Striving for a new kind of perfect

"Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try to be that perfectly." -- St. Francis de Sales

When I look at the magnificence of the delicate monarch butterfly above and read the wisdom of one of my favorite great saints, my first reaction is: "Easy for you to say." They're already pretty close to perfect by any objective standards, so they've got some nerve implying that little old perpetually imperfect me can do the same. But they weren't always perfect, were they?

That monarch started off as a little ugly caterpillar, inching its way around. Just by being itself, by allowing what God created to unfold before the world, beauty was borne from what appeared to be not all that beautiful, at least according to worldly standards.

And St. Francis? He wasn't always so perfect. He was just another human being, striving to be what God called him to be. But he recognized -- in a way that's remarkably relevant to our modern times despite the fact that he lived in the 17th century -- that if we try to be someone else's version of perfect, it's never going to work out for us.

So how to be yourself perfectly, especially when you recognize that yourself has a long, long way to go to get anywhere close to perfect. That's a tough call. We want to change. We want to be what the world judges as perfect -- beautiful, financially secure or maybe even rich, successful, happy, healthy. We want it all, but very few of us get it all. Even the ones who appear to have it all on the surface are usually lacking somewhere else. And some people have suffering beyond what any of us can imagine and yet still manage to see their life as perfect, or close to it.

I guess the place to start deep inside. Who do you believe you are? What do you want to be -- not professionally but universally? When you look back at the end of your life, what do you want to see in your wake? I think that's where we find the clues. And once we admit who and what we truly are, we can begin to accept it and perfect it, even if no one else thinks we're so perfect.

We may never have the grandeur of that monarch butterfly, but if we allow ourselves to emerge just as God created us to be, we will eventually spread our wings and fly.

Keeping my balance in an off-kilter world

The deacon who preached the homily at Mass this weekend used a story told by the late Cardinal Joseph Bernardin to make his point. It was the story of a prophet who, of course, preached what people needed to hear but what they didn't always like to hear -- repentance and reformation and righteousness -- and little by little his audience disappeared. Some even turned on him.

One day someone asked the prophet why he continued to preach when it was clear that no one was listening. He replied that although at first he preached in hopes that he would change others, now he preached in hopes that others would not change him.

Whammo! That got my attention. That's exactly where I feel I am these days. Much of my "preaching" feels like nothing more than the conversations I have with myself in my own head or, on many occasions, in my own office or kitchen as I'm padding around checking emails or washing dishes.

I try to share my journey here whenever I can. Sometimes that means photos of kids doing silly things or close-ups of my latest cooking creations, but often it means divulging a little piece of my soul, which is never easy and always scary. I feel a bit like that fuzzy caterpillar in the photo at the top of this post, inching his way along the gravel road of a horse farm. Talk about putting yourself out there. But sometimes that's what you've got to do.

Like over the past two weeks. Several times I inched my way out into a sometimes-hostile world to talk about my political position of "independent" and what it means to me, to discuss the obvious connection between vegetarianism and being pro-life, and to "let my pro-life freak flag fly," the most scary of all my posts because I knew how much some would hate it. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Squish.

And I have to admit there was part of me that wondered why I would do that to myself. Why open myself up for the inevitable backlash -- whether through nasty comments or the silent treatment? What's the point?

When I heard our deacon tell the story about the the prophet (And, trust me, I know full well I'm not a prophet, so, please, no nasty comments about that!), it really hit me like a ton of bricks because I think that's exactly what I've been doing lately. I've been preaching my message, letting my freak flag fly in order to keep myself from being changed by the world around me. Even if I am preaching for no one but myself, I guess that's enough.

So I'm willing to take the occasional criticism, silence, or outright unfriending if that's what it means to be true to myself and to remember what it is that guides my core and keeps me centered in a world increasingly off balance.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." -- John 1:5

Take a virtual tour of my office

Main work desk, book posters, assorted goodies

I'm always talking about working from home -- my incense, my candles, my stuff. So I thought today I'd invite you all in for a virtual visit. Now you'll know where I'm coming from.

Deadline/assignment board and feather boa

Bookshelf/sacred space

St. Francis portrait from Subiaco

Quiet corner/prayer bench

Detail

Overview of one side

 Some of my favorite items from the shelves of my two bookcases...

Buddha eyes box (incense stored inside)

Prayer shelf

Merton and more

Relics of St. Francis de Sales and Jane de Chantal

VanGogh and Jane de Chantal, an unlikely combo

Random stuff that gives you insights into my wackiness....

Angels and battery candles

Gumby, icons, and prayer books, oh my.

Photos, collages, social justice statements

Newest saint

Hemingway, Tibetan prayer flags, icon of Dorothy Day

If you're ever in the neighborhood, stop by for a real visit so you can smell the incense and hear the music. :-)

Letting my pro-life freak flag fly

Noah in utero

I wrote something yesterday, and before I hit "publish," I questioned whether I wanted to do it at all because I knew the potential fall out from friends who don't see my point of view. And then I said to myself (out loud, because I hate to have to strain to hear what I'm saying), "If you're gonna stand for something, then stand for something." But I knew even as I was hitting the button that it would likely cause me trouble, and then I thought (this time silently), "Who cares?" Because, quite frankly, life is too short to pretend -- whether through outright lies or quiet omission -- that I'm something I'm not.

And so last night I updated my Facebook "political views" from "Don't ask, don't tell" (a nice, safe view if ever there was one) to "Independent, pro-life, vegetarian, traditional Roman Catholic, yogi. You try to figure it out." Why hide who I am, what I am when no one else seems to worry about who their opinions and positions offend or unsettle?

There was a time when I took every opportunity I could to stand up and proclaim my views. College was an endless string of pro-life speeches, essays, philosophy presentations, and debates. And not once did I cower or waver or doubt. But times have changed, and free speech is no longer as free as it once was, but that's a whole other, frightening story that many people aren't willing to admit or, even more shockingly, are willing to accept. And all of that scares me and at the same time emboldens me because in some places young women are being shot for the right just to be educated, no less speak their minds. So how weak would I be if I didn't even have the courage to stand up to the mainstream bullies who hope to silence the rest of us by making us doubt -- or feel embarrassed by -- the truths we know deep in our hearts?

So here I am, making -- in the word's of Mama Cass -- my own kind of music, singing my own special song, even if nobody else sings along. Does that make it any less true for me, any less true in general? No. But in recent years I have let my opinions take a back seat because in the circles I move -- writers, vegetarians, yoga practitioners -- being pro-life isn't the norm and isn't really tolerated. Go figure. Talk about irony. And yet I feel it in a very real way. I go to yoga centers and read conservation magazines always with a sense that I'm an imposter or intruder because my views about life are outside what the so-called naturalists are willing to love or defend.

I am a writer. I am a vegetarian. I am a Roman Catholic. I am a yogi. I am a seeker. I am an open-minded, open-hearted pilgrim on a journey to the transcendent. I believe that life, even at its most vulnerable -- or especially at its most vulnerable -- deserves protection because to do otherwise would be unthinkable. And if even one person stops to think about what I've said and makes a choice on behalf of life, then this post is worth the paper it's not printed on.

I have felt a baby move in my belly. I have stared at an ultrasound and seen nose and toes and thumb shoved in mouth, no different than a newborn. To deny it would be to deny the truth. To acknowledge it and still look the other way is beyond what I can comprehend. There was a time when my pro-choice friends tried to convince me I was wrong, and for the briefest moment, I thought I could do it -- say I was "personally opposed but..." And then I looked in the mirror and knew I would only be lying to myself.

So it's time to let my pro-life freak flag fly once again. What's your truth? Speak it for all to hear, follow your heart, stand for something, even if no one else sings along. Here's Mama Cass to give you a little encouragement along the way:

Life in My 50s: The Adventure Begins

I hit the half-century mark today. I have to admit, this birthday feels different but not for the usual reasons. Dennis wanted to get me a fabulous "milestone" gift -- an iPhone, a supercharged juicer for my green juicing, some sort of gizmo or gadget befitting a major birthday event. Much to his chagrin, I kept saying, "No." Nothing seemed right, or necessary. There is no material thing I want or need, certainly nothing I equate with reaching 50 years old.

I think it's because this birthday calls for something much harder to grasp and impossible to buy, a new perspective, perhaps, rather than a new phone. In the not-so-distant past, my birthdays were cause for what I called the "Birthday Triduum," not one but three full days of celebration. If my birthday fell on a Friday or Monday, even better because the Triduum could include an entire weekend. Now I'm not sure I need even one day to mark the event. And it's not an age thing. I long ago came to terms with the fact that it's downhill from here in most departments. Maybe it's the notion of turning point. It seems as though 50 years presents a nice, self-contained package of sorts, something to be archived in the basement. And today I'm unwrapping a new, empty box just waiting to be filled, but with what?

My grandmother, who still lives on her own, will soon mark her 100th birthday. As I have said time and again in recent months, if I've inherited her genes and determination and strength, I get to live my entire life over again from start to finish. What would I do with another half-century of living?

I don't want the rest of my life -- however long I get -- to be only a time of fading, even though part of me welcomes that idea. (I'm continually threatening to live like a hermit in my basement office, but then I have to lead a Girl Scout meeting or drive one of the girls to dance or speak at a Catholic gathering and that idea goes out the window.) I think whatever comes next should be a time of growing in the important areas of my life, as a spiritual seeker, as a wife and mother, as a human being, and maybe in some of the less serious and more fun areas as well, things I haven't yet had a chance to try but have always wanted to tackle.

I'll see how post-50 life begins to develop in the months ahead, and you can come along for the ride. In between, I'll share bits of half-century wisdom about everything from the ridiculous to the sublime. Okay, mostly the ridiculous since sublime is way above my pay grade. Just watch for posts tagged with the "Life in My 50s" headline.

Now I'm off to blow out some candles. Anyone have a fire extinguisher?

The space between fear and trust

This morning I returned to my beloved early morning yoga class after a very long hiatus due to a physical condition/injury. I won't bore you with details. Suffice to say, I had and will have for the rest of my life a situation that prevents me from fully doing yoga the way I like to do it.

I was supposed to be starting 200-hour yoga teacher training this month. Instead, my favorite yoga teacher is recommending I learn to be satisfied with taking classes in "chair yoga" and "water yoga." I'm not good at being satisfied with what I view as "less than," but perhaps therein lies the lesson. Another thing I really don't want to hear.

For the past few months, I have seesawed between anger and sadness -- that I can no longer do yoga the way I have always done it, that I have to accept limitations, that I have to let go of my ego in class and sometimes not do what everyone else can do, even people much older than me.

So, anyway, back to this morning... I looked at my bedside clock and saw 5:14 a.m. and realized that, if I hurried a bit, I could get to the Y in time for 5:45 a.m. class. I went back and forth in my head for at least a few minutes before I finally jumped up and starting hunting around in the dark for my yoga clothes. I got to class, settled in, and, as is always the case when I start to bend and stretch into poses, began to unwind, for the first time in months. After class, my teacher stopped to ask how it went since she knows my physical issues and worked with me when I first discovered them.

As we chatted, the conversation turned from yoga to life in general, and I let slip that I really need yoga at this point in my life because there is so much looming ahead of me that scares me. Yoga helps me quiet down long enough to pray. That's the bottom line here. I need yoga in order to enter more deeply into prayer and, as a result, enter more fully into my own life.  And this is what my yoga teacher said (more or less):

Imagine that you're swinging on a trapeze. You can see the other bar you need to grab; it's right there. But you can't get to that bar unless you let go of the one you're holding at the moment. Fear is that space between, that moment when you're not holding onto anything. You have to trust that if you let go and reach, you'll get to the other bar. And she's exactly right. I am holding onto my current trapeze bar for dear life, watching the other bar swinging and swinging and swinging just ever-so-slightly beyond my grasp. I can almost feel it, but every time I stretch in that direction, I get a bit unstable and pull back, looking down to see if the net is still there, if I have a safe escape hatch.

"What's the worst that can happen?" she asked me. Oooh, that's a question you don't want to ask someone like me. She doesn't have enough time to hear my litany of What ifs.... So I said the first thing that popped into my head: "I'll make a fool of myself." And she looked at me in the sweet and peaceful way that she has about her (because she does yoga all the time) and reminded me that fear breeds fear and that I need to let go and let the Universe accept all the fear that's weighing down my shoulders and mind and heart so I can focus on something positive.

She said "universe," but I heard God because that is my Universe. And that is what God asks of me: Don't be afraid. Surrender. Trust.

What's the worst thing that can happen? I guess the worst thing is that I'll miss the bar after all and fall to the net below. Am I willing to risk falling? Do I believe in my heart that God will catch me if that happens? Can I let go and fly through the air with nothing holding me up but trust in God, in the Universe? I guess we'll find out.

Embracing the daring adventure called life

My latest Life Lines column from the current issue of Catholic New York:

My oldest godchild is about to embark on a life-changing journey, moving away from the town he has known his whole life to a new place with none of the safety nets home often provides. I remember when I did the same almost 25 years ago, leaving my reporting job at Catholic New York to drive my Chevy Chevette to Austin, Texas. In August. Without air conditioning.

That last fact alone should have been reason enough to call my sanity into question, and yet that move, along with the many life events that came after—both good and not so good— helped shape me into who I am today. Without those Texas years, I’d be different. Maybe not better or worse, but definitely different, a little less whole, a little less who I was meant to be.

Despite my control-freak personality, I’ve always been a person willing to take “reasonable” risks, willing to follow my heart even when my heart was telling me I had to make some pretty difficult choices. Sometimes I wish I’d just be happy with the status quo, but where’s the joy in that?

When I finally got my first job in Texas—after two agonizing months of unemployment, lots of rejection and a dwindling savings account—I tacked a Helen Keller quote over my desk at the daily newspaper: “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature…Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

I still remember how one of my Austin officemates scoffed at that quote, questioning how I could possibly consider this particular job a “daring adventure.” Although I was too surprised or hurt to say anything in response at the time, inside I knew that yes, leaving my home, driving across the country, landing a job and creating a totally new life for myself was, in fact, a daring adventure.

And so I recently counseled my godchild to go with his gut when he went out to Chicago for a visit, to go on job interviews and listen to his intuition, but most importantly not to let the fear keep him from going, because listening to the fear only leads to regrets.

I still have that Helen Keller quote about life’s daring adventure hanging next to my desk in my basement office, and on the homepage of my website. It remains my motto, even if I often have trouble letting go and savoring the adventure that is life. Right next to that quote, I have another, this one from Eleanor Roosevelt: “Do one thing every day that scares you.”

Have you ever looked back at a moment in your life and realized that if you knew then what you know now you might not have had the courage to go ahead and do that very same thing today? I can think of lots of moments like that, times when I had a choice: turn toward the fear and let my life close in a little, or turn away from the fear and open myself up to whatever God might have in store for me.

We can’t always be guaranteed that taking a chance will work out just the way we imagined or planned. There are certainly many decisions and events surrounding my Texas move that were less than stellar, but would I trade them, delete them, or wish them away if I could? Never, because a radically different life scenario would have set in motion a domino effect, leading to too many wonderful moments that never would have come to pass.

I hope my godchild Gregory finds everything he imagines and more in his new home, but, even if he doesn’t, the experience will add some new dimensions to his personality, some missing pieces to the life puzzle that confronts each one of us. Today he’s found the courage to do one thing that probably scares him, to open himself up to the daring adventure. And that is the epitome of faith.

Curl Power: A Ringlet Manifesto

I don't know how you feel about your hair, but for most of my life I have had a love-hate relationship with my curls. When I was younger, I desperately wanted straight Marcia Brady hair. Alas, that was not to be. My nickname as a toddler was "springs" just to give you some indication of just what I was dealing with. No amount of blow drying, straightening, and sewer-pipe curlers could take out what God put in, especially after gym class on a warm rainy day.

Then, in the Big Hair 80s, I had it made. I had exactly what everyone else was paying someone to do to their hair. I actually rediscovered (since I hadn't sported springs since toddlerhood) my hair's true curliness by accident, caught in a rain storm after a Styx concern (yes, I said Styx) and unable to find the car. As my hair dried on the eventual drive home without the aid of any straightening accessories, ringlets began to form all over my head. And that was all she wrote. I was sold.  It was even better when I became the lead singer in a rock band because big hair was sort of a requirement back then.

Although I've mostly worn my hair curly as an adult, there have been times when I've tried to straighten it or loosen it. And there have been many, many days when I've just flat out hated it. Often times other people unknowingly reinforced my feelings by suggesting I straighten my curls or do something to get them under control, thereby implying that wearing them natural was unacceptable, at least in polite society.

Recently though I made a decision to embrace my curls again and for good. After trying out a semi-straight short hairstyle that required either Keratin treatment or flat ironing, I realized I missed my curls. That's a major realization for someone like me. In fact, when I decided I wanted to go back to my naturally curly hair I was devastated to find that the Keratin had left portions of it unable to curl. I was in a curl-less panic. I think that's when I had my Aha! Curly Moment. I never had to doubt my curls before, and, suddenly, as I stared at lifeless strands in the mirror, it was as though someone had taken away a piece of my identity. Fortunately, with regrowth, the curls came back with their usual bouncy, springy, insanely cork-screwy personality.

I think all of this has something to do with the Big 5-0 looming out there in less than two months. As I approach this half-century milestone, I find myself reassessing things, and my hair is one of them. To pull out my curls is like hiding a part of my true self, and I want to embrace all of my true self. Despite what others may think (and, surprisingly, sometimes say to my face) I actually like it when my hair is a little tipsy, verging on wild, and pushing the hair envelope. It's like my personality coming out through my hair follicles.

I am as unpredictable and funky and mysterious as the crazy curls I am blessed to have popping out in all directions. After 50 years of battling my springs, to finally see them as a blessing is truly a revelation to me. A glorious curly, sometimes frizzy revelation. Sure, I'll still get annoyed when it's August and 150 percent humidity and my hair takes on a life of its own, but, hey, straight-haired people have their own bad hair days, so who am I to skirt that issue.

So if you see me bouncing along, curls askew, rest assured that my hair is supposed to look that way, not because it's the latest fashion, not because I'm trying to please someone else, but because for once, finally, and I hope forever, I love my curls, and, in this particular matter, I'm the only one who counts. Curl power.

Feel free to show your hair some love in the comment section. Unleash your true self -- curly, straight, wavy, whatever. You are perfect just as you are.

Striving to become your 'true self'

My latest Life Lines column in the current issue of Catholic New York:

It amazes me sometimes how a casual comment, a familiar smell or the sound of a name we haven’t heard in a while can send us spiraling back in time to a place or event we’d long ago forgotten. Memories linger on our hearts. Some we’d like to preserve forever; some we wish would stay hidden. Good or bad, they are too often the things that shape us.

I was at lunch with some friends recently, laughing and sharing stories, when one line, uttered in passing, hit me like a brick. I was suddenly on the playground in elementary school, feeling unwanted for reasons I never quite understood. As I had during those sometimes painful times of my past, I kept a dim smile on my face, hoping to hide the fact that I was aching inside, not because what was said was intentionally hurtful but because it spoke a truth I’d rather not admit.

We all want to be loved, even if we don’t show it or say it. We want to feel accepted, appreciated, and while that sometimes seems important on the surface—as evidenced by the popularity of accumulating Facebook friends by the hundreds—that kind of goal only serves to take us farther and farther from our truth.

Life is not a popularity contest, and the road to sainthood is not paved with compliments and friend requests. Trying to fashion ourselves in someone else’s image is just about the worst thing we can do. It’s really no different from what I tell my kids as they face their own struggles on the playground or in the classroom, and yet I think we adults sometimes forget that it still applies to us. Too often we think becoming successful or loved or holy means becoming someone different than the person we are at our core, the person we were created to be.

Jesuit Father James Martin, in his book Becoming Who You Are, talks about our penchant for wanting to become better by becoming different:

“Early in the novitiate, I thought that being holy meant changing an essential part of who I was, suppressing my personality, not building on it. I was eradicating my natural desires and inclinations, rather than asking God to sanctify and even perfect them…As strange as it sounds, I thought that being myself meant being someone else.”

I think that same line of reasoning is true for most of us. We look around and make comparisons and see ourselves as “less than.” Comparisons lead nowhere, at least nowhere good, but that no-win proposition of keeping up with the Joneses—materially, professionally, socially, spiritually—is about as American as apple pie, or Facebook.

“Your life is shaped by the end you live for. You are made in the image of what you desire,” famed Trappist monk Thomas Merton once wrote, reminding us that the only way to conquer the world is to renounce it.

We can’t all “renounce” the world in monastic fashion, but we can renounce all those things that pull us off our true path, that convince us we need to be somebody else in order to be good enough, to be loved.

Truth is, we are loved exactly as we are, by a God who holds us in the palm of his hand no matter how many Facebook friends we have or how much “stuff” we have or have not accumulated.

“No one can serve two masters,” Jesus said. So often today our “masters” are not just money and possessions but the comparisons we make and strive to live up to, the desires we have to be someone we’re not, the longing to be loved not by God but by the world.

God alone. When that’s enough, no memory can knock us off our path or send us reeling because we possess the only thing that truly matters. What is the end you’re living for?

To read other Life Lines columns, visit my website at www.marydeturrispoust.com

Sand, surf and the "true self"

The Jersey Shore may seem to be an unlikely place to read a spiritual book about unmasking your "true self," but that is exactly what I've been doing while I sit in my sand chair watching Chiara make "soup" in the 24-inch wading pool that we drag with us to the beach each day. (Can you believe we actually bring a pool to the beach? Yes, we're insane.)

I just finished "Becoming Who You Are," by James Martin, S.J., one of my all-time favorite writers. I first discovered him when a friend gave me "My Life With the Saints" a couple of Christmases ago. I followed that up with Father Martin's book on devotions. But "Becoming Who You Are" combines some of my most favorite spiritual thinkers in one slim volume: Thomas Merton, Henri Nouwen, Mother Teresa, and, last but certainly not least, Jesus. Here is the random paragraph that caught my eye before I started officially reading this book. It was all I needed to see to know that this book was for me:

"Much of this journey involved my letting go of the need to be somebody else. Nobody in particular, mind you, just a feeling that I needed to be different. Early in the novitiate, I thought that being holy meant changing an essential part of who I was, suppressing my personality, not building on it. I was eradicating my natural desires and inclinations, rather than asking God to sanctify and even perfect them. Here's the way I thought about it: I knew that I certainly wasn't a holy person, so therefore being holy must mean being a different person." (p. 29)

Wow, how long have I thought pretty much the exact same thing? For most of my life, or at least my adult life, I have figured that the only way to become a better person was to become a different person. Now, the odd thing about that is that if you asked me who I would want to be if I could be anyone else, I would tell you -- as I have told other people when asked this very question -- that I would not want to be anyone but me, doing the job I'm doing. So it's not that I want to be someone specific; I just want to be someone different from the me I am right now. This book, however, looks at the possibility, the reality, that becoming a "better" person is not about changing who we are but about becoming who we already are down in our hearts and souls, the selves that God created us to be.

Martin quotes Merton from "Seeds of Contemplation" saying: "For me to be a saint means to be myself." The key is to figure out who we are, dropping the masks we put on for the benefit of other people, or maybe for the benefit of our own egos.

The beach is actually the perfect place to do that kind of thinking, although typically it would probably be best to do serious soul searching sans the sand toys and boogie boards and constant quest for hermit crabs. Still, when all else fails, it can work despite the most ridiculous distractions: Think 3-year-old needing to go to the bathroom in the middle of the incredibly wide Wildwood beach with nary a bathroom or pull-up in site. Think arguing with Olivia that she must release the eight hermit crabs in her bucket before they all boil in their own ocean water right before our eyes (She finally returned them to the sea, saying in true Jesus fashion, I love every one of them just the same. OK, maybe Jesus didn't say it just like that, but you know what I mean.)

I am closing in on 46 years old and I will readily admit that I still do not know my "true self," although I do think I'm coming much closer as I get older. The scales are tipping away from what I think I should be toward what I know I am. If you've ever felt that way, even for a minute, pick up Father Martin's book by clicking HERE and read it, and then read it again.