There is a local family that goes all out with their Christmas decorations every year. Santa frequently stops by to pose for DIY photos, and they even have a snow making machine installed on the side of their house. They also collect for the NW Harvest food drive every year.
Every where you look is decorated, every square foot of the lawn. Aaron and I marveled at how much was involved. Not just the electricity, but the hours of work that must have been involved. I can’t even wrap my head around the planning, organization, and storage considerations for this annual project.
Gem marveled at the whole thing, too. “Mommy, Mommy, look, look!” Over and over again. Everything was so amazing.
It is a bit gaudy, and definitely over the top, but that’s part of the appeal. I love a little exuberance every once in a while; it can be so freeing and refreshing.
Our 4-year-old asked for a pencil and paper. We were at my husband’s office visiting, and she developed an urgent need for writing implements. We handed them over, and Aaron and I continued our conversation – till we noticed she was writing something.
She was copying down the Arabic alphabet from a graph in the book. Her initiative, her drive, her curiosity, her thirst for knowledge and understanding never cease to amaze me.
Of course I took a picture.
Then when I went to post the picture on Instagram/Facebook, I hesitated.
There have been so many posts rolling around complaining about moms who do nothing but brag on their kid on their Facebook page. I thought about it again, and hesitated again.
Then I posted this on Facebook:
I know I post a lot about how awesome my kid is – and I know it can get annoying. Too bad. Every kid needs someone who pays attention, who notices what’s unique and amazing about them, who champions them. I wish every kid had that. So if you want to post on facebook about how awesome some kid is, some amazing thing they said or did, some spark of genius, or creativity, or compassion you noticed in a young person – rock on. The world needs more of that too.
It wasn’t till that post started generating some positive response, that I finally worked up the nerve and posted the picture about my daughter above.
But why did I hesitate in the first place?
Why do I place so much stock in the opinion of whiners?
On a logical level, I don’t give a crap what everyone else thinks – but there’s that little girl, deep down inside me still desperate for acceptance and approval. I grew up with an overwhelming fear of being obnoxious and annoying; it was one of my greatest fears, and it kept me isolated.
I have this idea of who I am, and who I think I should be. I think I should be someone who is not driven by fear, especially fear of the opinions of others.
Then I take a look at my behavior and it doesn’t always match.
I think my choices as a parent should be based on what will best help my daughter to grow into a strong and compassionate woman of integrity, but what I do is different. I watch myself making parenting choices based on what I think will negatively or positively impact my popularity. It takes me right back to Freshman locker banks at my high school – an anxiety ridden place, indeed.
This entire scenario reminded me of Ira Glass talking about how a creative person’s sense of taste develops before their skill, so there is this gap between what they think they should be doing and what they’re actually able to do.
That story was life-changing for me.
It’s not just about creativity
While Glass was being specific about creativity, I think his point carries over to many other aspects of our lives.
We have this vision of the world, we have this vision of what it means to be a good parent, a good person… We see how our own attitudes and behaviors play into that vision. We know we want to “be the change.”
But there is this gap.
You don’t just wake up one morning and decide to be different, better, and that’s it, done. It takes practice. Years of practice.
But life happens in the meantime. We are all living in the meantime – in the gap.
We don’t get practice time, and then go out and live our lives after we’ve perfected ourselves. We go out and try things, see if they work, we fall down, we get up, we embarrass ourselves, we don’t die of embarrassment – but we don’t get to practice life without an audience. And that audience usually has an opinion. It doesn’t matter.
Life is not about perfection. It’s about doing the best we can, and when we miss the mark, learning from it, course correcting, and moving on.
We need to remember to be gentle with ourselves, to remember that we’re living in the gap. To just keep trying.
And when someone else offends us, well, maybe they’re living in the gap, too.
So here I am, waxing on about wishing I could be as brave as I think I should be, and my little girl just wanted to practice writing new letters. I’m so proud of her, and I want the whole world to know it.
P.S. She calls the Arabic alphabet “letter parties.”
It was a crisp October morning, 21 years ago that I moved to Seattle. I was 21 years old. That’s half my life.
I was the girl from the small town in Alaska. I had a line on a job, and a line on an apartment and roommates. Neither were set in stone. It was all a big gamble.
My friend, Russ, picked me up at the airport and drove me to the place I was staying. He pointed out landmarks along the way, as I experienced Seattle traffic for the first time, and the downtown towers loomed in the distance. I was at the same time wondering what I’d gotten myself into, and falling in love with my new home town.
The most important and amazing events of my life happened right here in Seattle.
I fell in love. I fell in love again when my child was born. I beat back cancer. I grew into my own skin and learned to love myself. I surrounded myself with intelligent, authentic, and compassionate people who share my values. Of course these things can be done anywhere, but in Seattle, the fit was right.
Access to art, culture, education, excellent medical care, urban villages with a small town feel and the benefits of a big city, mountains and water – yes, I definitely {heart} Seattle.
I think sometimes fierce gets a glamorous image. It’s easy to think of finish lines, mountain tops, and triumphs when we think of the word fierce – but fierce isn’t the finish, it’s how you got there. Fierce is the long, lonely runs in the rain, months, even years before the starting line.
Fierce is giving it your all, knowing there is no finish line. Do or die. For real.
Fierce is defiantly holding your baby after the mastectomy, against doctors orders.
Fierce is getting up in the middle of the night to change your infant’s diaper as your body reels from the chemo induced nausea and fatigue.
Fierce is getting up the next morning to go back for another excruciating treatment. Day after day after day.
Fierce is not passive; fierce doesn’t have time for pity parties.
Fierce fights back.
Fierce isn’t pretty, but it’s beautiful.
Fierce is making difficult choices.
Fierce is finding the courage to have a difficult conversation.
Fierce is embracing your integrity, even when it makes you feel unloved.
Fierce is knowing who you are, and being that person the best you can.
Fierce keeps learning.
Fierce understands that sometimes learning means un-learning what is no longer true, or even more painful, what you finally understand was never true.
Fierce is understanding that cancer is not a shortcut to courage, or wisdom, or strength. You still have to do the work to gain and keep those qualities.
You don’t have to have cancer to be fierce.
You don’t have to have cancer to practice courage, or wisdom, or strength.
You have a choice.
You can be fierce.
How are you fierce?
…
This piece was written as part of the Clever Girls’ Collective Traveling Blue Wig Project. This project supports the Fierce Fund which will donate $20,000 this year to organizations that help girls and women. Check out their site and help select the Fierce Fund grant winner.
Judy Schwartz Haley is a mother, wife, student, writer, photographer, and breast cancer survivor. If you really want to see her get fierce, try to take her chocolate.
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