Step One: Lower the Bar

When I was a kid we played limbo at the Flippo’s skating rink in Morro Bay. I loved the place. Dreaded the game.

The claustrophobic concept of lowering the bar until you either crash into it or fall on your ass gave me anxiety.

I like my conditions stable. Predictable. Scheduled, organized, prepared & on time. These simple standards always served me well.

And then I had children.

It was a slow death. My beloved standards slipped away one by one.

The days of drinking coffee hot lost in the madness.

Rotting food in the fridge from failed meal plans that resulted in fast food. Dead, dried-out house plants. Crumbs & cat hair literally everywhere. Angry parenting. Unwritten thank you notes. The zone known as “the feeding pit”. My daughter’s unassailable neck cheese….

It was endless.

All this shame – all these things that embarrassed me – stood in the shadows, lurking – waving judgement at me like the grinch who stole christmas.

No problem, I thought. We’re in survival mode. We can lower the bar. I dusted the morning’s sofa crumbs directly onto the rug. It’s just a season. My standards – my ideals, surely won’t be gone forever.

So I started waving back.

It was uncomfortable at first – having these ghosts of guilt & shame just hanging around. We took it slow. Hung out on the weekends in quiet places. Got to know each other over luke warm coffee.

And as I became more comfortable – as I began accepting the sad state of affairs into my life, a funny thing happened.

I felt happy.

The further the bar fell – the happier I became.

The more I let go of my ideals – the picture of perfection with the house just so, children behaving – showering in silence – the easier it was to find gratitude in the blessings right in front of me – no matter how small.

I mean. At least there is coffee. And a house. And children. And hot showers.

My mom will tell you – to her chagrin – that growing up I was a master of silver linings. I’d end up thanking her every time she’d punish me. Drove her crazy. One time during high school, she restricted my phone privileges. I soon realized I was better off without that mean girl drama, after all and gained a simple lesson in perspective.

So, once again, in the chaos & muck – I focused on those silver linings. Loved them. Defended them.

And I started seeing more good.

You know the good I’m talking about. That warm fuzzy buzzing all over deep down on the right track good. Places, people and things that just….spark.

I started dreaming my favorite dreams.

I began purposefully thinking & saying – Actually, I have everything I need. Right here. Right now.

And I looked for examples.

I gave time to the friendships where I am my authentic self – warts and all. (I currently have 2, possibly 3)

Those connections that allow me to bring my shame to the dinner table.

And you know what?

It wasn’t long before we were all raising our glasses – toasting our misery and shame like they were badges of honor.

Conversations like,

“Well, it just keeps getting worse over here.”

Met with a resounding, “Same!”. *glasses clink*

I found my tribe.

Speaking my truth was so freeing in these tight circles that I began sharing my embarrassments with people I barely knew.

To my amazement, every time I showed a piece of my darkness – they would show me a little of theirs. And we’d laugh – instantly understood & connected. Lighter. Carefree.

Separate from the guilt & shame.

Lowering the bar together.

And over time, the tide changed.

Things got easier.

I found flow.

Instead of paddling upstream in a downpour I was floating on glass in the sunshine. Drinking a margarita.

Ok, floating in a foldable “pet pool” I bought for the kids off Amazon but hey – beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?

Ideas & traditions passed down through story-telling & generations of daily living. Ideas about how things ought to be done and how they ought to look. All in the name of happiness.

By bringing these shadows into the light and into my truth – I learned that those standards are nothing more than a long-gone distant relative’s idea of what life should be….or for the romantic….a long lost dream of what could be.

This helped me see that my ideas – my thought patterns are based in someone else’s aspirations & experiences.

An accumulative effect through the ages of our ancestry.

But here’s the thing.

This particular life, as crazy as it is – is mine all mine all mine.

It’s mine to make.

So, when standards & expectations and all their layers of guilt & shame try to clothesline me – or knock me on my ass – making me feel like I don’t measure up in this life….I raise a glass and remember that I’m the one holding the bar.

And I’ve got some pretty damn good ideas of my own.