I never anticipated how compelling and destabilising these monthly themes would be.

As the days of March dwindle and my reading becomes more frantic, my mind is a tanglement of thoughts, memories, emotions and sparks of insight.

Each book and blog post read, each memory processed leads to initial discomfort as I reconcile the differences with my lived experience. And then there is the breaking point, where the insight becomes more powerful than the way things are done, or the previous becomes untenable in light of the new discovery. Change occurs.

Of all of the themes, authenticity promised to be difficult. I had initial visions of whether it meant I should go make-up free but my travels have taken me in a different direction.

In this blog, I find vulnerability comes relatively easily. In person, however, I am still often stuck in the cords of social habits formed over decades and react too quickly to any perceived hint of disconnection, loss of interest or judgment.

I'm better than I used to be. Monica recently admitted that when she first met me she wondered aloud to Alex if there would be anything she could say that I wouldn't agree with. I was so annoyingly agreeable and friendly, firmly entrenched in the 'nice Emma' persona- afraid that if I let any hint of disagreement out, I would lose friends. Dave and I have an arrangement now- if he catches 'nice Emma' in conversation, he will make a not so subtle 'gun to the head' gesture. The threat has mostly been enough to kill her off!

When I was eight, it was discovered I had terrible vision. Dad was pointing out stars in the sky, a concept with which I was completely unfamiliar, being only able to clearly make out items a foot from my face. I was whisked off to the optometrist and chose my first pair of glasses. Mum tried to dissuade me, but I was firm on my choice. Thick, large, purple-rimmed frames. Add in some braces for my unfortunate fangs, a side-part slicked down and you get the picture.

Throughout primary school, I had many experiences of unrequited 'love'. From leaving a Valentine on Mark Thomas' chair in Grade Three, to my desperate wishes for David Patterson to notice me in Grade Six, it seemed that I was destined for despair. It wasn't all doom, I should admit. In our weekly orchestra practice, I developed a bantering relationship with the trumpet player and we both began looking forward to what was otherwise a fairly long afternoon of slightly off-key instruments attempting to craft classical sounds. We placed a seal of destruction on the relationship when we made it official, however, as we were suddenly unable to string words in an uttered sentence as soon as there was a label attached. My preference for the written word began to blossom as we communicated in letters instead.

Fast forward two years and I replaced the glasses for contact lenses, shed my braces and sported a shoulder-length hair cut. Suddenly, it was like the lights had been turned on, and I began to be 'noticed'. We were a small school and it was fairly common for year levels to mix. I began to hang out more with the guys in the year level above. I quickly learned who I needed to 'be' to be liked and accepted. A certain facial expression, an easy laugh, playing soccer every lunchtime. Before long, I exchanged the socially strangled relationship with Tim for a string of flirtations and an attachment to the aloof and popular Luke.

When I look back at my high school years, these events stand out in my memory. It was like I poured all my energy into figuring out who to be, and executing that with as much finesse as I could manage.

Not that I put all my eggs in that basket. Academic achievement was another seductive pull for me and I developed solid disciplines in order to ensure I was always competitive with the other smart kids in the class. In Year Nine I let my grades slide in preference to pursuing flirtations and I hated the experience at the end of the year when my best friend, Holly walked away with most of the awards. I vowed in my journal never to let that happen again!

These strains continued as I entered university- finding what I needed to do to be liked, and ensuring I was also seen as smart and dedicated. They became the armour that clothed me, my persona, container, the False Self.

Positions of influence reinforced the need to appear as if I had it all together. From the 'Youth Leader' of barely teenage girls to the devoted 'Pastor's Wife' when I married Dave- I curated the 'nice Emma' mask with care and vigilance. I thought it was what people wanted, what they needed me to be.

I know I am not alone in my need to feel liked, affirmed and accepted. Yet the ways I've gone about it in the past have often just resulted in a bespoke portrayal of self crafted to the particular audience. And there is a hollow sense of fulfillment when people only like, affirm and accept the 'you' that is held out.

After school, I began to invest in a persona that appeared well-versed in current music. One day, my legitimately band-literate friend caught me out pretending to know more about the British rock band Oasis than was actually the case. The feeling of being exposed was excruciating and the holes in my approach became clear.

I have a long way to go until my True Self is the only reality that people encounter when engaging me, but I feel as if I'm deep into the wrestle and wanting to get there somehow. I'm driven by fear, terrified of being rejected and drawn to control as a way of maneuvering these uncertain feelings.

I count myself considerably lucky to have a patient husband and friends that know and accept the messed up, neurotic, tight-fisted version that emerges at times, and love me in spite of that.

Friends like Holly who has known me since we were nine- fighting over the rules to playing 'Elastic', singing into hairbrush microphones at sleepovers and pretending we were fast asleep when our parents came to scold us. Who stuck by me even when I became a facade of myself (and a shallow friend) in the 'flirty stage'. A friend who I still catch up with as regularly as our busy lives allow and we just launch straight into the middle of a conversation without needing any pleasantries.

And like Monica, who endured eighteen months of living with me in my 'dark zone', putting up with me pretending everything was fine until a torrent would unleash at our 'house meetings' and the grievances would all come pouring out in one ugly gush. If a relationship can endure that, it becomes like steel, and she is now one of the main recipients of my shameful confessions- always providing empathy, compassion and perspective when I need it the most.

Eventually, like an emergent butterfly, I hope to shed the cocoon-like personas that have ensconced me for so long and become who I am authentically designed to be. I suspect it may be a long and rocky journey!

    

Photo taken by Matthew Edmondson

It is beginning to dawn on me exactly how powerful the stories we tell ourselves become.

They can become the difference between a successful day and a disastrous one, a bitter life or a flourishing existence.

We had a rough start this morning. Dave had to leave extra early and I was abruptly awoken by a far too chirpy Hudson peering intently into my face and poking me. I eventually staggered down the hall to find Eli and Ivy screeching with laughter in her cot, playing with her teddies. The day had started without me, it would seem.

A quick toilet break turned out to be a disaster as I came back into the kitchen to find pink paint smeared all over Hudson's face, hands and clothing. And the bench, drawers and cupboards as well. I snatched bites of breakfast in between breaking up fights, preventing injuries and shouting instructions at children not inclined to listen. It was a runaway train heading for destruction.

"It's barely 10am and I feel as if I've already used my energy quota for the day." I wrote to Dave, in between other more colourful descriptions.

After putting myself in Time Out for the third time that morning (pointlessly it turns out, as somehow fleeing from the room seeking alone time is translatable to pre-schoolers as 'please follow Mummy and do somersaults on the bed over her'), I sent an SOS to the girls for help.

"Arghh, this morning has been really s&%! so far- I really need help changing my narrative!"

Monica shared emphatically of similar difficulties and gave some suggestions of ways to cope in the meantime. Naomi offered perspective and encouragement and I was reminded of my usual coping mechanism of writing furiously in my Gratitude Journal, a method that had slipped my mind in the chaos.

It turns out that my subconscious and insular 'woe is me, no one else must be having this type of morning' perspective was very toxic and only succeeded in sinking me further into the quicksand of despair. I found out that another of my friends was having an even tougher morning than I and actually needed some practical help.

These realisations and the importance of changing locations to reframe the story, actually ended up bringing me completely out of the funk and we had a memorable and beautiful day. With picnics at the playground, staring into the sky sharing a net swing with Ivy, making stories out of the dragon shaped clouds in the sky, painting Stormfly and Blades on enchanted faces, fish and chips on the trampoline for dinner and adventures in the garden with the boys. I also soaked up Dave's generous offer to duck out for some leisurely reading time at a cafe before dinner. Even three quarters of an hour turning pages over savouring a piccolo latte is more than enough to reset the energy meters, I find. 

I've been reading Bob Goff's book 'Love Does'. His life is littered with inspirational examples of powerful gestures and experiences, as he fully engages with life and embraces the whimsical nature of the world in which we are placed. From taking his kids on slave rescue missions in India to sending flowers (of forgiveness) to the very apologetic elderly lady who T-boned his jeep at an intersection, to wooing his wife with life-sized cards and peanut butter and jam sandwiches under her windscreen- he chooses to seize each moment with reckless abandon.

It is far easier at times to succumb to the chaos and feel as if the day is something to endure or just 'get through'. Yet, when we are able to rise above the emotions controlling this narrative and choose a different story, reaching out in solidarity with others, we somehow tap into this bewitching undercurrent that has the power to transform us and those that surround us.

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.