I’ll be honest. I don’t want to tell you about this flair moment, but it’s the real one for today.
At the gym, I do the minimum and hide as far back into the machines as I can with my iPod and earphones keeping me in a safe cocoon away from any trainers. But today I walk in, and two trainers greet me and insist that I try this new Body Combat class. One literally escorts me upstairs as I’m mumbling excuses and pulling away from her. All of a sudden, I’m in this classroom of incredibly beautiful and muscular people. She closes the door, and I find a corner, terrified.
The trainer in front has a headset and looks like a drill sergeant. He’s ripped and already sweating. His sidekick is a petite blond woman who is absolutely gorgeous. Every muscle is sleek and defined, she’s smiling, and she looks like a Cover Girl model. They adjust their headsets, pump up loud techno music, and start teaching everybody these complicated combinations of squats, kicks, and punches.
I try to work the room and introduce myself to everybody. My defense mechanism of encouraging all the others kicks in. Maybe I could set up a table up front and talk to people as they exercise. Maybe I could write a narrative or lay on the ground and pray for all those people.
I’m dying. I can’t even figure out the moves. The class lasts an hour, and every millisecond is absolute pain and humiliation. I cling to my water bottle like a security blanket.
And then, it’s almost over. But before we stretch, the instructors come over and give each of us a high-five.
Oh, come on! A high-five? A high-five like I’m a child? And I totally failed in that class. I couldn’t even do the push up thing where you put one hand in the air.
But when the woman comes over and looks me in the eye and gives me that high-five, I burst into tears. The drill sergeant gives me not one, but two high-fives. I cry harder.
What was wrong with me? I’ve been humiliated before, but something about physical fitness strikes a nerve. There’s no defense mechanism, no personality gift that aids me in my own body’s response to exercise. It’s just me, my own muscles, and my own heart and blood out there.
I feel lost at sea every time. It’s the real me stripped of all the flair.
That’s why I cried. I was there, with nothing to offer, and those trainers still gave the high-five. I felt like saying, “Are you kidding? Do you know what a loser I am?” But they did know–they saw every uncoordinated move. And what makes the whole thing even better is that they bowed to us at the end to show how honored they were to have exercised with us.
I learned that living with flair means deliberately embracing situations that strip me of all my coping mechanisms. It’s good to feel lost at sea so I can receive love and instruction from somebody else. I don’t have to always be the teacher, the encourager, or the one with the flair.
I’m a loser at the gym, crying in my minivan afterward because of a silly high-five. But it felt like the best flair possible for someone like me.
Something so small, something that takes only a few minutes, made me immeasurably happy this morning. It’s a little ridiculous, really, how happy it made me.
I want to wake up happy, not just for me, but for everybody else. I want to be self-aware enough to manage my moods and know what it’s going to take to set the scene for flair. I know that feelings of happiness and security for everybody else often depend on Mom’s Mood. I’ve been working on this for 10 years.
And all it was? Chopped veggies in a bag for an omelet waiting in the refrigerator. The whole morning seemed to pass so smoothly, like we were all skating on ice, gliding peacefully through the morning routine. No rush, no yelling.
It started last night. I do things like put out all the clothes we are going to wear and line up the backpacks by the door–anything I can do to make the morning work better. But at my Weight Watchers meeting, I learned that you can chop up vegetables, put them in a bag, and dump everything in your pan with eggs for a quick breakfast. It seemed easy enough.
So in a mere 3 minutes, I found I had flipped the world’s most perfect omelet, complete with three different vegetables. I paraded that omelet around the kitchen. I imagined that omelet makers who have gone before me were rejoicing in heaven over this omelet.
When I do these little things–these little preparations the night before–I’m setting the scene for a good mood. I know what it takes to keep myself pleasant for everybody else. I know about exercise, about healthy eating, about a good night’s sleep, about spiritual disciplines. But what I sometimes forget is all the little night before preparations that, although consume time and effort, yield happiness benefits for me.
I think it’s because when I opened the fridge and saw my breakfast nearly ready, I felt cared for and nurtured. I wasn’t in breakfast panic mode. Everything was already taken care of. Even though it was me caring for myself in advance (stay with me…), it still felt like a gesture of love. It’s how I feel when my husband has the coffee ready before I’m even out of bed (he’s so great).
Living with flair is being in a good mood for my family and my neighbors. If it means chopping veggies the night before, I’m adding that to the good mood recipe. And I’ll do it as a gift to all the other folks around my table who appreciate a peaceful morning.
I practiced one of the oldest ways of storm forecasting today: I watched the leaves. As families hurried into church under a darkening sky this morning, my children clung to either side of me as I welcomed newcomers.
I looked out at that smolder of sky and clouds. Everything in sight seemed dark and braced for the worst.
Everything, that is, except the leaves. My daughter pointed outside and said, “Mama, the leaves are dancing.” I smiled at the verb choice.
It was beautiful to watch. Dry leaves on the ground swirled up in this ballet of movement. And in the distance, every tree turned its leaves up, anticipating the storm. My friend who reads botany told me that the undersides of leaves contain stomata, or little pores, that help soak in moisture. When they turn up like that, they position themselves to receive nourishment from the sky.
“Can they turn themselves up?” I wondered aloud. I imagined little leaf arms that flexed tiny muscles to turn those leaves over. That would be so cool! So flair!
It turns out that the leaves don’t do any of this themselves. The coming storm creates changes in pressure that actually move up from the ground and turn the leaves upside down. The atmosphere conspires, it seems, to force these leaves to receive from the heavens.
I looked again at those leaves, enabled like that with no effort on their part, to receive. As I turned to enter the sanctuary, I considered what it takes to stir those fallen leaves to dance and those branch leaves to receive. I know God brings the storm, the pressure system, to invite my undersides to be exposed, to turn me to the right position. From that place in the storm, I’m in the best place to receive what heaven pours down. Only from there can I dance in that particular storm’s wind.
Victory! I figured something out: My daughter loves to swing. More than any other activity, she loves to swing. Everyday, she asks if I can push her on the swing (she’s not good at pumping yet). And ever since I started writing the flair blog, I’ve been asking her why she loves it so much. Living with flair is figuring out what we all love–getting to the core of it–and attaching it to a deeper truth.
My daughters think I’m over-analyzing. I’m not phased by this. I’m used to college students rolling their eyes and telling me we are “over-analyzing” that poem or that Shakespeare play. They hate it when I ask them to tell me why they love something.
“Can’t we just love it? Do we have to know why?”
Well, yes. Yes, you do.
It will help you live great lives.
So this morning, I’m dusting my little one’s room. Both daughters are spinning around me, doing their little girl attempts at cleaning. And I ask once again:
“Why do you love it so much? Why do you love swinging for hours?”
“Mom, I already told you. I…don’t…know.”
“It’s not because it’s high up or fast or something?”
“It’s not because it feels like you’re flying?”
“No. I just like it. That’s all. OK?” She’s a college student telling me I’m over-analyzing. She wants to love the poem but not care why.
But I’m not finished yet. I call the older one, the wiser one who is more prone to accept challenges.
“Why does she love the swing so much?”
“Easy, Mom. She loves it because it cools her down. It’s the wind she loves.”
“But she loves to swing all winter–when she’s already cold.”
“Well, then, it’s because she can feel the wind on her whole entire body. That’s what she loves. The wind on her skin!”
We pause for a minute and I’m told by my children that the skin is the largest organ and that it feels things for us.
“Right.” My little one pops up and nods rapidly. “That’s it, Mom! That’s it! I love it because it’s my whole body feeling it on my skin.”
And the older one says: “That’s why kids like to get dirty. It gets the whole body into it, on the skin, you know.”
I’m thinking that computer games and television don’t engage their bodies. I’m thinking that I want to go get on a swing with them, dive back into the pool (and yes, I did do the diving board yesterday–a liberating front dive to the applause of other moms!), bury them in sand at the beach, run in the rain with them, or roll down a grassy hill to get my whole body feeling something.
I’m probably dying a little bit inside for lack of diverse activities that get every piece of my skin involved. Living with flair is getting my whole body into something. And it’s getting down deep into my experience to figure out what and why I love it.
(Photo from School of Prosperity)
“I’m all out of flair,” I said somberly to my sister this morning. I woke up tired, cranky, and very, very uninspired. Not even more coffee helped. But I clung to one little hope, flickering like some nearly expired candle.
My sister said, “There’s hope of flair. Just remember that.”
And I did have hope that the day could be great. After all, I would do the one thing that always makes me feel good in the summer.
I would put on my bathing suit and go swimming.
The summers between ages 10 and 15, I lived at the pool. I’d walk the mile and a half (in my jelly shoes), with my towel around my neck, show up when it opened, and then close the place down. Once you passed a swim test, the lifeguards let you come without your parents. So that’s what I did, every day, for the three months of summer. That little public pool was my whole world those summers.
I still remember claiming my lounge chair, spreading my towel, and running–with that lifeguard blowing his whistle and booming out the WALK command–and jumping in that pool. I’d stay until dinner, surviving on snack food from a vending machine, race home to eat a meal, and then return until the sun went down. Sometimes I had friends with me, sometimes not. It didn’t matter. I belonged to everybody, and there were goals to accomplish: a front flip on the diving board, a full pool length of holding my breath, a championship in random Marco-Polo or Sharks and Minnows games, or a successful backstroke.
No homework, no chores, no mean girls. Actually, there was a mean girl, and she quickly left me alone when she saw my front flip and my mad skills in the deep end. I was happy, free, and completely myself, floating on my back with the water holding me up and the sun shining down.
Now, I’m older. I have kids of my own who race down to the pool. Our pool has been opened since Saturday, and we’ve been everyday but yesterday because a storm threatened.
I read that afternoon that Rue McClanahan died. Summer nights, I watched “The Golden Girls.” In 1985, Ms. McClanahan told The New York Times that the writers of that show knew how to showcase the many layers of an older woman. She said, “They don’t turn into other creatures. The truth is, we all still have our child, our adolescent and our young woman living in us.”
I thought about that quote this morning as I got our pool towels and bathing suits ready. I’m happy at the pool, even as a woman, because that little girl on the diving board is still alive in me. She’s in there, sometimes buried deep, and sometimes so quiet I can’t remember her. But when I’m in the pool, she’s back. Living with flair means accessing the child in us (and even the teenager) who loved to be alive–coloring, biking, dancing, jump roping, reading or swimming. Happiness has something to do with remembering what we loved and doing those things no matter how old we are.
So even though my bathing suit is the kind with the skirt to hide my stretch marks and cellulite, I’m going to try the diving board today. Who’s with me?
7. May you remember Psalm 16 and the truth that God sets the boundaries of your life—they are good and right. Also, the psalmist tells us that when you trust in the Lord, you will not be shaken.
With these 7 promises in scripture, I’m confident that those new professionals will live rich, satisfying lives. It’s my prayer for them and for myself, and, in the words of this blog, they represent 7 dreams for a future of flair.
“Poop? Poop? You’re writing about poop?” my youngest challenged me. “That’s gross, Mom.” Well, what can I say? I don’t always get to choose when the flair moment comes. I just witness it.
On the walk to school this morning, my friend and I trailed behind her little dog (the one with the waggly tail). When the dog stopped to poop, we stopped and waited, and then we waited some more while she picked up the poop and put it in a plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the other parents and their kids ran ahead and up the hill through the woods.
“Thanks for waiting with me,” my friend said.
“No problem. That’s what friendship is. I wait while you deal with your poop.”
We looked at each other and laughed. It’s so true. How many days have we waited patiently while the other was dealing with her poop: bad moods, freak-out days of too much work and not enough time, our “issues,” or any other situation that made us act less than our best, less than we knew we could be? How many days did we commiserate about sick children, family drama, disappointments, personal failures?
We put our arms around each other and walked up that hill. Any friend that can appreciate my flair metaphors of picking up poop and walking up hills is a friend of mine. I don’t even need to write it: Living with flair means I stand beside my friends as they deal with their poop. Even if everybody else is running up ahead, moving on with their days, I’m hanging around with the poop. She’d do it for me.
My five year old steals my camera whenever she can. She’s the most determined little girl when she’s setting up a shot. She’ll take pictures of anything–cats, babies, rear ends, her own feet. And it’s all equally intriguing and equally beautiful. As I found these photos other friends took of her yesterday, I couldn’t help but think about what she’s teaching me.
If my little girl can do it, surely I can take a minute and look around. All of a sudden, I find extraordinary things to love. I appreciate my surroundings instead of moving through them like they are mere inconveniences on my way to where I’m going.
2. Look closely at your subject and be patient. (You may have to hunch down and look completely ridiculous) She’s not self-conscious about this act of observing her world. Who cares what friends think? She’s living with flair whether anybody thinks it’s weird. She passed up pie and shopping to stay there and get this shot. She knew where the real joy was.
3. Everything’s fair game, even your flip flops.
Do you know how many feet pictures my daughter takes? She loves her feet, she loves shoes, and she loves that one toe of pink nail polish left over from last month’s kitchen beauty parlor afternoon.
Living with flair means I need to focus on my world, observe it closely, and know that everything is fair game for flair.
Photos courtesy of Lauren Kooistra and Rachel Schrock.
We couldn’t make the Memorial Day blueberry pancakes this morning because we ran out of milk. I was the one dressed already, so I volunteered to drive to the store.
It was a little after 8:00 AM.
It was just a trip for milk.
I left my children in their pajamas and my husband hovering over his ingredients. I’d have to be quick.
I’m turning the corner out of our neighborhood, and all of a sudden, like something bounding out of a dark woods into my car, I’m aware that I’m really, really happy. The realization struck with such force that it astonished me. For someone who battled the black haze of depression for nearly a decade, I am still amazed and celebrate the sheer joy that accompanies feeling good.
I was so thankful this morning to be alive. I was so thankful for what the holiday weekend represented–commemorating soldiers who died to secure freedom. We’d commemorate them in ways they would want us to: we’d eat pies, swim in the public pool, gather for a potluck dinner. What a gift this life is–this simple life that bursts with beauty in all these hidden places if I just look . . .
Living with flair means I commemorate, with ceremony and observation, how thankful I am for battles won, large or small. And I remember the fallen by being fully alive–fetching milk early Monday for blueberry pancakes eaten in peace, with a family, around a simple kitchen table.