It's 5:53am, 05:53 on April 13, 2011.  This means that, unless there's been a colossal misunderstanding or cosmic practical joke still waiting for the punch line, I turned 40  thirty-three minutes ago (thirty-six minutes ago actually as it took me three minutes to write these two lines, my how times passes.) 

I've decided to give myself a birthday gift of writing.  Not because I'm a writer (I don't believe there is a single noun that captures anyone, just a series of verbs that we try out like clothing, some fit like a second skin, some barely fit at all but might with enough tailoring, extra flesh on bones, or more heart.)  I love writing and I resist it too, like shoes that fit comfortably when standing or sitting but make my whole body ache when walked in for any useful distance.  I love words and phrases and similes and metaphors.  Alliteration can be addictive for me, as can irony.  I even have a half-hearted, sometimes three-quarters-hearted, interest in grammar.  The resistance comes partly in the effort and patience it takes to put it all together in way that makes sense and lends itself to enjoyable reading.  The rest of the resistance resides in my fear of not meeting my own standards or those of anyone I care about, which includes anyone reading my writing. 

Last night I got the idea that I'd gift myself with freedom from constraints while writing a blog, or at least more freedom from constraints than usual, and publish it before breakfast!  Standards, you're coming down.  (It's now 06:29.  I'm hungry and the constraints haven't left the building.)  So, here I am, writing a blog that may be longer, less coherent, and wordier than any I've written before, writing not so much with reckless abandon and unfettered, passionate, freedom, but more with stuttering steps and brief bursts toward some distant liftoff, like a baby grinning while lurching with its drunken-sailor gait, getting a sense of the mobility to come and the adventures it will bring.

I'd like to think that my thirties saw me caring less and less about what others think; in fact it was an intention I had set for the decade.  However, as difficult as it is for me to admit, I'm forty today and I still carry within me a strapping, young fear of rejection.  It may not be as virile as it once was-I couldn't have lasted as a workshop facilitator without having transformed at least some of this fear-but it's there, it's here, sometimes well hidden, sometimes on display, like when a workshop isn't going so well, or when I'm singing in front of a group, or when I've done something that a friend or family member doesn't like, or when I'm attempting to write my heart out. 

I could go on here about how my fear of rejection is not as much about who I am now as it is about what happened to me growing up, just like it is for anyone-we're biologically wired for connection because  and the loss of it can be felt like a threat to survival.  I could go on about how our emotionally and physically traumatic experiences get stored in the survival part of our brain and can or will affect our behaviour and emotions for the rest of our lives if not processed.  I am going about it because knowing that the survival part of my brain is only trying to keep me alive when it keeps reacting in ways it no longer needs to, and knowing that, when it's activated by things that seem similar to past threats, it doesn't know what is past and what is present until the old trauma has been processed, helps me have a lot more compassion for myself.  Furthermore, if my neurobiological facts aren't quite accurate (I'm pretty sure I'm at least close, let me know if I'm not Sarah), I'll still look for compassion for myself because compassion is the ground I trust from which to grow and move forward.

The answer for me to my fear of rejection is not to not care about others.  It's no accident that I teach and practice Nonviolent Communication.  An important part of the NVC practice is to care about others' needs and feelings without caring about their judgemental thoughts, not so easy for a recovering approvaloholic like me.  The approvaloholic thinks he or she can recover by not caring about others at all; that's a lonely answer to an addiction.  (07:08. I just had half a grapefruit and half an orange, not breakfast, just fuel to tide me over.  Breakfast is going to be an extravagant affair today.)

Of course I will continue to edit and revise because I would love my writing to meet many needs.  I'm just going to do it less today in an attempt to gift to myself with some creative fun and freedom.  I thought about asking for a gift from readers, a gift of lambasting my writing in the comment section below so that I can further heal my approvaholism, but I imagine it would be a harder gift to give than to receive and not as effective for healing as I might hope.  A much greater gift for me would be all of you taking baby steps or giant leaps towards more creative freedom and acceptance.

To be fair to myself, writing is my favourite form of art.  It moves me more often than other forms do.  And I care about art that moves people.  However, it wouldn't kill me to relax a little and trust that not all art needs to move someone.  It's unlikely that I will ever improve my art worrying too much about how moving it is.  Maybe my intention for my forties will be to find the right balance of caring.  Ooooooh, a tempting treasure hunt.

It's 8:26am.  I'm going to do a little yoga and then head down to Full Circle in Nelson, BC for my birthday breakfast-thank you Lloyd and Karan. 

I'll leave you with a song I wrote recently on the way to Woodland, WA.

The Road to Compassion

The Road to Compassion
Lost in the thick of it
Which way is north

I'm scrambling through jungles
With eyes closed
Searching, but don't want to find
The beauty that blinds me
And burns away
All of my perfect lies

Would you point me in the wrong direction

The Road to Compassion
Finds me hiding
Under sunny skies

This garden needs water
And darker soil
Roll up sleeves, bend at the knees
I've been saving these seeds
To plant among weeds
Because the fruit might be too much to bear

Hand me my broken shovel, rusty pail

Alone, together
I don't want to be
Together, alone
I'm longing to be

Baby steps and giant leaps
Sit still, here, now
On the Road to Compassion

Eric Bowers

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