"This is perhaps the greatest risk any of us will take- to be seen as we truly are."
Cinderella

Let's just say it has been a discomforting month.

Any topic which forces you to examine who you are at your core is bound to be a little challenging and this theme of authenticity has over-delivered on anticipations.

My exploration took me from the field of philosophy with Charles Taylor's examination of the notion in 'The Ethics of Authenticity' to the enjoyable and often hilarious British comedy 'Miranda'. I moved through Brene Brown's 'Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead' and found inspiration in Hiccup's counter cultural example in 'How to Train Your Dragon'. Richard Rohr rounded out the quest in his spiritually focused 'Immortal Diamond: The Search for our True Self'.

So what exactly does it mean to 'be authentic'? Is it an adherence to the current feelings or notions of what is 'true' for me right now? At this particular stage in my life I can hit heights of immense love and awe in one moment, and be livid with rage and frustration the very next. Which 'me' is the essence that I should identify with?

After a particularly taxing 'parenting fail' experience during the month, I came to the conclusion that the Enneagram has a lot to offer in distinguishing the core of my personality type and the external pressures or inspirations that impact upon that. I also delved into the past to figure out why I have clothed myself in the particular persona of 'nice Emma' and how I am in the process of shedding that cocoon.

Yet a mere focus on 'self' is not a complete answer to the deeper question posed by authenticity.

Charles Taylor puts it beautifully when he proposes:

"There is a certain way of being human that is my way. I am called to live my life in this way, and not in imitation of anyone else's... If I am not, I miss the point of my life, I miss what being human is for me".

Taylor suggests that authenticity is the process of discovery (in dialogue with others around us) in "finding the design of my life myself, against the demand of external conformity". A destination that we can only achieve once we realise that "this sentiment connects us to a wider whole".

The profound nature of his examination is this: If we each truly were to pursue the concept of authenticity in our own lives, there would be no concept of scarcity, of rivalry, of hierarchy. If every person were to truly realise there is a unique nature to their own experiences, creativity and insights about the world and seek to develop that AND that this is the case for each other human on the planet, we would be able to exist in a peaceful and thriving society.

Rohr echoes this concept and takes it further, proposing each of us possesses a True Self, an imprint of God himself that is as utterly unique as our fingerprint. He says "life is not a matter of creating a special name for ourselves, but of uncovering the name we have always had". He affirms the view of Franciscan philosopher, John Duns Scotus who states that each soul has a unique 'thisness' and God created "only specific and unique incarnations of the Eternal Mystery- each one chosen, loved and preserved in existence as itself- by being itself".

That blows my mind.

We spend so much of our lives comparing, shrinking and conforming- scarcely realising we each have something incredible and unique to offer.

If Hiccup had fallen into line behind his imposing Chieftain father, accepting the narrative that he must emulate a 'proper Viking' and kill dragons to protect his people, the island of Berk would never have dreamed of the intimacy and thrill of partnering with dragons as their riders. If he had instead felt shame over his non-conformity and allowed that message to overwhelm him, there would be no poignant tale, only the fable of a community driven by fear and violent tradition.

So often we applaud authenticity in others, cheering at the bravery of their vulnerability- but when it comes to our own lives, we cower and second guess our offerings. 'It's not original enough', 'They could put it so much better than I can', 'I don't have the energy to do it right now', 'I'm not creative'... We dampen our message and cast it aside, burying ourselves in the next load of washing or binge watching the latest show on Netflix.

You are the only 'you' that will ever exist on this planet.

What inspires you, makes your face light up with delight? How have you suffered and overcome the darkness? What are your stories, your fears, your desires? Damn the shows and the washing, share these gifts with the world around you and embody the 'you' that was envisaged from the origin of time!

It will take immense bravery and courage, and there is no guidebook that will set out the path for you, but if we look to each other and celebrate our attempts to unfurl, honouring the diversity that each exposed soul presents, true beauty is bound to emerge.

This piece is part of an exploration of monthly themes as a part of my resolutions for this year. For January's exposition on Hospitality see here and for February's exploration of Spirituality see here.  

I've been wondering lately, which 'me' is the real one?

Is it the one excitedly pointing out cows and diggers through the car windows? Or the snarling, pushed to the edge version when my instructions have been completely ignored by the kids one too many times? Perhaps the passionate, inspired variation when I've just resonated with a new idea about doing life better? Or the task manager ordering toys into different boxes during pack up time? Maybe it is the writer sitting in the corner seat in a cafe creating narratives and crafting pieces.

If I'm to be honest, my narrative of self is probably derived from the 'me' that was most exhibited over the past three days. If I have kept my temper under control, met emotional outbursts with patience, kept the washing up to date, had time to reflect and read books and blogs, I feel as if I'm doing OK.

On Monday I was lying on the couch reflecting to Mum, "I can't actually remember the last time I *really* lost it at the kids. I'm better at forgiving myself and moving on now, rather than moping and punishing myself for the mistake, which in turn ironically just ensures I make more bad parenting decisions."

Unfortunately, it turns out that 'knowing' this rationally wasn't quite enough to save us all from a toxic rage-cloud that very evening.

Dave was absent for Parent Teacher Interviews and I had decided against asking one of our parents to help out with crazy hour. "I think it will be good for me to try and do it by myself... it might even be easier in some ways," said the Control Freak to Dave. "Though I'll probably regret saying that." Oh, if only I had utilised that foresight instead of laughing at it.

Let's just say that someone must have injected a large dose of adrenaline into both boys and they were almost literally bouncing off the walls and each other. All the 'fun' things I had planned ended up being taken off the table in response to complete failures to listen or follow instructions.

When it got to 6:30pm I was done. My 'nice' voice had been depleted, and the only tone that was left resembled more of a snarl. After finally getting Ivy into bed and attempting to read stories to the boys, I asked Hudson to choose a book and come to the bed. Ten times. On the last time, for emphasis, I pointed emphatically down at the bed next to me with my extended index finger. My impassioned movement misjudged all measurements of distance and I connected with far too much force, snapping the top half of the digit backwards on impact. There was much swearing and crying. I thought I had broken it by the searing pain that consumed me. Both boys immediately turned into angels and started stroking my hair and shooshing me, "It's alright, Mummy, we're sorry, are you OK?"

We limped through the rest of the bedtime routine and when I finally emerged from the warzone I felt a sense of complete shellshock. And shame. "No other mother would behave like this". I thought morosely to myself. Despite my finger throbbing angrily, I refused to take any pain medication because I thought I deserved the torment. And despite spending the last two hours willing the kids to be in bed so I could have a break, I was reluctant to even choose an activity that would constitute a form of enjoyment because I had behaved with such lack of care.

Rationally, and after the swirling emotions subsided, I know how completely silly my response sounds. But in that moment, with the shame 'demons' dancing victoriously over my slumped and defeated body, Logic was not invited to the party. I sent a brutally honest and tear-stained confession to Naomi and Monica. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but the very thing I needed. Shame's strangling grip began to loosen.

Today I went back to the Enneagram (I'm a Type One Wing Two) and my mind was blown. It was as if it described exactly the course of events from "sudden fits of hyper-critical rage" which "become more food for the self-judgment spiral", "guilty remorse", "intense sessions of wrenching, hand-wringing despair". As a result, "self-punishment is necessary" along with "every kind of refusal to experience any sort of pleasure".

I love the Enneagram. If it can predict with that level of accuracy the ways in which I will have an outburst and the reaction upon my failure to 'control myself', it is pretty bloody amazing. It also helps me understand that this experience doesn't define me but simply display when I'm under significant stress. It was crazy hour, I'm not sure why I expected it would be anything else!

My still swollen (and thankfully unbroken) finger hopes that this is the only time I need to learn this lesson, and it is my wish that I will be able to recognise the telltale signs of reaching my capacity before I reach the tipping point, but for now I'm choosing to learn from the experience. Sometimes we need to fall down further to realise how much we really don't want to be there.

Turns out that yelling is pretty pointless. It rarely receives the results that I hope for, and rage just leads to pain. I'm trying to not become so emotionally caught up in the little things and learn to stand back and observe the situation. Taking more note of the beautiful moments and being thankful for them. Marvelling at the little chubby folds on Ivy's arms, Hudson's striking Arctic blue eyes,
Eli's self-conscious glance to the side as he shares a story.

In other news, I've started Bullet Journalling, an analog system of organisation that fluidly allows you to capture moments, tasks, intentions and reflections all in the same little notebook (I found this article very helpful in breaking it all down).

At the heart of it, each of us go through periods of stress and growth (sometimes in the same hour!) and I find it so helpful to have a way of understanding 'self' that doesn't rely merely on how I am feeling or performing in that given moment. Thank goodness for the Enneagram.

...

Have you had any light-bulb moments with the Enneagram? Feel free to share your experience in the comments below. 

This piece is part of an exploration of monthly themes as a part of my resolutions for this year. For January's exposition on 'The Art of Hospitality' see here. 

It has been a month of discoveries, realisations and epiphanies. Who knew spirituality could be so enticing?

There was an eloquent element of symmetry to the way the month played out, commencing in a session with Rob Bell at the Athenaeum Theater and concluding with Bell's online course 'A Practical Guide to Finding Joy and Meaning in Everyday Life'.

Not that Bell alone holds the key to unlocking the mystery of spirituality, indeed, the breadcrumbs of my searching took me far and wide- from an agnostic feminist practicing radical empathy through her advice columns in 'Tiny Beautiful Things', to the semi-Buddhist 'philosophical entertainer' Alan Watts, to the confessions of alcoholic Priest Brennan Manning in 'All is Grace: A Ragamuffin Memoir', to Hillsong's glamorous representation of faith as explored in GQ's compelling piece 'What Would Cool Jesus Do?'. I found it in Broadchurch, in the fascinating exploration of ordinary people pushed to extremes when they allow their desires to carry them away and in the Humans of New York Inmates series.

So what is this elusive force we call 'spirituality'?

The conundrum, I find, is that one cannot reduce the concept into mere words. It is as if attempting to catch a projected image of a butterfly with a net made of string.

But (to echo Alan Watts) when I acknowledge the incredible reality of our existence, in this tiny planet set in the midst of a vast solar system and galaxy and reflect on my ability to reflect on this fact, I "cannot formulate the question that is my wonder... The moment my mouth opens to utter it I suddenly find I am talking nonsense".

I believe it starts with a sense of perspective. Of the magnitude of the universe and the incredible gift of life... but conversely, of a sense of our own depravity if our desires are left unchecked.

"Accepting the reality of our broken, flawed lives is the beginning of spirituality not because the spiritual life will remove our flaws but because we let go of seeking perfection and, instead, seek God, the one who is present in the tangledness of our lives'.

This quote from Mike Yaconelli's 'Messy Spirituality' expresses so beautifully the completely counter-intuitive way in which spirituality finds its power. In our brokenness, our suffering, our pain.

Rob Bell recounted the story of the time he was advised to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting by one of the members of his congregation. At first, given his lack of addiction to alcohol, he failed to grasp the apparent need, but upon attending session upon session and passing when it came to his turn, he made an incredible discovery.

"What is this amazing force, that makes the air thick with emotion?" He pondered until eventually it dawned on him.

"Ahhh....This is a bull-shit free zone."

The power, that incredible alchemy, was comprised simply of people ceasing to pretend, dropping their masks and admitting that the worst version of themselves renders them helpless to do life alone.

There was a moment in the midst of our session, when a mother shared about her recent discovery that her son is gay. Her voice cracked with emotion as she spoke of the difficulty in reconciling this reality with her strict Catholic upbringing, yet her immense love for her son in wanting to understand him and journey with him burned through her words. The air in the theater swelled with empathy and the collective reactions of people feeling her struggle as their own, applauding her decision to choose love over estrangement and hollow adherence to religion.

'Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next'.
-Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark

It is rare to meet a person who doesn't fear death. And I would hazard a guess that it isn't the potential for pain that incites such anxiety. Women willingly choose to go through childbirth all the time, knowing that the relatively brief agony that they will endure will be more than repaid in the reward of bringing forth new life into the world. We fear death, but for what reason? Is our life really being lived in a manner so compelling that to die would result in irretrievable loss? If there is no significant 'meaning' to our presence on the planet, why are we so compelled to protect our position?

Donald Miller's 'A Million Miles in a Thousand Years' was the final piece in the puzzle for me. The book expounds on the importance of story in our existence, and what makes a good story/life. When Miller chose to look at his life as a story, he woke up to the realisation that he would need to take risks, invest in relationships, follow compelling ideas, embrace whimsy and recognise the power of location in inspiring and solidifying memories.

A turning point for Miller was the chance meeting of Bob Goff and his family when he was part of a group kayaking trip in San Diego. They happened upon the Goff's family home (a stunning lodge set into the cliff and unable to be reached except by boat or plane) and spent the better part of eight hours with the family, who lavished them with food and conversation upon their arrival. Stories flowed, and they discovered the inspirational way of life that the family adhered to, whether it be inviting world leaders to sleep over when Goff was appointed as Uganda's Consul, concocting impromptu New Year's Day street parades in their neighbourhood (a tradition that now continues with participants numbering in the hundreds), or jumping fully clothed into the water as a tradition to farewell their guests.

Dave and I have become enchanted with this entire concept of viewing life as story. Of embracing the opportunities for relationship, connection, taking risks and looking for a greater meaning in the every day.

When the creator of the galaxies descended to experience life as a human, he didn't waste time setting out doctrines of theology and double-checking to make sure that all of his followers were toeing the line. He spun tales of wonder, woe and mystery, inviting all who were willing to listen into a hope for a better existence. He spoke in shrouded tales, provoking reactions in the crowd as each imagined themselves as characters in the drama. And then, he sat down with friends and crowds to feast and drink wine, savouring the moments that we so often rush through, prioritising connection and relationship above the impartation of information.

I don't know about you, but I want my life to have meaning.

I want to reach the end of my days (whenever that may be) and be satisfied that the story my life told was one worth telling. For me, that means embracing my faults and failures, admitting my depravity, following the path that my tears forge to the saving of my soul. Sharing meals with friends, holding people tight when life doesn't go 'to plan' and allowing myself to be carried through suffering. I want to gasp at the wonder of existence and savour each breath as a gift. Marvel at the sun glinting off the spun gold and chestnut hair of my children and gaze deeply into their eyes when they share a story with me. I want for each day to tell a story of an existence worth dying for, but most of all, one worth living for.

That is spirituality to me.

Gus has recently decided that he is an outdoor dog.

After a decade of lounging on various cushions, beds or rugs, he has suddenly regained his youth and spiritedly races around the yard issuing stern warnings to all who could possibly hold any ill intent as they pass peaceably by his vantage point in the fence. It could possibly be an escape attempt from the levels of craziness that regularly escalate within these walls, but we'll go with the rejuvenation story.

I'm beginning to admit to myself that I would like to be a writer.

After a decade of dulling down the creative elements to my character, resigning myself to the fact that law, motherhood or teaching would be the only realistic outlets to pursue as an adult, I'm now growing more and more unsettled with restlessness.

For Dave and I, our interactions this week could more aptly be described as 'handovers'. Blessed with cognitive ability first thing in the morning, Dave rises with the kids and throws together his daily salad while I blearily attempt to adjust to the haze outside of dreamland. As I stagger unsteadily into the kitchen, he blows farewell kisses to us all, leaving me to gather my wits and struggle to parent.

The days have admittedly reached a better rhythm since Eli's foray into Kinder. We have regular reasons to venture beyond the walls which results in better mental health opportunities for us all, and Eli is relishing his newfound discovery that making friends is not as hard as he had thought. He comes home daily exclaiming with wonder at the conversations had and connections made. 

Following the whirlwind of dinner being served to 'suddenly full' tummies, the commotion of bathing three wriggly bodies, and the mountains of books unravelled to spellbound listeners; we begin the process again- one heading out to various social engagements or planned meetings, one manning the fort at home.

Dave channels his energy like one possessed as soon as I close the front door- thrusting his mind into ideas of virtue ethics, narrative identity and mimesis. He is consumed by the heady nature of ideas coming together, forming intriguing new angles in the field. He follows the White Rabbit wherever it leads. Sometimes, my arrival home barely registers as he has waded inextricably far into the rabbit hole to return with ease.

I wish for that kind of inspiration. It has not visited me lately.

I've practiced avoidance with expert skill, in the pages hurriedly skimmed over, the shows devoured, the short fuses exploded and the glasses poured. The conversations glossed over and the weak offerings of 'I'm just tired'.

My personal YouTube Yoga master, Adriene, exhorted the affirmation for today as 'presence'. It was the very last thing I wanted to acknowledge... 'I am present...in my frustration....in my dissatisfaction....in my lack of inspiration...in my wallowing'. The act of accepting these squirm-inducing feelings surprisingly releasing some of the angst.

I haven't been 'fixed' necessarily, or caught up in the throes of inspiration, but I'm learning to accept the discomfort of being in this realm. I'm a stay at home mother of three pre-school children, each of whom have very distinct ideas of how they think our day should proceed. The majority of my waking hours are spent in diplomacy, yelling, maintenance, huffing, catering, exhorting free spirits to put clothes and shoes on, swearing, cuddling, dealing with human excretions, medicine administration, sorting, teaching, explaining, chauffeuring, encouraging and applauding little steps of progress. It is an incredibly rewarding (and frustrating) vocation, but one that has little to 'show' for it right now.

Writing helps me make sense of life and my own convoluted mind. My fingers etch characters onto the screen and revelation hits mid sentence, almost in spite of me. I hope that one day I will be able to craft something of significance, even if it is unrealistic to think that such a project could be endeavoured now... in between drop offs, pick ups and PhDs. And in the meantime, I'm so thankful for this blog, for the opportunity to sift through chaotic thoughts and hone my skills, connecting with others who resonate with ideas of authenticity and vulnerability.

I guess I'm choosing to be present in my restless gratitude.