Seven Years

I hadn't even realized I had been in my current job seven years until a friend asked if I was sensing a "seven-year itch."  All I could think of was the Marilyn Monroe film. Wasn't "seven-year itch" about flirting with the blonde upstairs?  The phrase always suggested constant impatience and dissatisfaction to me. Maybe that is what my friend was sensing in me.  In fact, I had already been sensing it in myself.  

Later that same week, I was at the college union, ordering lunch at the snack bar.  My sandwich and coffee totaled $7.77.   "Better than 666!" the cashier quipped.  The fry cook behind her spoke up, "Seven is lucky!  It's God's number. The number of completion."

Something audibly clicked in my head.

Completion isn't the same as satisfaction. Although God may have had smug satisfaction on Sunday, I don't see completion as so self-assured or lucky.  Completion might just mean That's over. That's finished. Now you need to get moving, girl. The number 7 isn't lucky at all -- it's a sign that when something is over, you have to move on. You may even have to start over. You just do. 

So this spring, I counted my life backward in sevens....

--Seven years ago, in 2008, my first marriage ended tragically when my young husband Chris died suddenly of cardiac arrest in our kitchen one night after dinner. I moved to Greenville. I started my job as a English professor.   

--Seven years before that, in 2001, I completed my M.A. in English, and Chris and I moved to Illinois so I could start my Ph.D. 

--Seven years before that, in 1994, I completed my first year as an undergraduate English major in college. 

--Seven years before that, in 1987, I completed junior high, and I learned that writing was my passion.

--Seven years before that, in 1980, I started kindergarten.

All of these events are tied to significant change, to say the least.  Although most are connected to my education, or making transitions because of education, other shifts are tied to very traumatic change, loss, or moves.  These increments of time do not so much mark completion as much as they pose the necessary and frightening question: What's next?  The number 7 is really rather arbitrary here.... or is it? 

Now, another seven years has passed, and I am two months from turning 40. The watershed is here.  Actually, it's been on the landscape for a long time, but I wasn't really looking at it. I couldn't look at it. But now I know that it's time to acknowledge completion and say to myself, with no judgement, That's over. That's finished. Get moving, girl.

So stay tuned...

#urbanroost ;)

Vulnerability and Currency

        Not long ago, we endured winter in Illinois.  Scott Field was a bleak landscape on the Greenville College campus, reminiscent of that final wasted planet in the film Interstellar.  I don’t know about you, but I have grown less and less enchanted with winter in Illinois, and I hibernate whenever I have a chance.  Naturally, a winter night in Illinois leads to…Netflix.  What else? In order to chase away the winter blues, I finally watched the hit NBC sitcom Parks & Recreation.  If you aren’t familiar with it, you should be.  Set in fictional Pawnee, Indiana, the series depicts over-achieving deputy parks director Leslie Knope, her anti-government, sullen, mustache-sporting boss Ron Swanson, and a motley crew of apathetic city employees.  From emo April Ludgate to social media mogul wannabe Tom Haverford to office pariah Jerry (Gary/Larry), the show still reveals a beating heart at the center of its mockumentary humor. This cast of lovable, idiosyncratic characters got me through a rough winter, my friends.  

              So when I think of leadership, I just can’t help myself – I think of the fictional Leslie Knope!  Even as a TV character, Leslie Knope shows me what matters in leadership – passion for her work, love for the people she serves, tireless creativity and problem-solving, and desire for change and progress in her community.  As even the morose April Ludgate might say, “I love her.” Furthermore, others have noted Leslie’s appeal as a role model for women. From Twitter to memes to TV reviews, audiences are very pro-Leslie.  In her online article for Medium, writer Hanna Brooks Olsen examines the importance of Leslie as a female leader in a televised world.  Olsen writes: “Leslie’s positive traits -- her unstoppable work ethic, her deep, thoughtful love of her friends, and her nonstop motivation to succeed—are the ones that make her a role model.” 

         Leslie Knope’s real-life counterpart is, of course, a role model herself – powerhouse writer/producer/director/SNL alum/and improv artist Amy Poehler.   In her recent memoir, Yes Please, Poehler discusses her beginnings in improv and her journey to self-discovery.  The wisdom she shares throughout her book is not only hilarious but also straight-forward and truthful.   Here’s one truth that I love: “The earlier you learn that you should focus on what you have and not obsess about what you don’t have, the happier you will be.”  Such advice might remind you of Strengthsquest, our institution’s well-known inventory of personal strengths, the survey we all take here to reveal our best abilities.  But I’m going to tell you something shocking: knowing our strengths is not always the best path toward success or influence.

              Poehler’s advice goes deeper.  In her experience, she recognized that vulnerabilities defined her own currency and determined her influence.  She writes:

“If you are lucky, there is a moment in your life when you have some say as to what your currency is going to be.  I decided early on it was not going to be my looks.  Improvisation and sketch comedy helped my find my currency.  My plain face was a perfect canvas to be other people.  There is nothing I like more than picking out wardrobe for a character.  Looking silly can be very powerful.  People who are committing and taking risks become the king and queen of my prom.  People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth, and being chased in a fun way.  Improvisation and sketch comedy let me choose who I wanted to be.  Every week on SNL I had the opportunity to write whatever I wanted.  And then I was allowed to read it!  And people had to listen! And once in a blue moon it got on TV!  And maybe five times it was something really good.  Writing gave me an incredible amount of power, and my currency became what I wrote and said and did.”    

Amy Poehler determined her influence by first identifying what did not validate her, what made her feel vulnerable.  Learning what we lack becomes a key turning point for how we work and what we do.

         One story I often share about my own vulnerability involves my experience as a middle school athlete.  Spoiler alert: My currency was not sports. I spent almost two years trying desperately to fit in with friends and play sports.  I was tall, so guess what everyone said?  You should be great at basketball!  But I was awkward and not very strong. I wasn’t a good runner.  I was inevitably teased and derided for my weaknesses by teammates.  Still, I kept thinking that I needed to be an athlete, I had to be an athlete – after all, that was about the only activity for a kid in a small Kansas town.  Everyone expected it from us. Finally, my 8^th grade year rolled around and I boldly rejected the idea of going out for track.  And it was lonely.  I would catch the after-school bus while many of my friends ran out to the track for practice, chatting and laughing. 

So what was my currency? 

          It was writing. That spring, my English teacher required our class to write poems for a state competition and publication.  I spent hours on my poem, and it won. It was published.  For the first time, I felt strong.  I wasn’t awkwardly forcing myself into sports for other people.   By the time I hit high school, writing and literature became my passions, and…the rest is history.  By owning up to my vulnerabilities, I found my currency, even at a young age. The takeaway?

Own up to vulnerability.

Learn your currency.

Reveal your influence.

          When it comes to research about vulnerability, there is no better writer than Brene Brown. First off, do not confuse vulnerability with weakness, Brown warns.  In her book The Gifts of Imperfection, Brown connects the acceptance of vulnerability to a constant practice of cultivating authenticity in our lives. Authenticity is not simply something you have or don’t have – it is a choice.  Brown explains: “Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest.  The choice to let our true selves be seen.”  From there, Brown built a model for creating an authentic self: “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.”  For Brown, this means that we allow ourselves to be vulnerable.  We can influence others not by being strong, not by appearing perfect, but by acknowledging vulnerability and leading others with our authentic self.

          So how own up to our vulnerabilities and be leaders? This seems so paradoxical.  Leaders should be all self-assurance, right? Smug, polished, brave, unflappable, right? Well, no, because no person can do that. Plus, who can be influenced by perfection?   There’s no reality in it.  We influence others when we show them that they are not alone.  We are all imperfect, all vulnerable, all in need of grace. We’re all in this together.

          At Greenville College, many people are “in this together” as Christians.  When I think of Christian leadership, I go right to Henri Nouwen, and you probably should, too. In his book In the name of Jesus, Nouwen examines three distinctive temptations that leaders face – to be relevant, to be spectacular, and to be powerful.  In reality, Nouwen argues, our roles as Christian leaders should move us toward prayer, confession, and reflection.  Specifically, Nouwen describes the temptation to be spectacular as the temptation to do something that wins you great applause, something that allows you to prove yourself all on your own.  However, if leading others is more like shepherding, then we cannot be on our own.  Nouwen writes: “When Jesus speaks about shepherding, he does not want us to think about a brave, lonely shepherd who takes care of a large flock of obedient sheep.  In many ways, Jesus makes it clear that ministry is a communal and mutual experience.  The leader is a vulnerable servant who needs the people as much as they need him or her.”  We are in this together, owning up to vulnerabilities, identifying our currency, and striving to practice authenticity.  Brown actually calls it the “audacity of authenticity.”  It is countercultural to be authentic, and as Nouwen sees it, it is also against the grain to be like Christ.

          So what is your currency as a leader and as a Christian?  What do you need to acknowledge in order to practice your authentic self, your authentic influence? 

For me, this is a continual process.  What must I let go of?  That’s a constant question.  It didn’t start and end for me in 8^th grade track season, that’s for sure.  It didn’t start and end for me when I wrote a poem and learned that words and writing were my currency.  I ask this question nearly every day. In my work here at GC, being an English professor is just one of the many roles I play.  I direct an advising center, I direct our honors program, I serve on numerous committees, I write reports, I plan events, I organize with others, I debate policies, I advocate for students, I try to write about literature, TV, and film….sometimes I teach, too!  Bottom line: I have to take stock, let go of certain things, and determine my currency so I don’t burn out, so I can serve and influence others with my most authentic self.

          And although I am no Amy Poehler, by any stretch of the imagination, I have learned more about my own vulnerabilities and currency through taking improv classes at a training center in St. Louis.  Since January, and after reading Yes Please, improv has become more than a hobby for me – it has become my authenticity practice!  When you engage in improv scene work, you take a huge risk – you open yourself to the reality of the scene, the character you embody, and your scene partner.  By the simple rule of “Yes and” you tell your partner that you are open, you are vulnerable, and you are both in it together. Each one needs the other; each one influences the other. As Nouwen might say, you “shepherd” each other through the scene.

          To conclude today, I would like to tell you a true story from one of my improv experiences just last week, an event that ultimately “sparked” the topic of my talk.   Our instructor informed us that our class session would be dedicated to a vulnerability circle.  Each of us was required to move around the circle of our classmates, facing each one, and reveal something that made us vulnerable.  There are over 18 of us in the class, so yes, that’s right, we each had to say at least 18 things, out loud, that made us vulnerable. This was hard work.  All of us fight battles. We are broken, and grieving, and awkward, and shy, and all trying desperately to avoid any of it. To share what makes us vulnerable is the bravest thing we can do, the bravest thing to release.

          While I will not share any details about my classmates, I do want to share a beautiful image of them.   As each person moved around the circle, they eventually made their way to face the spotlights that flooded the stage where we stood in the theatre. These lights are blinding until you get used to them, and for most of us, we wanted to shield our eyes when we reached that position.   We laughed nervously as the people they faced would try to shield them from the brightness.  However, I saw something stunning that day.  I saw scared people confessing their vulnerabilities in the brightest of stage lights.  We were all terrified, but we revealed who we were to each other that day.  The lesson?  That we are all in this together.  Our currency emerges once we strip away who we aren’t and own up to vulnerability. Each face was brilliantly lit by the spotlight as they gave confessions of truth.  They were beautiful. As Poehler has said, “People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth, and being chased in a fun way.” We can only realize our influence and our currency by first knowing our vulnerabilities.

          And so, I will leave you with this final statement of influence:  You should definitely watch some Parks and Recreation when the going gets tough.  You never know what truths comedy can teach.

Mileena

Today, we made the hard decision to put Mileena to sleep.  She was over 16 years old.  I've tried to accept the inevitability of today for the past few months -- maybe even for the past year -- but really, I've just been in denial about having to make this choice at all.  When you've had a cat for that many years, you just assume she will always be with you -- padding around the house, scampering after a cat nip-laced toy, and leaping lightly onto the bed each night.

Mileena and her sister Kitana came to live with me and Chris Allen when we lived in Marion, Kansas, in 1998.  We hadn't even been married for two years at that time, and we were excited to have our first pet.  Because we wanted a cat, we assumed we would just get one -- one little kitten from the many litters that seemed to always erupt from homes in our small town.  However, when my co-worker appeared at our door with two mewling kittens in November 1998, we immediately knew that we had to have both of them. We named them Kitana and Mileena for... what else?  The twin sister ninjas in the arcade game Mortal Kombat II.  (That requires another post alone. More later.) The tiny, just-weaned sisters explored their new home with the tentative, clumsy steps that all kittens have.  As Christmas neared, we often found both of them cuddled up together on the tree skirt. Thankfully, they were too small to climb the tree, so we managed to avoid typical kitten disasters.

When the cats were little, we tried to keep them contained to a back room of the house so they wouldn't roam during the night.  I think that lasted less than a week.  They learned to push open the old kitchen door that never latched and make their way to our room. One night, I woke up with a warm pile of kittens sleeping on my chest. They had literally found my heart.

When Chris and I moved to Emporia about a year later, they enjoyed their new home, an apartment with a long hallway.  This, of course, allowed them to sprint after one another in heated bursts of play-fighting. I'm sure our neighbor downstairs could hear them when they pounded the floor with their paws and made an exceptional racket.   And then, just a year and half later, in 2001, we made our journey to Illinois.  Kitana and Mileena were true troopers of travel, enduring a carrier for the nine-hour trek to Champaign.  Thankfully, when we moved to our home in 2006, they only had a short twenty-minute jaunt across town.  Throughout all of this time, our cats were just simply there -- scuttling a milk ring or little toy mouse across the floor, cuddling on the couch, jumping into a lap when one of us worked at the computer, lounging on a table and playing with a pen, and tucking themselves into the curve of a body or the crook of a knee at bedtime. Those of you who know and love cats understand how comforting their presence can be.

In May of 2008, Chris died suddenly of a cardiac arrest, and life instantly shut down for me, only to restart as something I didn't understand or even want to accept.  However, what stayed the same in the midst of chaos and death was the presence of two loving cats. They witnessed what no other friend or family member did.  They alone sat by my side and looked up at me as if to say, "We are still here."  They came with me to Greenville when I started my new job, and for the past 5 1/2 years, they nurtured my broken heart, shared my space, took a few trips to Kansas and St. Louis, and they have loved Jesse. Kitana and Mileena not only found my heart, but they found his as well.

Mileena (like Kitana) was what is called a tortoiseshell cat, or a "Tortie."  I have loved the unique, crazy patterns of our cats' fur -- they look like dark calico, and even have some siamese features. Every time I teach Gerard Manly Hopkins' poem "Pied Beauty," I have always described my cats to my students as an example of the opening line:  "Glory be to God for dappled things...."

"Pied beauty," indeed.  We have to accept the dark with the light.

Mileena has been losing weight steadily for the past year.  We've tried hyperthyroid drugs, in addition to her daily medication for bladder stones, but she's never managed to put on more weight.  If she eats anything other than dry cat food, then it comes back up.  Although she was doing well over Christmas and New Year's, the past week showed her in excessive decline.  She was so much weaker, barely moving from the living room chair. She wanted to eat but couldn't -- everything seemed to come back up.  Her eyes were dull and sad, if I'm honest with myself. When she did move, she paced around the kitchen, looking at me with unspoken needs.  I kept trying to determine what she wanted, but I was ultimately denying what I knew: She was ready to go.

This morning, we made that hard decision.  It was all very peaceful for Mileena, and I'm so thankful for the veterinary hospital for being so calm and nurturing through the process. We have opted to have her cremated with her name on the box: Mileena Allen "Monkey" Sieger-Walls.  (Jesse gave her the nickname Monkey after he first heard her high-pitched, sweet questioning of a meow -- "Do you have a monkey in your house?" he asked.)  We cried so much at the hospital, but after we left, I felt such great peace and relief.  She would no longer suffer, and while she was on earth for 16 years, I knew that those who loved her gave her a good life.

Many of you will just think, "It's only a cat." I have never understood how people can think of any companion as "only."  There are many animals I would prefer to hang out with instead of people.

But then again, guess what?  You are right. She was "only a cat," and thank God she was "only a cat." Thank God she was "only my companion." Thank God she "only saved my life."  Thank God I saw love in "only a cat." When we are fortunate to find love in what is "only," in what others might deem small and insignificant, in what is "only a cat," then we are blessed beyond measure. The world has that much more hope for everyone.  That I feel such sorrow for Mileena also allows me to rejoice for her peace and her love.  The world is not all lost, and she is still a part of it.  I am thankful that she was here, and I was lucky enough to know her.

Hopkins would have understood Mileena best, counting her among God's signs of "pied beauty":

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Rest in peace, our little monkey Milly midget ninja princess girl.

Yes, and...

I started an improv class last week, and we had our first session on Sunday.  Over Christmas, I had been thinking very little about starting this class, but as the time grew closer, I grew more nervous.  By the day before, I was distracted and on edge -- not so different from when I teach my own classes at GC.  A few minutes before I walked in the door, I really wanted to run away and forget I had ever signed up.

There were nearly 30 people in the class. Clearly, January inspired this resolution for many folks. Most students, however, weren't interested in breaking into comedic acting or gaining fame. Most wanted what so many of us want: to be better in conversation, to be able to think and speak with more spontaneity, to use imagination, or to improve public speaking. These are, ultimately, the reasons I had for starting the class as well. Plus, I had several friends and a husband urging me to give it a go.

The most remarkable thing about improv is learning how to say "Yes, and..." to others.  As we attempted our first short scenes, we were directed to respond to everything that others said with "Yes, and...."  We weren't going to deny them their idea, their situation, or their conflict. When someone talks to us, presents us with an issue, shares a story, we should always say "Yes, and," right? By doing this, we affirm their experience and add to the story.  And all that story must tell is the story of being human.

How would your interactions with others change if you responded to them with "Yes, and" all the time?  But it isn't as easy as it may seem.  You shouldn't say, "Yes, and.... but..."  That would lead to you objecting to their story. You also can't ask too many questions and put your friend on the spot. That would require them to supply the whole story, and your job is to affirm it and add to it.

What a great practice to take into the new year.  Yes, and....

Another new year, another list

It is another new year's day.  I used to dislike this holiday when I was young -- the post-Christmas fatigue, the sense of winter truly setting on, the true end of the holiday break. As an adult I have grown to appreciate this day as one to reset my practices and reclaim my space.

Of course, that means that I also start to create the endless list of resolutions.  This happens almost unconsciously for me. I start to assemble the all-encompassing list of "everything I must do right now in order to be better/thinner/happier/smarter/more productive/less anxious/healthier/etc/etc."  I try to start small each year -- I will just have three -- no, five -- no, I should have a top ten. Yes, that's it.  A nice memorable dozen. Ok, wait -- I mean, 20.  And from that point on, I have failed by January 2.

Last year, I started this blog, and I actually kept up with it for a month or so.  I aimed to write 30 minutes a day and post it here.  This year, as you can see, I start again, examining the entries from last year with a sense of time traveling.  I punish myself a bit -- I mean, how hard is 30 minutes?!

I know that many of us do this to ourselves in January.  We develop that gung-ho list of tasks and things that will reconstruct ourselves into our what we assume could be our *best* selves. Such desire for self-renewal is commendable, but it also obliterates what could be a peaceful, still moment at a starting line of a new year. 1.1.  Maybe we just need to hang out at the beginning and rest before the starter pistol sounds. Maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't even run the stupid race.

My list, right now, has already accumulated the following desires:
1) Work out regularly (of course. that's a gimme)
2) Be attentive to eating well and clean (again, of course.)
3) Write every day, even if a blog
4) See all the movies, watch all the TV, read all the books (this could take up a list of its own)
5) Focus on friends and family instead of people who don't matter
6) Breathe more during the day
7) Pray more
8) Don't let work control you
9) Cook more
10) Take voice lessons
11) Take improv classes
12) Don't get exhausted from all the things you are going to do to *be better*!!

And so on, and so on.....

I recognize that while these are all good pursuits, they just make life another "to do" list.  One more thing to "get through" to be the person I should... or, I mean,.... want to be. Right?

So it's already a failure.  When new year's day still sees me in PJs by 2:00 p.m., then I know that what is really, truly my desire is a long way from hitting this list.

So here's what I will do with that list above: just shove it up to the universe and let the spirit do with it what it will. I'm eager to stop treating each year as a "to-do" list of what I lack. Maybe this is the year to just embrace what I already have.