a choice

"You have a choice," are the words I hear, as though spoken aloud, as I transition from a state of sleep to wakefulness.

As I make my way through the dark hallway, with our quiet black dog I sense following me, I open the door and walk outside into the cool morning air. The stars are still out, arranged brightly in their infinite patterns. I feel hopeful as I gaze up into the vastness of a universe created by a Creator so immense my finite mind cannot comprehend how my tiny issues could ever figure into His plan. And yet somehow they do. I can choose to believe in a predetermined nature of things or in randomness. I can choose to have hope or allow it to fade away like the stars at dawn when the sky brightens and a new day begins. I have a choice.

Back inside, I feed the dog and get myself a cup of coffee. We go back down the hall to settle into our morning routine: sitting in front of my computer listening to a daily devotion, as the dog curls up in his chair and goes back to sleep. Birds welcome in the dawn with their singing as the first colors, pink and purple, are replaced by orange and yellow that can now be seen through the trees. It is the quiet I love most. I could work on my sewing, continue reading a book I started yesterday, or any number of other tasks. I choose to sit in the stillness, listening to the variety of bird songs and the rhythmic breathing of my dog. I have a choice.

I think back to the other day when I had invited an older pastor friend who has given me good counsel to join me for coffee so we can talk things over. It has been awhile since we had talked and even though there were brief email exchanges, I am not at all certain he is going to show up when I walk into the bookstore coffee shop where we had met in the past. By the time he is officially late, I decide to buy myself a cup of coffee and sit in the back of the store in one of the comfortable chairs looking out the window. I can overhear bits and pieces of a conversation behind me that sound like a job interview. The interviewee speaks in an overly excited tone, the kind he imagines the interviewer wants to hear. I think about the ways I have tried to portray myself so others will listen more intently, take what I have to offer more seriously. I have reached an age in which I can expend my energy trying to be understood or not care as much about what those who do not know me think about me. I have a choice.

Half an hour late, I realize my friend may in fact not be able to meet with me. I drink my coffee slowly keeping a check on my emotional state. I know whether he shows up or not, this will be our last counseling session. Sometimes I just know these things. So I sit looking at the titles of the books on the shelves, breathing deeply, reminding myself not to cry. You have a choice, I tell myself. Whether you stay or whether you go changes nothing, my self-talk continues. You already know the unanswerable questions. You know them by heart. You ask them all the time. You keep thinking you are going to somehow stumble upon a scenario that will be the absolute perfect one and there you will dwell. But real life doesn't work that way. That may be why you find yourself looking into these books so often. You long to live in a way that cannot be. You want to live in a world that does not exist. You like to play make-believe, thinking things can be how you want them to be. But they can't. And they will never be . . . this side of heaven. You have a choice. You can decide to take whatever happens for what it is or you can walk away from it--figuratively speaking, that is. You cannot really walk away from anything because it is going to be tagging along after you. It is you.

I have a choice.

the storyline

The smooth, white object, once the inner part of a shell, is handed to me signifying my turn to talk. I had struggled all day during the silent retreat trying to sort out what I would say at the end when we gathered to share. I was not at all sure whether I would be able to hold myself together. In the end, I fail to restrain my emotions. I succeed, however, in sharing my heart.

A friend told me recently not to take it personally, but my emotional component serves as a signal--a harsh, glaring beacon--to those in leadership, warning them to avoid expending their precious time and energy in dealing with it.

What this speaks to me, albeit not her intention, is that I am not worthy of love and should expect nothing more than to be abandoned because of my woundedness. Though I have fought hard to not be THAT woman, apparently I have failed. It is not possible for me to be an effective leader as long as I am . . . me.

It would take me awhile to realize that my friend may have considered the emotional condition I was in during our conversation and from there had extrapolated the frame of mind in which I would most likely serve in my leadership roles. Though I do not compartmentalize my life, acting differently in each scenario, I try to reserve my intensity for the handful of friends who know me well, and not those with whom I share leadership responsibilities.

A woman at the retreat told me it is not our emotions we hold onto, but the storyline that goes along with them. At last, an explanation that makes all the sense in the world to me.

Emotions are fleeting. They come and go all the time. Developing a social awareness of appropriate behavior comes as we tailor our emotional make-up to the environments in which we find ourselves. This on-going evaluation of how much of ourselves we can share with others guides us. I have learned, often the hard way, it is not safe for me to open my heart to just anyone--only a few.

The storyline, however, accompanying the emotions--that is a whole different thing.

The journalist in me wants to know who, what, when, where, why, and how. I want the facts checked with original sources. I look for corroborated details and reliable witnesses. Direct quotes, motives, time and place; I want to know exactly what happened and why--not the condensed, sanitized version of the story I am supposed to accept as truth, the be all and end all to the story.

Fact-finding missions can lead to deep emotions when truths are revealed. Move on, I am told, the future awaits. But as others are not as curious as I am, their need to investigate ends a long time before mine does, leaving me with no one to talk to but the elephant in the room.

History has a way of repeating itself. Reflecting on how we would like to conduct ourselves differently may mean we actually consider what happened, why it happened, and if there is something we could each do to make it not happen again. But this requires a deeper look into the emotional well, and frightens many a hardy soul as he or she must face whether there is water in the well to draw from or if it went dry a long time ago.

Complexities arise when one decides what the narrative is as it is transformed through the telling and retelling, solidifying a new reality within the minds of those in its hearing. The story takes its place among the folklore and myth created by those who name themselves storytellers. They become the sources for information and over time their version is the only acceptable one.

Meanwhile back with my elephant friend, I attempt to gather more information. But by this point it is too late. The story has already been written. It may as well have been put in print or carved in stone. I have questions I can no longer ask. Emotions I am no longer allowed to feel. Confusion as to how I ever ended up holding onto something others have let go of; questions as to what it will take for me to do the same.

Leading wholeheartedly is what I am after--a worthy goal as each shard of my shattered heart is fit back into place, soldered together like a stained-glass window, with a supernatural adhesive that promotes forgiveness and healing. It is a transformation that begins when I surrender my incessant need to edit the storyline, and allow the Author who can see the end from the beginning to write the story.

As for my time with the elephant in the room--that too has had its upside. Elephants have exceptionally accurate memories and are highly intelligent creatures. Perhaps I have been in good company after all.