Thoughts on Shame and Anne Lamott’s Somehow

Learning from the Queen of Grace

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose!

Anne Lamott opens her new book Somehow, Thoughts on Love, with one of my favorite Rumi poems, “The Guest House.”

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I spent a lot of pleasant time last week sitting in my garden and reading Anne’s new book, which is a little like First Corinthians, meets the Beatles “All You Need is Love,” meets Hot Fudge Sundaes sprinkled with forgiveness. This is why people love Anne Lamott. She is the Queen of Grace.

I need grace this week. As we enter the month of May, I find myself once again struggling with shame. Lawn Shame. My small patches of yard that are not given over to plants are filled with dandelions, weeds and grasses of various proportions. My garden is messy, and in May this messiness is laid out for all to see. This sometimes makes me feel like I am doing things all wrong.

I read somewhere that shame is an emotion that arises when we make a choice that doesn’t align with our values. This definition of shame feels incomplete to me. My choice not to mow my lawn in May, to let the dandelions do their thing, to listen to what my garden needs rather than forcing her to fit a design solely based on aesthetics directly aligns with my values.

So, then why do I find myself cringing when I look at her?

I think it’s because my yard doesn’t reflect a societal norm or beauty standard. I feel shame because my current choices don’t align with values that have been imposed upon me. What I am seeing doesn’t match what I think I should be seeing.

Stretching beyond societal norms and standards is uncomfortable.

This past week, I videotaped myself for my National Teaching Boards. I had to sort through the footage to find ten suitable minutes I could piece together to justify my teaching. I’m an instructional coach, and I video teachers all the time. Teachers usually cringe at themselves the first time we tape. They can’t believe they didn’t notice Desirae flipping off the camera, or DJ playing videogames instead of silently reading, or Tanya doing homework for another class. When I reviewed my videos this past week, I also found myself cringing, but it wasn’t at my teaching, I was cringing at myself, at my body.

I am fuller and rounder than I once was. I am forty-four, and this is what happens to women in middle-age, unless you push hard against this change. I am learning not to push so hard. I spent a lot of my life trying to conform to traditional standards of beauty. I followed strict work-out routines and stricter diets. There were years of my life where I wouldn’t indulge in anything, not a slice of pizza or a single chocolate chip cookie. I stepped on the scale every day, sometimes more than once a day. I counted calories using apps. Instead of listening to my body, I looked to my phone to see what I could eat. I set goals for myself, and if I didn’t meet those goals, I spiraled into shame.

I don’t do this anymore. I eat when I’m hungry. I try and eat well, but that includes a daily dose of dark chocolate and a fair amount of ice cream and red wine, not at the same time. I move my body every day, but I purposely choose workouts like yoga and walking that allow for breath and ease rather than push and force. I seek to be healthy, not small. The decisions I make around my body directly align with my values, so then why do I find myself cringing when I look at her?

It’s almost like my mind hasn’t updated yet. She’s still trying to run windows 2000. She doesn’t realize the system is no longer compatible. My current choices do not align with my past values, and this leads to confusion, and if I’m not careful, it can lead to shame. Instead of loving my body for who she has become and the journey it took for her to arrive here, I catch myself worrying that my updated model is no longer beautiful. I wonder if maybe I’m getting it wrong.

I take all my house guests and lay them at Rumi’s feet, and I seek wisdom from the Queen of Grace.

Rumi reminds me to invite the brokenness in, and Anne encourages me to have a “tenderness about the broken places.”

I often remind myself to welcome joy, but it’s harder for me to accept the other visitors. They are so messy.

Anne writes, “If I can get word to my grandson from the other side when I am gone, I will whisper to him when he is in trouble to make a gratitude list—no snakes in the room, yay!—then do his chores, be kind to himself, be of service, get outside, and breathe. This is the launch code when under attack: gratitude, chores, chocolate, service, breath, nature.”

This feels like a recipe that I can follow. I need to work on the chores, but I’ve got the chocolate covered. In fact, there are a few slight smudges on Anne’s new book. Somehow, I think she’d be okay with that.

Thank you for being a part of the Pocketful of Prose community. I would love to continue this conversation in the comments. What resonates with you today? Have you read Somehow Thoughts on Love or Anne’s other books? What are you reading these days, and what are you thinking about?