Space

We have been convinced that spaciousness is supreme. We dream of owning a huge house with as many bathrooms as bedrooms, a three-car garage, on land large enough to house a compound. In addition to our mega complex for more spacious things, personal space is also valued at such a premium that airlines and rail lines charge more money for it. Space is a hot commodity that has changed what we want and the way we live, travel, and interact with one another.

When I moved to Michigan in 2012, I moved into a large apartment, by myself. While it was often convenient and comfortable, I didn't need all of that space and having it did not always serve me well. It was great when I had overnight guests. It was not great when I felt alone. It seemed to amplify the loneliness and bounce it off of every wall for me to hear over and over again. That space also enabled me to keep things I should have released, purchase things I didn't need, and shut the door on all of those things so I didn't have to look at them or deal with them.

In addition to the drawbacks associated with physical space, there's another element of space that I subscribed to that was more detrimental—emotional space. Keeping emotional space, distance, did not always serve me well either. I developed emotional distance for the same reason that most do—because the actions of a few destroyed my ability to trust. When I did discover my support system, which was solid, genuine, and fully committed to my well-being, I was too embarrassed, ashamed, and flat out terrified to truly let people in to what I deemed my overwhelming, complicated emotional vault.

Being distant from others produced outcomes that contradicted what I wanted. Space gave my mind room to wander to horrible places, replaying scenes of my history of trauma. Space allowed me to get lost in the negative messages I repeated to myself. Space made me feel alone and undeserving of the support, acceptance, and love I needed. All of the emotional work I'd done to create a sense of safety and peace was evaporating in that space. Space was not what I needed. I needed connection. I needed people right there, up close and personal, not just telling me I had their support, but demonstrating it, repeatedly. I didn't need more space, I needed less. Much less.

When we have space, we have extra room for miscellaneous things—all the stuff that has no specific place and at times, no value. We put it in a spare room and shut the door so that we can maintain attachments that need to be severed without having to see the impact of those unhealthy attachments. We give ourselves so much space that it prevents others from getting close enough to witness our emotional clutter, making it impossible for them to help us clear it out.

Does space provide you with convenience and comfort or has it become an enabler? Have you given those you trust, those who have proven their commitment to your well-being, access to fully support you? Are you being honest with them? Are you being honest with yourself?

Assess the space in your life. Make necessary adjustments. All of the support you need will be there. Don't be afraid to let people in. Don't be afraid to get close. We were designed to be connected and have relationships. It is when those connections and bonds are broken that we feel disrupted, abandoned, and unloved. Space is not always the answer. At times, space is the problem.

Prove Them Wrong

Last week I attended a college basketball game. Early in the first half, a point guard from the visiting team attempted a long-range shot. In addition to it being highly contested, he miscalculated and the ball missed the entire rim. Fans of the home team immediately yelled, "Air ball! Air ball! Air ball!" For the remainder of the game, any time he touched the ball, no matter where he was on the court and whether he was in position to shoot or not, the crowd erupted in a chorus of, "Air ball! Air ball! Air ball!"

This collective attempt to distract players is normal in sports and can be extremely effective. Without proper coaching, focus, and confidence, a well guarded shot or simple miscalculation can impact a player's performance for the duration of a game. Experienced players master tuning out distractions, regardless of how noisy, relentless, and personal they become.

You may feel as if life is a lot like those fans. The shots you've taken may have been highly contested, miscalculated, or a combination of both, and each time you try again, life reminds you of your air ball moments. As soon as you build enough courage to go back out there, someone—at times, even you—is screaming what you perceive to be your worst moments and attributes. Quitter! Dropout! Unemployable! Divorced! Damaged! Victim! Abandoned! Convict! Angry! Depressed! Broken! Failure! Worthless! Unlovable!

How do you quiet the yelling? How can you make progress when you are continuously reminded of your worst? How do you stop the yelling when you believe it more than anyone else? You quiet the yelling with action. You make progress by focusing on one play, one task, one goal at a time. You stop believing the yelling by remaining engaged with and committed to improving your life, for life. 

Your goals may have been contested. Try again. You may have taken some incredibly wild shots. Own that and learn from it. But never, ever, ever, ever give up. Unlike with a game, your refusal to show up will not stop the hate-filled, destructive mantras. When you no longer try, you concede and behave in ways that confirm the worst of what you think of yourself. Instead of confirming the taunts, prove them wrong.

As for that particular game, the player who threw that errant shot remained present and a valuable member of his team. By the end of the game he was the third leading scorer and more importantly, his team won. He didn't allow ridicule to stop him and you don't have to let life's ridicule and reminders to stop you. Get back out there and prove them wrong.

Space to Walk

On a snowy day, I was walking to my apartment building. It was 25 degrees so I was in a hurry to get inside, but a man and what I assumed were his sons caught my eye. The father and oldest son walked on the shoveled sidewalk. Their path was easy and clear. The youngest son, while going in the same direction, took a different path at his own pace. This little guy choose to walk in the grass. He had to step up higher to get through so he was slightly behind. He ran at times as he kicked through the fluffy snow. It was as if there was no other place he would rather be than on his whimsical walk.

I have this incessant desire to be supportive. If those I love need a word of encouragement or a shoulder to cry on, I want to be "Johnny on the spot." At times, that's appropriate. There are other times, though, when people need space to sift through their feelings. They need to process and listen inwardly in order to develop. At those moments, as much as I want to be right there, I have to love them enough to let them walk in their own space. I have to put my needs—and really, my insecurities and fears—aside and allow them to walk on their own even when I would prefer to walk with them.

We walk through life with others, but even when we're together emotionally, we're not always supposed to be directly side-by-side. We have to give those we love the space to walk. It can be difficult because we fear separation or we want to provide up close and personal support. However, just as the father gave his little boy the joy of walking through the snow, we can give our loved ones the satisfaction of self-reliance just by providing a little bit of space.

Read last week's post, The Spirituality of Natural Gifts.