What I Know For Sure (10 page)

When I turned 60, I knew for sure that I’d earned the right to be just as I am. I’m more secure in being myself than I’ve ever been.

I have reached the moment Derek Walcott describes in his beautiful poem “Love After Love”—“… with elation / you will greet yourself arriving/at your own door , in your own mirror/and each will smile at the other’s welcome.”

I am in awe of the way my journey here on earth continues to unfold. My life has been marked by miracles for as long as I can recall (and even before, considering that my entire existence is the result of a onetime frolic under an oak tree). My early days speaking in a Mississippi Methodist church—Baptist leanings, shoutin’, and Holy Ghost included—prepared me for a future of speaking in a public arena I could never have imagined.

And now I simply want to share what I’ve been given. I want to continue to encourage as many people as I can to open their hearts to life, because if I know anything for sure, it’s that opening my own heart is what has brought me my greatest success and joy.

My highest achievement: never shutting down my heart. Even in my darkest moments—through sexual abuse, a pregnancy at 14, lies and betrayals—I remained faithful, hopeful, and willing to see the best in people, regardless of whether they were showing me their worst. I continued to believe that no matter how hard the climb, there is always a way to let in a sliver of light to illuminate the path forward.

We go through life discovering the truth about who we are and determining who has earned the right to share the space within our heart.

This I also know for sure: God—however you define or refer to Him, Her, or It—is for us. The forces of nature are for us, offering us life in abundance. We humans narrow what is an open field of wonder and majesty to the myopic reality of our day-to-day experiences. But there is extraordinary in the ordinary.

Some days the awareness of the sanctity and sacredness of life brings me to my knees with gratitude. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that the little girl from Mississippi who grew up holding her nose in an outhouse now flies on her own plane—my own plane!—to Africa to help girls who grew up like her.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound!

I approached the milestone of 60 with humility, supreme thanksgiving, and joy. Knowing for sure
grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

Clarity

“First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.”

—Epictetus

I was 40 years old
before I learned to say no. In my early years of working in television, I was often overwhelmed by people’s view of me as a benevolent caregiver. Some would spend their last dime on a bus ticket to get to me, children would run away from home, abused women would leave their husbands and show up at the doorstep of my studio, all hoping I’d help. In those days, I’d spend a lot of energy trying to get a girl back to her family or hanging on the phone with someone who was threatening to kill herself. I found myself writing check after check, and over time that wore on my spirit. I was so busy trying to give all that everyone else needed me to offer that I lost touch with what I had a genuine desire to give. I’d been consumed by the disease to please—and often the word yes would be out of my mouth before I even knew it.

I know exactly where the disease came from. Having a history of abuse also meant a history of not being able to set boundaries. Once your personal boundaries have been violated as a child, it’s difficult to regain the courage to stop people from stepping on you. You fear being rejected for who you really are. So for years, I spent my life giving everything I could to almost anyone who asked. I was running myself ragged trying to fulfill other people’s expectations of what I should do and who I should be.

What cured me was understanding the principle of intention. To quote Gary Zukav again, from his book
The Seat of the Soul,
“Every action, thought and feeling is motivated by an intention, and that intention is a cause that exists as one with an effect. If we participate in the cause, it is not possible for us not to participate in the effect. In this most profound way, we are held responsible for our every action, thought and feeling, which is to say, for our every intention.”

I started to examine the intention behind my saying yes when I really meant no. I was saying yes so people wouldn’t be angry with me, so they would think I was a nice person. My intention was to make people feel I was the one they could call on, count on, last minute, no matter what. And that was exactly what my experiences reflected—a barrage of requests in every aspect of my life.

Shortly after I started to understand this, I got a call from somebody quite famous who wanted me to donate to his charity. He was asking for a lot of money, and I told him I had to think about it. What I thought about was,
Is this a cause I really believe in?
No.
Do I really think that writing a check is going to make any difference whatsoever?
No. So why would I do it?
Because I don’t want this person to think I’m stingy.
This was no longer a good enough reason for me.

I wrote down a few words, which I now keep on my desk: “Never again will I do anything for anyone that I do not feel directly from my heart. I will not attend a meeting, make a phone call, write a letter, sponsor or participate in any activity in which every fiber of my being does not resound yes. I will act with the intent to be true to myself.”

Before you say yes to anyone, ask yourself: What is my truest intention? It should come from the purest part of you, not from your head. If you have to ask for advice, give yourself time to let a yes or no resound within you. When it’s right, your whole body feels it.

I know for sure that I had to first get clear about who I was before I could beat the disease to please. When I accepted that I was a decent, kind, and giving person—whether I said yes or no—I no longer had anything to prove. I was once afraid of people saying, “Who does she think she is?” Now I have the courage to stand and say, “
This
is who I am.”

I’m not nearly as stressed
as people might imagine. Over the years, I’ve learned to focus my energy on the present, to be fully aware of what’s happening in every moment and not to worry about what should have happened, what’s going wrong, or what might come next. Yet because I do have an awful lot on my plate, if I didn’t find a way to decompress, I’d be totally ineffective—and probably a little crazy, too.

None of us is built to run nonstop. That’s why, when you don’t give yourself the time and care you need, your body rebels in the form of sickness and exhaustion. How do I give back to myself? Hardly a day goes by that I don’t talk things out with Gayle. Almost every night, I soak in a hot bath and light a candle or two. It may sound hokey, but focusing on a burning candle for a minute while taking deep and relaxing breaths is very calming. In the evenings right before sleep, I don’t read or watch anything—including late-night news—that would give me anxiety. And because I don’t like fitful dreams, I protect my sleep by dealing with difficult situations during my waking hours. I also keep a gratitude journal and, at the end of a workday, I “come down” by reading a great novel or just sitting with myself to come back to my center—it’s what I call “going mindless.”

As women we’ve been programmed to sacrifice everything in the name of what is good and right for everyone else. Then if there’s an inch left over, maybe we can have a piece of that. We need to deprogram ourselves. I know for sure that you can’t give what you don’t have. If you allow yourself to be depleted to the point where your emotional and spiritual tank is empty and you’re running on fumes of habit, everybody loses. Especially you.

I once taped a show in which a life coach discussed the concept of self-care—putting your own needs ahead of anyone else’s—and the audience booed. Women were upset by the mere suggestion that they should put their needs before those of their children. I interrupted to explain: No one was saying you should abandon your children and let them starve. The life coach was suggesting that you nurture yourself so you’ll have more nurturing to give to those who most need you. It’s the airplane oxygenmask theory: If you don’t put on your mask first, you won’t be able to save anyone else.

So stop and take a look at your own needs. Go mindless. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure.

What I know for sure
is that your breath is your anchor, the gift you’ve been given—that we’ve all been given, to center ourselves in this very moment. Whenever I have an encounter that involves even the slightest tension, I stop, draw in a deep breath, and release. Ever notice how often you unconsciously hold your breath? Once you start paying attention, it might surprise you to see how much tension you’ve been carrying around inside. Nothing is more effective than a deep, slow inhale and release for surrendering what you can’t control and focusing again on what’s right in front of you.

Here’s a confession:
I have a fear of flying over the ocean. Though anytime I get on a plane it’s a flight of faith, a belief in something greater than myself—aeronautics, God—flying over the ocean is particularly disconcerting. (I’m not that good a swimmer.) But when I have to cross continents, I just do it, because I want to be bigger than my fear.

I bought a home on a Hawaiian mountain because it was what I imagined paradise to be, knowing that every time I had to cross the Pacific to get there, I would challenge my fear.

The day after Christmas a few years ago, my plane had been airborne long enough for us to pull out Scrabble and start thinking about lunch. Urania, my friend Bob Greene’s wife, had brought leftovers from Christmas dinner.

“No more mashed potatoes for me,” I said. “I’ll just have turkey—dark meat, preferably—and green beans.”

Our flight attendant, Karin, leaned over the table. I thought she was going to say, “There’s no dark meat left,” but instead she said calmly, “There’s a slight crack in the windshield; we’re going to have to turn around.”

“Oh,” I replied.

“The captain wants you to strap yourselves in and be ready for oxygen masks.”

“Oxygen masks? What will happen to my dogs?” They were lounging nearby.

“They’ll be fine,” Karin said. “We’re going to drop to ten thousand feet now.”

I could feel my heart pounding and my voice rising, though I was trying to mirror her calmness. My mind was speeding:
Oxygen! Danger! Oxygen! Danger! I can’t swimmmmm. Oh, my dear God!!!!

I didn’t speak, but Karin later said my eyes were as big as plums. Stedman, steady as a boulder, took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, “You’re going to be fine. God didn’t bring you this far to leave you. Remember that.”

The crack had spread and shattered the entire left side of the windshield. We could see it from our seats.
Whoosh, thump, whoosh, thump.
I know all the familiar sounds on that aircraft, and this was something different. I don’t like hearing something different at 40,000 feet.

“What’s that noise, Karin?”

“We’re depressurizing the cabin, lowering altitude quickly, and that sound is the oxygen pump. The pilots are on oxygen, just in case.”

I didn’t ask, “Just in case
what?
” because we all knew the answer. Just in case that windshield blew.

The pilots, Terry and Danny, turned the plane around, and I watched the clock: 27 minutes to landing. I thought, What if I’d listened to my inner voice and not flown today? Several times that morning I had wanted to cancel. I was feeling off balance, rushed. I’d called Bob Greene and said, “I may not go today.”

“Why?” he said.

“Not feeling it. What do you think?”

“I think you should consult that trusted inner voice of yours.”

I had taken a bath, since the tub is where I do my best thinking, and got out ready to call the pilots and postpone the trip. And then I didn’t. I overrode that feeling. If I hadn’t, would the windshield still have cracked? No doubt. But would we have been over the ocean with no place to land?

I looked at the clock again: 26 minutes and 12 seconds until landing.

I was going to lose my mind watching that clock, so I started to read. Soon, I felt a resolved calm. We’ll be all right, no matter the outcome. The
whoosh, thump
became a source of comfort: Oxygen! Life! Oxygen! Life!

We landed safely, of course. The windshield was replaced, and the day after, the pilots said, “We can fly anytime you’re ready.” Did I dare fly over the ocean again so soon? What was the lesson for me? Did I get it?

I know for sure that whenever your inner GPS is off-kilter, trouble awaits. Your instincts are your compass. I got it. I get it. I know it for sure. Up in the air I relearned the importance of tuning out distraction and tuning in to myself.

One of the most
important questions a woman can ask herself: What do I really want—and what is my spirit telling me is the best way to proceed?

My answer eventually led me toward my passion for serving women and girls. I have a deep understanding of what it’s like to be a girl who has suffered abuse or lived in poverty, and I believe that education is the door to freedom, the rainbow that leads to the pot of gold. I began to realize that in order to be most effective, I had to be extremely focused on using my time, my concern, my resources, and my compassion to uplift a generation of courageous women who own themselves and know their strength. I knew I couldn’t save every dying child or intervene in every case of abuse. None of us can. But once I got clear about what I most wanted to give, much of what didn’t line up with that intention naturally fell away.

Those years of becoming focused taught me a powerful lesson about letting go of the outside pressures and distractions and instead tuning in to my gut—that inkling that says,
Hold on. Something’s not right here. Please pause and make an adjustment.
For me,
doubt
often means
don’t.
Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward. When I’m mired in uncertainty about what the next step should be, when I’m asked to do something for which I feel little enthusiasm, that’s my sign to just stop—to get still until my instincts give me the go-ahead. I believe that uncertainty is my spirit’s way of whispering,
I’m in flux. I can’t decide for you. Something is off balance here.
I take that as a cue to re-center myself before making a decision. When the universe compels me toward the best path to take, it never leaves me with “Maybe,” “Should I?” or even “Perhaps.” I always know for sure when it’s telling me to proceed—because everything inside me rises up to reverberate “Yes!”