Tag: enough

The older child in the Calla-fam is a sqireller of the first degree. ? 

Laundry comes out with all manner of plastic accoutrements spun out of trouser pockets.

On our way back to Massachusetts from NC, we headed into a Burger King when Noah grabbed my hand and said, “Daddy, I’m sorry I got this.” 

He extracted one of his Gram’s necklaces from his jeans like a sheepish pirate unsure of his calling. ?‍☠️

Gram thought it was a hoot, and the necklace accessorized his Burger King crown very well.

I told Noah I was grateful he told me. I want to make sure our boys know they can tell us anything. I’m working on it.

I recalled my own brief yet intense stent with childhood kleptomania after Matthew Royster told me the items in the Mayberry Mall Kmart lacking price tags were free. 

Even after I learned that this merchandise lesson was bogus, I still struggled with a penchant for purloining Dr. Pepper Bubble Yum.

I even lifted a Trapper Keeper in fifth grade, and to this day I still don’t know what drove me to such an unnecessary and obvious crime. I HAD a Trapper Keeper.

I think the victim of my crime even mentioned, “Hey, my Trapper Keeper looked just like that one.” 

“Oh, really?” ?

I knew what I did was wrong, and I felt ashamed.

As a dad now, I ask — how can I model healthy and whole choices while opening my heart when the boys make decisions that don’t shout health and wholeness? Working on it.

???
Cut to a few days later — we were back home, and I planned a scintillating outing to Weston Nurseries and the Town Forest. It was gonna be plants kinda day.

We did our best to keep the boys’ hands off of the rare exotic species, smelled the nice greenhouse air, and admired a display of geodes in the middle of the ferns.

Jude had a learn-the-hard-way encounter with a cactus, and we picked up a couple of Crotons —

Google said they were fussy roomies, but their bright leaves lured us to take the risk. We’re suckas for colah.

See? They’re pretty. Pray for us.

???

We engaged the next phase of perfect dad-plan day, and we drove toward the Town Forest. And by Town Forest, I mean the KidSpot playground after a definitive vote by acclamation from the back seat.

We got to the parking lot, and before Noah grabbed my hand, he said, “Daddy, I’m sorry I took this rock.”

He produced a beautiful amethyst geode from his coat pocket.

I felt a knee-jerk impulse vomit itself up from my guts to act a little shocked and indignant, but I saw little Trapper Keeper keeping 11-year-old me, and thank God I took a split second.

“Oh buddy, that’s not something that we can take from the store. That belongs to them. We’re going to need to take that back.”

The boys played for half an hour, and then we toodled back down Highway 135. 

We said, “Noah, listen buddy. You didn’t understand. We’re just going to go in, and you can tell them you thought this was a rock that you could collect like you do in the woods.”

Even though we said this, he was still afraid to take the stone back in. He scrunched his little body down as if he were looking for a little cubbyhole to hide in.

It was humbling for me to see his sweet four-year-old heart trying to hide away like we all do.

I said, “Buddy, I’ll be with you the whole time, and everything will be all right, I promise. I’m grateful you told me.”

We walked back into the store, and the woman who’d rung us up, wrapped our fussy plants, and told us about her grandkids said, “Oh no, is anything wrong?”

I gave Noah a little rub on the back to let him know he could talk.

He held out the amethyst and said, “I’m sorry I took this purple rock.”

Before I could launch in with any codependent explanation, the woman said, “Oh, sweetie, where did you pick that up?”

Noah pointed to the greenhouse, and she replied, “You know what, I love how honest you were bringing that back to us. Is it OK if I just give it to you?”

Noah’s face lit up like a gem show, and he nodded his head.

It was a tender lesson that went better than I could’ve imagined, and Weston Nurseries has my business for life. 

And it made me think about things like guilt, shame, hiding, and Trapper Keepers.

How often does the knuckley shame claw grab you when you’ve made an honest mistake?

It’s deep.

And it suffocates our chance for breathing room and growing.

If you just look at singing, shame can

strangle our natural sound; it insists we need to add something,

berates our musicianship; reminds us how adept that cast mate was at everything,

points at the gap between our abilities and an artist’s we admire,

and concludes, “What’s the use?”

This is the thing that stops singers from taking the time to read, mark, and inwardly digest their rep.

Who am I to take this text and these melodies and invest the time to feel what’s real in my guts that would cause me to say these words and sing these notes?

I’ll just copy that real singer who already did it.

That’s the root of meh, forgettable, samey singing. 

We don’t give ourselves the space or possibility to know that our singular voice and point of view is irreplaceable, no matter what Beyoncé circa ’06 said. 

Shame says there’s a right answer, and yours is prolly wrong. You’re wrong. 

When I started college voice lessons, I hit myself when I made a mistake. I open-hand smacked my thigh, volcanic when I missed a note, cracked, or struggled in any way. 

Into my late 30s, I’d get the note, “Dan, lift your eyes, please, we’re losing you in the lights.” I spent a lot of time looking down at the stage. Wanting to share my heart while my body worked to keep hiding.

It was a painful way to live. 

So, what helped?

Here are three things:

Somehow, I got the download that I’m enough, and I believe it most of the time. 

I don’t have a step-by-step on this. I’ve just been super gifted to have beautiful folks in my life who tell me the truth, give me hugs, and call me out with love. I’ve been smart enough to listen.

I ask myself if things feel stressful.

From my heart’s eyes, I look at my thoughts and words.

How do I feel when I believe this? If the answer is “shitty,” I ask if there’s a reframe. Is there a more generous way to see this? Almost always, there is.

I’m grateful for guilt.  

I learned from Brené that shame and guilt are different.

Guilt says “What I did was shitty.” Shame says, “I’m shit.”

When I feel guilt, I call myself to an integrated standard. I cop to the Trapper Keeper and make amends. 

This gut-ouch is there to point me to the whole and healthy human I wanna be who shares love. At the grocery store, in the classroom, and on the stage — all three places a privilege to be. 

So, I invite you to notice when Shame-a-blame-a-ding-dong bonks you on the noggin. 

Reach out to someone you love and trust, and let them remind you who you are. 

Ask them to help you with a little reframe while they’re at it.

And if there’s something you’d like to make amends for, see what kind of steps you can take that are kind and restorative.

With your singing, let me assure you:

you’re more enough than you can even handle. That’s what’s so scary about letting our voice through.

Notice the thoughts that jib jab at you when you sing. Take a little time to see if they’re really true. (Answer Key: they’re not.) 

And make amends with you. The first thing you can try is, “I’m sorry for not letting you sing.” 

Then hum a tune you love.

And always remember — there’s only one you, and folks do need to hear the story only you can sing.