The poet

The dictionary defines the word "expectation":  A strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future; A belief that someone will or should achieve something.

We all have expectations of each other.  Every relationship is built on assumptions and expectations that are developed over time.  Bumps occur when someone does something (or doesn't do something) that is contrary to what you expected of them.  Learning how to manage these inevitable moments is basic conflict resolution 101.

All the conflict theory in the world, though, has not taught me a single thing about how to manage my own inner voices when it comes to dealing with others' expectations of me and my own perceptions of whether or not I meet these expectations.  And, to be honest, whether or not my perceptions of these expectations are even real.

Maybe it was growing up in the context of a large extended family.  Maybe it was being raised in a fairly conservative faith community.  Maybe it's partly fear based.  Maybe it's all of that, and more.

True confessions: I am a people-pleaser.  In the last 18 months, this is something that has become increasingly clear to me.  And I'm not very happy about it.

I prefer to see myself as strong, independent, clear-minded.  I know I am these things sometimes.  But in honesty, I also am very affiliating, afraid of criticism, and desperate for the approval of others.  Like every other human person, I make mistakes and I fail to meet expectations.  And I kick myself around the block for it.

On a beautiful golden Sunday, I read Mary Oliver and know she is writing to me.

The Poet with his Face in his Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.