Margie Clayman

Back in the dark ages of the medical profession, it was believed that if you were sick, the best cure was to have leeches suck your blood. Somehow, the leeches, I guess, would know the infected blood and leave the good blood, and kaboom! You’d be better! This very seldom worked, of course, and today we think it’s kind of a preposterous idea. So far as physical ailments go, I’d have to agree. But when your heart is sick or hurt, sometimes bleeding is the only way it can heal.

Five years ago, a relative of mine died suddenly. Well, it was sudden for all they left behind. It turned out they had been fighting cancer for probably a year. Their death struggle was in fact prolonged and extremely painful – and very secret. This loss was a great blow, but I didn’t really want my heart to bleed, so I hardened it. I got angry at this person. Why did they not give us a chance to help? Why did they let me walk away from what turned out to be our last meeting? Why would they lie to everyone they cared about? I didn’t want to think about this relative of mine. When I spoke of them it was only bitter words that came out. Where they were concerned, my heart was scabbed over and infected.

That all changed on my birthday last year. This relative, for all of our differences, had always been sure to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. Through all of my years in college and grad school and beyond,  I’d get an email from them right around midnight as my birthday arrived. We’d go out for sushi and catch up. This wave of thought was quite different from what I had been letting myself experience. It poked the stab off. My heart bled, but afterwards, and ever since, I have been able to think of my relative with more fondness and love. My heart is on the mend where they are concerned.

We are very protective of our hearts, even when it’s just ourselves. When something bad happens we’d much rather get mad or just pretend it never occurred. Anything to avoid knocking that stab off our hearts. But if you keep building up scar tissue over that most mysterious organ, your heart will eventually become a stone. Even people who have nothing to do with your sadness will suffer at the feet of your walls.

As hard as it is, as uncomfortable as it is, if we want to heal, we have to bleed. We have to knock that scab off and really face what we’re trying so hard to run away from. We have to face it and say, “Man, I really hate this.” We have to be sad. We have to be upset. It’s messy. But it is the path to contentment. It is the path to understanding. And when you are through, you feel lighter and the world seems somehow to be just a bit brighter.

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Lately there’s been a video circulating of a man talking with his 12-year-old self. He had the foresight as a 12-year-old to make a video as if he was talking to a version of himself in the future, and the now 32-year-old picked up the thread. You can watch it here (and I recommend it!).

I didn’t have the foresight when I was 12 to make a video of myself talking to…myself. But I wish I could go back in time and talk to the 12-year-old me. I think I was in sixth grade when I was 12 – somewhere around there. It was my second year in the public school system, and my first year was awfully rocky. By rocky, I mean that my homeroom teacher had what I would call a nervous breakdown. She really enjoyed playing us the Titanic movie in reverse so that she could save all of the people. Yeah. I had a lot of health problems going on and I had really no self-confidence to speak of. It was a rough time.

When you’re 12, you feel like you’re *pretty* much grown up, or at least I recall feeling that way. Of course, I was scared to death of middle school, not to mention high school, but I felt that being old enough to be afraid of that stuff meant that I was mature. I didn’t know how young 12 was. Twelve felt old.

If I could go back and talk to Margie v. 12.0, I’d tell her to shift focus. I’d tell her that stressing about the health stuff is a waste of time. It doesn’t change anything. I’d tell her that yes, people WOULD continue to make fun of her, but she needs to realize, truly, that it’s about them, not about her. I’d tell her that she is a lot more capable than she thinks she is. But most of all, I’d tell her not to rush growing up. I’d tell her to play outside more. I’d tell her to be a kid. I’d tell her to listen to Grandpa when he’s telling his long and winding stories rather than going off and being bored till Mom is ready to go. I’d tell her to eat the sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving cuz as it turns out, I like them. I’d tell her to soak in all of that family time. I’d tell her how good she has it.

It’s important to reach out to the kid versions of ourselves now and then. Check in and say, “Hey, that was a rough time and you came through it!” Say, “That was a great time. You should have soaked it in more.” You know now how the story evolves. What advice do you wish you’d have known when you were a kid? When you were 12? You’re likely to find you can still use that advice now.

So what would you tell the 12-year-old you?

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We humans are generally (usually) pretty adept at masking what’s really going on in our lives. This is especially true in the online world where we can’t see facial expressions or hear someone’s tone of voice. It’s easy enough for a person to share a really cute Facebook picture while crying. It’s really easy to pay someone a compliment on Twitter while you’re feeling really angry offline. You just never can be sure what a person is really thinking or really feeling. It’s like that meme going around showing a picture of a cat lounging by the computer. “Online, no one knows you’re  cat.” So true.

Because we’re so darned good at keeping things to ourselves, people seldom, if ever, know when we could really use one kind word. But you get to those points, don’t you, where you feel like you’re in a desert and one nice word would seem like one big gulp of fresh water. It takes so little effort to send out a kind word (again, especially online). You can do it in 5 seconds.

So, I want to send out a challenge this Friday. Instead of doing “Follow Friday” on Twitter, or instead of just going through your daily grind as you always do, see if you can send one kind word or one kind thought to ten people. They can be anyone – people you work with, people in your family, Facebook friends, people you see on Twitter – whatever.

That’s not the end of your assignment, however. It’s easier for US to give out kinds words for other people than it is for us to say something nice about ourselves. We tend to shake off compliments, don’t we? A lot of us do. I know because I try to compliment people and get shrugged off. So, after you’ve sent out kindness to ten people, come back here and tell me something great about YOU. Yes, I want you to toot your own horn. I want you to brag a little. I want you to say about yourself what you keep wishing someone else would say about you. Even if you just say, “In doing this experiment I really made someone’s day today,” that’s great.

So, go forth, my fine readers. Be kind ten times and once for yourself.

I can’t wait to hear about your adventures!

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One of the Clan Mothers that Jamie Sams talks about is Listening Woman. She is the keeper of Tiyoweh and is in tune with all things. She doesn’t just listen to words. She listens by watching how people act when they speak. She listens by interpreting dreams, and she listens to her own signals that she might lose her temper or that she might not be at her best.

I have been noticing over the last few years that listening seems to be a skill that is going by the wayside. As an example, there was an instance not too long ago when I was talking to a friend on the phone. They were telling some sort of story and I, as I tend to do, was quietly listening. They finished and said, “Hello?” They were wondering if I was still there. Clearly they had expected some sort of interruption while they were speaking. The experience of being able to get through a story sans interruption has become a rarity.

Why is this? I think perhaps social media plays a lot into this problem. After all, as I type here, no one can interrupt me. Well, I suppose my writing process could be interrupted, but I don’t need to worry about someone missing a detail. I don’t have to worry, just now, about whether I’m keeping someone’s attention. I’m talking. It’s all me. And that’s how it is across the online world. You are talking without interruption in conversations that may span hours or even days. Everyone gets to express their full thought. In the real world, though, it’s not like that. We have to travel with the ebb and flow of conversation. That seems a lot harder when you’re used to monologues.

What are we missing by not listening? A treasure trove, almost certainly. But we are also missing important details. I remember hearing about an experiment performed at a university quite some time ago. A student said hi to other students and always tended to get a “Oh hi, how are you?” response. Sometimes, the student countered with, “Ah, I have Cancer.” In almost all cases the other student either simply walked away or worse, said something like, “Oh, I’m fine too.” The expected response was, “Oh, I’m fine.” And that’s what people heard, even if that wasn’t what was said.

Listening can help us become attuned with our environment, not just with other people. Have you ever listened to the sounds of your house? The sounds of your neighborhood? Suddenly the ticking of your clock sounds like thunder. The whirring of your fridge or dishwasher seems deafening. You might hear sounds you never even noticed before. Step outside and just listen. You may hear birds or squirrels or cars from far away. And again, you may hear sounds you never really noticed before.

What are you missing by not listening? Take those earbuds out. Go a day (or an hour) without speaking, and only listen. How does this experiment affect you? Or how do you think it would? Go ahead. I’m listening.

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When I was six years old, my grandmother passed away due to a serious asthma attack. When I think of six-year-old me, I think I was pretty smart. I really loved the movie Amadeus, for some reason, as a small example (what a weird kid). But I really didn’t understand this whole asthma thing. I was horrified that people could just suddenly stop breathing. I didn’t understand that it was a disease. So, for many months, I was scared that I was going to stop breathing. I’d go to sleep and wonder if people still breathe when they’re sleeping. How do we breathe when we talk? Was my family still breathing? It was truly horrifying.

When I got older, my allergies kept getting worse and worse to the point where now if I have one of my really bad attacks, it’s very close to an asthma attack. My chest closes up and breathing becomes painful. But I’ve never stopped breathing. I’ve not come close. How is it that my grandma had to go through that while I’ve gotten off easy? Why can I walk and run when my other grandmother suffered with MS for over half her life?

We all encounter situations, at one time or another, where someone we adore goes through something that seems so unfair. We love them so much that it seems ridiculous that anything bad should happen to them. But they get sick or they lose a loved one or their house gets broken into, and while we do our best to support them or remember them or do whatever we need to do, our lives keep going along. Why is that? Who determines these things? How can you deal with the feeling that you are not deserving of what you have, or that someone else deserves much more than what they are getting?

I think the key is to turn your thinking around. Instead of saying “Why me?” or “Why them,” perhaps we should say, “I now am reminded how very lucky I am.” You see, every day that something bad doesn’t happen to you or someone you love is really a special day worth celebrating. That is not gloating. That is realizing that nothing in life can be taken for granted.

Consider this. If the person you are lamenting came back, what would they say if they saw you closed off in a dark room on their behalf? I would imagine they’d be pretty disappointed in us. “Why are you WASTING your life,” they might well say. “My time came and went. Your time is still going. Live!”

Every day that I can breathe, walk, and run, I remember that my grandmothers lost those basic abilities. So when I take a deep breath, I think of my grandma and all of the great times we shared. When I walk or run, I imagine my grandma is traveling with me. I do not regret that I can do these things. I cherish them because I know what gifts they are.

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You have been through such a hard time. I understand. I’ve been there.  Your world becomes tiny. You don’t feel like eating. You don’t enjoy being awake and your sleeps are restless and tense. Every word and glance is an insult. Every new connection is a person waiting to tear you down. You curl yourself tighter and tighter into that cocoon, and sometimes, you wish you could just plain curl yourself out of existence. You hope your cocoon falls to the ground in the next big storm. This is everything you know, and it’s none too pleasant.

Now then, is this making you feel any better? The sun is shining. You are surrounded by green vibrant leaves, a blue sky, and if you let yourself emerge, I’m guessing you’ll find out that you are a darned beautiful creature with wings that can fly and a proboscis that can suck the very nectar out of life. It’s time to come out of your little shell. There’s no room to grow or change in there. There’s no way to discover the really real you in there. You can’t realize your full potential in there, you know. You’re too restricted. You’re too constricted. Your world is too small.

Yes, there will be a few moments when you break loose where the dew on your new wings will make them seem heavy. You’ll feel unsure about showing the world your splendor. What if it isn’t all that splendid? What if you’re a moth instead of a butterfly? Well, there’s only one way to find out, of course. You need to come on out of that little cocoon. You need to shake that dew off and feel the sun on your back. You need to visit some of those flowers and fly through the air currents.

We all need cocoon time now and then. And for a little while, that’s okay. It’s expected, even. But living in a cocoon can become a habit. A bad habit. It can make us shrink. It can make us forget what we like about ourselves and about the world. Life is too short to do such things.

Come on out, you lovely being. Spread those wings and show the world what it is you’ve been keeping to yourself all this time. You’re too precious to stay hidden away. You’re too beautiful, inside and out.

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