Loquacious: "Praxis" by Rachelle Mee-Chapman

Loquacious: full of excessive talk : wordy (www.m-w.com)

Loquacious is a "wordy" series that revels in language. Read more essays in the series here.

Rachelle Mee-Chapman was one of my earliest Internet crushes. I became smitten with her and her blog, Magpie Girl, in my early days of blogging. Since then, I've had the pleasure of spending time with her online and in-person. I consider her a friend, a colleague, a mentor, and a soulsister. She is also one of the contributors to Lanterns: A Gathering of Stories, and I'm delighted to be a speaker at her Soulsisters Gathering this coming October. Her depth of kindness, spirit, and vivacity shines through in all of her work and writing. In this guest essay, she beautifully combines a meditation on the word "praxis" with an invitation to step into a life of action. (I first heard the idea of "orthopraxis" ("right action") from Rahcelle a few years ago, and it's been an important concept for me as I've navigated a shifting view of the world and my role in it. I live so much of my life in my head, so the reminder to move from thinking into action is always a good one for me.)

Praxis

By Rachelle Mee-Chapman

prax·is
[ práksiss ]

1.    performance or application of skill: the practical side and application of something such as a professional skill, as opposed to its theory
2.    established practice: established custom or habitual practice

Praxis. The application of a skill. The establishment of a practice. The creation of a custom. The polar opposite of theory.

I love saying it.

The pop of the "p" right from the start. 

The roll of the "r," softening its challenge.
The crisp charge of the "x" keeping things going. 

Then the closing hiss of the "s," suggesting a continuing process.

Everything about the word "praxis" makes me think of forward motion. Of doing. Of action.

I didn't know anything about praxis for the first three decades of my life. You see, for a long time I lived in my head. I studied philosophy, and then theology. I talked about ideologies and paradigms, systemic establishments and theoretical models. I devoted myself to figuring-things-out for one big reason—I didn't want to get "it" wrong.

You know. "It."  Life.

I didn't want to get life wrong.     

At the core of this approach was a desire for control. I wanted to know what the results would be before going in. I didn't want to fail, or look inexperienced; to make a mistake or to be laughed at. I wanted to think it through, and when I had it all figured out, then I wanted to begin.

Maybe this was because in the tradition in which I was raised, "failure" was synonymous with "sin." Doing something wrong wasn't just part of growing up, it was a moral failure that could—if you didn't say the right prayer—result in eternal damnation. Or maybe it was just because I was an anxious kid, then a nervous teenager, and finally a young adult who was mostly okay at faking confidence. Probably it was all-of-the-above plus a good deal more.

Because of these influences, my college years found me dedicated not to orthopraxis—the exploration of right-living—but rather to orthodoxy, the study of right-thinking. I was committed to finding and keeping a set of beliefs that would keep me in the "right" arena. I thought that if I spent my time in right-thinking, it would indisputably lead me to right-living.

Kind living.
Fair living.

A way of living that was nice to everyone, but completely empowered, and of course, full of justice.

What I didn't know about orthodoxy and real life is you can't get there from here.

Sure, right-thinking can help you decide in which direction to turn. It can teach you good assessment skills. You can become very good at picking things apart. But what all that thinking doesn't do is actually get you to living.

You see, most of living doesn't happen in your head. A lot of life requires movement, exploration, forward motion. Life requires you to skip and to trip; to climb up and to fall down; to ride your bike with no hands, and to scrape your knees.

Life requires you to do more than think. It requires you to act.  

My younger self wanted to get everything straight in my head so I could go out and start my life. What I didn't know was that in order to leave the ivory tower, to walk past the castle walls, you don't need orthodoxy. Orthodoxy won't get you out the door. No, what you need for the messy, tumultuous, upheaval of real life is not right thinking, it's right action—orthopraxis.

The try and the attempt.
The repetition and the habit.

The tradition and the custom.

The rhythm and the beat.

This is what orthopraxis gives you: 

the breathing room to attempt, 

to try, 

to actually get out there and live.

So this is what I'm thinking, right now, for you, my friend.

Maybe you don't need a perfect set of beliefs, or a watertight creed, or a systematic theology.

No, maybe what you need is a space to practice. A little bit of room so you can discover—by doing—the right and the wrong. So you can live in the grey. So you can make mistakes, and fail—and be glad you failed—and then do it all again anyway.

That is the gift of praxis.

Are you ready to practice your right-fit life?
Can you shift away from thinking and into doing?
Will you try, and fail, and try again because the proof is in the practice?

I think you are.

I know you can.

I hope you will.

(Amen? Amen.)

** ** **

Rachelle Mee-Chapman is a non-traditional minister to relig-ish types and folks who identify as SBNR (spiritual but not religious.) She's teaching new skills and practices in the big tent at this year's Soulsisters Gathering. You can also join her online soulcare community Flock, or learn more about her correspondence coaching plan at Magpie Girl: Care for Creative Souls.

The Making of "My One Thing" (part 1)

photo by Kylie Bellard

For much of my life, I feel like I've been on a quest for a clear, singular identity.
It's as though I've always been looking for my One Thing.

In the video I posted earlier this week, I tell the story of how this quest for my One Thing goes back at least as far as high school, when my external Band Geek and Nerd personas overshadowed my secret identities of Goth Girl and Hippie Chick. I tell how this search for my true self continued through college and into my adult life, eventually showing up in my work as a writer and creative entrepreneur.

I don't spend much time on this last point, but it's reason I ended up making the video in the first place.

Let's back up a bit.

For several years I've been struggling to define what my work in this world really is all about. In this blog post from November 2011, I wrote:

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what I'm really called to do in this world. I know I'm meant to write, but is there a deeper purpose to my stringing together words that sound and taste good? I feel a lot of angst around this question. I just want to create beautiful stories with meaning. Is that enough?

It's that last question that had me tied up in knots: Is that enough?

Is it enough to bring beauty, meaning, and connection into the world?

Is it enough to write and tell stories?

These questions were eating away at me.

Spoiler alert, here's the answer: Of course it's enough!

I know that now. I knew it then, too, but I was just afraid to embrace it. I kept wondering if I shouldn't be doing something more:

I know other writers who feel called to use their words and work for social justice, for peace, for emotional healing, for environmental responsibility. I care about all of those issues and more, and sometimes I may write about them. But I keep wondering what my "thing" is, as though I have to declare some sort of stance, to choose a major in this university of life. This obsession is curious, since I'm not much for labels or structures or limits. I'm rarely able to choose a straight and narrow path and declare absolute allegiance to one thing over another. I'm not suggesting that the writers I'm referring to above do this either; everyone is multifaceted and complex, with nuance and shades of personality. But I've been hoping to find that elusive one thing to define myself and my work, something I can call my own, something to call me.

I wanted an easy and accessible answer to the question that inevitably pops up when people discover that I'm a writer: What do you write? I wanted something tangible and concrete on which to hang my shingle.

By last fall, the weight of these questions was becoming debilitating to my work and my business. I couldn't seem to find any answers, and without answers I felt stuck. I didn't know where to focus my energy, what projects to work on, or even who my intended audience was.

Around this same time Tanya Geisler and Michelle Ward launched Golden Ticket, a program for creative women entrepreneurs who love what they do -- and who want to love how they do it. Golden Ticket contained several components, including an online course, live group coaching calls, and the grand finalé: a live, in-person event in New York City.

I recorded "My One Thing" video at that NYC gathering. Working through the Golden Ticket curriculum had helped me to gain clarity about what I bring to my work, what I want to be doing, how I want to offer these things to the world, and to whom. 

Throughout the course, I kept waiting for some big "a-ha!" moment in which I realized that I'd been on the wrong path and needed to scrap everything and start over. I'd figured this was the inevitable outcome. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had so much anxiety about my work, right?

Not so much.

I did have an epiphany, but it wasn't what I'd expected.

Here's what I realized: I'd been asking the wrong questions.

I didn't need to choose "one thing" to define me. I didn't need to try to be "more" by taking on social missions. I didn't need to keep wondering if what I loved was enough. And I didn't need to start over. I just needed to sink deeper into what I love and allow that to set my course.

What do I love?

• Joy
• Wonder
• Beauty
• Meaning
• Connection
• Writing

I want to write about these things.

I want to read about these things.

I want to talk about these things.

One of the exercises in Golden Ticket challenged us to answer this statement: "I want you to know...."

What do I want you to know?

I want you to know the beauty, joy, wonder, and connection of things and unseen.

How's that for a mission statement? If you had asked me that a year ago, I would have worried that it was a piss-poor mission statement, that it wasn't clear, concrete, or concise enough. I'd have worried that you might not understand what I was talking about with such an ethereal and all-encompassing declaration.

But now I know that everything I do, (publishing books, working with other writers, leading classes and workshops, sharing essays about everyday moments, roller derby, and language, sharing writing tips, doing freelance writing and editing) all of it fits and makes sense because all of it comes from my creative center. When I list it all out like that, it doesn't seem so outlandish. Those things obviously go together. But I'd hard the hardest time seeing the forest for the trees, as the saying goes.

As I share in the video, I finally realized that my life and my work are not math problems to be solved. Instead, they're more like mosaics. In a mosaic, many individual pieces come together to create a beautiful whole. 

Aren't we all this way? Multifaceted and messy. Nuanced and complex. Something greater than the sum of our parts.

** ** **
I've had a number of people tell me that they resonate with the message of "My One Thing." There are so many of us trying to figure out where and how we fit. In a world that too often likes easy definitions and right angles, it's not easy to be an amoeba.

I haven't dived deeply into any of these yet, but here are some resources for the mosaics among us. (Thanks to Michelle Ward for recommending them.)

• The Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just One, by Margaret Lobenstine
• Refuse to Choose! A Revolutionary Program for Doing Everything That You Love, by Barbara Scher
• Renaissance Business: Make Your Multipotentiality Your Day Job (ebook), by Emilie Wapnick, creator of the website Puttylike.com: a Home for Multipotentialites

My One Thing

I made this for you....

{"My One Thing," a story-talk from Jenna McGuiggan. Can't see the video above? Watch it on Vimeo.}

Later this week I'll post the behind-the-scenes stories about this video.

I'll tell you...

How it was the result of many months (okay, years) of thought.

How I recorded it in a white box theatre in New York City.

How there were two cameras, professional lighting, and a film crew, oh my!

How I was talking to a group of women who totally heard me and had my back so I could be my own shiny self.

How I put on extra make-up, and then wished I had put on more.

How bummed I was when I found out that my skirt, which was the most interesting part of my outfit, wasn't going to be in the frame.

How I've forced myself to watch this video several times through and name what I love about it, even when I don't love what I see on screen.

And how this whole experience has reminded me that I love being on stage -- and pushed me to seek out more stage time.

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Loquacious: "Feral" by Kimberley McGill

Loquacious: full of excessive talk : wordy (www.m-w.com)

Loquacious is a "wordy" series that revels in language. Read more essays in the series here.

I've had the pleasure of knowing Kimberley McGill for several years now. Though we've never met in person, I feel confident that we could sit down to tea together and chat for hours about books, travel, spirituality, and cats. I think I first made Kimberley's acquaintances when she was a student in one of my Alchemy writing classes, and I got to know her better when she became one of my writing coaching clients. It's been a joy to see her transition from being rather tentative about her writing ability to owning it. Her perspective is always interesting and often a bit unusual -- which is just the kind of perspective I like to encounter in people and on the page.

Feral

By Kimberley McGill

Growing up, I memorized the rules of civilized behavior – how to look, dress, walk, think, and feel. I learned to bend to the mandates of schools, media, and my abusive parents. Politely and quietly, I surrendered while simultaneously applying my lipstick and mascara. Domesticated.

As an adult, I tried to hide the fact that I wrote poetry and wanted to speak the truth. I longed to satisfy my curiosity about the world and judge right and wrong for myself. Even though I could barely remember a time before I'd internalized all those rules, I wanted to ditch the suffocating masks. I dreamed of living as myself – going feral.

I respect feral animals. Humans try to domesticate them, yet they somehow find a way to escape and return to their natural state instead of remaining a disguised creature. They embody authenticity and resourcefulness.

It took a while, but I eventually slipped out of my disguise. The shift disoriented me, but I hung on and found, buried under layers of lies, a feral compass that pointed me toward emotional and physical health. Not everyone in my life celebrated with me. They could tolerate my bohemian look, they could even overlook my divorce, but all my crazy truth talk had to stop. When I kept talking some people disowned me, others chalked everything up to insanity, and still others gave me long, animated lectures on how selfish I had become and admonished me to stop making everyone's lives so stressful.

I felt like what I imagine the Giant African Snails would feel if they actually had brains. As it is, they creep along oblivious to the fact that people are upset with them. Somehow, humans transplanted them from their home in Africa and dumped them in Australia. A shipping accident might have brought them over, or maybe someone thought the snails would look cool at the bottom of those huge fish tanks that aquariums use. In any case, they got loose and now go about their business eating everything in their path, including houses. Seriously, they can chomp away at houses. So now Aussies call them an "invasive species," as if the snails had a big meet-up to plan an invasion of Australia. As I mentioned before, they don't actually have brains. But if they did, would they feel as angry and hurt as I did when people twisted my story to use as a weapon against me?

These days I don't have anyone in my life that treats me this way, but a few of the people who love me don't always understand me. When my daughter, Melissa, discovered that I titled my blog "Feral Compass," she texted me: "Mom, people will think you don't bathe or use eating utensils. Do you have to be strange? :)" She included the smiley face, not because she didn't mean what she wrote, but to let me know she loved me anyway.

When Melissa came from Mississippi to visit us here in Southern California, I had to warn her about the feral parrots that live in our area. They're not dangerous, but at sunrise they come out of the trees squawking and screeching long before any sensible person's alarm clock goes off. Having our double-paned windows closed doesn't protect us from the piercing noise. Melissa brought earplugs and lovingly rolled her eyes when I told her that I love the birds.

Every morning I smile, even while I'm cussing them out, because I feel a kinship with these Amazonian Parrots. Our stories mirror each other – they were smuggled in with the intention of domesticating them into pets, but before that could happen they escaped to make a life for themselves as free birds. I'm in awe of the fact that their flocks aren't homogeneous – they include different species of Amazonian Parrots that wouldn't usually hang out together. I don't know how much of a brain they have, but they have figured out that they can thrive together. Of course, it helps in their relationship with humans that the little green screechers don't eat houses. They just make the windows rattle.

I've also found a diverse community, outside of family, to thrive in. A "tribe" made up of women from all over the map whose children also call them strange. Sometimes when we get together, we can make windows rattle, too.

I'll always think of myself as a feral human. I deconstructed the roadmap I'd lived with for more than half a lifetime and remade it to move closer to my values and my heart. The map has built-in flexibility for all the unexpected, and sometimes unwelcome, circumstances that show up. My feral choices heal and delight me and can also leave me feeling raw and vulnerable. They're the only choices I'm willing to make.

Oh, and in case my daughter's text message raised any concerns about my personal hygiene and table manners: I adore bubble baths and even know how to use chopsticks.

** ** **

With roots in the American South and Argentina, Kimberley's feral compass  has led her through South America, Europe, and a good assortment of back alleys. Currently she lives in Southern California with her sweet man and two mostly feral but spoiled cats. She's working on developing her blog (Feral Compass), revising her poetry, and wriitng a few true stories for a crazy and almost impossible project she dreamed up while riding the train from California to New Orleans last year. She won't allow anyone to trick her into revealing the details.

Image credits:
Snail: http://www.flickr.com/photos/usdagov/6947960770/
Parrots: United States Department of Agriculture, http://tiny.cc/l4fcuw

Snow and Birdsong: The Time Between (an everyday essay)

This post is part of the "Everyday Essays" series. See below for a description of the series, and read others essays here.

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.

T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"

These are the days of snow and birdsong. Soggy brown yards and a few green slips of daffodil leaves. The time between.

This is the end of March in southwestern Pennsylvania, the Keystone State that doesn't truly belong to any one region.

Keystone (noun): the wedge-shaped piece at the crown of an arch that locks the other pieces in place

Keystone (noun): something on which associated things depend for support

Where and what are we, here in the shadow of the Laurel Mountains, those foothills of the Appalachians?

Not exactly the Northeast, despite our chilly, white winters. This isn't New England with its cold ground holding firm well into April.

Not the South by any means, despite our humid summers. It's true that West Virginia is just an hour away and that traces of a southern drawl twang in the conversations of people still on this side of the border, but we're Yankees here in the Commonwealth.

This isn't the East Coast, since this corner of the state sits six hours inland. Some people try to wed us to Ohio and lump us in with the flat Midwest, but I'm not buying it. Have you seen the hills in these parts?

So here we are, the middle of everywhere, suspended in the slice of time that feels like the center of all time. Everything depends on everything else.

Winter and spring play catch with each other in the wind. We all know how this game goes, and by the last day of March our money is on spring every time. But even the most stalwart gamblers among us start to wonder if maybe this time we should have hedged our bets. (Just the other day I found myself peeking under pieces of shrubbery, looking for a purple jackpot of crocus. The next day that same shrubbery disappeared under six inches of snow.)

I've stayed inside all week, sitting on the couch and breathing through my mouth in the suspended animation of a late-winter (early-spring?) sinus infection. Tonight I drank a glass of mud-green smoothie, willing the chlorophyll to work a miracle in my own pale cells. Pots of tea (green, white, black) keep me warm while snow flurries swirl and melt before adding themselves to the little icebergs of leftover snow-ice edging the road. (A robin hops between two large chunks at the end of my driveway.) My fridge holds huge bouquets of kale and a small plastic square of organic blueberries. I'll have a superfood banquet while I wait for breath, for sunlight, for the shift from here to now.

Quick now, here, now, always -

** ** **

(The final line of this essay is also taken from Eliot's "Burnt Norton.")

About Everyday Essays: At least a few times a week I jot down notes about something -- usually a small moment, detail, or thought -- that I want to write about. Most of those ideas stay frozen as notes and never bloom into essays. Everyday Essays is my writing practice to allow some of those notes to move beyond infancy. I've decided to share some of them with you here, even if they're still half-naked or half-baked. The word "essay" (as is almost always noted when the form is discussed) comes from the French verb essayer, which means to try. The essay is a reckoning, a rambling, an exploration, an attempt. Think of these Everyday Essays as freewriting exercises, rough drafts, or the jumbled, interconnected contents of my mind, which may or may not take root and grow into longer (deeper) essays.