Hi, it’s been a while. I think the last time I wrote was in early May, and before that it was about once a month. I have been in the damn desert. Lots has been going on, the winter and spring were a terribly hard time for me. I experienced the most profound depression and anxiety since I had post-partum depression, and that’s saying something. I spent day after day writing my way out of it, none of which was truly post-worthy, but it was a dark season of the soul and I learned quite a few things, which I think is best expressed by referencing some church stuff.
The parable of the Prodigal Son has always stuck with me, even as I’ve done my best to fall away from organized religion. I was raised Presbyterian. I went to years of Sunday School and church. But, being queer and an artist, and a bit of an outlaw when it came to social norms, I found traditional Christianity to be bothersome for a number of reasons. Still, this particular parable holds a lot of resonance.
In the story, a wealthy parent has two children. The younger child wants their inheritance and so the parent gives it to them. They leave home and over a few years? They waste it. Party. Gamble, rabble-rouse, engage in any number of bohemian pursuits. They engage in things that go against the spiritual norms of which they were raised, you get my drift.
The older child stays at home and works dutifully for the family.
Of course the younger child burns through that money. At the point when the younger child is penniless and in trouble, they return home ready to beg forgiveness, and the parent greets them and orders a party for their return! There must be celebration! The older child, you can imagine, is kind of pissed off at this because the younger child has been out gallivanting and squandering money on naughty things.
The older child confronts the parent! “Why are you celebrating this ding-dong who wasted your money when I’ve been here working hard?” And the parent says, “Listen! Everything I have is also yours! And this child is basically back from the dead so we must be grateful and celebrate their return to life! They were lost but now they are found.”
After being in such a dire place, I was very very upset with myself and more than reognized myself in that story. How often do we lose ourselves but berate ourselves for that loss? We feel that we aren’t good enough, smart enough, not using our potential. We’ve just run off and forgotten all our own values and dreams. We don’t open the door for ourselves to be found again. And by we I mean me.
I’m writing this because I’ve been in a desert of sorts for a long time. Like maybe seven years or so. More like five I guess. Some of which was my cancer. Some was the long hard stretch of COVID (which is NOT over mind you). Some was menopause with its rough demands. Some was nonprofit PTSD. But some of the desert was me trying to live a straight life as a queer person, to have a straight career that meant (to me) parts of myself just couldn’t be present.
Most of my life I’ve lived in such a way as to support others in finding their true self. Whether through producing, consulting, midwifing money for nonprofits, or coaching writers and speakers to find their voice, my goal has always been to encourage others to tell the truth and to do the work to make this world a much better place. And here I’ve been squishing myself into career roles that don’t work, that don’t fit. Like wearing shoes that are not quite right. You think you can do it, but eventually, there is damage done. It compounds. Meanwhile, those perfectly good and frankly sexy shoes I used to wear are still there in the closet asking me why don’t I put them back on.
For about 15 years I did sex positive work. Meaning, I wrote, spoke, produced, and supported the efforts of human beings to learn about gender and sexuality, reproductive justice, healthy consensual relationships and ethical and educational dynamics around pleasure all of which support justice in this world.
And before that, I did years and years of art and activism. Human rights work. Death work. Humane organizational development work. Nonprofit critique. All served up with a little bit of improv, humor, compassion and with the human heart at the center, at least I hope. I was really successful at that work, if not financially, then in my spirit and reputation.
And then I stopped that art and activism and focused on a “career” of sorts. I did that, in part, because I moved and that disrupted my process. I stopped in part because I work best in a group and my move meant I didn’t have one so I felt really isolated. I stopped because I was scared of doing things alone. I stopped because I took on executive-level “straight” jobs where I felt scared to risk being more out in my calling and because I held an erroneous belief that my calling and a career couldn’t intertwine. I stopped because I was going through menopause, surgeries, and cancer and my husband’s cancer, and the stress of well, everything political and everything difficult, all of which pretty much set me off myself from myself and I then became penniless in spirit and action.
I’m the prodigal son, get it?
I know the metaphor doesn’t entirely work but go with me. I sat there for a few years and kind of wandered and gave up on my upbringing and my calling and desires.
But, because we are all things in ourselves, the sibling is also me. And the inner voice of the sibling has been yammering at me for years like, “What a dick you are for not helping do this work. Why aren’t you writing, why aren’t you speaking, why aren’t you helping more people do more things!!!” And I’ve said to myself, “What a disappointment I am for squandering your inheritance and not doing the work I know I should do. Good lord, I’m so lazy.”
This cycle went on for quite a while.
The voice that has been missing is the parent’s. Of which I was scared to hear because I was sure it would just double down on me being kind of a loser.
But actually what happened was they said, “Ok kid, welcome back. It’s been a while, but here you are. No, don’t get upset darling child, let’s just unpack those bags after we get you something to eat and have a few long hugs. Rest a little bit, you are home and you are loved.”
After writing a journal daily for 6 months, and getting a therapist, going back to my Unitarian Universalist Church, and getting diagnosed with ADHD and meds (and wow what a relief that has been) and really digging into the darkest stuff, I have been finding that inner parent voice. It’s pretty cool. We should be nicer to ourselves and allow that hope in again.
The result? I have intertwined career with calling and am now consulting with nonprofits in my region and it is glorious. Helping boards build their systems so the organization (and people) can thrive? Boy howdy! Speaking gigs? Yep, coming my way online and off! Coaching amazing people to help the world be a better place? You bet! Will I be writing about that? YES, I WILL!
My only advice, not that you’ve asked for any, is to always have faith that you have the kindest voice inside you just waiting for you to listen and come home to it. And that if you have an inheritance (a calling of sorts), it is indeed important. You can’t really waste your talent and spirit, not really. I think that wealth, like the love of your “parent” self is always there. I am here for you in finding it.
As always, thanks for reading. If you are so moved to subscribe, share, or comment I’d love the connection.
Such a beautiful piece of truth and wisdom. It entwines with a quote from Georgie O'Keefe that I recently read for the first time, "I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to become myself again." So glad you've found your way back home, Julie!
We love you, Julie. 💋💋