Tag Archives: growth

The Awkwardness of Improv: Links and Update

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Hello friends!

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That’s me at the Petersburg Half Marathon last weekend, keeping an eye out for the finish line.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve sent a message to you all. ‘Tis the season… for kid performances, lots of speaking engagements, and a good bit of writing… and I also managed to fit in a half marathon too. But I’ve missed our twice-monthly dispatches, and will be getting back to a regular schedule this spring and summer.

Work has been ramping up on my next book, Improvising with God, with a September due date for the manuscript. Yikes! But it’s been a blast to write, and is some of the most energizing work I’ve done so far.

It’s also really hard work. As much as I’m intrigued by improvisation, especially as a way of approaching life, it doesn’t come easily to me. I like having a script and a plan. The improv classes I’m taking are tiring for this borderline introvert. Every Monday morning I have to steel myself to go. I’m in level 2, which means I’m still a beginner, but just experienced enough to know what I don’t know. That’s a painful place to be, full of missteps and embarrassing silences in which my mind feels like it’s gone completely blank.

But the other side is this: I feel energized in class (though gangly as all get out!) and I never regret going. I always learn something about myself and this improvisation we call life. In improv, we don’t talk about mistakes, but rather opportunities: opportunities to learn, opportunities to turn a scene around through saying “Yes-And.”

In other words, I’m right here:

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So… onward!

Here are a few things that have been inspiring me lately… all of which have an eye toward improv:

A Much Better View of the Moon (song)
This is a song I’ve loved for years, and I was reminded of it while working on a chapter of the book today. Sit tight through the goofy intro. Lovely lyrics and sweet harmonies from George Wurzbach and the rest of Modern Man.

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Improv your life: How freeform comedy makes you a better person (article)
People think improvisation is about being clever or funny, but it’s really about paying attention. And couldn’t we use more listening in our world?

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A Lovely Spring Day (poem)

Here, Steve Garnaas-Holmes of Unfolding Light shares a poem about spring, and about a world of infinite possibility:

…Life is this, not something else.
Pay attention.
Even God does not yet know
what’s in store before unfolding in it.

Tightrope image is from OakOak, a public artist who uses urban landscapes to create whimsical images. A great example of Yes-And.

Monday Runday: “Retuning” to Running

Returning to Running following an Injury

And I’m finally back to it.

Last Wednesday morning, I got up veeeeeeeeeery early to drive down to Springfield to run with a bunch of my 5 a.m. mama runners. I knew I wanted to be with them for my first run back. They’ve been such treasured friends over the past year, I knew I wanted to celebrate my return from injury with them.

And if it didn’t go well–if the stress fracture site flared up–well, I’d need them there for Mental Health Watch.

It’s been a long 12 weeks.

Thankfully, everything went fine and I’ve run twice since then. Half a mile each time, plus about a mile of walking, with a day of rest in between each workout.

I’ve got all this pent-up energy (and I’m soooo sick of the pool and the bike) that I want to go full-out. I’m eager to get back to my previous fitness level. It’s humbling to go from 120 miles a month to maybe 10.

Plus the fall has been gorgeous.

Returning to Running Following Injury

View from my back patio

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Returning to Running Following Injury

When I was researching how to train safely following a stress fracture, I ran across an article with a typo in the title. It should have said “returning to running” but it said “retuning.” That seemed right though. Like a musical instrument that’s fallen out of tune, or a car in need of some TLC.

In theory, the body mends a stress fracture stronger than before. Assuming you’re healed, you shouldn’t get re-injured in the same spot. But the rest of the body compensates for the hurt place, and that can cause its own problems. Whatever precipitated your injury in the first place needs to be tended to as well.

So I’m returning, and retuning. For me that means continuing to cross train, incorporating more strength work, and at least for now, not running more than three days a week.

What are you retuning these days?

What Will Be in 2015?

The week of New Year’s is one of my favorites of the year. The run-up to Christmas is over but schedules aren’t quite back to normal, so things are quieter, more relaxed. The kids are out of school (though they’ve been driving me a tidge crazy at times). And my birthday so close to New Year’s invites reflection and taking stock.

I love the idea of the new year being a clean slate. I need that every year. (I need it more often than that, actually—thank heaven for the weekly prayer of confession in worship, when we let go of the brokenness and ask that it be healed and renewed.)

As I think about what 2015 might bring to birth in my life, the following video came my way, “Acorn” by Madeline Sharafian. I love the story that’s told in just 4 beautiful minutes. I’m touched by this little acorn’s attempt to fulfill its destiny of “acornness,” yet in its own unique way. That is our human calling, is it not? I heard Jesuit priest and writer James Martin tell Krista Tippett this week:

As [Thomas] Merton said, for me to be a saint means to be myself. …I remember in the novitiate, there was a young novice who would get up in the morning at 6:30 and pray all the time. And I thought well, gee, to be holy, I guess I have to do that. So I’d get up and I’d pray, and I was falling asleep all the time. And then there was another novice who was super quiet, so I thought oh I have to be really quiet, and diffident. And, sort of soft spoken. And my spiritual director said to me, what’s wrong with you? You’re so quiet. I said, well, so-and-so’s quiet. And he’s really holy. And he said, you know, in order to become holy, you don’t become someone else. You just become yourself.

Whether you’re a resolution/intention-maker like me or not, I invite you to watch this in with a seeker’s heart and consider the hard work of transformation and the grace at play as well. What might 2015 hold for you?

As the artist says in her description: “Growing up is hard, but it’s also beautiful. We can do it!” Indeed.

What’s Your Pain Tolerance? Essential Questions for Leadership

I meet monthly with a group of pastors to talk about ministry, leadership, family systems stuff and more. (We also catch an occasional Nats game.)

Today our facilitator shared this handout which inspired much discussion:

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The most effective leaders strive to be in quadrant B: high “pain tolerance” in self and in others. Pain tolerance in this case means willingness to experience discomfort in order to move a system forward, fostering growth and needed change.

I’d argue that quadrant C and D leaders are rare—if you have a low pain tolerance for yourself, you’re not likely to want to attempt the work of leadership. But many of us probably cluster in quadrant A: willing to endure plenty of personal discomfort, but less willing to inflict it on others. We squirm when we have to hold people accountable and support them as they risk and grow.

Being a pastor undoubtedly compounds this quadrant A dynamic: we are tender-hearted types who want to comfort the afflicted. And news flash: everyone’s afflicted. (Philo reminds us to be kind, for everyone is fighting a great battle.) So quadrant A leaders can come up with every excuse in the book for letting people off the hook.

And yet, for us Christians anyway, transformation is the name of the game, and that means some pain. Flannery O’Connor writes, “All human nature resists grace, because grace changes us and change is painful.”

What do you think? And where do you see yourself in this diagram?

Source: Leadership in Healthy Congregations

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Breaking in Interesting Ways

My friend Keith Snyder, a music geek, recently tweeted a line from Brian Eno: “Analog synthesizers break in interesting ways. Digital synthesizers just break.”

Keith has made that line into a prayer:

May I continue to break in interesting ways.

That may be a strange place to start talking about a beautiful change, but stick with me.

I hit two personal milestones recently. First, I ran a 10K race. That was big for me. Until a year ago I had never run for more than a few minutes at a time. Ever. I was the smart one, you see, and the musical one, but never the athletic one. My body was the thing that carried my brain around. Aside from the occasional mountain hike while on vacation, and an intermittent practice of walking to stay in basic shape, I was a sedentary type.

But at 40, with a father who dropped dead from cardiac stuff at age 56, getting in better shape felt non-negotiable—the reasonable thing to do from an actuarial standpoint. That’s how the running started. Of course, it’s become something deeper than that.

Before I ran the 10K (6.2 miles for the metrically challenged), I’d never run farther than 5 miles in training. When I reached mile 5 at the race, I thought, This is as far as I’ve ever gone. Beyond this point, it’s all new. That’s a wonderful thing.

Indeed, my whole life feels that way in this, my fifth decade. I’m not a rookie in ministry anymore; I’m not the mother of little ones anymore; as of this fall I will be a published writer. Lauren Winner talks in her latest book about reinventing oneself every ten years. That’s happening, through my own volition and beyond it.

Among other things, running for me means embracing a blessed mediocrity. I’m not a fast runner; Robert has described my gait as “a bit loping.” I’ve never experienced a runner’s high. I like races because the crowd and the music provide a boost that my body chemistry seems unwilling to muster. I love the feeling of having run, but running itself is frequently a chore. At last month’s race, I was second to last in my age group, and way down in the bottom third overall.

Yet I do it. And there’s something liberating about doing something badly by most objective standards. I’m a perfectionist, you know. I like setting a goal and reaching for the top, and if I’m not good at something, eh…easy come, easy go. With so many luscious possibilities in this life, more than I could ever undertake, such a standard may not be the best way to discern what’s mine to do, but it’s what works.

Or has worked in the past. Something in me had to “break in an interesting way” for me to start running—to do this thing that’s never been part of my self-understanding. Something shattered in my brittle, do-it-well-or-don’t-do-it exoskeleton.

And thank heaven it did. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been, in more ways than one.

I now ask myself: What else could I do badly for the sheer satisfaction of it?

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The second health-related milestone happened a few days ago. I hit my weight-loss goal of 40 pounds.

I’m no numerologist, but there is significance in the numbers. James weighs about 40 pounds, so every time I pick up his stocky four-year-old frame I think to myself, This is the weight I carried around all the time nine months ago. It seems fitting somehow: in another year, James will be in kindergarten. There are no babies or toddlers in my house anymore. It feels right that as I move into another phase as a mother, my body would look different.

Also, it took me nine months to lose the weight. Is it an exaggeration to say that a new person has been born? Perhaps. But as with the running, something in me had to break in order for this change to occur. Caring for myself—I mean really caring, not punishing myself until I shrink down into some “acceptable” size—requires a certain vulnerability. I can do all the right things, as many people do, but there will always be aspects of our health that are beyond our control. Life is a genetic and environmental crap shoot. That’s an uncomfortable truth to face. Denial feels easier sometimes.

Another thing that had to break: a rigid expectation of what I would look like as a 40 year old with a normal BMI.

Hint: it’s not like a 20 year old.

Don’t get me wrong, I look different than I did when I was a new mother, with all my ample post-pregnancy curves. But as I’ve left 40 pounds behind on so many jogging trails and city streets, I’ve been amazed at the parts of me that haven’t been magically transformed. There is still…a thickness. A settledness. This body will never be that of a college student. Or a newlywed. Or a non-mother. As that great philosopher Indiana Jones says, “It’s not the years…it’s the mileage.”

And I’m grateful for every one of those miles.