If you would have...

asked me when I was in my twenties what the primary motivating force in the universe is, I would have said love. Easy right? True? Well that's subjective. Now that I have more experience, I'd certainly agree that love can be one's driving force, but as with most things, it might be a little more complicated than that. 

Money motivates, yes? I mean you can't eat love, so you need money; therefore, you work to make money to meet your needs. For some people, that's enough. Meet your needs, take care of your family, save for the future. Cool. Some people need more than just enough money, so they do more things that make them more money, and that's cool, too.

Recognition motivates. Some people are driven by the need to have folks know their names. They need for people to know the good they are doing in the world or about the big life moves they are making. I mean, that's why we all have social media, right? To share things. To be a little bit famous. Other people are motivated by a cause. They do things because of something we see as bigger than us...for the greater good.

So those are all obvious, but now that I'm a bit more self-aware and honest, I realize one of the things that moves people is shame. Sit with that for a second. Think of what you immediately thought of when you read the word shame. I would wager that almost everyone seeing this had an immediate reaction. I did. A highlight (lowlight?) reel of things I've done that are shameful starts to play. Shame has weight. I feel it as I type. It can paralyze you; it can make you into someone you wish you weren't; it can make you do things you wish you hadn't to cover it up; and it can even kill you. Shame changes how you believe others see you, but even more so, it changes how you see yourself.

Shame is often coupled with a secret. We certainly don't want people knowing what makes up the darkest parts of us, the corners of our lives that are scary and dirty. The ones we try not to visit until they start screaming at us in the middle of the night. "Why didn't I?" "Why did I?" "How could I have..." Shame eats at you. Oh you can go long periods of time without it showing itself, but it's always there, waiting. It wears you down, doesn't it?

Sometimes the disgrace is not even caused by us. Being sexually assaulted as a child had absolutely nothing to do with anything 8 year old me had done. I didn't ask for it. I didn't create the monster who did it, yet shame and fear kept me silent for almost two decades. That secret shaped parts of me that are still disfigured and disordered. Even though it's not something I hide anymore, there are things that create panic in me because of that. And my inability to completely overcome that experience causes an entirely new type of humiliation. Other people can build shame in us that should be theirs instead.

Shame makes us believe many untruths about ourselves. We're not worthy of good things. We're unlovable. We're an imposter. Shame makes us believe others see us differently, broken, worthless when the truth is, we see ourselves through the lens of regret. It makes us see ourselves as different, broken, worthless.

Now we know, logically, that's not real. It's a distorted vision of who we are. We can know people who love us deeply; we can express our own self worth when pressed to do so -- I'm kind. I contribute to my community. I care for my family. I work hard. We can even find our sameness to those around us. But that thing that we did/said/had/took/gave is like an itch you can't scratch. You carry on, but you're never truly permanently comfortable.

I think about some of the things I've done and said in my past, and I wonder how anyone could like me, let alone love me. My husband knows things about me no other human does, and that man thinks I painted the sunrises just for him. I have dear friends and family to whom I've said things that make me physically duck and cringe when I think of them. I've been selfish with them. I've been absent when they needed me. Ugh, the way I treated my mom when I was in my thirties...I just can't. And yet, they care for me in a way that makes me feel like some kind of prize. I wonder what I've done to deserve such care, such devotion, such love. I can name things I've done to not be worthy of those things, but why they give them to me anyway eludes me.

Except...perhaps they feel something similar. Perhaps they have had moments where they believed someone couldn't continue to love them. Perhaps they all carry secrets they believe make them unworthy and unlovable. I can't for the life of me think of any. I can hold my oldest dear friend Julie M. up to a light, and I can't see a single flaw. I can sure count mine. Somehow, she is still there. After 46 years of friendship, she would still check the YES box on my note asking if she's my bff. KGC has known me since fourth grade. She carries much of my history. I feel no judgement, only acceptance. No appearance of looking back, just continual forward motion.

My husband, well, he knows everything. Yet he squeezes my hand in the middle of the night. He tells me I'm the good stuff, that I'm his bestest good friend, that he loves me with a love that is more than love. He held the trashcan when I threw up after my hysterectomy. He stood quietly while I railed and screamed and cursed with grief in my backyard. He asked gentle questions about my reactions, so he can help protect me from my own demons. He knows things about me that I almost can't bear to think about. And he's in our bed right now sleeping peacefully knowing who I am and what shameful things I've been capable of in the past, still loving me fiercely and profoundly. He's seen me, really looked deep and seen me, and found me more than worthy.

I say all of that to say this, perhaps I was right in my twenties, about that one thing at least. (Definitely not about the stacked bob haircut or frosted brown lipstick.) Perchance, twentysomething Lisa knew that the supreme motivating force in the universe simply, profoundly is love.

I know I promised our visits would not be all live, laugh, love. This isn't that. This isn't love is blind, love conquers all...blah, blah, blah. This is love sees and knows and ultimately understands. Love knows your shame, it sees all the hell you've created and it picks you up and carries you through it.

Hello...

I haven't been here for a while, because for a long time, I felt I had nothing of merit to say. At first it was because I felt incredibly boring...middle aged/menopausal woman - blah...happily married - yawn...stepmom to two adult children - nothing new to see here. Then it was because I was so terribly, profoundly, deeply grieved, and someone else's grief does begin to exhaust folks who aren't in it with you and even those who are. It also seemed, suddenly to me, the entire world got so brutally LOUD. I didn't want to say something because I felt I had nothing. Nothing interesting, nothing that did more than simply add to the noise.

Here's the thing (because there's always a thing) yes, I know there are many, many, MANY important even life threatening things happening in the world. Of course we should raise our voices and vote our conscious. We should fight injustice, and hold accountable those who abuse their power and privilege to oppress. We should also listen to those who have been running the race and fighting the fight for generations. We should, and I do...but I won't here. Not really. Not overtly. I simply can't. I don't have the answers, and sometimes I don't even know how to ask the questions. I cannot be a voice who speaks without full knowledge or authority. I know reading other's research doesn't equal doing one's own. Hang in, because it's not about this.

I am aware that not using this space to move toward equality and justice and right is born out of privilege. In all honesty, my life doesn't depend on it. It doesn't mean I don't care; it means I don't have to live every second like it does depend on it. That's privilege for anyone who is confused. I will boost other voices I believe can speak to the issues I hold dear on other platforms, but I won't pretend that anything I write will have any real value. I won't insert myself into places where I have no footing, where I'm a distraction. I won't add to the sound without adding to the substance. 

So now that I've hopefully explained what this place is and what I won't do, let's figure out what I will or what I hope to do. I hope to encourage you to look at others through a softer lens, the candlelight filter perhaps. I also want to encourage you to take a gentler look at yourself...to allow grace when needed, forgiveness when earned, love when merited, and joy when possible to yourself first, so you can extend those perfectly lovely things to others in a real way.

Let's not get confused, I'm not all live-love-laugh/coffee o'clock and wine-thirty/boss babe either. First, coffee yum/wine yuck so that would never work. I'm too much of an introvert to boss anyone, and I've lived-loved-laughed in the nineties - I'm not wearing that trend again. Like ever.

Now that I've written my mission statement of sorts, the disclaimer I guess, let's actually do something here, but do let's keep with the theme because every English teacher I've ever had said that's how this is supposed to work. Here we go...finally.

I notice posts/memes/missives floating around about how we used to go to Grandma's house on Sunday and spend time with family doing something called visiting. For those of us who have forgotten what that is due to isolation, ball games, work, laundry, genuine malaise, flat out dislike of people in general or whatever you've been up to, visiting is being in the presence of others, making eye contact, listening and talking, reminiscing, telling jokes and stories, laughing and crying with other people. You remember, like together with people who do not live inside your house. Spending time, which is finite and valuable, not just with each other but on each other.

People my age (ugh - that's just -ugh) remember stopping by someone's house (Don't do it. I mean it. I'll be in my panda nightgown for sure.) or seeing circles of lawn chairs in people's yards, gatherings on porches, the "adults" lingering around the table just talking. Just...visiting. We don't do that, not really. We pontificate, proselytize, and regurgitate* the headlines we read, the "research" we've done, the sound bite we found oh so clever and we "look at this meme -- boy that says it all." No. It doesn't.  (Unless it's that weird white cat thing with its arms spread. That one really does say it all.) We argue and silence and shout over, and yes, sometimes those things are not just necessary but mandatory. But, I believe true and real human interaction that seems to not move a cause or ideology forward is still incredibly necessary. Our souls need it. Lately, those moments of ease of conversation are often the only parts that remind us that we are all people trying to figure it out. Failures and successes, joy and sorrow, fear and bravery...we are all made of stories, experiences, beliefs, hopes, losses. We are all beauty and ashes.

That's what I want to talk about, sitting on my porch with you (not really, not yet, panda nightgown is super comfortable). This place can be my existential porch swing. We'll start here and see where it goes.

I want to know what's planted in your garden - literally and figuratively. I want to hear KP talk about Disney. SDK about Newton Eagle Football. CS about glorious shoes (sole sister for real, pun intended). DG about waterfalls. JM about her freshman. KGC about things that gross me out, man. HBF about her plans for next summer with no travel ball. KL about mid-century modern everything. JGM about her brother.

Add your initials and your thing. I want that. I don't want a headline you read; I want the headline you live.

Welcome back. I hope you sit for a moment and visit. If you don't like the topic, no worries, it'll change shortly. Leave your shoes and your drama at the threshold - they'll be there when you leave. Hopefully, you take with you a little bit of peace and at least a small measure of "oh that was nice". Maybe you'll even lessen some of your burden, because it's been replaced with a different perspective. In other words, leave some of your hell and take some of the fresh.

See you all soon. Don't forget your shoes.

*KMG hates the word p*ke more than I love an alliteration. Respect to her.)