have their exits and their entrances,
And one man [ahem, woman] in his [her!]
time plays many parts.
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It
If, as Shakespeare so aptly pointed out, all the world’s a stage and each of us are merely players, playing our parts until we fade away into oblivion, the question inevitably becomes “Who is choreographing your life?”
A choreographer is the person who composes the sequence of events or moves in a dance or a play, leading to a meaningful, cohesive, and purposeful performance. While it is sometimes appropriate to allow others to choreograph your life, it is all too easy to forget that the primary choreographer is you.
The Legacy of Regret
Let me tell you a story. I was close to both my grandmothers, who, by the standards of their day, were pretty perfect women. Although I assumed there were things about them that I didn’t have the full scoop on, I felt like I really knew them. But after they passed away, I learned I had been wrong. I found out that these women were so much more than they shared with me, our family, or the rest of the world. And because they had kept parts of themselves hidden, their true essence had been lost forever, not only to themselves but to all of us who loved them.
I am not making this up. On her deathbed, my grandma looked up at my dad (who is hugely into genealogy) and said, “You know those stories about my father, and how mean he could be? Don’t ever worry that anger is in your lineage, because I was adopted.”
And then she died.
We never had the chance to learn anything more or to ask questions. We knew her, but we didn’t know her at all. Because she was afraid that others would not accept her if they found out, she had covered up a key piece of herself and our family’s history. Although we were grateful she finally revealed herself to us and allowed us to integrate this tidbit of information, it was kind of too late, because we never had the opportunity to see her naked and exposed, for exactly who she was!
And then there was my maternal grandma. While refraining from any deathbed bombshells, she left us with just as many questions as grandma number one. Of course I knew she was smart. She had jumped ahead two years in school and had attended a private university during World War II, dropping out to get married after my grandfather came home. Sometimes she would write poems and stories that were so good that I’d ask whose they were because I was certain they were copied from some famous work, but they were always hers. Which was cool, but I never really gave it a second thought.
That is, until she died. Sure, I had seen her scrapbooks and heard her funny story about sunbathing in a cemetery with her sorority sisters and getting caught by the nuns, but her scrapbooks and stories were just the tip of the vast iceberg of who she was as a person and as a woman. Although before her death she had been honest in sharing her dissatisfaction with her own life, we couldn’t understand or appreciate the depth of that pain because we had never been allowed to see fully who she was.
After she passed away, we found journals and notebooks, where she drew incredible pictures, wrote breathtaking poems, and related stories that provided rich insight into her, her marriage, and the world. Not just into her as a wife, mom, or school secretary but as a woman, and the pain she experienced in covering her sparkle and light and being everything she thought she was supposed to be instead. She kept much of her intellect and passions hidden, and as a result, her life was never that happy or that fulfilled.
Wearing masks, covering themselves with the requisite costumes of the day, and dancing choreography that was not their own robbed these two women of themselves and their capacity to experience authentic joy and fulfillment. But it also robbed us of the ability to know, or see, or grow through them and the stories of their lives.
I don’t know about you, but when I die, I don’t want my family going through my things and feeling that sense of loss, that sense of If I had only known. . .about me. I want to express myself fully, to be seen and known, for everything that I am deep inside, giving myself the opportunity to live fully, joyously, and intimately connected to those I love. Now. Not after I die.
I can only imagine the legacy my two grandmas could have left, had they been brave enough to reveal themselves fully. To show who they were. To allow themselves to be expansive, seen, and accepted as they truly were. What about you? What is your legacy?
When was the last time you were giddy with anticipation over something you were about to do? When you knew that what you wanted to do made little or no practical sense, but you knew you had to try or you’d regret it forever? No matter how old you are, no matter what you look like or sound like, it’s never too late. In fact, the older you are, the more imperative it is to begin now! So, if there is anything in you that wants something more, you owe it to yourself to give it a try, to create your legacy. . .or you risk regretting it forever.
For me, it was dance. What could it be for you?
The Labels, Roles & Scripts of My Emerging Womanhood
Let me share with you the labels, roles, and scripts of my past. The accompanying costumes, accessories, and dance steps that were all a part of the choreography created for me by others. Why? Because oftentimes we see aspects of ourselves in the stories of others, bringing us levels of insight that we didn’t have before. What I want for you is to be able to recognize and release the choreography that no longer serves you so you can dance your dance, your own way. To see how my past informed my present, how it almost dictated my future, and how I used FLAUNT! to set myself free from constantly seeking external validation and find joy and satisfaction beyond what I thought possible.
What I wanted, deep in my soul, was to be wickedly smart, without being labeled an aggressive bitch. To be powerfully spiritual, using and developing my own intuition on my own terms, without being called a New Age, woo-woo freak. To be sexy as hell, my own way, and enjoy how my body looked and felt, without being called a slut. I wanted to flaunt and to be all that I was without apology and most certainly without cover. Without checking pieces of me at the door when I went into a professional environment, and without altering or limiting myself to suit others. I wanted to flaunt myself, not to be obnoxious but to allow myself the opportunity to live the full breadth of all that I was. Part Amazon warrior, part gangly pink flamingo, part regal countess, part traditional June Cleaver, part ethereal goddess. I wanted to set all of me free, to show myself and the world everything I was capable of. Without worrying what people might think.
What Women Should Do, Think, Believe, and Wear
I was a successful corporate attorney with a good life. I had a husband, two children, and a house, and everything was fine. Normal. Just what it was supposed to be. It was just that most days felt like a sprint to a finish line that was constantly being moved one mile farther away. No matter how hard I tried, I could never please everyone, get it all done, or look the way I wanted to look. Collapsing into bed, sometimes in the same yoga pants I had collapsed into bed in the night before, I’d wonder, Is this really all there is? Because, seriously, there’s got to be something more!
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