Category Archives: kids

The Perils of People Pleasing

It is a sentiment familiar to most humans: a desire to please the people around us. We want people to be happy. We want people to be happy with us. We want to be the good friend, partner, mother, daughter, colleague, or relation. So we act in ways that we think will make another person happy… with us.

Often, when rooted in a genuine concern for the other person, a desire to please pleasing works beautifully. It impels a person to pay attention to the feelings and well being of other people. It inspires thoughtful and considerate actions. People pleasers are nice.

When a people pleaser’s words and actions land well, those pleased often respond with corresponding acts of appreciation and consideration. This exchange creates abundant good will, as well as feelings of closeness and understanding. The two feel that they can trust each other to look out for them, and take care of them in times of need.

However, the desire to please does not always work. Sometimes a word or deed intended to please can rub the wrong way, trigger an angry response, or hurt in ways that baffle the person who wants to please.

In such moments, the perils of people pleasing surface. A people pleaser may attack the very person he is trying to please. I have witnessed this dynamic in many relationships – in families, workplaces, communities, and among friends.

For example, one people pleaser, Amy, says something that Bob finds hurtful. When Bob shows signs of being hurt, Amy protests: “It’s not my fault,” “I was just doing what you do,” “You’re too sensitive,” “It’s just who I am – how I talk,” or “I didn’t mean it.”

In such a moment, Amy is invested in pleasing Bob: she doesn’t want Bob to be hurt; she doesn’t want to have caused the hurt; she doesn’t want to be blamed for the hurt; and she doesn’t want to be wrong. So she ends up arguing why she has every right to do what she did in hurting him.

Bob, further upset by her response to his pain, responds: “Yes, you did mean it!” “It is your fault!” “It really hurts!” Bob defends the fact that he is hurt; he feels compelled to explain why he hurts, so that Amy gets it. He dramatizes it. He blames Amy. In doing so, Bob pushes Amy to harden her stance. She is indignant to be criticized so harshly for something she did not want or mean or intend to do. Each response escalates the encounter, fueling feelings of resentment and distrust, without going anywhere or solving anything!

The great irony of such moments is that a deep desire to please ends up fomenting the very opposite of what it wants.

Rather than dig in and defend her actions, Amy needs to move with Bob. She needs to apologize and let it land – to say sorry – not necessarily for what she did, but at least for the fact that Bob feels hurt. Amy needs to move with Bob long enough to defuse his hurt and open space in which they can see one another.

Why is it so hard – in those moments when our people pleasing fails to please – to find the energy and the courage to move with the other?

A desire to please can sometimes lose its moorings and float free of genuine concern for another human person. When a people pleaser succeeds in pleasing, that feeling can be addictive. The people pleaser can start to rely on those feelings of succeeding in order to feel good about herself. She relies on those feelings in order to feel like she is doing a good job as a teacher, mother, sibling, or friend, etc. In such cases, a desire to please can easily slide into a need to control other people so as to avoid conflict, or a strategy for protecting oneself from other people’s disappointment or distress.

If a desire to please is unmoored in these ways, a people pleaser is vulnerable. He may be terrified by the feeling that he is not succeeding in pleasing another. He feels threatened. He may panic, afraid that the relationship is in danger, or that he is not “good enough.” He gets stuck. He cannot move with the other, and instead attacks.

So what can people pleasers do to stay flexible and responsive?

I found myself in a such a situation this week. I was with my kids at a local pond, and we were all doing back flips off a floating dock. As each child took a turn, I offered comments and suggestions meant to be helpful. One child was having difficulty starting – because he wanted to do it perfectly – and when this child finally launched, I said “Good job!” without giving specific feedback. I didn’t want to block his progress.

By the time we got home, this child was furious with me. Why? He said that I was treating him differently. Not giving him the same constructive criticism as I gave the others. I was thereby admitting, in his mind, that he was not as good.

I felt my own need-to-please rise within me. I wanted to say: “You were so upset I didn’t want to make it worse.” Or “I was just trying to help!” Or “I didn’t want to say the wrong thing! That wasn’t my intention.” In other words, my first impulse was to defend myself and prove to my child that I was being a “good mom.” What would he hear? That I was blaming him for being unreasonable and difficult. That is not what I wanted.

I swallowed hard and moved with him. Inside his anger, I could see what he wanted – affirmation from me – which is exactly what I wanted to give. I spoke: “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me. I understand better what I can do next time.” His anger shifted. It released just enough that we could find our way back to a sense of connection and move on.

The moment reminded me of how people pleasers help ourselves move with the people we fail to please.

First, know that the fact that you feel like you have failed means that you wanted to succeed. It means that you know what it feels like to succeed. Affirm this desire to connect as good. Know that whether or not a gift is received as you hoped, the giving is good. Let yourself give!

Second, know that every time you fail, that failure is not a judgment. It is an opportunity. Don’t take it personally. Use it to learn more about how to communicate in ways that will be received as love. Know that failure is an illuminating step on a journey towards mutual understanding.

Later that day I found myself on the other side of a similar people-pleasing situation: someone else in my life was trying to please me. She was holding back from being honest with me because she was afraid I would get upset. When she told me this, I felt angry. Judged. Even attacked. I wanted to fire back: “I don’t get upset!” “What do you mean?” “Why would you say that?”  But I took a breath. What good would that do?

I took another breath. “Thank you for not wanting me to be upset. I will be more upset if you don’t tell me what you think.” Then I stopped and tried again. “The point is – don’t be afraid! Honesty is so much more important than fear! When you are honest with me, I know I can trust you. I know that you trust me. That is what I want.”

The moment reminded me of what we can do when people pleasers in our lives attack us when we are not pleased by what they do?

Take a deep breath and stand. Don’t fire back. Hear their anger – not as a desire to hurt you – but as a desire to please you. Honor it. Respond to that desire, and ask clearly for what you need. Give the other person the information that she needs to order to succeed in connecting with you.

In the end, whether you are the one trying to please or the one who isn’t pleased, the challenge is the same: to root your responses in genuine concern for the other and in a deep affirmation of your own impulse to connect.

Be vulnerable enough to notice how people around you are thinking and feeling, while strong enough to give them space to feel what they are feeling; clear enough to know that you cannot control their feelings or take them personally, and flexible enough to learn from every moment how better to communicate.

In the end, you can’t control whether or not what you do pleases someone else. You can’t make another feel what you want them to feel. You can trust your impulse to connect, and know that you are OK, regardless of how the gift lands.

How Living with an Ox Changed My Life

IMG_6089Thursday, February 14 — The door flung open, and my son Jordan (23) rushed into the kitchen. “Where are my spikes?”

“What happened?” I asked. Twenty minutes earlier, Jordan had left the house to yoke up Bright and Blaze, his pair of oxen, and retrieve a load of cut elm logs from the fields that he had felled the day before.

“Bright slipped on some ice and can’t get up!” Jordan was gone.

Bright is big. He weighs 2,000 pounds and stands nearly 6 feet tall at the highest point on his back. He had to get up.

“C’mon Leif! Let’s go.”

I loaded my youngest (age 9) into the car, and we drove a quarter mile to the access road that leads to our back fields. Thirty feet off the paved road, down a steep, snowy bank, Jordan’s one-ton ox was lying on his belly with his hind legs spread, one sticking straight out to either side, his head surrounded by the branches of a prickly hawthorn tree. I left the car with its hazard lights flashing and slid down to where Jordan was standing.

“He can’t get up.” Jordan and I looked at one another, wanting beyond anything to pick up Bright’s massive frame and set him soundly on his feet. Had he broken a knee? Dislocated a hip? Should we call the vet?

“What can the vet do?” Jordan asked. As our thoughts churned, Bright lay there calmly. He did not thrash or bellow. His left leg was trembling. From time to time, he moaned softly.

Having an ox slip happens from time to time on mud or snow or ice. But usually they scramble to their feet and are fine. Bright was now 10, larger and less limber than he had ever been. We cleared the hawthorn branches from around his head and cut down a sumac sapling that seemed to be stopping his left hind leg from moving forward. We had to do something.

Without warning, Bright lurched upward. His front legs and right hind leg powered forward, while his left leg swung out to the side, straight and not bending beneath him. He stumbled a few yards and crashed down again, farther from the access road, deeper into the bushes. This time, however, he fell with his right leg tucked neatly under him, and only the left one stuck out to the side. We could at least see it. I stroked the injured leg. He lay there calmly, looking at me as I circled him, cutting away branches that poked his face.

We called Geoff. We called Jessica (in her second year at vet school). We called the vet. We talked to a neighbor. Geoff and Kai (13) arrived on the scene. We debated our options. The sun was setting. The temperature was falling. Bright was starting to shiver. The distance home felt immense, and we were face to face with a fierce and unforgiving fact: We had no way to help Bright stand up. A tractor, even if large enough, couldn’t get down the snow bank to where he was. Still, we didn’t want to leave him there on the cold snow over night. If he couldn’t stand, we should probably put him down. The thought socked me in the stomach. My heart ached. For Bright. For Jordan. For me.

We left Bright and drove back to the house. I called our neighbors. Would they be willing to lend us a gun? The firearm they owned wasn’t large enough. Jordan and Geoff drove to two other neighbors. No one was home. On the way back to our house, they drove by Bright again. By some miracle of his own making, he was standing. He was standing! If only he could stand…

Jessica, on the phone, explained, “Leaving him alone may have been a good thing. Bright is a herd animal. Lying down in the dark, unable to move, defenseless, all alone, away from home — that is his worst nightmare!”

We went into action. If Bright was going to stand, then we were going to do all we could to help him. We decided to dig him a path to the road, bank him with hay, make sure he’d be comfortable overnight, and see what happened. We stuffed our station wagon full of hay and tossed in a couple of metal shovels for chipping away the ice. I got in to drive back to Bright. The car wouldn’t start. Parking for hours with the hazard lights on had killed the battery. We jump-started the station wagon with our Prius and drove both cars back to the access road. By then, Bright had managed to turn himself around and was facing uphill and the road home.

We started cutting a path through the frozen snow bank. Kai and I ran back to the house for more shovels; we kept digging. Bright stood there, placid and patient, watching our flurry of furious activity. Then suddenly, without even registering a movement, Bright had moved. Sideways. Closer.

It was as if Bright knew exactly what he had to do — wait for the pain to subside and his will to crest into a blast of effort that would launch his 2,000 pounds a few feet forward. Each time, we cheered and kept digging. We made sure we were not in his way. We let him choose when to move, where to move, and how.

We finished clearing a path down to the grass, and spread it with hay. We stood in a semicircle, watching Bright watching us, all of us wanting the same thing. It was dark. The moon was beaming and nearly full. I sent everyone home to eat dinner while I waited for Bright’s next eruption.

The stars were sparkling. The night was brilliantly clear. Though the air was cold, I was not. I wrapped myself in deep silence. From time to time, I talked to Bright and encouraged him. I stroked his injured leg. I sat nearby. I got up and danced. He watched. I could hear Jordan down the road, shoveling out a path to the stall in our barn where Bright would hopefully soon be. After another half hour, Bright had scuttled another 6 feet. He was 3 feet from the road. I was ecstatic. If he could make it to the road, all that awaited was gently sloped pavement leading back home. I knew he wanted it.

He made it to the road. Thirty feet in three-and-a-half hours.

At this point, it made sense to call the vet. Fifteen minutes later, she came. Bright’s left hind leg was not obviously broken or dislocated. Jordan took his halter rope, and we nudged and pushed Bright down the road to the stall. With each step, he lurched, swinging his left hind leg in a circle, putting as little weight on it as possible. The vet gave Bright a steroid painkiller and told us he had to stand up at least three times a day, otherwise his right hind leg would go numb and start to atrophy. If it did, Bright would be unable to stand, and would go downhill quickly. “Give him three days; you’ll know.”

That night, we were hopeful. Bright had been with us for over 10 years — a long life relative to most male bovine — but we still were not ready for this arc of our lives to end.

Ten years. Jordan was 13 when he told us he wanted a pair of bull calves to train as oxen. I bought him a book. We already had three Jersey cows, a quarter horse named Marvin, a flock of hens, and a clowder of cats. Oxen? But Jordan wanted a source of farm power — something we could use to haul firewood, and maybe mow hay or plow. He was so sure. When a friend of his from 4H called to say she had a pair of Milking Shorthorn bulls born a week apart, there was no good reason to say no. Jordan named them Bright and Blaze. Geoff and Jordan drove them home in the back of the same station wagon we had filled with hay. The bulls were 4 and 5 weeks old, still drinking milk. The kids fed them with half-gallon baby bottles.

Soon after the bull calves arrived, Jordan began their training. To train a pair of oxen, you need a yoke. To get a yoke, you need to make one. To make a yoke, you need to bend hickory into U-shaped bows. To get hickory, you need to fell a hickory tree, cut long rounded pieces from the trunk, and then set up a steaming device — which we did — with a pasta pot and PVC tubing on top of our wood stove. Every day after school, Jordan would place his yoke on the necks of his baby bulls, tie a small sled to the yoke — sometimes with 4-year-old Kai aboard — and drive his team around the yard, teaching them their commands: Giddap! Gee! Haw! Whoa! Back! Step in! Step out! Head up! Stand.

As the bulls grew, they needed a new yoke, and the new yoke needed metal hardware. Jordan asked for a blacksmith shop so he could make the hardware himself. At 6 months, our vet steered the bulls, and Jordan began using his team to haul logs from the woods to burn for fuel.

With the simple act of pulling dead trees from our forests, Bright and Blaze changed our lives: how we lived and what we wanted; how we related to each another and to our land; what we could imagine possible all evolved.

Rather than burning fuel oil to heat our house, we started burning wood. We exchanged our decorative wood stove for an efficient re-gasifer (with a window!), and sliced our oil bill by two-thirds. We redesigned our living area so that we as a family could all gather round the wood stove — the heating heart of our home. And we do. All winter long.

By pulling our firewood, Bright and Blaze pulled us outside to find it and fell it — to walk the property, keen on discovering which trees were dead or dying or overcrowded. We learned to see the trees — to identify the types, knowing which would burn well and which would not. We learned to fell them safely, process them efficiently, and load them onto the oxen’s sled. The oxen gave us reasons to spend time together outside as a family on our land, engaged in meaningful work, and ever admiring of the strength, the beauty, and sometimes stubborn will of such formidable creatures.

By pulling our firewood, Bright and Blaze pulled us to a place of wanting to do more — more of what is possible to do every day of our lives to protect the well-being of the natural world. We wanted to use their manure to grow more of our own food; we wanted to take care of our pastures, so they would have good grass and hay to eat. We wanted to clean out and shore up our barns, so they would have places to find shelter. We wanted to create a world in which they could be safe and healthy. Bright and Blaze encouraged us to engage directly with the workings of the natural world — not as sightseers, but as participants locked in a life-enabling reciprocity. They depended on us. We depended on them.

Friday, February 15 — Jordan went out to check on Bright the next morning, found him lying down, and got him to stand up. Around lunch time, Jordan checked again. Bright was down again, and this time would not stand. “We need to get him up,” Jordan said. He tried. I joined him in the barn. We tried. Bright stuck out his neck and refused to move. I suggested we give him his dose of steroid and try an hour later. It worked. Jordan got him to stand. Bright was up. Again, I felt euphoric. If we could just keep him up.

Saturday/Sunday, February 16/7 — After standing all day Friday, Bright stood all day Saturday and all day Sunday. My daughters, Jessica and Kyra, came home. We could tell from the patterns of hay on the floor that Bright was dragging his leg around his stall. When he stood, he would rock from side to side, shifting his weight onto the injured leg and then back. It’s what a body knows. He otherwise seemed fine, eating and drinking and pooping. All good. On Sunday morning, feeling optimistic, Jordan and Jessica tried to take him for a short walk. Bright was still not bending his left hind leg.

Monday, February 18 — Bright was lying down again. Jordan tried to get him up. Jordan and I tried to get him up. We called in Geoffrey, Jessica, Kai, and Leif to help get him up. With all of us together pushing, we could not even roll Bright from one side of his body to the other. I suggested calling the vet.

“Steroids and painkillers are not a long-term solution,” said Jordan. It was his decision. The very tissues in Bright’s leg that needed to heal were the ones Bright needed to use to keep the rest of himself alive.

We called a man who would come to the farm, shoot Bright, end his life instantly and painlessly, and then process the meat for us. The butcher rearranged his schedule to accommodate us. He’d come at noon the next day.

Tuesday, February 19 — I went into Bright’s stall to sit with him for a while. Large patches of fur were missing from each knee, scraped off by the concrete floor. He had obviously been trying to crawl his way to standing and couldn’t. His back left leg was stuck out and so stiff I could not bend it. He looked at me, rolled onto his right side, and lifted his straight left hind leg up into the air, as if to say, “See this? It hurts! It won’t work. Can you do something please?”

I couldn’t. I wished that I could. I scratched him under his huge chin, the way he likes. He stretched his neck long, so I could reach its full length. I massaged the muscles in his hurt leg. His whole body was trembling, as if in pain. I talked to him. I thanked him. I cried.

The rest of the family gathered in Bright’s stall. The butcher came. Pop. It was over.

Death, even for a creature as massive and seemingly unstoppable as an ox, is so close, separated from life by the thinnest of membranes. The light on the side of the living is just bright enough that we usually cannot see through.

Jordan asked the butcher for Bright’s heart. It was as large as a soccer ball, and looked like burgundy fudge. That night, Geoffrey cooked part of Bright’s heart on the grill, and the omnivores in our family ate it. In a couple of weeks, we will have hundreds of pounds of meat. We will not let Bright go to waste. He taught us that.

Now, I can’t help but remember Bright . . . watching me intently, as I open a new pasture, and being the first in. Tossing a 300-pound hay bale with his horns and galloping after it as it unrolled down a hill. Wrestling my newly planted fruit trees and hemlocks to the ground, and winning. Breaking through the fence at 3 a.m., and prowling in the yard under Geoff and my bedroom window. Running our herd of cows down the middle of the road — the middle of the road! — in search of greener pastures. Reaching his large head into the calf stall to check out newborn arrivals. Standing, when I wanted him to move. Listening, as Jordan guided him where to pull. Gentle with the smallest children. Working hard. Grazing peacefully outside my window, as I went about my work inside. Always present. Fully embodied. There.

I miss him — knowing too that he lives on in all he has enabled.

Thank you, Bright.

Live Theater: Do We Need It?

 

How do we build the skills we need to live a good life?

My latest post is now up!

It was inspired by the wonderful experience I have had working with the high school students in Granville on their spring musical, Sound of Music!

Live Theater: Do We Need It?

Enjoy!!

 

Happy If — Happy When: Why Write a Musical?

 

Here is the link to my latest blog post on Psychology Today!

https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/what-body-knows/201705/happy-if-happy-when-why-write-musical

Why, you may ask, would a scholar of religion/ dancer/ farmer/ mother of five decide to write a MUSICAL called HAPPY IF — HAPPY WHEN?

Believe me, it has been a mystery to me too!!!

But in writing this blog,  I began to figure it out.

Enjoy!

 

 

 

Never Stop Creating

“Never stop creating… never stop creating…” Jordan was singing—making up his own song and repeating the same words to the same tune over and over again. I smiled. We were in the car, driving away from our familiar, friendly urban home of thirteen years, and towards the great unknown wildness of a rural farm we were scheduled to buy later that day. It was a place that Geoff and I believed would release our artistic spirits in new and nurturing directions. And my nine-year-old son was singing, “Never stop creating.” He got it.

Aside from the fact that the song lacked much variation—or maybe because of it—the phrase stuck. None of us could forget it. It became one of our farm family mantras—three precious words that we pulled out of our pockets to hurl at challenges that arose as we wrestled livable spaces from the farmhouse, beat back the weeds, and learned to live in constant proximity with one another. Alone, together, in a new place, we had to be creative—not just in the work of making art, but in the moment to moment living of our lives.

Soon after, Geoff and I began to realize that the creativity that mattered most to our respective artistic projects wasn’t the practice of technique or the direct shaping of a piece—although both were important. What mattered most was a more fundamental creativity—the art of staying open to the possibilities of every moment regardless of what we are doing; of making new moves in relation to the most basic tasks of every day, and of living lives that could and would erupt in new work.

*

What is creativity? It is easy to link it with artistic ability, and assume that some people are creative while others are not. In this view, those who are creative make, design, and produce things that occupy the realm of the senses. They use imagination to conceive of forms they then realize in works of art. Or so we believe.

What if creativity is not so cerebral? Not so mental? Not so intentional? What if creativity happens every minute of every day, in the movements of our sensory, bodily selves?

In this view, every human is and must be creative in order simply to survive. In every moment of life, who we are, where we are, with whom we are, and what we are given are unique. In every moment, we need to be able to receive an impulse to move that will take shape as the thought or feeling or action that our participation in the moment demands. What if creativity is a capacity to move differently than we have before?

How am I going to respond when my kids miss the bus? When the stew bubbles? When I stub my toe? What am I going to think, feel, or say when my child has a bad day? When the oxen get loose? When my friend is depressed?

In this sense creativity is not only the fact of movement or even the ability to move, but the ability to recognize and receive and follow through with a new movement—whether one is shaking a potent spice or answering a question; sketching a scene or stretching a resistant mozzarella; juxtaposing words or planting the garden.

Sure I can draw on past experience to guide my actions and predict their impact. I can mobilize patterns of response that have worked in other situations in the past. I can recalibrate old patterns to meet new challenges. I can follow the example of history and tradition. At the same time, I can also hold these possibilities aloft, open to the singular nexus of reality in that moment, and find a new way through. I can remember that every moment packs an opportunity to create myself anew.

There are persons who choose to cultivate this creative potential in a particular medium as the focus and source of their life’s activity. Such people may indeed become artists or inventors, sculptors or dancers, poets or engineers. Yet their basic activity remains the same, common to every human alive: sensing and responding to what is given; finding play in the moment; and receiving and following through with impulses to move.

Creativity, in this sense, courses through the heart of human becoming, churning its way though our bodily selves, carving us into channels of movement potential. Every move we make erupts from the last, builds us in the present, and opens us to the future. We exist as a bundle of branching possibilities in relation to the realms of interaction we inhabit. Creativity is not a mystery. It is not a gift given or withheld by a power beyond us. Creativity is who we are.

*

Never stop creating. On the eve of 2015, our farm family mantra echoes through me, as a good one to remember. Why? Because it reframes the age-old process of setting goals and making resolutions as an expression of this fundamental human creativity.

Never stop creating. What does it mean? Never stop imagining what is possible. Never stop affirming your desire to make it real. Never stop finding the freedom to respond in line with what you know you want.  Never stop seeking to make love real.

It means: don’t shy from what you can imagine. Set your goals! Dream your dreams! Go for them! Just don’t be bound by them. Don’t be judged by them. Hold them loosely, gently, knowing they are expressions of your own hope and desire—knowing that they maps for opening channels of energy you want to manifest in yourself.

“Never stop creating” means that this process of imagining what can be is not a question of muscling the mastery to overcome your failings. It is a question of giving yourself permission to experience the ever-present stream of creativity at work in you.

As you set out for your goals, you may not end up where you thought you wanted to go, but that is not the point. In the process you will learn who you have become. What patterns of sensing and responding—of anger or fear, shame or anxiety—have you created in the past? What desires have you picked up from others that are not actually relevant to you? What do you want even more than what you thought you wanted?

Sometimes we find that our goals are too small. Sometimes too large. Sometimes skewed to the side. Sometimes backwards. Regardless, we have gotten what the act of setting goals has to give: effective, visceral knowledge of how to make a better move.

*

It is easy to forget this fundamental creativity. It is easy to imagine that we must sense and respond to what is given in the ways we are told, or have in the past. It is easy to believe that we cannot change, that we won’t change, and even that we don’t want to change.

However, we can help ourselves remember. We can feed our fundamental creativity. We can by finding one thing to do very day that reminds us—one tiny, low-impact, non-stressful act of explicit creating that allows us to stop, listen, sense, receive, and respond.

*

During December I decided to make paper snowflakes to mark the days of advent. Each evening, I would take a piece of white paper, fold it in half, in thirds, and then in half again. With a pair of scissors, I would slice away small shapes—triangles and arcs, amoebas and dots. I cut carefully and carelessly. The stakes were low. It was only a snowflake. It took minutes and cost little.

Yet every day, when I unfolded the snowflake, a small gasp escaped me. Something never seen before emerged before me. I taped it to the wall, and the next day did the same, one by one, making a huge snowflake swirl. Every day, the snowflake spiral grabbed my gaze at least once and often several times, reminding me of the creativity that is endlessly flowing within, waiting to be given paper and scissors. Pen and ink. Time and space. Heart, mind and bodily self.

It may seem silly, until you try it. Fold the napkins differently. Hum a tune while you work. Step first with your opposite foot. Put your bag on the other shoulder. Alter your shower routine. Set your pillow in a different place. Try a new spice. Look in a new direction. Make a snowflake.

Remind yourself. You have permission to keep becoming who you can imagine you want to be.

Never stop creating.