Caring for our Tender and Growing Fires in the New Year

I made a fire tonight, as I did last night in the house where I am staying with friends. The fire brings light and coziness to a mostly grey few days where I am in New England. It’s a lovely small woodstove and though I have years of camping and practice building fires it often takes a bit of patience and a lot of newpaper to get the damp wood and kindling to start. It seems like fire has such power and yet in starting the fire I am always reminded of really, how slow things can be to catch on.

It's a useful thing to ponder here at the new year. We have big ideas and big hopes and goals for the new year. Our world has big challenges and problems and there is so much energy swirling. It seems like the fire of a new and good idea is enough to get us going—but we need more than that for the idea—the hope—the goal—the vision—to really catch on.

Whatever our fire is: we need to feed it and tend it. We need to watch its beginnings carefully and not let ourselves pile so much on to it that it puts our flame out. And not give it so little to go on that it burns too quickly. How to tend the fire of what is important to us—how to tend the fire of what we want to grow or change?

I think the challenge comes from thinking that we can do without giving it little bits of encouragement. In not wanting to believe we need more of something to make that change. I’m not sure where this comes from. But our culture has a nearly pathological need to do things with the least amount of support.  I could even feel it building the fire tonight –Do you really need to add more newspaper? Couldn’t you have built this fire without that?

Increments of care. Increments of time. Repetition. Small acts that add up.

For example, I have been working to write ten minutes a day. I had been working and traveling and fallen out of my usual practice and I needed a way back. I needed the kindling, the newspaper, to ignite my writing fire again. And so recently I have been sitting with my coffee, and setting the timer on my watch for ten minutes and writing. That’s the newspaper. That’s the kindling. The writing isn’t the fire. It’s the kindling. It’s not about producing anything in particular.  Or writing something for anyone to read. It’s the small act of what’s needed to feed and tend my fire.

And the tending doesn’t stop, even once the fire is going— a fire needs ongoing attention. Does it need more wood? Does it need more air? And even, is it time for this particular fire to go out? Or am continuing to feed it because I don’t know what else to do?

And understanding this is not just important for ourselves-- it’s also important for our relationships and communities. It’s about tending the fires of care wherever we can. Whether it’s with ourselves—or with others. Indeed, as I was writing this piece, the fire began to get low, and one of my friends added the needed log to keep it going. We have different perspectives and views: sometimes we see what needs to be tended, even when others can’t.

Rumi famously said that we should set ourselves on fire and seek out those who would fan our flames. And I think we all need to turn this one around—what are we doing to fan the flames of others? What kindling or newspaper do they need? Can we sit patiently with them while the dreams, ideas and hopes catch fire? Can we see the embers burning and help them reignite what’s important?

Fires require patience and attendance: the act of attending fully, non-judgmentally, openly. Paying close attention to what is actually needed. (Not what you think you should need—or what you think someone else should need). But what is actually needed in this moment to keep that flame burning—to keep the fire going.

And the acts are small and incremental. Your fires, their fires, our fires need more small things: more ten minute walks and moments of mindfulness. More kind words to ourselves and others. More check-in phone calls and dropping off muffins. More stopping and really listening when someone is talking. More returning the grocery cart even if its not yours.

And it doesn’t always happen right away. Sometimes it can take a while to ignite—even when the fire is going. You can put a log on, you can do some action and it looks like nothing is happening. Or worse—you’ve put it out. But look to the corners. Look for a flicker. Look at the embers. You can see where the fire has caught. You can feed it if necessary---or fan the flames. Or you can take a deep breath and trust in the fire you are tending.

© 2024 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

Finding the words and music for healing

It was a family tradition to sing O Tannenbaum in the original German even though no one, except for some of the elders, could speak German any longer. The great-grandparents had emigrated from Germany bearing a St. Nikolaus outfit. This was Christmas eve: a Santa Suit and O Tannenbaum.

So, O Tannenbaum was written out in English phonetics instead of German. Something akin to “Oh Tannin bowm Oh Tannin bowm, Vee Groon zint die-nay bleh-ter.” It was literally spelled out so we could sing along, maybe not understand it, but we could be a part of it. It was such a simple way to keep a tradition going without requiring everyone to speak German. Spelling it out so we could sing along. Singing along meant that for a brief wonderful moment four generations were working together and were literally speaking the same language—whether we could understand it or not. Singing connected us to each other and to a past –whether we were connected by birthright, love, adoption, or marriage. Simply because the song was broken down in readable bite size pieces—translated into simplicity from complexity.  

One of my passions in the world of psychology is to act as a translator: to bring research into applications, and complex theory into understandable practice. I have found that the language of healing can be complicated. Part of the reason for this complexity is the history of translation of psychology. Freud, whatever may you think about him or his theories, was actually a plain-spoken guy. He used everyday words to describe the psychological world he was mapping--words that every German would have known—and been able to understand. But when it came time to translate Freud and the emergent study of psychology into English, the translators decided that the field of Psychology should belong to the elite, and they chose to be gatekeepers with their translation—opting for Latin words rather than common everyday words. They chose to make the language of psychology foreign and complex, rather than familiar and more user friendly. From its creation, psychology, at least in English, has been burdened by complicated language—which resulted in the experience of exclusion rather than belonging.

Don’t get me wrong. Healing repeated trauma can be complex, and I don’t want to confuse simplifying the language for the idea that you can make this an easy three-step-process. But that doesn’t mean that you have do everything at once. Or make everything so big or so hard that you want to give up.

In fact, some of the most powerful moments in healing are small, bite-sized moments. They are single steps: they are single steps repeated over and over. They are the daily journal entries, mindfulness meditation, and gratitude practices. They are the simple discussions of how you are feeling and giving the feeling a name.  It’s time to find ways to make healing easier to begin, and easier to understand—while honoring the difficult and complex task that it is.

And I encourage anyone who has made it through the healing process or those of you who work in the field to think about ways to describe aspects of it so that people just starting out could ‘sing along.’ I encourage people to talk about their experience of healing in language that others can understand, and I encourage healers of all sorts to also use language that clients can understand.

And this isn’t easy either. What can make sense to you, or your worldview may not make sense to others. In the act of translation—in the act of trying to communicate something you will get it wrong. This past week working with Alaska Native leaders we were working to find a better word for the word ‘catalyst’—because the word wasn’t common enough in the group to make sense or be helpful.  And in one-on-one meetings with clients, I have often offered a word where the client shook their head and said, “No-that’s not it.”

But getting it wrong is a clue—it’s a sign you need the phonetics. Healing is a relational act—in the way that singing the Christmas Carol was a relational act. Healing is co-created—so now when I get it wrong, I am usually heartened because getting it wrong allows the group or the individual client an opportunity to correct you and correct the translation. It allows them to get even clearer about what they understand and the ability to create and hear their own narrative in a different way. Often in the correction, they come to understand something for the first time.

So whether you are the therapist or the client, or the facilitator or group member—it’s time to embrace the small acts of healing and the need to build language and connection with the smallest increments.  Co-creation is harmony. You need the experience of connection first. And sometimes, in order to feel connection, you need, the way our family did, to be able to sing the phonetics first, without completely understanding the words. Sometimes it’s okay to just sing along so that you can feel your place in the long arc of the history of something. The language can come later. The rules of grammar can come later. You can revise and correct as much as you need to. Help others join the chorus, let yourself sing along.

© Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD 2023

 

Forget the Presents, Bring your Gifts.

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“And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”
— Marianne Williamson

I’m not sure how we got to this place with Christmas. How did we get from a holiday that began in a manger with hay and animals to where every room in our house is supposed to have its own decorated tree? Where the shopping for presents for this holiday has nearly eclipsed another holiday altogether? Where it seems that no matter what we do, nothing is enough?

How do we bring ourselves back in to the spirit of Christmas and get untangled from the perfectionism and drivenness that this holiday has come to embrace?

I say, forget the presents and bring your gifts.

When I think about the things I most treasure, the biggest gifts I have been given, none of them came in a box. They were the people in my life being exactly and wonderfully who they were: they were bringing all of themselves to the world—their strengths, their mistakes, their passions, their quirkiness.  And I think equally important is the fact that many of the people whose gifts were so important to me didn’t even know that they were giving them: they weren’t gifts given directly. By being who they were, by sharing their love, their light, themselves—they allowed me to experience the day or myself differently.

I had a first grade teacher who had a tremendous gift of understanding her students and the creativity to figure out what they needed. She created the space for me to go the library every afternoon and as a result I have a love of learning (and libraries) that has made me who I am. And I had a friend in high school who was a stellar track athlete—she just shined--and she pulled me in to her track orbit. I had no ability at track, but her ability and friendship kept me in, and the running gave me the confidence to eventually try out for rowing in college, which, at the risk of sounding cheesy, changed my life. 

A few summers ago I took a class where at the end of the class we had a talent show. I was skeptical because I hadn’t been in one of those since grade school and yet on the night of the show, I learned again what it meant to bring your gifts. Each person shared of themselves: they played the piano, they sang, they recited ballads—they braved being all of themselves for a moment—and have it witnessed and received. No one was flawless, but they were all perfect. And I carry the gift of their bravery, and my own that night, with me in to every new challenge.

It really can be enough to watch people shine. I loved watching my father-in-law with his grandchildren—he could spend an hour just walking behind my nephew as a toddler—let him walk and explore the forest floor. I love watching my brother-in-law manage his boat—especially when the wind comes up—and my sister-in-law with her kids and grandkids. And I love watching my brother make pizza—throwing the dough in the air and sharing his love of food and the food itself with others. I love watching my friend work with large complicated groups—getting people to understand themselves and each other. Marianne Williamson was spot on when she said that when you let your light shine you gift others permission to do the same.

Yet, I think when we think of gifts we think only of our bright and shiny selves and not of the parts of ourselves we are less proud of, the parts that make mistakes, or don’t get it right. And yet, how often have we been relieved to hear that someone else has struggled with that problem too? Just this week a friend shared a difficult conversation that she had with her husband and I found myself so thankful: not that she had a hard time, but for the fellowship of humanity she provided by reminding me that figuring out relationships can be difficult—that we all struggle with that at times.

One of my favorite holiday memories was in fact one of my biggest holiday mistakes. I had gotten up early to get two large turkeys in the oven. My mother-in-law had left me a big bowl of onions and celery and instructions that dried sage was hanging in their walk-in entry. I made the stuffing, found the sage, stuffed the turkeys and everyone came down to breakfast. My mother-in-law went in to the entry and asked why I hadn't used the sage. I said I had and pointed to it. Only it wasn't the sage. I had used Artemesia Silverking--a dried perennial that looks somewhat like sage. There were a few moments of panic as we read whether Artemesia was poisonous. And then lots of laughter after we found it out it wasn't poisonous, in fact it was used as an herbal remedy: it was an aphrodisiac. 

People don’t remember perfection and neither will you. It’s like going to a concert or an opera – you don’t remember all the words of the songs you hear. You remember the colors . You remember some of the melodies.

So slow down enough to listen to the melodies. Slow down enough to dance with the people who are around you. Slow down enough to hum your joy of the day, and share your song, your love, your gifts with others. 

© 2023/2015 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

 

 

 

 

Seeds of love

“Faith
is the bird
that feels the light
And sings
when the dawn
is still dark.
”
— Rabindranath Tagore

I have been thinking a lot about faith. And about love. This week I have travelled to attend a funeral to be with people who loved and cared for me many years ago when I was an exchange student. I have been thinking about how love lasts over time. How love lasts though loss. How we can’t measure love.

It can feel so exhausting and complicated at times—this life of ours. Where does one find faith? Where can one get renewed? Where are we supposed to put our energy? The world’s problems feel so big—and it’s hard to imagine the kind of love that is big enough to heal it, or even act as ballast.

And I have begun to wonder about love as something that doesn’t exist in amounts at all. It simply is: small or big. It is all the same. It’s a light. It’s a presence.

My host aunt, whose funeral I attended, let me stay at her house early in my consulting career. I stayed a week while doing a big project, translating interviews, writing a report and creating a presentation. It was a lot of work, and it was challenging work. And the whole week she took care of me in the most wonderful of small ways: I worked in her living room and she brought me cut up fruit for snacks, glasses of water. We had dinner together and watched tv at night. It was practical love, simple kindness. And I think of these acts now as seeds of love. Seeds of love that had lain fallow for years in the soil of who I am.

I had many years of hurt, and while I could recognize kindness, and I could show people love and I could act as if  I felt it—I couldn’t feel kindness. I really couldn’t. When you keep yourself numb from hurt, you also keep yourself from feeling kindness. From feeling love. But the kindness, the love, wasn’t lost. They were seeds. They stayed.

I stood at the graveside this week, and the headstone next to hers was her first husband—who also had shown me much kindness. Had taken a week of his spring vacation to show me his hometown and region of Germany so he could share his love of his region—the food, the churches, the city walls and even a sip of the region’s wine. I could feel the gratitude with each breath. I could remember the fun I had.

And thanks to the good misfortune of my broken legs this year and the constant and non-judgmental kindness and care of my friends—the walls broke down and kindness and love could get in. And the seeds, that sat for so long, have begun to grow.

Love stops time. It slows things down. It cradles, it buffers, it holds. It’s light and heavy at the same time, like the best featherbed. Love is small and can get through the cracks. And it’s as big as it needs to be. Love is an element that is both effort and nourishment at once.

But I think it’s important to say that as small as love is—and as practical as love can be—love isn’t easy. I recall a lovely piece in Toni Morrison’s Paradise where she states that “Love is divine only and difficult always…And if you are a good and diligent student you may secure the right to show love. Love is not a gift. It is a diploma.” It is important to say that there is work, effort, a practice, in the giving and the receiving. It’s not instantaneous. It can take years. Love becomes. It deepens.

And love requires effort—sometimes laborious—but most often, constant. Being there. Again. And again. Showing up. Packing the lunch. The picnic. Folding the laundry. Raking the leaves. Feeding the birds. Sitting quietly or talking into the night—as my host cousin and I did the night before the funeral. Talking about love--the love from her mother that remains even with her loss. But most of all I could feel in the candelight of that night the love that surrounds us if you let it. The love that remains and returns, like the dawn, even after the darkest of nights.

© 2023 Gretchen L Schmelzer, PhD