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I have a strange little penchant. I am part of the .03 percentage, whom, when presented with a rat's nest of necklaces, tangled christmas lights or the mid-life crisis' of coaching clients, dive like an Osprey at the opportunity for a fulfilling meal.
Happy and contented I sit with the pile of metal seaweed that Jen has delivered in weepy gestures and disbelief. "My 3 year old only shook the jewelry box four or five times. I don't understand how these necklaces could get so knotted in that short of a duration. Are you sure you are OK with this...I mean, I'll pay you for your time." Meanwhile, as I inconspicuously wipe the rivulette of drool from the corner of my mouth, the sweet anticipation of detangling this useless, until unraveled, $5K jumble of pearls, diamonds, gold, silver and platinum spagetti gets the best of me. I would rather spend three hours of my time sorting out snarles than cooking dinner. And although I have come a long way from slingin' hash, the snarl always trumps meal prep. Some would say that, other than taxes and driving obstreperous children in Bronx traffic, very little frazzles me. The questions that come to mind are, how did the three year old get to her good jewelry and, Please God, how can I make this happen again?
I have been trained for 45 years by self-starting "shoulds" and "need tos". Out of self preservation, however, I am learning to deconstruct these walls in favor of vunerability, feelings & fun. Yet, still holding fast with vestiges of an independent, solitary and stoic demeanor leaves very few opportunities for onlookers to view a complete and total unhinging. Only those carrying the secret handshake and cojones to cross the mote after the carrier pigeons fail to return will witness the grand unravel. Namely my husband, because he doesn't have an option, in the form of heavy sighs and moderately snappy retorts until I collapse in a brackish puddle.
Not long ago two of my closest friends Jen and Kate had the privilege of witnessing such a display. I use the term 'privilege' lightly as, in the process, it felt anything but. I, myself, was in a closed-circuit tangle and they knew it.
I stood in front of the answering machine as one call floated downriver to voice mail. Although muffled at the bottom of my purse, a second call followed quickly on the heels of the first. If I didn't answer the phones they would be sure to avert.
I predicted wrong.
Not one minute later, Jen and Kate, stormed the castle bearing radiant smiles, gifts and food. The rush of their deals scored at the pre-dawn boutique sale -the offer I declined- was too much for them to contain. One could see the bargain adrenaline in the form of Achillies wings. Yet, by this time my chain was already kinked. The energy loomed heavy.
In Logbook for Grace by Robert Cushman Murphy, Captain Cleveland of the whaling brig "Daisy" facetiously advised his greenhorns "Never throw anything into the wind except boiling water and hot ashes." For the past few months I had been doing just that in the form of assumptions and taking things personally. Both of these had steadfastly knotted the good part of my mature reasoning into clumpy dread locks.The context titrated down to two things: silence and assumption. The silence and precisely, my assumptions regarding the silence was the perpetrating ingredients brewing in my sucky stew caldron for months.
My. Total. Frigin. Bad.
I was solely, totally and embarrasingly to blame for my meltdown. In the days that followed I felt it imperative that the details be surrendered in an apology to my cherished friends. Yet, my self-starting, problem solving, can-do attitude held me up short with vocabulary on how to start this difficult conversation. I couldn't see the baubles for the jewelry chest. I was trapped, unable to straighten out and unweave this mess of emotional chains. My Houdini self was stumped within my own magic act.
I needed back up.
To quote the title of Anne Lamott's new book, Help, Thanks,Wow: The Three Essential Prayers, I relegated my sorry ass to the wi-fi, laundry, dishes and meal free preoccupation zone in the form of a tree dwelling to begin the solitary process of self inquiry. Hovering around 12 degrees I was swaddled one antler button short of a Bavarian Inuit and whispered, "Help.".
No kidding, thirty seconds later the ring tone of an ethereal harp heralded the arrival of my sister's HR aplomb. With great detail in nearly one 24 minute run-on sentence, monologial bandwidth ablaze, I relayed to her all the details that comprised the gig. In angelic simplicity she offered, "Just tell them what you've just told me, Julie. Tell them how much you love them and how much this friendship means to you." And then she proceeded to walk me through the opening script, content rich with love, truth, strength and compassion. ("Thanks.")
Twenty minutes later Kate and Jen, walked through my door. Two hours conferring and what amounted to a exhausted heap of expired Kleenex, we had mulled over the circimstances, snafus, twists and tangles. Afterwards, we surveyed how beautiful the knotted heap of interwoven strands had been smoothed out, polished and restored to the luster of friendship deeper that we had known prior. ("Wow!")
As with any difficult conversation and its inherent desire to run for the hills, the more I wanted to run away from fear the hardier it became. Only by surrendering love for fear was the element that had the capacity to change tack and open up all facets of possibility. Accepting my vunerability allowed friends to help and heal in ways we all never anticipated. This tangle required a team; each of us stepping into understanding nurtured through friendship, respect, love and compassion. The opportunity to take this well guided leap of faith allowed me to release the accumulated energetic debris and step into my power; to speak my truth and know that I'm not going to die in the process.
Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397
JewelTree, LLC
Facebook/JewelTree, LLC
Happy and contented I sit with the pile of metal seaweed that Jen has delivered in weepy gestures and disbelief. "My 3 year old only shook the jewelry box four or five times. I don't understand how these necklaces could get so knotted in that short of a duration. Are you sure you are OK with this...I mean, I'll pay you for your time." Meanwhile, as I inconspicuously wipe the rivulette of drool from the corner of my mouth, the sweet anticipation of detangling this useless, until unraveled, $5K jumble of pearls, diamonds, gold, silver and platinum spagetti gets the best of me. I would rather spend three hours of my time sorting out snarles than cooking dinner. And although I have come a long way from slingin' hash, the snarl always trumps meal prep. Some would say that, other than taxes and driving obstreperous children in Bronx traffic, very little frazzles me. The questions that come to mind are, how did the three year old get to her good jewelry and, Please God, how can I make this happen again?
I have been trained for 45 years by self-starting "shoulds" and "need tos". Out of self preservation, however, I am learning to deconstruct these walls in favor of vunerability, feelings & fun. Yet, still holding fast with vestiges of an independent, solitary and stoic demeanor leaves very few opportunities for onlookers to view a complete and total unhinging. Only those carrying the secret handshake and cojones to cross the mote after the carrier pigeons fail to return will witness the grand unravel. Namely my husband, because he doesn't have an option, in the form of heavy sighs and moderately snappy retorts until I collapse in a brackish puddle.
Not long ago two of my closest friends Jen and Kate had the privilege of witnessing such a display. I use the term 'privilege' lightly as, in the process, it felt anything but. I, myself, was in a closed-circuit tangle and they knew it.
I stood in front of the answering machine as one call floated downriver to voice mail. Although muffled at the bottom of my purse, a second call followed quickly on the heels of the first. If I didn't answer the phones they would be sure to avert.
I predicted wrong.
Not one minute later, Jen and Kate, stormed the castle bearing radiant smiles, gifts and food. The rush of their deals scored at the pre-dawn boutique sale -the offer I declined- was too much for them to contain. One could see the bargain adrenaline in the form of Achillies wings. Yet, by this time my chain was already kinked. The energy loomed heavy.
In Logbook for Grace by Robert Cushman Murphy, Captain Cleveland of the whaling brig "Daisy" facetiously advised his greenhorns "Never throw anything into the wind except boiling water and hot ashes." For the past few months I had been doing just that in the form of assumptions and taking things personally. Both of these had steadfastly knotted the good part of my mature reasoning into clumpy dread locks.The context titrated down to two things: silence and assumption. The silence and precisely, my assumptions regarding the silence was the perpetrating ingredients brewing in my sucky stew caldron for months.
My. Total. Frigin. Bad.
I was solely, totally and embarrasingly to blame for my meltdown. In the days that followed I felt it imperative that the details be surrendered in an apology to my cherished friends. Yet, my self-starting, problem solving, can-do attitude held me up short with vocabulary on how to start this difficult conversation. I couldn't see the baubles for the jewelry chest. I was trapped, unable to straighten out and unweave this mess of emotional chains. My Houdini self was stumped within my own magic act.
I needed back up.
To quote the title of Anne Lamott's new book, Help, Thanks,Wow: The Three Essential Prayers, I relegated my sorry ass to the wi-fi, laundry, dishes and meal free preoccupation zone in the form of a tree dwelling to begin the solitary process of self inquiry. Hovering around 12 degrees I was swaddled one antler button short of a Bavarian Inuit and whispered, "Help.".
No kidding, thirty seconds later the ring tone of an ethereal harp heralded the arrival of my sister's HR aplomb. With great detail in nearly one 24 minute run-on sentence, monologial bandwidth ablaze, I relayed to her all the details that comprised the gig. In angelic simplicity she offered, "Just tell them what you've just told me, Julie. Tell them how much you love them and how much this friendship means to you." And then she proceeded to walk me through the opening script, content rich with love, truth, strength and compassion. ("Thanks.")
Twenty minutes later Kate and Jen, walked through my door. Two hours conferring and what amounted to a exhausted heap of expired Kleenex, we had mulled over the circimstances, snafus, twists and tangles. Afterwards, we surveyed how beautiful the knotted heap of interwoven strands had been smoothed out, polished and restored to the luster of friendship deeper that we had known prior. ("Wow!")
Ask Yourself:
How can I lovingly speak my truth?
Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397
JewelTree, LLC
Facebook/JewelTree, LLC
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