Pause.
I will let you think about it.
Vulnerable.
Being Vulnerable.
Vulnerable.
The image that enters my head: a bare belly... being ripped to shreds by some kind of demon with long claws. Four red gashes along the white skin. Red. Bleeding. Nasty and all of my insides falling out on the floor. Gruesome. Something from a horror movie.
Being vulnerable is a long, gruesome, terrible, painful road towards death.
Apparently I have some issues with vulnerability. So, I suppose that begs the question: why am I talking about vulnerability?
Here is the long and short of it. I read an interview with shame researcher Brené Brown. She talks about being vulnerable. About living greatly. About how awesome it is to be there, engaged, and living life wholeheartedly (a term she has coined). In the article, she speaks of vulnerability as having the courage to put it all out there. "The only people who innovate are people standing in the arena getting their butts kicked on occasion." Changing the world by being vulnerable in the face of all of this that we live with... a society of "scarcity." She explains in our culture, "we're never thin enough, rich enough, safe enough." She says being vulnerable is key in turning it all around.
Of making it a better place. Of being great.
Oh yeah. Right up my alley. Her book is Daring Greatly. I bought it. I eagerly awaited its arrival (checking tracking every single day) and when it came, I ripped open the box, took off the cover, and eagerly dug in.
I liked the quote she builds the book on:
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds have done them better. This credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives viliantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy causes; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."
From Theodore Roosevelt. What a wonderful speech. I was excited for the rest of the book.
Until I wasn't.
Okay okay. Before I go too far, it is very well written. She uses personal stories brilliantly, she backs everything up with data. The book is fun, well written, intelligent, and smart. She is smart.
But something was wrong.
I felt like I was skimming along the pages. I didn't feel it. I couldn't get down into the bones of it. Let me explain. I felt a disconnection for much of the book. I wasn't there. I was reading it, processing the information, and during the sections about men and their vulnerability, or children and their vulnerability, I was engaged. But, the personal stuff. Didn't feel a thing.
Which made me wonder.
Why? The article had obviously sparked an interest, but the book; well, I just felt I was not represented within the examples. I didn't see myself as having a problem with shame. Or with vulnerability. I didn't feel shame towards much; maybe a couple of incidents in my past, and those were largely left in my past. As for vulnerability, I allow myself to be vulnerable within certain circumstances and with certain people. So, I read the book, I thought it an interesting read but not life-changing like other books I've read in the past. I put it in its place with my other books.
Walked away.
And then, literally as I was walking away, I thought about what "being vulnerable" meant to me.
Being vulnerable.
Oh my.
Images of blood. Guts. Gruesome beasts out of the darkness of night. Oh my.
I went back to the book. I flipped back to the page where she has examples of how others think of "being vulnerable." They are:
- It's taking off the mask and hoping the real me isn't too disappointing.
- Not sucking it in anymore.
- It's where courage and fear meet.
- You are halfway across a tightrope, and moving forward and going back are both just as scary.
- Sweaty palms and a racing heart.
Let me detour.
At the beginning of this post I wanted, very much, to place a warning. I wanted to write something along the lines of: "this will be a very personal post with very little humor, or silly antidotes, or cute stories about my son." See, the things I've written about in the last three posts have had all of those components. I write about the little stuff I've learned, the ways I've changed in relationship to being a working woman and being a stay at home mom, and the stories of my son that everyone (SHOULD) find cute and touching. I started this blog out as an exercise in putting myself out there, but so far I've played it fairly safe. The topics are important to me, very much so, but are they daring?
Am I daring greatly?
I thought so. But maybe not.
I was acting vulnerable, but only within a very specific, and rather small, perimeter. For instance. I have two loyal readers (you know who you are)... and they are two of my closest friends. They are two individuals who I KNOW will support me in what I write and how I write it. And I am okay with only writing to these two individuals. I have not linked my blog to my facebook page; I have not told other people (other than my husband); or in any other way advertised this blog.
I am staying safe. I don't write about my views on religion. Or feminism. Or how I am a proponent for gender rights. I don't put myself out there for strangers to read. I don't invite people to read these posts thereby avoiding criticism... but also excluding potential readers who could, perhaps, benefit from what these entries are about.
Within my perimeters. But according to this Brené person, I am doing precisely what she says is the opposite of daring greatly. I am not living courageously. I am not "in the arena" or making a difference. Again: "the only people who innovate are the people standing in the arena getting their butts kicked on occasion." The problem that I have, right now as I write this with my heart in my throat and that weird feeling in the palm of my hands, is that I want to make a difference. I want to innovate. I want to challenge, inspire, lead, and create for people. I want to be great. Not great, little "g," Great, big "G." I want to do something that will change the world.
Whoa. Right? I hear them. Brené calls them gremlins. Greatness. You. You are nobody. You are just some mediocre woman. You are of average intelligence. You are average everything. Those things that you are good at; so are millions of other people. These blogs are silly and a waste of time. They only amuse your friends and have no potential to help anyone at all. Ever.
Seriously. That all just went through my head. I could point fingers at past conversations that have likely influenced those crazy gremlins, but they are, in the end, all mine. Mine all mine. Oh joy to the world. And the thing is, I have learned how to beautifully manage them. Beautifully. Oh goodness am I good at managing those gremlins. Let me give you a few examples:
- I have all but stamped out any competitive nature I have, unless it is with myself. But NEVER with other people.
- I please please please. I am so good at manipulating things in order to make everyone happy I don't even have to think about it anymore.
- I never, ever create conflict. Ever.
- I never brag about myself. In fact, just writing that made my stomach hurt. Do not brag. There is nothing to brag about. You are neither greater or better than anyone else.
- Do not do anything to bring attention to yourself. Neither good attention or bad attention.
I need therapy.
I need to delete this blog post.
I need to go throw up.
Okay. Composed once more.
The point of all this, this long tirade of self-examination (if that is what you would call it), is to to point out that maybe I have been on the wrong path. What I mean; I have focused so much the last five to ten years on managing my life by essentially separating myself from emotion and interaction with Buddhism, meditation, and living in the "now," that maybe I have crippled my abilities. Maybe I have crippled my greatness.
I don't know. I just wrote that line about greatness and the gremlins popped up and said "what greatness?" You are nothing special.
See. It is easier to be without emotional attachment, or learn to separate yourself from emotional attachment. I don't mean separation from loving my husband, son, or family, but emotional REACTION to life. And I don't use the numbing agents Brené writes about (alcohol, drugs, too much work, etc. etc.) I use all the spiritual numbing agents. I step away from emotions. I don't let things rattle me. When things do upset me, I let them go through meditation. Separating myself from the masses.
And that doesn't sound like it is a bad thing. Less stress caused by emotion probably means I won't die of a stress-related heart attack.
Have I been on the wrong road this entire time? Has my approach been completely wrong?
Pink Floyd anyone?
"A walk on part in the war, for a lead role in the cage"
Or maybe, just maybe, I have been on an incomplete one. Maybe these two things can work together. Maybe I can both dare greatly and maintain a spirituality of peace and calmness. That is the ideal, I think, and something I think Brené writes about in her other book The Gifts of Imperfection and the lessons she has about living wholeheartedly.
I will tackle that book next.
I will see what this is all about. Examine. Reflect.
In the mean time, I ask my two friends who will read this... and anyone else that stumbles upon it... do you dare greatly? Are you vulnerable? Do you allow yourself to believe that you are great?
Do you get out in the arena?
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