There but for the grace...

Why do we choose the paths we do?

My coworkers and I were chatting about the time before our current jobs. One of my coworkers had a decidedly "vanilla" upbringing; we noted that despite that (noting also our own interpretations of vanilla), she's not judgmental, and she's very curious, inclusive, well-adjusted and exceptionally likable.

Another had a straight and narrow Southern Baptist upbringing, which influenced his choices until early mid-life, when everything shifted. He came out, acquired an addiction and found himself living a wild life - a life no one expected given his character and background.

Until about 12, my earliest childhood years had shades of vanilla, at least from the outside looking in (inside, maybe not so much: I sometimes refer to my family as the "grim Swedes," for their stoic determination and head-in-the-sand approach to conflict or problems; a friend also coined my heritage as "JewLute" - Jewish and Lutheran ancestry resulting in a guilt double-whammy). We were white-bread working class - no major scandals, nothing too exciting, basic needs all met, pretty "ordinary" by conventional standards. I can't say there was a lot of love in the house, but there wasn't a lot of visible conflict, either.

But my coworker's story and that of another brought to mind my own tumultuous teen years, and I can't help but shout out, "there but for the grace..."

Somehow, I made different choices than those of my friends - choices I couldn't have imagined for myself as a teenager. For much of my teen years, I wasn't encouraged, I didn't have good role models - in life, work, or relationships, and I didn't have hope. My losses were already extensive and growing. Dreams and desires? My general take was, "Why bother... " I couldn't see beyond the scope of my immediate reality.

I lost my aunt - essentially my caretaker - at 8, an alcoholic who hid her bottles; my grandfather at 9, and my grandmother at 12. Mom worked, and was emotionally detached. So by the time I turned 13, there wasn't really anyone left for me to be accountable to. I felt angry, scared and alone.

Yet somehow... I made it through, made different choices, never quite stepped off that ledge. My best friend at 14, whose father was both violent and a pedophile, succumbed to endless abuse and addiction, and is now occasionally homeless. A later BFF - inseparable from about 16 - 20 - told me to stay out of her life; by then, she was moving quickly down the road of addiction and prostitution, from which she'd never escape. Countless others followed a path of abuse, addiction, alcoholism... leading to incarceration, dis-ease and dead ends, whether dead-end relationships, jobs... or an early death. Stanley said what many of us thought at the time, "Die young and leave a good looking body." He died at 19 of an overdose. Having no siblings and a mostly absent mother during those years, these kids were my family. And yet, while I was prone to self-abuse, I didn't go where they did. How? Did the stability of those earliest formative years, despite the many shortcomings, make a difference, and keep me just shy of self-destruction?

Conscious or not, we do choose. We make choices based on what's familiar, what's comfortable, and what we believe we deserve. If we believe at our core - largely unconscious until something triggers awareness - that what we deserve is abuse (or that people will leave us, not love us, not help us...), every choice we make will likely support more of the same. And those results can be subtle but profound at the same time.

Despite what I believed about myself, somehow, I got myself through high school, college, found decent jobs and eventually got married (not necessarily in A to Z order, and the marriage was short-lived). I was the first in my known family to go to college (on my dad's side, they were well-educated, but I didn't know them until my early 20s; my dad died at 28 just after I was born).

I did what I thought I was supposed to do based on what I saw "out there." I had so many life lessons to learn; my upbringing gave me street smarts but no practical life skills to thrive in the 'real world.' With no real guidance, I drew from an internal well of resources I didn't know I had, even though at my core, I had a lot of shame and didn't believe I deserved much.

Not any more. As an adult, I had some help along the way - therapists, coaches, friends, even a couple of teachers - but I give myself credit where credit's due. When I unearthed a knotted ball of shame residing deep within me, I saw how it kept me from living fully - and dreaming. And now, thanks to a lot of work and a vivid imagination, that little ball is a pile of ashes. Around that pile lives a fireball that drives me. A little flame was always there; I'm certain now that it kept me from jumping over the proverbial cliff into a place from which I, too, might never escape. I started dreaming again. And now I know I'm deserving of creating and achieving my dreams.

And yes, there but for the grace...

My mom always said I had a guardian angel. I suspect she was right. I'm pretty sure that internal fireball is connected to a universal life force, an energy, that connects us all and guides us, despite our own free will. Each of us has a purpose - whether or not we're ever conscious of what that is. We're here to learn, grow and make a difference - even if that difference is the impact we have on those around us, to help them also learn, grow and make a difference. Or just to have a better day. There but for the grace...

In a golden cage

White bird, just sits in her cage, growing old... white bird must fly, or she will die. 

I first heard White Bird when I was 10 or 11. I remember how old I was because we were all at my cousin's place for Easter, and my wheelchair-bound grandmother was there. My cousin was living (in sin, by some standards) with her boyfriend; his record collection was unlike any I'd ever seen and he had the stereo sound to go with it.

The sound on that system was crisp and clear with every vocal and violin intonation distinctly separate from the rest of the music. The song was an instant favorite for reasons that at the time would have been unclear. It was rare and unusual - and a little bit strange. Beautiful, yet somewhat disturbing, melancholy yet hopeful -visceral feelings not necessarily conscious. My friends didn't know it. It wasn't in regular radio rotation. So for years after that first moment, when I'd hear it on the local AM station, I'd tell myself it would be an unusually good day.

A couple years later, a handsome Vietnam vet moved in down the street. He'd stand in his doorway, dark eyes watching me pass, his bearded mouth drawing on a cigarette. When he invited me in to check out his record collection, I was smitten. He had a copy of It's a Beautiful Day, and a decent sounding stereo. It was on his porch I tried my first cigarette and experienced my first French kiss.

And still, the song stayed with me. I'm only just realizing this: those lyrics could have been prophetic for me.

While I was the apple of my grandfather's eye, I was a thorn in my grandmother's side. At least in our shared years together, she was mean, miserable and a martyr. She built her own impenetrable cage and grew old prematurely. My mother, absorbing my grandmother's guilt, created a cage of her own. She, too, grew old prematurely.

The leaves blow across the long black road, to the darkened sky in its rage. Both my grandmother and my mother were angry, unwitting victims, and my mother, so very alone. Now, I can't help but think of my mom when I hear that song. And still I tell myself it's going to be a good day.

My own cage began early, from my need for approval or staying invisible, to an over-the-top rebellion throughout my teens - an expression of a deep anger and shame I didn't understand. That early stereo was also my first introduction to Frank Zappa and Dinah-Moe Humm, which a few years later, could have been my anthem... Just get me wasted and you're halfway there; when my mind's messed up, my body don't care. 

But a perpetual need to not settle, to push, to somehow be different, kept me from ever locking that cage door. While the infrastructure was there - it was familiar and safe - I recognized it was a place I didn't want to be. It has taken ongoing courage, self-evaluation, painful experiences, conscious effort and shifting my beliefs about myself and what I'm worth. And, I believe, a lot of grace and gratitude. The skeleton remains as a reminder, but I have no desire to visit that place.

The song has recently reappeared as part of my interior sound track. As I dive deep into the coaching experience, I am acknowledging my own progress, and noticing how many of us create cages for ourselves that we're hard-pressed to escape. How many of us don't realize there's a way out, that the door isn't locked, or that we're really in charge of that lock? Cages can take many forms and shapes, and while, yes, we can be victimized, we largely create our own cages. Usually unconsciously. Mostly unwittingly.

We don't have to stay there. There's a way out. And it doesn't have to be hard.

The sunsets come, the sunsets go, the clouds pile high, the air moves slow. And the young bird's eyes do always know, she must fly, she must fly, she must fly. 

This song is still my queue to have "a beautiful day." Perhaps now for different reasons.