What I Know For Sure Page 5
“Well, I don’t want to say it out loud. I’ve been a wreck for weeks knowing this day was coming. It just makes me sick to think about it.”
“It makes you sick to think that you’ve marked another year, that every worry, every strife, every challenge, every delight, every breath every day was leading to this moment, and now you made it and you’re celebrating it—with one little candle—and denying it at the same time?”
“I’m not denying it,” she said. “I just don’t want to be forty-three.”
I gasped in mock horror. “You’re forty-three? Oh my, I see why you wouldn’t want anyone to know that.” Everyone laughed that nervous laughter again.
We took the picture, but I didn’t stop thinking about Marilyn and her friends.
I also thought about Don Miguel Ruiz, author of one of my favorite books, The Four Agreements. According to Don Miguel, “Ninety-five percent of the beliefs we have stored in our minds are nothing but lies, and we suffer because we believe all these lies.”
One of these lies that we believe and practice and reinforce is that getting older means getting uglier. We then judge ourselves and others, trying to hold on to the way we were.
This is why, over the years, I have made it a point to ask women how they feel about aging. I’ve asked everyone from Bo Derek to Barbra Streisand.
Ali MacGraw told me, “The message women my age send to terrified thirty- and forty-year-old women is that ‘it’s almost over.’ What a gyp.”
Beverly Johnson said, “Why am I trying to keep this teenage body when I’m not a teenager and everybody knows it? That was an epiphany for me.”
And Cybill Shepherd’s honesty offered terrific insight: “I had a great fear, as I grew older, that I would not be valued anymore.”
If you’re blessed enough to grow older, which is how I look at aging (I think often of all the angels of 9/11 who won’t get there), there’s so much wisdom to be gained from people who are celebrating the process with vibrancy and vigor and grace.
I’ve had wonderful mentors in this regard. Maya Angelou, doing speaking tours in her mid-eighties. Quincy Jones, always off in some far-flung part of the world creating new projects. Sidney Poitier, epitomizing who and what I want to be if I’m fortunate to live so long—reading everything he can get his hands on, even writing his first novel at age 85, continuously expanding his fields of knowledge.
For sure we live in a youth-obsessed culture that is constantly trying to tell us that if we’re not young and glowing and “hot,” we don’t matter. But I refuse to buy into such a distorted view of reality. And I would never lie about or deny my age. To do so is to contribute to a sickness pervading our society—the sickness of wanting to be what you’re not.
I know for sure that only by owning who and what you are can you step into the fullness of life. I feel sorry for anyone who buys into the myth that you can be what you once were. The way to your best life isn’t denial. It’s owning every moment and staking a claim to the here and now.
You’re not the same woman you were a decade ago; if you’re lucky, you’re not the same woman you were last year. The whole point of aging, as I see it, is change. If we let them, our experiences can keep teaching us about ourselves. I celebrate that. Honor it. Hold it in reverence. And I’m grateful for every age I’m blessed to become.
I never foresaw doing the Oprah show for 25 years. Twelve years in, I was already thinking about bringing it to a close. I didn’t want to be the girl who stayed too long at the party. I dreaded the thought of overstaying my welcome.
Then I did the movie Beloved, portraying a former slave who experiences newfound freedom. That role changed the way I looked at my work. How dare I, who’d been given opportunities unimagined by my ancestors, even think of being tired enough to quit? So I renewed my contract for another four years. Then another two.
At the 20-year mark, I was almost certain that the time was finally right to call it a day. That’s when I received an e-mail from Mattie Stepanek.
Mattie was a 12-year-old boy with a rare form of muscular dystrophy who had appeared on my show to read his poetry and became an instant, dear friend. We exchanged e-mails often and talked on the phone when we could. He made me laugh. And sometimes cry. But most often he made me feel more human and present and able to appreciate even the smallest things.
Mattie suffered so much in his young life, going into and out of the hospital, yet hardly ever complained. When he spoke, I listened. And in May 2003, as I was in the throes of deciding whether to bring the show to an end, he was a singular force in changing my mind. Here’s the letter he wrote me:
Dear Oprah,
Hello, it’s me, Mattie … your guy. I am praying and hoping to go home around Memorial Day. It’s not a guarantee, so I am not telling a lot of people. It seems that every time I try to go home, something else goes wrong. The doctors are not able to “fix” me, but they agree with me going home. And don’t worry, I am not “going home to die” or anything like that. I am going home because they can’t do anything else here, and if I heal, it’s because I am meant to heal, and if I don’t, then my message is out there and it’s time for me to go to Heaven. I personally am hoping that my message still needs me to be the messenger a while longer, but that’s really in God’s hands. But anyway … I am only needing blood transfusions about once a week now, so that is better. And it sounds weird, but I think it’s really cool that I have blood and platelets from so many people. Makes me related to the world in some way, which is a proud thing to be.
I know that you are planning to retire your show on its 20th anniversary. It is my opinion that you should wait to stop your daytime show on its 25th anniversary. Let me explain why. Twenty-five makes more sense to me, partially because I am a bit OCD and 25 is a perfect number. It’s a perfect square, and symbolizes a quarter of something, not just a fifth like the number 20. Also, when I think of the number 25, especially for retiring or completion, for some reason my mind is filled with bright colors and the rejuvenation of life. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. You’ve already made history in so many ways, wonderful and beautiful ways, why not make history bigger by having a show with great dignity that touched and inspired so many people for a quarter of a century? I’ll let you think on it. And of course it’s only my opinion, but I sometimes get feelings about things, and I have one about this. I think it’s good for the world and good for you.
I love you and you love me,
Mattie
As anyone who knows me knows, I “sometimes get feelings about things,” too, and my gut told me to pay attention to this angel boy who I believe was a messenger for our time.
Somehow it was clear to him, back in 2003, that I was neither emotionally nor spiritually prepared to bring that phase of my career to a close.
When I finally was ready for the next chapter, I moved forward with no regrets—only grace and gratitude. And wherever heaven is, I know for sure Mattie is there.
Every morning when I open my curtains for that first look at the day, no matter what the day looks like—raining, foggy, overcast, sunny—my heart swells with gratitude. I get another chance.
In the best of times and worst of times, I know for sure, this life is a gift. And I believe that no matter where we live or how we look or what we do for a living, when it comes to what really matters—what makes us laugh and cry, grieve and yearn, delight and rejoice—we share the same heart space. We just fill it with different things. Here are 15 of my favorites:
1. Planting vegetables in my garden.
2. Making blueberry-lemon pancakes on Sunday morning for Stedman. Never fails to delight him—like he’s 7 every time.
3. An off-leash romp on the front lawn with all my dogs.
4. A rainy day, a chill in the air, a blazing fire in the fireplace.
5. Picking vegetables from my garden.
6. A great book.
7. Reading in my favorite place on earth: under my oak trees.
8. Cooking vegetables from my garden.
9. Sleeping till my body wants to wake up.
10. Waking up to the real twitter: birds.
11. A workout so strong, my whole body breathes.
12. Eating vegetables from my garden.
13. Being still.
14. Embracing silence.
15. The daily spiritual practice of gratitude. Every day I bless my life by counting my blessings.
Possibility
“Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost, but climb.”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
How can I realize my potential more fully? That’s a question I still ask myself, especially when contemplating what’s next in my life.
In every job I’ve taken and every city in which I’ve lived, I have known that it’s time to move on when I’ve grown as much as I can. Sometimes moving on terrified me. But always it taught me that the true meaning of courage is to be afraid, and then, with your knees knocking, to step out anyway. Making a bold move is the only way to advance toward the grandest vision the universe has for you. If you allow it, fear will completely immobilize you. And once it has you in its grip, it will fight to keep you from ever becoming your best self.
What I know for sure is this: Whatever you fear most has no power—it is your fear that has the power. The thing itself cannot touch you. But your fear can rob you of your life. Each time you give in to it, you lose strength, while your fear gains it. That’s why you must decide that no matter how difficult the path ahead seems, you will push past your anxiety and keep on stepping.
A few years ago, I was writing this question in my journal every day: “What am I afraid of?” Over time I realized that while I had often seemed brave on the outside, I had lived much of my inner life in bondage. I was afraid that others wouldn’t like me. I was terrified that if I said no to people, they would reject me. Everything I did, thought, felt, said, or even ate was connected to the fear I carried around with me—and I allowed it to block me from ever knowing who I really was.
Dr. Phil often says you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. Before I could challenge my fear and begin changing what I believed about myself, I had to admit that, yes, I had always been afraid—and that my fear was a form of slavery. Author Neale Donald Walsch says, “So long as you’re still worried about what others think of you, you are owned by them. Only when you require no approval from outside yourself can you own yourself.”
It’s true that when you summon the courage to cast a vote for yourself, when you dare to step out, speak up, change yourself, or even simply do something outside of what others call the norm, the results may not always be pleasant. You can expect obstacles. You’ll fall down. Others may call you nutty. At times it may feel like the whole world is rising up to tell you who you cannot become and what you cannot do. (It can upset people when you exceed the limited expectations they’ve always had for you.) And in moments of weakness, your fear and self-doubt may cause you to falter. You may be so exhausted that you want to quit. But the alternatives are even worse: You might find yourself stuck in a miserable rut for years at a time. Or you could spend too many days languishing in regret, always wondering, What would my life have been like if I hadn’t cared so much about what people thought?
And what if you decided right now that you will stop letting fear block you? What if you learned to live with it, to ride its wave to heights you never knew were possible? You might discover the joy of tuning out what everybody wants for you and finally pay attention to what you need. And learn that, ultimately, you have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself. That is what it truly means to live without fear—and to keep reaching for your best life.
The true measure of your courage is not whether you reach your goal—it’s whether you decide to get back on your feet no matter how many times you’ve failed. I know it’s not easy, but I also know for sure that having the courage to stand up and pursue your wildest dreams will give you life’s richest reward and life’s greatest adventure. And what’s really wild? Right now, no matter where you are, you are a single choice away from a new beginning.
One of my defining moments came in the third grade—the day a book report I’d turned in earned my teacher’s praise and made my classmates grudgingly whisper, “She thinks she’s so smart.” For too many years after that, my biggest fear was that others would see me as arrogant. In some ways, even my weight was my apology to the world—my way of saying, “See, I really don’t think I’m better than you.” The last thing I wanted was for my actions to make me appear full of myself.
Beginning when we are girls, most of us are taught to deflect praise. We apologize for our accomplishments. We try to level the field with our family and friends by downplaying our brilliance. We settle for the passenger’s seat when we long to drive. That’s why so many of us have been willing to hide our light as adults. Instead of being filled with all the passion and purpose that enable us to offer our best to the world, we empty ourselves in an effort to silence our critics.
The truth is that the naysayers in your life can never be fully satisfied. Whether you hide or shine, they’ll always feel threatened because they don’t believe they are enough. So stop paying attention to them. Every time you suppress some part of yourself or allow others to play you small, you are ignoring the owner’s manual your Creator gave you. What I know for sure is this: You are built not to shrink down to less but to blossom into more. To be more splendid. To be more extraordinary. To use every moment to fill yourself up.
In 1989 I read this passage in Gary Zukav’s 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.… It is, therefore, wise for us to become aware of the many intentions that inform our experience, to sort out which intentions produce which effects, and to choose our intentions according to the effects that we desire to produce.
That was a life-changing paragraph for me. I had recognized for a long time that I was responsible for my life, that every choice produced a consequence. But often the consequences seemed so out of line with my expectations. That’s because I was expecting one thing but intending another. My intention of always trying to please other people, for example, produced an unwanted consequence: I often felt taken advantage of and used, and people came to expect more, more, more from me.
But the principle of intention helped me realize that other people weren’t the problem—I was. I decided to do only those things that came from the truth of who I am—and doing only that which pleased me to do for others.
What I know for sure is that whatever your situation is right now, you have played a major role in creating it. With every experience, you build your life, thought by thought, choice by choice. And beneath each of those thoughts and choices lies your deepest intention. That’s why, before I make any decision, I ask myself one critical question: What is my real intention?
Since reading that passage in The Seat of the Soul, I have seen time and again how knowing the answer to that question can be your guiding force. The reverse is also true. When you don’t examine your intention, you often end up with consequences that block your progress. Over the years I have witnessed far too many couples who stayed married when they shouldn’t have, simply because their intention was just that—to be married, rather than to be fulfilled. And in the end, each of those couples had a relationship in which there was no regard for intimacy, growth, or building a strong life.
If you’re feeling stuck in your life and want to move forward, start by examining your past motivations. Look closely—I’ve learned that my truest intentions are often hiding in the shadows. Ask yourself: How have my intentions produced the experiences I’m h
aving now? And if I change my intentions, what different consequences will I create? As you make choices that honor who you are, you’ll get exactly what life intended for you—the chance to reach your greatest potential.
I’ve always had a great relationship with money, even when I barely had any to relate to. I never feared not having it and never obsessed about what I had. Like most people, I can remember every salary I ever made. I suppose we remember because a salary helps define the value of our service—and, unfortunately for some people, the value they place on themselves.
I first realized I was not my salary when I was 15 and making 50 cents an hour babysitting Mrs. Ashberry’s rowdy kids, and cleaning up after she pulled nearly every outfit from her closet every time she got dressed. Her bedroom always looked like the end-of-the-day, last-call sale at Macy’s, with shoes and brightly colored necklaces and dresses everywhere. Just before flitting out the door (without leaving any info as to where she was going or how she could be reached), she’d say, “Oh, by the way, dear, would you mind tidying things up a bit?” Well, yes, of course I did mind, and the first time I “tidied up,” I did such a great job, I thought surely she’d pay me extra when she saw how I cleaned not only her room but the kids’ rooms, too. She never did. So I moved on and found a job that would pay me more—a job where I thought my efforts would be appreciated.
There was a five-and-dime not far from my father’s store, and I got hired there for $1.50 an hour. My job was to keep things straight, stock shelves, fold socks. I wasn’t allowed to work the cash register or speak to customers. I hated it. Two hours in, I found myself counting the minutes to lunch, then to quitting time. Even at 15 I knew in my soul this was no way to live, or make money. I was bored beyond anything I’ve ever felt before or since. So after three days, I quit and went to work in my father’s store—for no salary. I didn’t like working there, either, but at least I could talk to people and not feel like my spirit was being drained by the hour. Still, I knew that no matter how much my father wanted it to be, that store would not be a part of my future life.