Greetings Dear Ones!

Forgive me; a thousand little “dust-ractions” (like dusting!) kept me from being able to put out a blog last week. As I raced around, basically just sprinkling more dust everywhere, I thought to myself that those celebrating Thanksgiving traditions are probably rushing too—to make, to bake, to clean, create… as we try to make our nests more welcoming and cozy for those who might come visit. Perhaps you created a dish you could bring to share with others. Perhaps you brought your most generous, authentic, shined-up, ain’t-gonna-discuss-politics, leave-your-swords-at-the-door, do-the-dishes kind of Self, which is a pretty awesome gift to share. But before the Grace, we grumble a little… We rush. We shove stuff under beds, we wear ourselves out with lists and reminders, and we think Dark Thoughts about whether the stuffing should be “vegan” or not.

It was absolutely wonderful to take a moment to pause… to sit by a wood stove, with scones in the oven and musical instruments piled about the place like cordwood, kids and friends and Music all still asleep, as Dawn put pumpkin stains on the mist rising from the distant river. I survey this (still somewhat dusty) corner of the world with increasing contentment and pleasure. I am Happy. Truly Happy. The work is worth it. The Harvest is rich. What a Gift it is to be able to Share…

I receive all this Abundance gratefully. Receiving is the Gift we return to the Giver. I was reminded of this several times last week, in my shop, as I worked hard and late to get things done for customers who decided they didn’t need their items after-all and didn’t come get them. Other customers, whom I had assessed (wrongly) as “low-maintenance” began pestering me for their things instead. So I did a lot for the Ungrateful and disappointed those who would have been very grateful indeed. ALL these customers shared a confused sense of what “in a hurry” means. (“Do you need these in a hurry, ma’am?” “Oh no, Tomorrow is just fine!” ) For the past fortnight, I have been asking everyone, “Do you need this for Thanksgiving?” and creating two piles—those due before November 23, and those who could wait. Then everybody changed their minds. It’s enough to make me want to eat every last scrap of stuffing.

ONE customer, bless her heart, told me she “hoped” her items would be done but was ok if they were not. I put them in the “Get-‘er-done” pile and got them done. The joy on her face was better than a slice of Mom’s apple pie. She had four things to try on and jumped up and down, hugging me after each one. Her gratitude made me feel like I was getting paid twice.

We talked a lot about Gratitude over Thanksgiving, as you do... One of the best things about having a house full of people aged 22-36 is being able to marinate in their idealism, enthusiasm, and the phosphorescence of Change. They aren’t where they used to be and they aren’t where they’re gonna be and they are wildly excited about pretty much everything. They are discovering who they are, who they want to be, as well as cool new jigs in D minor. Some of what they light upon they will soon outgrow; some they will love for the rest of their days. I cherish my time with them almost as much as garlic-roasted brussel sprouts.

One dear soul in particular was my morning buddy—up at 7(ish) each day to help do chores, then sit with warm hands cupped around coffee and ideas—Essential Vitamins of ruthless self-examination. Jokingly, we called it our morning “Therapy.” On the last morning, there were six bleary-eyed people snuggled together in “the cozy room” for morning “Therapy.” “We played music until 5:am last night, but we don’t want to miss Therapy!” they said through face-cracking yawns.

After all the Gratitude talk, the thing that fascinated me the most was that these do-ers, these dreamers, these amazing achievers still want More. They want to be “Better”: Better people, better at music, better at relationships, better at business, better at being Better… What does that even mean? I wonder. In a modern landscape that preaches “self-acceptance” (“You DO mean Selfishness,” sniffs Prudence, noting how the place is strewn with rubbish and no one seems to be picking up after themselves) and Gratitude for What IS—how does one have the naiveté and bravery to want “More”? How does honest self-assessment avoid getting tangled up in withering self-Judgment? I want to learn.

I decide, rather smugly, that these young people have yet to Fail. Their relationships are shiny; their jobs are fresh; their travels are still taking them to places they have never been before. None of them are married yet. They are still on an upward trajectory of successes, opportunities, possessions, or relationships they “must” attain (and probably will). Sure, they have experienced devastating losses and are wise beyond their years but they have not yet truly Failed. Achievement has made them daring. They are cloaked in Invincibility, surging towards new ways to test their courage, strength and valor. “Failure will teach them a thing or two,” says Prudence confidently, rubbing her lumbago.

Failure can be horrifying. Catastrophic. Attempting to measure up, to show how Good I am or how many virtues I have and realizing I don’t actually have what it takes threatens my very sense of self. After all, I was MADE this way, wasn’t I? Isn’t it Good Enough? It’s not???? Now what? Oh dear God… I need MORE??? How dare I ask for Second Helpings!

Despair.

Yep, Failure is going to break them, I join Prudence in thinking.

“Then it’s going to save them,” whispers a Better Angel.

They have no idea what an immense relief it can be to Fail. Failing at things has been my salvation. (“And you’ve gone at it like it was mashed potatoes with rosemary gravy,” says Prudence tartly.) Relinquishing the mantle of Perfectionism has been the key to my success. Exhausting, Relentless, fear-driven perfectionism was destroying me. But I could not know that when I was in my twenties.

Our morning chats turn from Failure to Talent--Talent and Success being close cousins. “How do you feel about being called ‘Talented’?” I ask a very talented young man.

“I HATE it,” he says bluntly. “People tell me that all the time, as if they cannot do what I do. The truth is that they don’t work at something the way I do. They don’t want to get Better, they just want to be Great. We all want to be great. But we can’t get there if we don’t at least want to be better.

He goes on to explain his strategy as a weight-lifter. His goal IS to fail—to get his muscles to the edge of their capacity, where shuddering fatigue forces them to tear a little, then heal, in order to get stronger. Muscles don’t grow unless their fibres FAIL.

“Everything is a muscle,” he says. “Everything. Even so-called “talent.” If you are born as talented as you will ever be, why bother? There’s no fun there. The fun is in getting more. You can have all you are willing to work for.”

This news actually stings a little. He’s right, of course. But how dare he know already the things I am only now discovering? All my little-old-lady life, I have looked forward to being the Eldress with the Answers. My generation spent its youth being told by those who had invented polyester and linoleum, that we, with our “big hair,” shoulder pads, and parachute pants, were insipid and would amount to “Nothing” if we didn’t shape up. I have eagerly awaited venerable old age so that I could amount to something and dole out wisdom like cranberry sauce to add tang to the meat and potatoes of Life. Nope! With a snap, I realize I have missed it again. These young people are MY teachers. At best, I am the limping, straggling, fellow-traveler they have to help over the sharp rocks and teach about Instagram.

They DON’T fail. (And they haven’t embraced anything as ridiculous as “Big hair” though skinny jeans severing their butt cheeks is a close second). Failure as an end in itself doesn’t exist for them. Somehow, they got the memo (I didn’t) that Happiness lies not in the avoidance of failure, but in the embrace of it. Failure is not an attack on who I am or “What God Made” but an invitation to use my Will to see what is on the other side. Can I flex? Can I grow? All my life, I have been attached to Success in the form of desired outcomes, not Growth. Failure has a completely different meaning for these young people I love. They see their current abilities as emerging from the challenges they pose to themselves. Like weightlifters, they seek the evidence that they have reached their current limit and get excited. There is no “fail.”

I love this. When I burn soup, sew the wrong patches on a pair of jeans, mishandle a social situation, or flunk dung-removal from a vehicle, I am just pushing the limits of my present abilities, and therefore (let’s hope!) improving them in the long run. Failure IS a relief! Not because getting crushed gives me permission to quit, but because it allows me a moment to rest before trying again. I know where my growing edge is now. Wah-hoo!

“When you leave here, and go back to your normal life, what are you looking forward to doing? What is your happiest thought?” I ask one.

“Getting back to Practicing,” says a musician who plays more in one evening than I do in a month of Sundays but still doesn’t call that “practicing.”

I sent them all homeward with “Bannocks and Blessings”—parcels of leftovers and haste-ye-back hugs in the shape of over-cooked cookies.

One of my favorite things about a Thanksgiving Feast is the idea of “Second Helpings.” (“Of course you do,” says Prudence, eyeing my waistline.) I love the word Helpings. Many little helps. I love to think of food as a “helping,” rather than a naughty or guilty indulgence. I love that feasting, on music, on fellowship, and thoughts can nourish us for weeks. I’m grateful to have a little slice of Humble Pie as I think of these magnificent beings shining their brussel-sprout-fueled lights in the world, out there, Practicing to find their weaknesses and make of them Strength. They are going to change the world!

I’d like a Second Helping of THAT, please!

With Sew Much Love,

Yours aye,

Nancy