Month: February 2017

Joy In The Doing, Peace In The Becoming

~ Michelle Johnson ~ Leave a comment

Life is full of responsibilities, there’s just no getting around it. (And believe me, I’ve tried a lot of ways of getting around it…)

I am, by nature, a list maker and a goal setter.

Goals ensure that I’m moving forward toward a better version of me and lists keep me both productive and sane.  I have lists of groceries to get, lists of books to read, lists of errands to run, lists of calls to make, lists of lists.  Lists are my jam and I love nothing more than checking each box off as I go.

But here’s the deal, my life had started to operate in one of two gears:

“Do not bother me I am doing all the things I need to do to get the boxes checked off and I cannot tend to you!” 

-or-

“Do not bother me I just did all the things to get the boxes checked off and I’m exhausted and I just need to rest!”

There was no space between doing the things and being tired from getting the things done for real life to happen.

There was no living in my life.

Instead of becoming a means to an end, goals had become a way of life. I was living my life certain that once I finished this project/lost this weight/read this book/quit this bad thing/lived in this place/took this class, then I would be happy.

But before I could even complete one goal my mind was on to the next big thing, the thing I could do that would bring me joy and peace.

But here’s what I’ve come to realize: the joy and peace don’t come in the completion of the lists and goals, they come during them.

The lists and goals aren’t the destination, they’re the journey.

What it comes down to is this:

I need to find joy in the doing, not just the getting done and peace in the becoming, not just the accomplishing. 

What does this mean for me?

It means being present. It means remembering that the things that happen when I’m on task and in the zone aren’t interruptions to my life, they are my life.

That’s where the living happens — in those little moments when I stop what I’m doing and give my full attention to the ones I love and the things that matter.  The living happens when I remember what my real, true, forever priorities are and operate in alignment with them. It’s listening with both my ears and my eyes, not with one ear tuned to the conversation, one ear tuned to the news, and both eyes on my device.

It’s leaving space in my calendar for unscheduled connection and spontaneous conversation. It’s doing things I enjoy just for enjoyment’s sake. It’s fully experiencing the moment without the need to take the perfect photo and post to every social media site to which I belong.

For me, it’s also meant a break from Facebook to try and realign myself with what really matters to me.

I’ve known for a while that I needed to step back from the constant bombardment of being told how I should live to be worthy the best version of me, but the recent political climate has put me over the top. I was beginning to live in a constant state very real anxiety from all the hatred and vitriol that was staring me in the face all day.

True, I could have simply unfollowed people or checked the site less frequently, but I knew a clean break was in order.

A week into my break and I’m feeling more productive, less agitated, and more creative without the constant stream of information coming at me full force all day.  I still want to be informed, so I check news sources in the morning and evening, but I have limited myself to that for now.

The space in between is mine, and I am enjoying defining that time as it suits me and my family.  I am working on being fully present wherever I am and to make sure there’s living in my life.

I’m certain I won’t be gone from Facebook forever, but for now it is opening up space to find joy in the doing and peace in the becoming.

Currently reading:  The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown

Currently loving:  Temple of India Scented Oil

Currently on repeat: Chain Breaker by Zach Williams

Let it all go. See what stays.

~ Michelle Johnson ~ Leave a comment

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Last fall I enrolled in a beginner’s memoir writing class through a local literary center.  I went in with mixed expectations –  I knew I had a story to tell but I wasn’t sure what it looked like or if I was ready to tell it.  I certainly didn’t expect to form a bond with five strangers, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re honest and transparent.

As is my style, I stepped right into the darkest parts of my early years, not bothering with a flashlight to guide the way.  I felt my way around, finding the old junk right where I had left it, collecting dust, taking up space, and blocking my path.  I ran into those memories full force and told them as fully and as honestly as I could, knowing that there would be no judgement from my classmates and that the words would go no further than the room in which we gathered.  And sometimes I knocked open old wounds, not completely healed, and felt the hurt anew.

But this time I didn’t shut the door on the memories and lock them back in the dark.  I didn’t numb myself in one of the dozens of ways I’ve learned to over the years.  Instead, I allowed myself to feel the pain, to cry, to accept that the whys of what happened don’t really matter.  I just told my stories the only way I know how, and an amazing thing happened.

I was freed from their grip.

I dragged them into the light, named them, and presented them to others to see, and in doing so they lost their power.  I was seen, heard, validated.  I was shown that yes, these were horrible things and no, they shouldn’t have happened, but I survived and I am more than the sum total of those things. The memories are not behemoths that devour and define me, they are just threads in the unfinished tapestry that is my life.

At the end of the class I ended up with about 20 pages of manuscript. Throughout these pages are woven not only the ugly, but also the good, the calm, the secure.  Somehow through the weeks of writing and sharing I was able to make peace with all that had happened, even that which went unwritten.

I was encouraged by the instructor and classmates to continue the project or to submit what I had for publication as it is, but in the weeks since the class ended I realized that I don’t need to do that because I don’t live there anymore.  I live here in the present, with these people and in this life.  The scars are there but the wounds have healed.  They no longer bleed and I don’t need to nurse them anymore.  I am free to create any ending to this story that I want, and I choose a story that will end with joy, with love, with peace.  

The pages sit in a folder on my desktop, ready for me to return to them should I choose, but for now the past has lost its grip on me, or rather, I have loosened my grip on the past.  I have let it all go, as I have with so many other things over the last few years.  And when I let it go, I opened up space for so much more to join me.  Good things, the things that God has always intended for me.

I was never a prisoner to my past, it was a prisoner to me.

I was holding those memories hostage, ready to use them as bargaining chips, excuses, or ultimatums.  But the only one they tortured was me.  They were never the parasite I thought them to be, rather, I had tethered them to myself with my own rope and knot.  I could never outrun them because I had bound them to me with my own hands. They didn’t want to stay, I forced them to.

So I untied the knot and let them scurry back into the past where they belong.  They didn’t disappear, but they took their rightful spot on a shelf, packed securely away in a box labeled “No Longer Needed”.

I let them go, and they didn’t stay.