This is another in my series of “defining moments“: Moments in my life that changed me in a significant way.

***

I stared out the window as we traveled west. The rolling sands of the desert passed by, punctuated with cactus and tumbleweed. The red sands in the distance beckoned. Moab was getting closer.

I inhaled the warm air as it blew through the open window; my hand hung outside, feeling the resistance of the air around my fingers. I leaned over and turned up the music.

Looking out at the open vistas I felt my body relax a little more with each mile between myself and my job. The stress was taking its toll. The music lilted through the air and my ears perked up. I turned the volume  up again to hear the words a little clearer, and began to fall in love.

I replayed it over and over. And over. And over again. My thoughts suddenly spinning in my head.

It wasn’t just that Nine Inch Nails could write such a hauntingly beautiful melody. Its’ magnetic pull was so much more. In this particular song, the piano gently moved through the verses, weaving through the lyrics, exploring their depths; its beauty and simplicity underscoring the weight of the words.

“If you look at your reflection, is it all you want it to be?”

Was I happy? Was I living a life I was proud of? That excited me? That fulfilled me? Was I making a difference?

The next question rose up:

“And if you could look right through the cracks, would you find yourself afraid to see?”

Could I look at myself with honesty? With pride? With confidence? Without apology? Could I look at my cracks—my faults and weaknesses and failures—and see them? Did I even recognize them? Or would I deny them? Would I ignore them and pretend they weren’t there? Could I see my unhappiness? My stress?

The answers started coming as quiet, unconscious rumbles in my heart. As I tasted and explored the words, seeds of change began to vibrate from my cells and into my blood, inching their way into my thoughts and my consciousness.

In that moment—driving into the desert at 80 mph listening to Nine Inch Nails—the course of the next 18 months of my life shifted dramatically. It was a subtle, and quite simple beginning to a new way of life.

***

Back home (after having listened to the song another ten, fifteen, twenty times), I thought that maybe taking a literal interpretation of the lyrics might offer some insight. I sat in front of my mirror and looked at myself. Really stared into my own eyes. What did I see? What was I afraid of? Who was this woman staring back at me?

I knew something needed to change in a big way. My job was wearing down my confidence and it felt like my soul was dissolving. I didn’t recognize myself.

I listened to this song every day during my commute to and from work. It sunk into my blood. This particular phrase playing louder in my mind.

Its message spoke to me; invited me to look at myself openly and honestly. The one area of my life I wasn’t happy with was overpowering and affecting every other part of my life. My friends were tired of hearing my complaints and I was oh-so-tired of complaining and feeling small.

I didn’t want to become a bitter, stressed-out person. I didn’t want to miss out on life. I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my own reflection. I didn’t want to shrink away and make excuses for myself and my unhappiness.

“If you look at your reflection, is it all you want it to be?”

No. I wanted to be more. I wanted to walk in honesty and truth from my innermost core. And I wanted every aspect of my life to reflect that—not just one or two areas.

“And if you could look right through the cracks, would you find yourself afraid to see?”

No. I’m not afraid of myself and who I am. I will stand strong and walk through my fears and hesitations, becoming all I want to be.

I realized that, in fact, I wasn’t afraid to see; that the “elaborate dream” I was living in could change. I welcomed the sight of my uncertainties and my misery because it’s exactly what was motivating me to act. I’d been on automatic pilot, assuming someone else knew how to drive my life. I’d thought that maybe everyone else knew better than me, and I was missing some vital information.

But no. As my eyes opened into this new consciousness, I knew I was the only one qualified and trained to drive my own life (duh). It scared me. I was disappointed I hadn’t taken action before. I was mad at myself for falling asleep at the wheel.

The message got into my bloodstream and into my heart. My desire to change things began to outweigh my fear of losing an income and being seen as a failure in my corporate job.

***

I have long held the belief that change is always a possibility when things aren’t going well. We can look around, see new paths and take action. The problem is that our awareness of the possibilities can so often narrow when we’re unhappy and stuck in a rut of routine and expectation.

When I heard this song, listened to the lyrics and asked myself these questions, a door opened. And then another. I could see a little clearer and my options expanded. The fog started to lift and possibilities emerged.

The importance I’d placed on my job began to disintegrate. My strength grew. Each time I heard the song, my confidence in the truth I’d known all along, yet was afraid to face, grew with it. I became excited and more interested in what life had in store for me around the corner.

It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, over the days and months that followed that fall road trip. Each day of greater clarity fed my soul. The following spring, I quit my job. I didn’t have a set plan, but knew I needed the time away from the stress and pressure to find a career I loved.

***

Change—even the good kind of change we choose—is hard. It’s challenging. There are moments we question and second-guess ourselves, wondering if the past wasn’t better; that maybe we’d made a mistake.

Yet when we keep our eyes open; keep asking ourselves the difficult questions; keep looking into our own mirrors at who we are; we grow and expand and create a vast space of acceptance and beauty.

***

reference:

“what if everything around you isn’t quite as it seems?

what if all the world you think you know, is an elaborate dream?

and if you look at your reflection is it all you want it to be?

what if you could look right through the cracks? would you find yourself… find yourself afraid to see?”

– exerpt from the song, “Right Where You Belong,” by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails

This is my third essay in my defining moments series. My defining moments are those moments in our lives that have caused us to think in a new way. A moment when our perspective changed in how we see the world and/or others. I’ve had many of these such moments throughout my years, and will, in no particular order, share them here at amelia carolyn, in hopes of inspiring others to think about their own defining moments and how they effect our lives. (You can read the first essays here and here.)

no regrets
The particular moment I want to share today happened when I was about 8 years old. Earlier that year, I met my mom’s best friends father, Mr. Patten. He was a kind, elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. He was particularly kind to me, especially when he learned how much I liked clowns.

We chatted for awhile, and then he went upstairs brought down something his wife had made years ago. It was love at first sight.

It was a handmade clown. The body, arms and legs were small, hand-sewn circles of fabric from scraps of old quilts strung together (think candy necklaces), with small jingle bells at the ends of each arm and leg.  The face, white, had the classic red markings of a pierrot clown, and a smile on his face that invited secrets to be shared.

Mr. Patten told me that his wife had made it with love, and he wanted me to have it. I instantly named him Clown Jingles. Mr. Patten and I became fast friends.

Back home, I wanted to find a way to let him know how Clown Jingles was doing. I wrote him a letter. He wrote back. His letters were written in print with big letters and on subjects that were interesting to my 8-year-old self. We exchanged letters over the next few months. And then, as happens when you’re eight, I got distracted by other things. School, friends, Strawberry Shortcake… I stopped writing to Mr. Patten.

But I didn’t stop thinking about him. I missed our correspondence and friendship. I hugged Clown Jingles close every night. Time just slipped away. I’d write to him soon.

And then one day at school I decided that “today was the day.” I resolved to go home and write Mr. Patten a letter. Lots had been happening and I had things to tell him. I skipped into the house and announced to my mom that I was going to go in my room and do that very thing. Her entire body language shifted and in that instant, I knew something was wrong. I knew I’d missed him.

Mr. Patten had passed away that morning.

I realized in that moment that time doesn’t stop for us. Things happen that we don’t always expect or want.

I resolved that day to not let time get away from me again; to do the things I’d planned on doing without procrastinating or missing them. I didn’t ever want to experience that feeling of regret again.

As with most resolutions, this one isn’t easy. I haven’t nailed down the secret to taking advantage of each and every moment. And I still procrastinate and let time slip by every now and again. But the message is constantly in my mind and in my heart. My intention toward the resolution stays strong, and I’d like to think that I’m more successful than not, in letting my loved ones know how much I love them and how much they mean to me.

It was a tough lesson for an 8-year-old, but one I cherish and appreciate.

sunset on the beach

sunset on the beach

Three years ago today, members of my extended family, from all corners of the world, gathered in the sunroom for cocktail hour. For years this had been an evening ritual for my grandmother. Manhattans at 5:00 with cheese and crackers. It didn’t matter if there was company, but it sure made her energy shine when there was a roomful of family and friends around her.

She was 95, with an alertness and level of engagement that I aspire to match in myself. She and my grandfather were fortunate enough to have found a wonderful house on the beach in the 50s—with the foresight to retire there in the 60s. Myself, my cousins and extended family spent many summers at the beach house coming of age, becoming friends with our families and growing up (into adolescence; into adulthood; into middle age).

It was fitting that Grandma was surrounded by so much of her family that evening. None of us lived close… some had come for the week or weekend from as far away as the Czech Republic. We were there, as we always were: to relax and hang out at the beach with family and drink a few manhattans along the way.

So it came as a complete surprise and shock that the next morning would be my Grandmother’s last. She woke with some pain, went into the hospital and left this world, with her family surrounding her, that night.

Tonight, as I’ve done for the past two years, I gather those close to me, mix a round of manhattans, and raise a glass in honor of a woman full of elegance, spirit and grace; a woman who stayed young and active throughout her 95 years; and for whom the door to her home was always open and an ear was always available for debate, conversation and advice. Grandma, you continue to inspire me, support me and encourage me to expand and live my life to my fullest potential. I love you and I miss you.

Cheers.

When my sister and I were little, we loved visiting Grandmom. She lived about an hour away and we spent many weekends and evening with her  learning how to sew, baking (and eating) cookies, playing Barbie’s and watching the occasional forbidden soap opera.

In the bathroom, on the back of the toilet, sat a tall, fancy candle. The outside of the candle was carved with curliques and delicate decorations in pretty patterns. We always wanted to see how the designs would melt down and shine through the wax.

We got to see it burn once (for about 2 minutes) and would beg at each subsequent visit to see it burn down a little more. But each time, she’d claim to be saving it for a special occasion.

After she passed away, my mom, sister and I packed up her apartment, dividing her possessions between us. We came across the candle. It was still tall and intricate, but it was looking kinda ugly… covered as it was in thick, caky dust and grime from 20 years of display without use. No occasion was ever special enough to burn again.

I was reminded of this experience last week while driving to a new job. I was listening to a podcast of NPR’s Fresh Air with Terry Gross. (This particular episode aired on 2.25.09 and featured an interview with the WSJ Tastings columnists on their event “Open That Bottle!”)

When they first started writing, the columnists received similar letters from their readers seeking advice on when to drink that “special bottle of wine” they’d been saving. We all have that bottle—the one we brought back from our first trip to Europe; the one given to us on our wedding day; the one our parents bought the year we were born. You know… that one. 

The answer they gave their readers was the same: “This Saturday night!”

Because wine is meant to be enjoyed now. Because the more we wait for that special occasion, the more likely it becomes that no occasion will ever be quite special enough. And if we wait too long, the wine turns bad, and the candle will be covered in dust and grime, and we will have missed the opportunity to experience and honor a moment. I believe each moment is special in and of itself—simply because it happens.

So light the candles in your home. Drink the wine. And honor the memories of that special occasion with each sip you take. And enjoy it.

Cheers!

About a month ago, I was having a conversation with some friends about “defining moments.” Moments in your life that represent a new path; moments that mark an unexpected lesson; moments that change the trajectory of your life plan.

I’ve had a lot of these defining moments throughout my life. One taught me the value of being nice despite mean words and looks from others. One taught me more about my hidden confidence and strength in a few hours, than I’d realized I’d had the previous 25+ years that offered a new vision of what my life could be like.

The one I want to share today is a moment I experienced this past year that resulted in, what was for me, an extreme, yet conscious decision. A decision made as a result of a feeling that washed over me on a bus ride this past May that has since led me in a direction I’d only dreamed about, but never imagined being a realistic option for myself. 

“It’s time,” the voice whispered. 

I was listening to Lucinda Williams’ Blue on my ipod. Her voice deep and steady. The melody simple and pure. As I was staring out the bus window, looking out at the familiar and ordinary landscape of Westminster and Broomfield as it blurred by, tears began to well up in my eyes. “It’s time,” the voice whispered again with more conviction. In that moment I felt a deep sense of peace. I nodded in amazed agreement. Hearing those words and recognizing their truth, I felt a sense of renewal and confident strength.

I knew my inner voice was right. I knew, without hesitation, without fear, and without a need to find excuses as to “why not.” I knew it was time to quit my job.

The revelation itself, was not a total surprise. It was the strength of the truth that surprised me. I’d been thinking about quitting for a long time. I’d been struggling with an ever-deepening feeling of discontent and discomfort over the past months. It reminded me of the anguish that breaking up with someone that initially seemed great feels like. That feeling you get when you see so much potential for the relationship to be what you want it to be, yet something just doesn’t resonate and you can’t put your finger on why. So you try harder, saying to yourself, “There must be something I can do.” Everything seems fine, but it’s not. And you know it. Even if you don’t want to know it, you know it. 

And the time comes when you have to admit it to yourself. That’s the biggest step in this whole process, right? Admitting to yourself that you might’ve been {gasp!} wrong.

In the case of a job, however, the predominant and widely accepted way to quit is to have something else lined up. There are the financial reasons. The expectations (and pull) of society’s norms. Your career is at stake. And then there’s the safety factor. Having another job lined up is the “expected and approved” thing to do. And just the day before, I wholeheartedly bought into this line of thinking. I wasn’t ready to quit. I hadn’t been looking hard for another job. And besides, I wasn’t done trying to make this job work. I’d invested my time, energy and emotions into this job. There were aspects of it I truly loved and thrived on. I had plans for the future that relied on my income. I wanted to keep saving my money. It didn’t feel safe to consider quitting.

Structure was familiar and safe. The norm. I’d lived a structured life since I was in nursery school. Getting up at a certain time each day to go to class, to chorus, to work. Even in the rare instances I had free time, there was always something on the horizon.

Sitting on the crowded bus that May evening with tears in my eyes, I knew instinctively that this was different. That my life was on the verge of a major shift. It was time to quit the next day. No plans. No safety net. Just a small amount in savings to carry me and an amazingly supportive partner to encourage me to jump. It simply felt right.

The future opened up. My sense of adventure was awakened. The possibilities seemed endless. I took some time that evening to think about it, but deep inside, the decision had been made and I knew it. It was just a matter of figuring out how to make it work. The rightness of the decision couldn’t be brushed aside. There were no excuses. It was time.

I gave six weeks’ notice to help out with the transition. I was naive in thinking it’d take me only a mere few weeks to sort out what I wanted and jump onto a new path. It just doesn’t work that way. Five months later, I sit in the local coffee shop, an americano beside me, looking back over the past months, still considering my future. What do I want to do? What gets me up in the morning? What do I procrastinate doing? When are my passions aroused?

The feelings that I’ve experienced are all along the spectrum of emotions. Some expected, but most continue to surprise me. The contradictions of uncertainty, failure, strength, excitement, anxiety, guilt, freedom, pride, frustration, motivation and lethargy… sometimes they come all at once, sometimes they creep up and overcome me in waves–unpredictable and often uncontrollable (and yes, I like to feel that I’m in control of my feelings, at the same time I know it’s an unrealistic expectation). I feel so many varying things that I’ve found it hard to navigate what’s authentic, what is a result of past beliefs and which ones reflect a fear of the unknown.

In that moment on the bus, I very consciously altered the direction of my life. I veered off the path paved by society with my eyes open. I opted to bushwack through the unknown until I found (or built) a new trail. It’s been rocky and muddy at times; frightening, beautiful and incredibly awe-inspiring. I’m gathering up new strengths and forming new perceptions as I step into my future. I’m still searching and exploring, but I’ve made a number of discoveries about myself these past months:
  • I’ve learned that knowing what you don’t want to do is just as valuable (if not moreso) than knowing what you do want to do. 
  • I’ve learned (and continue to practice) the difference between what I truly need and what I simply want.
  • I’ve learned to appreciate the value of a penny.
  • I’ve learned that I need more compassion and patience for myself.
  • I’ve learned that I enjoy writing and look forward to sharing more of myself with the world.
  • I’ve learned that I still want to help others.
  • I’ve learned that my generosity didn’t disappear under a corporate spell, but that it was simply hibernating and now recovering and blossoming again.
  • I’ve learned that I am horrible at self-motivation on a daily basis.
  • I’ve learned that I still don’t like to leave voicemail.
  • I’ve learned there’s an entire new world of RSS and blogs out here.
  • And I’ve learned to pay attention to the world I’m living in a little bit more and notice the nuances, expressions and details that I so easily overlooked and took for granted. 
So, so much to learn and appreciate. I continue to create my path. The future is still wide open. The journey of self-discovery continues. 





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