Tag: wisdom

How I Exercise my Introvert/Extrovert Status

Alice Lundy4 Comments

If someone says, “She’s high maintenance” referring to me, I’ve got one thing to say: You’re damn right.

I don’t understand low-maintenance, high-functioning folks. Sometimes I see people maintaining themselves by sucking on other people’s energy.

I sustain my own energy by tending to the two sides of me.

I envy extroverts who get revved up by hanging with others.

For me, these are my required maintenance procedures:
1. Writing—morning pages, journaling and writing with purpose for publication.
2. Yoga or stretching. My body gets physically knotted up and I’m in pain if I don’t find a way to untie the knots. (Massage works, too.)
3. Walking in nature. It’s the act of movement, and nature kisses my skin and whispers to my soul if I go it alone.
4. Reading—expands my mind and heart.
5. Prayer—to God, angels, guides, Mother Mary, Jesus Christ, Holy Spirit, and my loved ones on the other side. It can take a while.
6. Meditation—without it I’d come undone.

These are solo pursuits. When I take these steps I’m better able to connect with the world.

Also, I love being alone. I’m not bored. I’m not lonely.

Extroverts, I love you with your eager invitations and how you can’t fathom my time alone is your competition. It is.

Introverts, I’m with you in the magnitude of solitude, silence drawing out peace and presence for ourselves in order to invoke any magnificence we may hope to possess.

Extroverts, you drag me from the dark depths of myself—beyond the blackness. Some days and nights, I stand at death’s door begging for entry into something beyond. You entertain me and keep me awake to others’ laughter, dancing, voices and stories.

You make me come out and live. Thank you.

Introverts, we know our time alone can be where we feel most alive, authentic and valid. They may think we’re hiding, but it’s here where we face life head on. We’re not afraid of darkness. Or light. The sacred ignites our souls. We see stars intimately. We speak poetry as if it’s our first language. We dance with music because it becomes us. Alone, we’re more than we care to explain, show or present to the great pretenders running the world we run away from.

Extroverts, I adore your laughter and our connections. Yet, I can’t comprehend your apprehension toward solitude. How can it not soothe you?

Don’t you dare to dance with your one true soul mate—you?

We introverts don’t quite understand the loneliness you speak of, for others tend to engulf us in emotional claustrophobia.

Me, I dance between the world of people and parties and my full-on presence. Too much out there invites pretense, lest I speak truth most don’t care for.

Truth—I kiss her and let her seep inside my soul alone on quiet nights and precious days. She allows me to return full and ready, capable of conjuring words, not to hurt but ideally to awaken and elevate.

I’m two sides of the personality coin: introvert/extrovert. I must spend them equally. And so I dance—in the world and in my kitchen.

 

Strings on Gifts

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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When your sister’s husband dies

You drop everything

As if you could do anything

About the thing that’s kicking her ass.

Damn, if it don’t make you ache to

Watch her brave it, and badly.

Because there’s no good way to do this;

Grief doesn’t look good on anyone.

Oh, it might make you wise.

Sure, someday, some way

The thing that takes you to the brink

Will bring you back with compassion.

Yeah, soon my sister’s life will

Feel like a call to action.

But, today, this moment,

It’s like a girl—if she had any—

Getting kicked in the balls.

A girl I grew up with.

A girl who stood up to life

When it told her to play it small.

She shouted, “Give me something big!”

It did. And took it away.

A high price to pay,

What she was asking.

Unprepared, as we all are

For gifts and their strings.

Dear Girl Back There

Alice Lundy10 Comments

Dear Girl Back There,

Thank you for trying. And failing. And falling on your ass when you were so sure you had it right. Again. In business. Relationships. Friendships. Decision making. Thank you for anything that resembles wisdom. It was hard-earned. You, Girl Back There, took harsh punishments.

You didn’t speak the words you wanted. At times, you spoke words that hurt and shamed. All in an effort to get love. Or at least a little attention.

Hey you, Girl Back There, thanks for helping me develop style, through trial and error and dollars spent on desires and designs that were never meant to be mine.

You endured people who rubbed you the wrong way and those who wished you’d go away. You took on heartbreak like a sport. You always won, even when you lost.

Sure, Girl Back There, your expectations evaporated like water on a summer sidewalk, but you obtained an education and you always caught the next train. Girl Back There, thank you.

You delivered me here, but I’m no longer you. And you, Girl Back There, scared of all the bad that’s been before, you don’t have to carry my bags any more. Let’s just set them down and play.

See, Girl Back There, I saw it all. I know how hard it’s been. Your struggle was my birth. I’m a new woman now. I travel light with less baggage. And my ticket to ride is stamped GRATITUDE. Here, I’ll hand it to you. It can take you anywhere. Even HERE, NOW.

It’s Not the Other Person We Want Back

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Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking it’s the other person we want back. What we want is the part of ourselves that pranced bold and brave into the hands and heart of that lover.

We crave our confidence and strength. Mostly, we long for the kind of faith our infatuation and falling in love ignited. Faith like that feels like flying.

After we’ve fallen, getting back the other person appeals and feels like setting things right. WRONG.

The effort we put into praying for and attracting another is the energy we need to enact for ourselves. From our deeper selves we give birth to our new and better selves.

It’s metamorphosis. You don’t stop transforming because it’s a little sticky in here. Do you not imagine yourself a beautiful winged bird, the phoenix emerging from the ashes?

There’s no magic. You will go through darkness. Perceive yourself having the iridescence no less than a dragonfly.

The lover back there, the one you wanted to go back for, the one you’d turn your back on yourself for, maybe all along, he was just a mosquito.

 

 

Letter from My 81-year Old Self to My 51-year Old Self

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My Dear,

You’re more beautiful and powerful than you imagine. You’ll be published, well-known and paid plenty. You’ll touch lives. But, you will not be without struggle.

My goodness, have you not yet discovered you thrive on challenge? Stop saying you want it’s easy. It’s not. You wouldn’t like it if it was. That’s not your style. That’s not your story.

Yours will be a rich story now. From here on out, you’ll be rich in love. You’ll have all the money you need.

Here’s the thing to focus on: joy. If you don’t enjoy what you have and where you are, you disinvite more and better.

Of course you’ve had and always will have struggles. You’ll find your way. You must make sure it’s YOUR way.

No person can steer your path for you. Even if you let them take the wheel for a while, you’re still in the driver’s seat.

The more you scoot over and let God do the driving, the more you’ll enjoy the ride. Relax, honey. God’s got this.

Everything you know to be true is true. You’re surrounded by angels. You have a divine destiny. You’re going to be okay. You don’t have to figure it all out.

Everything you know to be false is false. You, my dear, don’t tolerate bullshit.

So, don’t. Not from others, and certainly not from in yourself. Your dreams are your daily life. And yes, it just keeps getting better.

Keep praying. Keep writing. Keep believing. Nurture yourself. You are high maintenance. You need to take your time alone.

You have love. You are love. Your books are your way of loving the women in the world, the ones like you who lost their way. Their gratitude will shine on you like light from the heavens.

Your writer’s life is the rollercoaster you love to ride. Don’t forget how much you love it, even though it’s scary and sometimes makes you sick to your stomach. It’s the greatest rush you know.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.  Enjoy it.

At a least expected hour, you will meet with your destiny. Dance with her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

How to Awaken Your True Self When She’s Gone Quiet

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How do we give birth to our own authenticity when we’ve gone unconscious under society’s rules and our chosen roles? When our true selves have gone quiet under our desire to serve others? How do we lift the blanket of pleasing others when it’s covering our true essence?

First step—we resist this one—admit to ourselves that maybe we’ve gone too far down wrong roads. Hey, we were enjoying the scenery. Maybe we missed a turn back there. Or several. It’s time to admit we’re not where we want to be, ought to be, or once determined to be. Then, we honor our good intentions and forgive our fears that landed us here.

No matter. No guilt. No regret. There’s no turning back or unriding roads ridden. You must start where you are.

Often, when I realize the choices I made took me to someplace I don’t want to be, I first blame others. I wasn’t even driving! But, I went along for the ride and didn’t speak up, at least not enough to be heard. Mostly, I told myself everything was beautiful, took a little nap, and awoke to say, “Where the hell are we?!”

Then comes the deciding where I want to go from here. I want to go someplace that’s going to make me feel good, allow me I to be myself, and welcome me to connect and grow. When that’s a foreign feeling, we begin small.

There was a time when all I knew was that I wanted to write. But, I felt angry and trapped in situations I put myself into and commitments I made that now felt fake. I needed a compass.

I asked myself two questions: 1) Is it good for my writer self? 2) Does it make my soul sing? Believe it or not, these two questions led me moment by moment to my authentic self. Suddenly, I was seduced into soulful days and blissing out on the basics—like sunshine, fresh air, and autumn leaves. And I was writing!

Returning to oneself when you you’ve betrayed her is like climbing a brick wall. There’s a door called acceptance. We all take roads that lead us to where we didn’t want to be—because we can’t see the future! We’re human! We can’t imagine all that comes with our determined manifestations.

That’s ok. Pretending otherwise is pushing away the lesson and gift of our evolving experiences. Stagnation is the sin. When we reset our internal GPS to head for joy, we run across our own authentic selves. Then, we reawaken.

Cutting Words

Alice Lundy4 Comments

I remember the first time my boyfriend at the time belittled me. We sat with two of my favorite people in the world: my stepsister, Emily and her husband, Aaron. The ocean crashed beautifully below us in Laguna Niguel, California, where they lived. The sun rose a perfect day, leading us into lunch, laughter, and Bloody Marys.

I started telling a story. My boyfriend interjected, “Alice doesn’t have a very good memory.” I was taken aback, but let it register no more than had he said, “Look at the bird.” It was the interruption to my story that momentarily perturbed me.

Emily and Aaron defended me. Aaron said, “Dude, what are you talking about? Alice has a phenomenal memory.”

Emily followed with, “I think she has a great memory. Have you heard some of her stories?” The detour passed like a salt shaker across the table.

Aaron laughed and said, “Come on, Alice! Tell us the rest of your story.” I did—because that’s what mattered to me.

Now, fifteen years from that scene, twelve years after marrying him, three years after leaving, two years after divorcing, it registers.

What was I thinking? Why didn’t I stand up for myself?

Why didn’t I question why he made such a statement? Based on what? Why didn’t I kill the monster while it was small? Set a more enriching tone for our communication?

I didn’t do any of those things because I’d been letting comments like that slide my whole life. They slid from my father, another man who loved me and was mostly good, but without evil intent could make words cut like a scalpel into a lemon.

Like when I took a summer job across the country and he told me if I failed he’d buy me a bus ticket home. Like when I headed to my ten-year high school reunion and he told me not to feel bad about my lack of success, as my peers were likely in the same boat. After all, he informed me, mine was the first generation to be less successful than our parents.

When my sister landed a job with a software company, my dad said he was concerned for her because to do well in the position one would have to be smart and learn about computers. (She rose to the executive level in that company.)

My father once told me, of course he chose my stepmom and her kids over my siblings and I; we’d grow up and leave, but she’d always be there.

Later, I chose a man’s condescension to mirror my father’s arrows. Comments I long since resisted registering, but that never stopped stinging on an unconscious level. That’s why I didn’t defend myself.

Now, at almost 50, I’ve learned to call my father on his insensitive remarks. He’s learned to apologize. We’ve come to a place of peace and pardon. But that husband?

The worst part wasn’t that I didn’t defend myself. It was that I ingested his unintended insults like one takes in negative news—like he revealed the fucked-up facts of life I had to deal with.

I didn’t have a good memory. I wasn’t good at math. My humor hurt people. Business wasn’t my forte… There was just enough truth for me to trust, especially early on when I believed that his was the love I longed for my whole life.

Truth is a funny thing. What I told you here possibly paints a false picture of the man I spent a big chunk of my life with. He wasn’t mean or malicious. He was kind, giving, generous, and certainly delivered as many compliments as hurtful words.

He’d just learned to point out the “facts” with the confidence of his father, who had put his own ploys on his seven sons. And so it goes. Or, so it did.

One can’t do better until she knows better. Now I do. Not in a 20-something defensive way. Now, as I near 50, I know myself better.

I know my faults and my weaknesses. I don’t need someone to shine a light on them. Nor do I need to hide, deny or defend.

I know my strengths, starting with my memory. I remember men insulting me, approaching me inappropriately, or dismissing me with male superiority, while their words whittled away my self-worth.

My self is worth more. I can see what’s mine and what’s yours. If you’re mine and you can’t see that I’m more, I remember how it hurts to let that shit fly. So, I don’t.

I’m not a child anymore. I’m not obligated to agree. I’m a woman. If you don’t get that, you don’t get me.

Don’t Get Weird

Alice LundyLeave a comment

You call me weird,

The label I feared all my life.

Growing up in Los Alamos, NM—the

Land of weirdos—but not my kind,

More of the engineer, physicist,

Chemist and atomic bomb specialist type.

Then, there were the weird kids that didn’t fit in

And I found my way by pushing them out. (Sorry!)

Next, I met the Olions and weird theatre people

My mom and brother seemed seduced by.

I thought them all too dramatic. Anyhow,

One thing I never wanted to be was weird.

The only thing worse was being normal.

I had to be unique, from the inside.

I wanted people to see my soul,

Still, my ego commanded:

Don’t be weird; just be yourself.

Turns out, I was my own kind of weird all along.

I take Shamanic journeys and do full moon rituals.

I’m a writer and a poet. I enjoy being alone.

I’m spiritual, definitely not religious.

I visit psychics for confirmation.

Metaphysical bookstores? I’m in!

Yep! Deep into owning that weirdo label.

Modern day’s “Can you hear me now?” and “Where’s the beef?”

Has you saying, “Don’t get weird.”

You don’t know, but I’m laughing

And owning my weirdo status–
Even if you don’t like me weird.

See, baby, I don’t get weird;

I am weird!

A Widow’s Purse

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She carries her private hell

The way most women carry a purse.

Grief stays with its owner. It

Could creep into conversation,

But what’s the point in

Laying out the contents?

What’s she to do—spill it

All over the grocery store counter?

Across the boardroom table?

Her private hell, like a purse,

Is always close at hand.

It’s become a part of her.

She may leave it for a bit, but

She won’t get far without it.

Someday, maybe she’ll invest

in something new.

But, it will never be the same.

This private hell, this grief

Opens to her alone.

Friends and family

Have their own, but

This one seems to grow and

Pull with weight upon her shoulder,

Distracting her from basic tasks and duties.

While other women claim to have similar

They slip hands inside, pull out

Lipstick and smooth it on, but

The widow’s private purse,

It’s scary to look inside,

Nothing pretty to apply.

Yet, she’s desperate not

To leave or forget it.

That purse once held

Everything.

 

Beauty, Brains or God?

Alice Lundy4 Comments

In both subtle and direct ways, my mom taught me it doesn’t matter if you’re pretty or have a boyfriend; what matters is if you’re smart, strong and capable. Women who rely on their looks, a man or God are weak. Women who use their brains are free and powerful.

I never felt free, powerful or smart as a kid. To this day, I don’t know if when I was young my mom believed I was smart, but lazy or if she thought I wasn’t smart and it frustrated her to think she and my dad’s brains combined should’ve created more. She used to scream when I did something she didn’t like (as if I could predict what that would be). “Alice Ann! You’re not stupid!” I tried harder not to be.

At school, looks mattered. When you’re the ugly kid, the mirror repulses and the looks from other kids shame.

Looking at my mom, I think she hid her beauty, the way some women exploit theirs. I wasn’t hiding my beauty any more than my brains. I was ugly. As a little girl, I wanted to be a boy. I thought I knew how to be a boy.

I didn’t know how to be pretty. No one taught me. Even the most naturally beautiful are rarely recognized until they’re groomed. Mothers teach their daughters to groom, like fathers teach their sons to play sports.

Not in our house. The answer to every question, I was told, could be found in a book. From my perspective, my parents didn’t give credence to the human heart or any sort of spiritual knowing. In fact, both my parents were so smart they knew there wasn’t a God.

They sent me out to churches with friends so I could see for myself. Somehow, intended or not, I got the message that what I was supposed to see was just because they believe in God, it didn’t make them bad. They’re maybe just not as smart was the message. Is that any different from They’re not as educated or as wealthy or well-bred? Wasn’t it just another form of “We’re privileged and we’re proud,” whether it was true or not?

The truth adhered to in our house was tolerance. Decades later, I’d learn tolerance is a distance from acceptance. I was free to choose whatever I wanted to believe, which was supposed to be better. As it was explained, Christian children are told there is a God, like my parents once told me there was a Santa Claus. The poor deprived Christian children never got to choose. Choice was a gift.

Imagine me in 4th grade, scrawny girl who may or may not have combed her hair or brushed her teeth that morning, wearing goofy glasses and clothes from People’s Department Store (which wasn’t a thrift store, but sure didn’t sell style), hanging on the playground, explaining my families’ religious philosophy to a gang of kids heckling me.

That day, especially, ugly mattered. All that thinking, evaluating and deciding I didn’t believe in God didn’t make me feel free or powerful.

Later, as an adult, I’d look back and know that yes, for me, choice worked. It worked for me to develop my relationship with God based solely on our communication, not on reading the handbook, attending the meetings or participating in the philosophy.

God and I just found each other when I was a kid. He’d hang out with me, convince me not to jump off cliffs or run too far from home. He comforted me and often carried me. It was just He and I. I didn’t discuss my relationship with God with my Christian friends, although I occasionally went to holiday services with them. Saying I believed in God out loud felt like betraying my parents.

Plus, I kind of liked the McGrath family, with 10 kids, trying to save me. It meant I always had a place at their dinner table.

I stayed with Theresa McGrath in my late 20s while working in Tulsa, OK. The McGraths are the rare family who live their Christian faith—in their businesses, their families and their excessive successes. They’re American Christians.

“This is what we know to be true, Alice. Jesus Christ died for your sins and unless you believe in Him and follow the Bible’s teachings, yes, you will go to hell. I know you love your parents, but they will go to hell. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is. Read the Bible.”

I read the Bible the way most people do, picking and choosing the parts I liked the best.

I’d long since announced my faith in God without much apology or explanation. The McGraths seemed to believe I was a beautiful child of God who needed their protection. Theresa, by that time, and by the grace of God and American opportunity, had built a successful salon business.

During the six months I stayed with her, she transformed my appearance, catching me up on a lifetime of beauty tips. Oh, I’d mastered the curling iron and mascara, but I never imagined spending $10 on a lipstick.

During my work time (10 days on) I stayed with Theresa. During my off time (4 days off) I lived with my mom. By then, I’d grown “successful” in my own male-dominated field—sales. I’d done my parents proud, in spite of not having a college degree. I presented myself to the world as, “I may not be the smartest and I may not be the prettiest, but I’ll work harder than anyone and learn whatever I have to because I am a strong woman.” Can you hear my parents clapping? I did, and oh, how it made me dance.

While I danced and worked, Theresa did my hair, taught me skin care, what styles were in and where to shop. When I came home, I visited my mom, who lost her job at age 55 and hadn’t been able to replace it, even with that PhD in her pocket.

I became beautiful before her eyes, and for once, she wasn’t too busy to look. To my mom, beauty had always been a frivolous pursuit. She stood blown away by how it looked on me. She savored my beauty, the way one does when falling in love with a new food she never intended trying.

Beautiful, strong, spiritual 28-year-old me watched my mother’s physical strength succumb to cancer. I knew it was bad when she couldn’t read a book. After she died, I found a scrapbook of hers, filled in with goals, quotes and affirmations. God, surprisingly, was included in her plans. That was beautiful. And, damn, she was smart.