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A Perfect Contradiction

/ frankiegolightly

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I’ve developed a girlie crush.  I’ve only recently discovered Paloma Faith since she started promoting her ‘A Perfect Contradiction’ album, but now I’ve seen her interviewed a few times I think she is the perfect Poster Girl for authenticity (if that isn’t an oxymoron).  Smart, sassy, and a complete original.  The proverbial breath of fresh air, in a balmy sea breeze kind of way, how can you not love her?

“I think what makes me different from the Average Joe

is that I feel free to be myself and express myself

in the way that I want.

If that makes you mad, we’re living in a world of dire straits.

If anything it makes you more sane.”

 

~ Paloma Faith

 

Conforming simply isn’t an option for Paloma.  As she explained with a shrug to Paul O’Grady, it’s just so much easier to be herself, it means she doesn’t have to worry about what she is saying.  Art without the artifice.

I was going to say being authentic comes naturally to her then realised how daft that is.  Being authentic comes naturally to us all.  It’s the layers of learned behaviour and insecurities that screw us up. 

“Once you accept that we’re all imperfect,

it’s the most liberating thing in the world.

Then you can go around making mistakes

and saying the wrong thing and tripping over in the street

and all that and not feel worried.”

 

~ Paloma Faith 

 

It May Be Simple But It’s Not Easy

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Lately two slightly absurd notions have been consuming me:  who is the real me, and what if I don’t like her very much?  It feels a little like tumbling down a rabbit hole to be confronted by a hallway where every door hides a version of me and I’m wondering if I’ll drink to shrink or eat to grow. 

Then I realise I’m too much in my head.   And putting too much emphasis on consistency, because of course we all have different sides.  We’re complex and messy and our personalities don’t have only one setting.   How I react to something today may be different tomorrow but does that make me inauthentic?  When I let my insecurities get the better of me, I’m not as generous spirited as I would hope.  And then I don’t like myself very much.  Maya Angelou said “when you know better, you do better” so I can only hope to learn from these times and go on to do better. I’m happier when I’m nicer.

If I do, then of course I won’t be the same person tomorrow that I am today because I will have grown from experience.  One of my biggest lessons is to accept it’s okay for me not to be perfect, that’s a doozy.  But who has lived and hasn’t made mistakes?  I need to get better at appreciating this.

I said ‘absurd’ because of course if I’m being true to myself then both of those questions are redundant.  There is only one me, in all of my messiness, and if I honour the essence of that then I’ll be someone I like.  So I need to get out of my head and tune into my gut because that keeps me authentic.  Simple, but not always easy.  It’s a minute-by-minute practice, but I’m learning.

A Little Late To The Party

/ frankiegolightly

One of the symptoms of small island living is losing touch with what’s happening out there in the big, wild world (some long-termers hadn’t heard of Simon Cowell – it can have its advantages).  So I’m a little late to the Dr Brené Brown party.  I know the all-round-fabulous Suzy Greaves (writer, coach, editor extraordinaire) is a fan so, now that I have a fairly reliable internet connection and time on my hands, I hunted out Brene’s TedX Talks.  Thanks, Suzy, now I understand and am excited to read her books. 

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Along with the 15million+ viewers, I warmed to Brené’s genuineness as she talked about shame and vulnerability.  And I realised you can’t really be authentic without being vulnerable and vice versa; they are sides of the same coin.  It is because she is walking her talk so beautifully that Brené has become such a phenomenon, her willingness to be only real on that stage is why we feel such a connection to her.  That’s the power of vulnerability.  But we find it so hard.  For me it’s not so much that I perceive it as weakness, more the slightly wonky notion that not allowing ourselves to be vulnerable keeps us safe from hurt.  It’s something we fear because it opens us to potential harm, and so we admire and applaud those who have the courage to lean into it.  Reducing the potential to feel hurt also reduces the ability to feel joy, and so we insidiously harm ourselves anyway.  We’re left with a safe life that is more an existence than the experience of fully living. 

Vulnerability was the surprising revelation of Brené studying connection.  In her open, funny way she explains it wasn’t something she went looking for, in fact to say she resisted it would be a huge understatement: “It was a year long fight, a slugfest.  I lost the fight and probably won my life back.”  When somebody verbalises so eloquently it seems obvious, a forehead slapping “duh” moment.  Of course, vulnerability is key to acceptance and living wholeheartedly.  Why didn’t I see that before?  And of course it’s key to living authentically, which is why that can be such a challenge. 

Writing this blog is helping me be more authentic.  I’m bringing more awareness to my days and I have small wins, but I still have a long way to go – ironically illustrated by the fact that so far I’ve only told a couple of friends I’m doing it, I’ve been terrified to go public.  But if vulnerability and authenticity are so closely linked I need to let myself be seen.  That’s one of Brené’s observations of what we need to do to live a wholehearted life. 

I’m working on believing I am enough. 

 

 

By Brené Brown:  ‘Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead’, published by Portfolio Penguin

Ted Talk:  https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability

Photo in public domain

Does Kindness Trump Authenticity?

/ frankiegolightly

I am spending a lot of time with my family at the moment.  Which can be challenging for oh so many reasons (not least the endless supply of cake), but particularly when it comes to the sticky issue of being true to myself.  Not only is it easy to fall into playing to the stereotype they have of me (a big enough topic to have a post all of its own), it’s also raised for me the question:  does kindness trump authenticity?

As I imagine it is with most families (unless we’re even more screwed up than I realise), we have long established ways of communicating with each other.  Some of these are silly, childish traditions created when I was a different person (an actual child, for instance).  Particularly with my Dad.  I am not that person now, and who I am today wouldn’t behave that way.  But it would break my Dad’s heart if I didn’t play along.  And, even in the name of authenticity, I’m not prepared to do that.

So I was getting my knickers in a twist thinking about this.  Was I just taking an easy way out?  Then I started to make the distinction between honesty and authenticity.  I had been starting from the assumption that to be authentic you had to be honest.  Which is of course true.  But would it be enough to be honest with myself?  If I chose to be authentically kind?  Which made me wonder if perhaps sincerity is a more appropriate word.  More kind, in fact.

I’ve rubbed up against this honesty dilemma before.  Years ago when looking at my personal values, honesty was at the top of my list.  Oh yes, siree, I believed with all my stubborn Taurean heart that this was Number One Most Important to me, I had absolutely no truck with dishonesty.  Don’t be playing my friend if you weren’t going to be honest.  Or so I thought, until I looked at how this really played out in my life.  If a friend asked my opinion of her outfit and I thought she looked terrible, would I tell her?  If she was at home and able to change, then yes I’d definitely suggest something more flattering.  If we were already out and she could do nothing about it, I certainly wouldn’t tell her she looked like an exploding sausage, for example (unless so much wine had been consumed we’d both find it fall-off-our-seats hilarious … is there that much wine?).  What would be the point of ruining her evening?  So there I was, trampling on my number one value, which isn’t a smart thing to do.  It meant I had to review and revise:  yes, honesty is still hugely important to me, but in practice it appears kindness is more so.  Who’d have thought?  I surprised my stubborn self.

I’d love to live in a world where kindness and honesty could always be one and the same.  To never have these conflicts, to be honest and true and accepting of each other at all times.  And bluebirds would sit on my shoulder singing melodiously.  That’s certainly something to work towards, and in the meantime I’ll continue to muddle my way through doing my best to find a balance.  But until that day, yes, for me kindness trumps authenticity.  As long as it’s sincere.

 

Talking Confidently About Confidence – Gloria Awards 2014

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Both Gabourey Sidibe and Amy Schumer talked movingly about confidence at this year’s Gloria Awards, hosted by the Ms. Foundation for Women.  Powerful and inspiring, below is Amy’s speech in full.  It needs no further introduction, instead I’ll just use my hands for applause.    

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     “Right before I left for college, I was running my high school. Feel it. I knew where to park, I knew where to get the best chicken-cutlet sandwich, I knew which custodians had pot. People knew me. They liked me. I was an athlete and a good friend. I felt pretty, I felt funny, I felt sane. Then I got to college in Maryland. My school was voted number one … for the hottest freshman girls in Playboy that year. And not because of me. All of a sudden, being witty and charismatic didn’t mean shit. Day after day, I could feel the confidence drain from my body. I was not what these guys wanted. They wanted thinner, blonder, dumber … My sassy one-liners were only working on the cafeteria employees, who I was visiting all too frequently, tacking on not the Freshman 15, but the 30, in record-breaking time, which led my mother to make comments over winter break like, “You look healthy!” I was getting no male attention, and I’m embarrassed to say, it was killing me.

But one guy paid me some attention — Matt. Matt was six feet tall, he looked like a grown-up von Trapp child, and he was five years older than me. What?! An older boy, paying attention to me? I must be okay. Uff. I made him laugh in our bio lab, and I could tell a couple times that we had a vibe. He was a super senior, which is a sexy way of saying “should have graduated, but needed an extra year.” He barely spoke, which was perfect for all the projecting I had planned for him. We grew up in the same town, and getting attention from him felt like success. When I would see him on campus, my heart would race, and I would smile as he passed. I’d look in the mirror and see all the blood rise to my face. I’d spend time analyzing the interaction, and planning my outfit for the next time I saw him. I wanted him to call. He never called. But then finally, he called.

It was 8 a.m., my dorm room phone rang. “Amy, wassup? It’s Matt. Come over.” Holy shit! This is it, I thought. He woke up thinking about me! He realized we’re meant to start a life together! Let’s just stop all this pretending that we weren’t free just to love one another! I wondered, would we raise our kids in the town we both grew up in, or has he taken a liking to Baltimore? I don’t care. I’ll settle wherever he’s most comfortable. Will he want to raise our kids Jewish? Who cares? I shaved my legs in the sink, I splashed some water under my armpits, and my randomly assigned Albanian roommate stared at me from under her sheets as I rushed around our shitty dorm room. I ran right over to his place, ready for our day together. What would we do? It’s still early enough, maybe we’re going fishing? Or maybe his mom’s in town, and he wanted me to join them for breakfast. Knock-knock. Is he going to carry me over the threshold? I bet he’s fixing his hair and telling his mom, “Be cool, this may be the one!” I’ll be very sweet with her, but assert myself, so she doesn’t think she’s completely in charge of all the holiday dinners we’re going to plan together. I’ll call her by her first name, too, so she knows she can’t mess with me. “Rita! I’m going to make the green bean casserole this year, and that’s that!” Knock-knock. Ring ring. Where is he?

Finally, the door opens. It’s Matt, but not really. He’s there, but not really. His face is kind of distorted, and his eyes seem like he can’t focus on me. He’s actually trying to see me from the side, like a shark. “Hey!” he yells, too loud, and gives me a hug, too hard. He’s fucking wasted. I’m not the first person he thought of that morning. I’m the last person he called that night. I wonder, how many girls didn’t answer before he got to fat freshman me? Am I in his phone as Schumer? Probably. But I was here, and I wanted to be held and touched and felt desired, despite everything. I wanted to be with him. I imagined us on campus together, holding hands, proving, “Look! I am lovable! And this cool older guy likes me!” I can’t be the troll doll I’m afraid I’ve become.

He put on some music, and we got in bed. As that sexy maneuver where the guy pushes you on the bed, you know, like, “I’m taking the wheel on this one. Now I’m going to blow your mind,” which is almost never followed up with anything. He smelled like skunk microwaved with cheeseburgers, which I planned on finding and eating in the bathroom, as soon as he was asleep. We tried kissing. His 9 a.m. shadow was scratching my face — I knew it’d look like I had fruit-punch mouth for days after. His alcohol-swollen mouth, I felt like I was being tongued by someone who had just been given Novocain. I felt faceless, and nameless. I was just a warm body, and I was freezing cold. His fingers poked inside me like they had lost their keys in there. And then came the sex, and I use that word very loosely. His penis was so soft, it felt like one of those de-stress things that slips from your hand? So he was pushing aggressively into my thigh, and during this failed penetration, I looked around the room to try and distract myself or God willing, disassociate. What’s on the wall? A Scarface poster, of course. Mandatory. Anything else? That’s it? This Irish-Catholic son of bank teller who played JV soccer and did Mathletes feels the most connection with a Cuban refugee drug lord. The place looked like it was decorated by an overeager set designer who took the note “temporary and without substance” too far.

He started to go down on me. That’s ambitious, I think. Is it still considered getting head if the guy falls asleep every three seconds and moves his tongue like an elderly person eating their last oatmeal? Chelsea? Is it? Yes? It is. I want to scream for myself, “Get out of here, Amy. You are beautiful, you are smart, and worth more than this. This is not where you stay.” I feel like Fantine and Cosette and every fucking sad French woman from Les Miz. And whoever that cat was who sang “Memories,” what was that musical? Suze Orman just goes, “Cats.” The only wetness between my legs is from his drool, because he’s now sleeping and snoring into me. I sigh, I hear my own heartbreak, I fight back my own tears, and then I notice a change in the music. Is this just a bagpipe solo? I shake him awake. “Matt, what is this? The Braveheart soundtrack? Can you put something else on, please?” He wakes up grumpily, falls to the floor, and crawls. I look at his exposed butt crack, a dark, unkempt abyss that I was falling into. I felt paralyzed. His asshole is a canyon, and this was my 127 Hours. I might chew my arm off.

I could feel I was losing myself to this girl in this bed. He stood up and put a new CD on. “Darling, you send me, I know you send me, honest, you do …” I’m thinking, “What is this?” He crawled back into bed, and tried to mash at this point his third ball into my vagina. On his fourth thrust, he gave up and fell asleep on my breast. His head was heavy and his breath was so sour, I had to turn my head so my eyes didn’t water. But they were watering anyway, because of this song. Who is this? This is so beautiful. I’ve never heard these songs before. They’re gutting me. The score attached to our morning couldn’t have been more off. His sloppy, tentative lovemaking was certainly not in the spirit of William Wallace. And now the most beautiful love songs I’ve ever heard play out as this man-boy laid in my arms, after diminishing me to a last-minute booty call. I listened to the songs and I cried. I was looking down at myself from the ceiling fan. What happened to this girl? How did she get here? I felt the fan on my skin and I went, “Oh, wait! I am this girl! We got to get me out of here!” I became my own fairy godmother. I waited until the last perfect note floated out, and escaped from under him and out the door. I never heard from Matt again, but felt only grateful for being introduced to my new self, a girl who got her value from within her. I’m also grateful to Matt for introducing me to my love Sam Cooke, who I’m still with today.

Now I feel strong and beautiful. I walk proudly down the streets of Manhattan. The people I love, love me. I make the funniest people in the country laugh, and they are my friends. I am a great friend and an even better sister. I have fought my way through harsh criticism and death threats for speaking my mind. I am alive, like the strong women in this room before me. I am a hot-blooded fighter and I am fearless. But I did morning radio last week, and a DJ asked, “Have you gained weight? You seem chunkier to me. You should strike while the iron is hot, Amy.” And it’s all gone. In an instant, it’s all stripped away. I wrote an article for Men’s Health and was so proud, until I saw instead of using my photo, they used one of a 16-year-old model wearing a clown nose, to show that she’s hilarious. But those are my words. What about who I am, and what I have to say? I can be reduced to that lost college freshman so quickly sometimes, I want to quit. Not performing, but being a woman altogether. I want to throw my hands in the air, after reading a mean Twitter comment, and say, “All right! You got it. You figured me out. I’m not pretty. I’m not thin. I do not deserve to use my voice. I’ll start wearing a burqa and start waiting tables at a pancake house. All my self-worth is based on what you can see.” But then I think, Fuck that. I am not laying in that freshman year bed anymore ever again. I am a woman with thoughts and questions and shit to say. I say if I’m beautiful. I say if I’m strong. You will not determine my story — I will. I will speak and share and fuck and love and I will never apologize to the frightened millions who resent that they never had it in them to do it. I stand here and I am amazing, for you. Not because of you. I am not who I sleep with. I am not my weight. I am not my mother. I am myself. And I am all of you, and I thank you.”

 

Content and photo in the public domain (speech sourced at http://www.vulture.com)

 

 

What Comes First?

/ frankiegolightly

I caught myself being inauthentic yesterday.  I had an email out of the blue from an ex, an Australian surfer-dude type.  Younger than me.  In my reply I found myself using his language – wicked, vibing, that sort of thing; certainly not words I would typically use.  And the reason wasn’t for common understanding, oh no.  I wasn’t modifying my language to be more appropriate or for easy comprehension.  I was doing it simply because I didn’t want to seem like a boring old fart.  I wasn’t confident enough to be my un-hip, authentic self.  Instead I was just excruciatingly embarrassing.  What a trade. 

At least this year of living authentically is bringing more awareness to my days.  It’s surprising how the little itty-bitty daily challenges are the ones that trip me up most.  The big stuff you can’t really miss, there are signposts you see miles in advance and so go in prepared, battle-ready.  But the little stuff, that’s more tricky, a minefield you sometimes don’t notice until you’re standing in the middle of it.  Because the little stuff is really the big stuff, it’s absolutely key to authenticity.  Every seemingly inconsequential compromise to being true to myself erodes a little more confidence.  And I need every molecule of confidence I can conjure up to do this.   

If you’re anything like me, a lifetime of trying to fit in and not stand out has blurred the edges so much that it’s sometimes hard to distinguish who the ‘real you’ is.  It requires living consciously, not reverting to default setting behaviour, and that level of awareness can be hard work.  But it’s worth it because I’ve noticed a chicken/egg scenario happening:  while it takes confidence to be authentic, being authentic also gives you confidence.

 

 

The World as a Wonder Emporium

/ frankiegolightly

Last night I was flicking through TV channels and came across the film ‘Mr Magorium’s Wonder Emporium’.  I’ve never seen it in its entirety, but twice now I’ve happened upon it at precisely the moment that Dustin Hoffmann’s character – I assume the eponymous Mr Magorium – says “Life is an occasion.  Rise to it.”  I’m choosing to think it serendipitous, that twice I’ve tuned in just in time to hear those words exactly when I needed a shot of inspiration.  To paraphrase Albert Einstein, we can choose to live as though nothing is a miracle, or as though everything is.  Sometimes we forget just how miraculous being alive in the 21st century can be.  The technology that allows me to write this and for you read it instantaneously anywhere in the world is a perfect example, if we are prepared to be amazed.  It can be hard to hold a sense of wonder as we get bogged down in our days, taking so much for granted.  But life is much more interesting when we look at it as though we are living in a Wonder Emporium.  So let’s grasp onto reminders whenever and however they may come.  Sometimes the magic of storytelling reminds us to treasure the magic of life (and I don’t mind a little Hollywood manipulation if it leaves me feeling a little lighter spirited).  I imagine that’s the analogy of the whole film, and next time I see it in the schedule I plan to watch it all.  In the meantime, I intend to put those words on my mirror to remind myself.

Life is an occasion.  Rise to it.

Good Morning, Good Morning To You

/ frankiegolightly

“Finish each day and be done with it.

You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in;

forget them as soon as you can.

Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit

to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

 — Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

My Dad wakes up happy.  It can be very annoying.  As the day wears on he can descend into his typical grumpy old man persona, but even when he’s sick, crippled by arthritis and it’s a struggle to get out of bed he still does so in a good mood.

It has always been this way and I think it must be a genetic disposition.  My sister is the same whereas, in this instance at least, I take after my mother.  Growing up, Dad and Sis would be whistling around the kitchen of a morning, cracking eggs and jokes, banging pans, while my mum and I would sit at the table nursing a coffee and slice of toast throwing dagger looks at them and wondering why they couldn’t keep the noise down.

Even though I now love mornings, it still takes me a while to warm up to the day.  I love the feeling of being outside before the rest of the world wakes; there is a different quality to the air around dawn that speaks to possibility and potential in the day ahead.  But  I still don’t wake up jumping out of bed bursting with energy.  One of the reasons I enjoy being an early riser is that it generally gives me space and quiet to ease myself into the day, all I require is a little solitude to set me up.  Let me wake up at my own pace and I’m happy.

I wouldn’t swap places with either my Dad or my Sis, I would say that overall I’m a happier and more optimistic person than either of them.  But in a way I envy their start to the day:  as if the night has truly washed away their troubles and worries and they can greet the day completely anew, fresh and unencumbered by any old nonsense.