BornWilder

Author. Certified Coach. Catalytic Speaker

Win at Life

On Lyric Poetry

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My school-aged children attended their last day at school on March 13, 2020. The following week I transitioned my house and work-life to include homeschool. On Sunday morning I woke up early, before everyone else in the house, and cried. A good, deep cry as I sat at my new “teacher’s desk.” Then I wrote the above poem and felt a wash of relief, so I decided to write a daily poem during North Carolina’s stay-at-home orders. I post them at Coronavirus Daily and on Facebook.

As long as I’ve been writing, I’ve written lyric poetry. In fifth grade, I wrote a poem that prompted the principal to call my parents.

In Poetry as Survival, Gregory Orr says, “How to respond to the strangeness and unpredictability of our own emotional being? One important answer is the lyric, the ‘I’ poem dramatizing inner and outer experience.”

The poem in fifth grade was fiction, but I used the dramatized “I” in order to relate to the content of the poem, which was about sexual abuse. It was 1985, missing kids were on milk cartons and “stranger danger” had been debunked. While writing the poem for a class assignment, I didn’t know I was trying to reconcile that people I trusted might harm me. I used “I” in the poem to get inside my feelings about the new information that changed my view of the world. My teacher thought it was a confession, which prompted the call from the principal.

What is lyric poetry?

Lyric Poetry* – (From Greek for “lyre,” an ancient stringed instrument.) Originally, poetry was meant to be sung, accompanied by music from the lyre or lute.

Lyric poetry now refers to a category of poetry (distinct from narrative poetry and dramatic poetry). A lyric poem is:

  • short in form
  • concentrated in its expression
  • subjective in its observations
  • personal in subject matter
  • song-like in quality

The relief that came over me when I wrote that first coronavirus-inspired poem is a strong thread of what has sustained me through the past five weeks. My family and I are extremely fortunate so far. We’re healthy. We still have income. We have food and shelter. The added stress in my life is, at this point, minimal in comparison to so many others. But the stress is there–the pandemic touches us all. And just like in fifth grade, writing lyric poetry helps reconcile my emotions.

Orr tells us that “Human culture ‘invented’ or evolved the personal lyric as a means of helping individuals survive the existential crises represented by extremities of subjectivity and also by such outer circumstances as poverty, suffering, pain, illness, violence, or loss of a loved one.”

The Covid-19 pandemic prompted a larger-than-usual collective existential crisis. As a society, we’re redefining what is “essential” in our daily lives. We’re questioning value and purpose. When this is all just a story we tell the next generations, what will we say changed within us? What strengthened? Why?

Write a lyric poem!

It’s difficult to feel hope and suffering–two opposing emotions–at the same time. It’s even tougher to sustain feeling them indefinitely. Yet that is what the pandemic is prompting us to do: be hopeful that we will overcome and be mindful and sympathetic to the suffering.

What do we do with our new emotions? It’s not like any problems we had in our lives before the pandemic disappeared. How do we cope?

In an interview, Benedictine monk David Steindl-Rast says, “Joy is the happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens…Happiness is not steady, but joy can be steady, and that’s what we really want. We want the happiness that lasts.”

For me, writing and sharing a daily poem is a joy through the pandemic that doesn’t depend on what happens. Whether it’s a tough day homeschooling kids, hedging our finances against the possibility of losing income, hearing stories of those suffering because of the pandemic, or the blanket uncertainty in our collective recovery, I have a joy I can depend on. It’s not exactly the deep joy that Br. Steindhl-Rast talks about. I think it’s my way to sustain steady happiness. Writing daily poems built a tangible thread through uncertain times. I transformed my inner experience into something I could see and share.

Tips to write a lyric poem.

I opened the window and laughter blew in
  • Start with “I” –the subjective and personal experience.
  • Do something in the poem. A simple act you do often. “I opened the window.”
  • Think of something that relates to the act you wrote down. It could be another action or an idea, a whimsical thought, or an emotion. “I opened the window and the breeze brushed my cheek.” “I opened the window and my eyes softened.” “I opened the window, tears down my cheeks.”
  • Keep going, making associations between physical actions, ideas, emotions, or thoughts.
  • Try not to think too much, let the first action inspire the next action or idea, and so on.
  • Having trouble? You know the game where you say a word and another person has to say the first thing that pops into their head? It’s like that. If you can’t think of anything, go back to the physical act that you know. “I opened the window and walked to the kitchen. I sliced a strawberry and thought of summers with my grandmother…”
  • Have fun. Stay safe. Find joy.

*Myers, Jack, Don C. Wukasch, eds. Dictionary of Poetic Terms. Denton: University of North Texas Press, 2003.

On Threshold

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close up of iron gate covered in moss connected to worn wood post as threshold
Those who stay / might not want to be found.

If memory serves, I have never written a holiday poem. I associate lightheartedness with holiday poems; if you know my work, you know I am not a lighthearted poet. And for reasons I won’t get into, holidays haven’t inspired me.

But this year, prompted by an upcoming Christmas party with my writing group, I challenged myself to write a holiday-inspired poem. After a few failed attempts, I reached out to the experts for help.

Inspiration came, as I assume it has for many writers, by way of Charles Dickens. Not from his well-known story A Christmas Carol, but from the essay “What Christmas Is as We Grow Older.”

At the essay’s opening words, “Time was,” I imagined my former selves as a chain of paper dolls unfolding back to when I was too young to have memory. I lingered with this image before folding my selves—one self at a time—back together. Then I took Dickens’s advice that comes later in the essay: “Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be.”

He reminded me that, to enjoy the present, I must welcome the past, and be thankful for the future. Not fresh advice, per se. But something about his language cracked open a sentiment I wanted to explore. Maybe it’s the time of year, but it felt like I was standing on a threshold, as if I were being ushered somewhere new by Dickens himself.

What Has Been

A threshold, by its nature, is a transitional place: the piece of flooring that forms the bottom of a doorway. Threshold is also defined as “a point of entry or beginnings.” 

When I stand on the threshold of, I have one foot in the past (what has been, and what never was) and the other in the future (what we hope may be). I know that I’m entering something new and leaving behind an old way of living.

There are cultural rituals to help cope with large thresholds like birthdays, having a baby, or getting married. We help one another pass from what has been into the what will be.

Then there are the thresholds unmarked by ritual or celebration but monumental shifts nonetheless, like the decision to change careers mid-life or to move across the country, the death of a parent, or divorce. And then there are the smaller thresholds of our daily lives; we cross dozens of them every day.

No matter how small the threshold, looking back helps us move on from what has been—we literally can’t move forward without the act of leaving.

What Never Was

“What never was” is the phrase that resonated most when I read Dickens’s essay. It’s a perspective not usually included when people reflect on their pasts.

I think we’re often afraid to look back, not because of what has been, but precisely because of what never was. We cannot go back and fill in our past. There is no revision. That can be a sad and lonely reality to face and a hard one to accept. Yet who we are is the sum of what we have and have not experienced.

I think when we embrace what has been and what never was, it creates more room and energy for what we hope may be. It takes a lot of effort to hold on to the past. How many mini-meltdowns have finished with, “I didn’t realize I was holding on to that,” followed by feeling a little lighter?

What We Hope May Be

When my father’s mother turned 80 years old, she chose not to take the required driving test, knowing she couldn’t pass. No one else was going to tell her she couldn’t drive. She told me her decision helped her reclaim some control as her aging body forced her to lose independence.

I was reminded of my grandmother when Arianna Huffington did a life audit when she turned 40. Huffington examined the wish list of her many long-term goals and marked them off as if she had completed them. By accepting what she would never accomplish (e.g., learn German), she could mark them as complete. She took control over what she would never do, instead of always having in the back of her mind, Maybe one day.

We hold on to so much all the time; letting go can make us feel like we’re losing something. But when we intentionally let go, we aren’t losing anything: we are choosing to set it down. My grandmother didn’t lose her ability to drive; she chose not to drive again.

Welcome, Everything

As you move into your next phase—whatever that may be—you’re stronger from knowing what you are leaving behind, and as difficult as it may be, from welcoming what never was.

None of us know what is yet to come, but we can be as intentional and inviting as Dickens when he says, “Welcome, everything!” So that, when we find ourselves on a threshold, we’re ready (and even a little excited) for possibility.

On Little Wins

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looking up at the sky between two large rock faces
To have my mother’s eyes look not just at me, but into me.

[When I started this blog back in 2014, I wrote about little wins. After a few years of practice and perspective, it makes sense to revisit the subject .]

The 2008 recession hit my family hard. We were living in Wilmington, North Carolina, a coastal tourist city. My husband-to-be and I were planning a wedding. I was in graduate school.

Then he lost two jobs and stopped receiving pay for a third. My hours were reduced from forty a week to ten. In 2010, I graduated from school and three weeks after we said “I do,” my husband, my son from a previous marriage, and I relocated halfway across the state to Raleigh, where jobs were more plentiful. We began rebuilding.

Once steady money trickled back in, we accumulated more debt as we replaced our washer and dryer, holey work shoes, and a car–necessities we hadn’t been able to afford. The two years of work roulette had won us ten years of digging out.

During all this, we’d maintained a positive outlook with exercise, Tai Chi, and our porch swing (great for unwinding from a long day). But we couldn’t go out to eat or go to the movies, let alone splurge on concert tickets. We were grateful for what we had, but we wanted a new reprieve from the daily grind. We needed to play.

Wii Learned to Play Again

After long deliberation and financial finagling, we spent $150 on a Wii that came with Mario Kart and Super Mario Bros., a choice inspired by the games of my youth.

On date nights, we raced. On family nights, we raced or worked together to save Mario’s princess (so cool we could play at the same time). We belly-laughed watching a car fly off the side of Rainbow Road; we took pride in learning to jump on one another’s head to claim a big gold coin in the clouds.

That Wii was perhaps the best $150 we ever spent. It provided our family an indulgence during a time when we couldn’t afford pleasantries. But we reaped more than just fun and family time from those games. We experienced something game designer Jane McGonigal is trying to bring from the gaming world into the real world: the feeling of an epic win.

Little Wins, Epic Wins

In our house we have “little wins.” We turn ordinary moments into victorious ones. Car repair cost $200 less than expected: little win. Traffic wasn’t bad on the commute home: little win. Buy-two get-three-free on just about anything at the grocery store: little win.

Little wins are our way of recognizing life’s positives while carrying life’s burdens. The Wii was a little win that provided epic wins to our family.

In her book, Reality is Broken, McGonigal explains, “‘Epic win’ is a gamer term. It’s used to describe a big, and usually surprising, success: a come-from-behind victory, an unorthodox strategy that works out spectacularly well, a team effort that goes much better than planned, a heroic effort from the most unlikely player.” Find all three big coins in a Mario world, especially the one buried under quicksand: epic win. Hit by a blue shell and still cross the finish line: epic win.

We always left game night with less tension around our eyes, our shoulders loosened. And after the wheel controllers were put away and everyone went back to their responsibilities, I found that epic wins did spill from the gaming world into my real environment.

Little wins reminded me that life was good. Epic wins made me feel bigger and stronger than our obstacles. Epic wins gave me a feeling of power in a time when I felt powerless. In addition to this boost in confidence and capability, riding the river in Koopa Cape made me not only happy but giddy. To my surprise, the confidence and giddiness stayed with me as I worked on my strategy to pay bills or sent out a dozen résumés. Epic wins re-energized my self-reliance in a completely different way than exercise or reading inspirational stories. I experienced accomplishment, and though it was in a virtual game, the satisfaction was real.

Finding Fiero

I experienced my first epic win some twenty-five years ago. Picture a group of thirteen-year-old girls watching scary B movies, eating tons of candy, and working together to save Mario’s princess. We spent days at one friend’s house, taking turns to play, determined to accomplish our goal. When I was the lucky one who beat the final castle, I was alone. My friends were off on one of a dozen trips to buy snacks. As the last Bowser descended into a pit of lava I jumped for joy, arms raised in a V and yelled, then quickly hit pause and waited with bated breath to share our victory–our epic win–with the team.

Throwing my arms up and yelling is the physical expression of an emotion known as fiero. McGonigal again: “Fiero is the Italian word for ‘pride,’ and it’s been adopted by game designers to describe an emotional high we don’t have a good word for in English. Fiero is what we feel after we triumph over adversity.”

Now that my family’s experienced at digging out of a recession-hole, our resilience has strengthened. We don’t race or work to save the princess as often as we once did. But when we do return to gaming, it’s like visiting old friends who stuck around during the hard times.

Little wins remain pivotal in our house, a perspective we vow to maintain once we’re paid in full. But now, every time I pay a final installment on recession debt, I raise my arms in a V and yell for triumph over adversity, for years of little wins accruing to an epic one.

Quote from the essay, “Where are we going after this?” Photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Type II Fun

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Years ago, when I trained in kung fu, I didn’t have the words to accurately explain the experience. If you saw my face during class, I didn’t look like I was having an ounce of fun. And in the moment, I often wasn’t; I was exhausted and in pain. But by the end (and especially after a belt test), I felt a surge of empowerment and a rush of pure joy. I told my stories of kung fu through that lens of exhilaration, overlooking the preceding misery.

I could have said kung fu was Type II Fun. But who knew there were three types of fun?

Not me, until it was referenced in a story about an Outward Bound expedition where college students were pushed to their physical and emotional limits. When I googled Type II Fun, the only references I found were websites dedicated to extreme outdoor sporting (e.g. REI, Backcountry, and this infographic at Wilderness Magazine). Surely a behavioral or health psychologist had done some research and identified the three types of fun?

Not that I could find. As far as the internet is concerned, Type II Fun was born from those who leave the comforts of their homes to explore the roads less (or often never) traveled. Literal trailblazers.

I am not one of those people, but I connect with this fun. It may actually be what I’m missing in my life right now.

What is Type II Fun?

According to the websites mentioned above, Type II Fun is the kind of fun where you feel miserable in the moment, but in hindsight you think, “that was fun,” and make plans to do it again.

Why would anyone feel defeated, miserable, or exhausted, and then, look back on the experience and use “fun,” “worthwhile,” or “empowering,” to describe the experience?

Here’s what I’ve come up with. There’s three components:

  • engage in an activity where I have to use grit* in order to finish;
  • stimulate my amygdala (or maybe osteocalcin?);
  • feel a sense of accomplishment.

The end result is empowerment and joy.

This fun is about taking on a challenge and overcoming it. Specifically, it’s about using self-reliance and resilience to push through physical, emotional, and mental limitations. Oftentimes it hits all three. You can decide to push yourself to these limits. Or, an activity that began with simply fun (Type I Fun) takes an unexpected downward turn. Either way, you end up telling fond stories of inverted push-ups.

Bottom line: it’s about seeing what you are capable of.

Bringing the fun home

Kurt Hahn, founder of the Outward Bound program, said, “There is more in us than we know. If we could be made to see it, perhaps for the rest of our lives we will be unwilling to settle for less.”

This quote explains why I need Type II Fun. When I was in my early twenties, I struggled emotionally and existentially–my courage and strength in spirit were tested on a daily basis. After a lot of personal exploration, I grew beyond the constraints of my challenges. With renewed energy, I looked for a sport that tested my physical limitations. I started kung fu and loved it. Then I became pregnant with twins and could no longer walk further than from the bedroom to the bathroom. Now, after gaining 70 pounds during pregnancy, natural child birth, and five years rearing the boys at home (which vacillated between Type I and Type II Fun), I’m antsy.

There’s many ways to reap the rewards of fun in the form of challenge without extreme sports. I’m done with child birth and rearing infants, so that’s out. Writing is definitely an activity that stretches my mental and emotional limitations. (Breaking those boundaries can be grueling but is always deeply satisfying.) Public speaking is on the to do list and that is sure to stimulate my fight-or-flight response. But what I need is a new physical challenge. Rock climbing? Crossfit? Marathons?

Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out, now that I know what I’m looking for. And that’s the thing, right? Over the span of our lifetime we change. Our bodies, our perspectives, and our circumstances. To thrive, we need to adapt, persevere, and not settle for less. It helps to believe that we are more than we can imagine. To see challenge as opportunity. And to let the feelings of empowerment and joy propel us into what come’s next.

*I used the definition of grit based on the Merriam-Webster online dictionary. There’s a slightly different definition in psychology, though they both fit the topic.

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Concision

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silhouette of young man with his arms cradling colorful balls on a digital screen
Innocence would have stayed / if I hadn’t left the door open.

The quote, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter,” has been attributed to many people: Blaise Pascal, John Locke, Benjamin Franklin, Henry David Thoreau, Cicero, Woodrow Wilson, Mark Twain. According to Garson O’Toole at Quote Investigator, the saying originates in 1657 by French mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal. That it has been attributed to so many writers is not surprising.

It takes practice and patience to say a lot with few words.

I had written another bog post before this one (and here I am with limited time). The first attempt was inspired by my new project on the interdisciplinary arts of architecture and poetry–the topic was too big-picture. I’m in the early stages of getting reacquainted with old research. The vision of the project is still fuzzy. The blog read like the beginning of a treatise instead of a concise thought or idea. I had to start over, but it got me thinking about concision.

My first thoughts don’t often convey what I’m trying to say. It’s like my initial idea is a large piece of marble and I must carve to reveal what is hidden inside. This doesn’t just happen with thoughts, but perhaps more importantly, emotions too.

Personal concision

Elevator pitches are a good example of concision. To distill your professional work into a 30-60 second speech isn’t easy but is common practice in business, including publishing. Yet, less people write personal elevator pitches. Which sounds, well, less personal. But what would happen if you distilled your core values and who you want to become into 30-60 seconds?

Writing is a tool to hone thoughts and feelings into small tangible pieces. When I write, I can see the inside of my head and heart, which allows me to fix and reshape and grow. It’s hard to ignore the words on the page; it’s easier to ignore the thoughts and feelings swirling inside my head and body.

To begin, how about writing a personal mission statement? To demonstrate how long it can take, I have been working on mine since this blog post in 2018. Please don’t let that discourage you.

Working on the personal mission statement has helped me refine what I want in my personal life and has helped me make decisions toward who I want to become. But first, I had to carve through the marble and face some hard truths about myself; what I previously didn’t want to accept.

I keep refining my statement, and in turn, I enjoy a new relationship with myself. One that helps me live a more deliberate life. As I move through the process, I feel freer; no longer held back by insecurities. Well, some insecurities. After all, I am a work-in-progress.

Get started

I started with a simple Google search and found some resources. Then I compiled inspiration from those I admired. Last, I created my own set of questions to answer, choosing from the various information.

Below are (to me) a few core questions. Unfortunately, some of my resources have either been taken off the web, or in one case, hidden behind a paywall. Luckily, Andy Andrews still offers free advice and so do the people at Live Bold and Bloom. You’ll see some of these questions on their websites.

Ask yourself

  • Where am I now? What got me here?
  • What are my core values?
  • How do I want to act?
  • What is important? What/whom do I value?
  • What legacy do I want to leave behind?

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.

On Self Care

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nevada desert with blue sky and word art y'all

Instead of a new year’s resolution, my husband and I chose a motto for 2019. Yes, we want to tighten up the diet and solidify an exercise routine, but we’re striving for more. And that “more” isn’t simply more reps, more water, more sleep. We want to expand how we think about caring for our selves. To step back, see our lives in a bigger picture, and shift our perspectives. We want to find balance.

Self-marriage-family-friends-community-work balance.

2019 motto: Self Care

I’m busy in new and wonderful ways this year. For starters, there’s kindergarten and career growth, which is more then enough so I’ll stop there. Raising children is a teeter-totter inside a Gravitron. (You say seesaw, I say teeter-totter.) Career growth is climbing an oil-slick ladder on a trampoline. It’s all just walking through a dark room and stepping on tiny Lego pieces. (I could go on…)

There are also many things that I love to do and many more that I want to accomplish. Skills I want to learn, causes I want to be more involved with, and a backyard I hope to transform. Each want and responsibility stands before me, waiting for action. How do I do it all? Can I do it all?

Self Care Reminds Me

Slow down. Step back. See the whole forest. It’s difficult to maintain balance when I focus solely on the trees.

I’m 44 now. My forest has a lot of trees. When I step back I see them all in their varying stages of growth. I also see hills and valleys, flowers and thorns, rivers and rocks. Self Care is remembering that I’ve had balance in my life, that the feeling of “too much of this” and “not enough of that” is fleeting. Sure, I need to re-balance, shift things around, and let go. But it takes time. Imbalance isn’t permanent. But it is important. Taking the time to realign personal goals–reassess where I’ve been, appreciate where I am, and define where I want to go–provides clarity. And clarity is a solid reset button.

There’s also the foundation to the forest. The morals and beliefs I have cultivated over the years, that I live by every day. The ones that hold my feet to the fire and keep me strong. It’s imperative to make certain I’m aligning my growing and changing life with my founding principles.

Self Care is complicated. It’s messy. And it’s fun. I find it helpful to plant sapling seeds as soon as I have them. I do my best to tend the seeds as they grow, making sure the soil is rich with nutrients. Self Care is not being afraid to look inside myself, to know who I am and what I need. Embrace the strengths and surrender to the weaknesses. To not just be okay with my voice but proud of it.

Here’s a list I have on my desk for this year. It’s a reminder to nurture all aspects of my life. I didn’t come up with it but it speaks to my most basic needs:

Water, rest, repeat.
Laundry, poetry, repeat.
Love, long-walks, repeat.

– from Chani Nicholas

Do you have a Self Care list? If not, what would you put on it? What does your soil–your foundation–require in order to keep your forest thriving?

Self Care Inspiration

2019’s motto is inspired by rap artist, Mac Miller’s song, “Self Care.” His life and death impacted my eldest son, T, and therefore, impacted my husband and me.

Miller’s music was raw and personal. He didn’t shy away from addressing his struggle with addiction and depression. When he released, Swimming, his latest (and last) album in Aug. 2018, a month before he overdosed, T heard self-reflection, reconciliation, and even, hope. T wanted nothing more than for Miller to prevail, to be a strong voice, to continue helping him (and others) in life and in his own music. It’s been a hard blow. But, we do what we can in times like these: we listen and we learn.

If you have a few minutes (or seventeen), watch Miller’s Tiny Desk Concert on NPR Music. It’s a beautiful glimpse of his kind and boyish personality, and how his music does what art does best, tell the deeper story.

Quote and photo by author. All rights reserved.