I once had a job that in theory should have been a dream but the woman I worked for squatted at her cauldron all night stirring up ways to make me miserable. Each morning, as I pulled into work I'd see that she had already zipped in over the treetops and parked her broom in its normal place. Any hopes of a good day were over.
Now as much as I would relish the recounting (see post labelled ruminating) of every wicked deed she directed at me, I'll spare you the warty details. Lets just say she was not a novice at her craft and I'm pretty sure that in the chaos of her office was a jar containing the preserved testicular matter of the two poor guy's who preceded me. Or maybe she had already stirred them into the cauldron under a waning moon. Anyway, this was a case where being a girl helped as I got to leave with all body parts in tact.
If it weren't for pesky little issues like feeding myself and keeping a roof over my head, I would have walked off the job somewhere close to 13,984 times in the 2000 years I worked there. Wait, no, my bad - the 2000 years was in witch time- in mere mortal time it was only 2 years. Oh the toll it took! And not just on me but on anyone who was unlucky enough to have ever given me their phone number.
My coworker Mike took the brunt of my ruminating and I adore him for his patient listening. Truly, I'm so grateful that I would give him my first-born son but a) I'm a Dried-Up-Old-Maid and b) he'd rather I find him a boyfriend. (Yeah, he is that type but you knew that as soon as you saw the words "patient listening", didn't you?) Anyway, the truly most wonderful thing he gave me was what has become one of my catchphrases. "Don't take her home with you" he would frequently say as the workday was ending and we were parting ways. "She can make your workday miserable but she can't make your personal life miserable unless you let her." I hated him for saying that. But I knew he had a point.
Ignoring his warning though, I would carefully pack her into my mental briefcase and take her home. Well, practice makes perfect and that she gave me plenty of practice. (Am I supposed to thank her for the opportunity?) And little bit by little bit I got better at leaving her at work. But let me tell you- leaving her at work was harder work than "work"! I caught myself time and time again every evening and every weekend mentally bringing her into my private life and used every gimmick to chase her away. The keys were a) recognizing that I had a choice and b) detaching enough from my thoughts to observe them so that I could c) distract myself.
I wonder if anyone ever reaches "Perfection" with skills like this? I sure haven't. But I do think I'm a teeny bit better about choosing what I dwell on. And even on this Halloween night, I may entertain some goblins and ghost...but I won't let the witch in.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Catch a Wave of Distraction
I know you are supposed to make important decisions from "a good place." But there was no way a position of strength would be rolling in with the tide for me: I just had a major blow to my equilibrium. I was already in Dante's fifth circle of hell. I had to grasp at a Plan B. If I couldn't muster being proactive from a position of strength, at least I could try to get myself to "do the right thing" on my behalf while I knew I was still distracted.
I was distracted for a minute while bemoaning my plight on the phone. A joke was made. Levity. The dark clouds of Hell, Fifth Circle, broke open juuuust enough. While still on the phone, I acted fast (click & go away you thing that is like crack cocaine to me). I couldn't have done it without the brief distraction. If I had waited 'til I was off the phone, I would've given my stinkin' thinkin' time to pull me down deeper.
I realized this worked in the same way distraction works when I need to get my blood drawn. You'll never get me to "be okay with" getting my blood drawn: I get anxious & queezy every time. (What a whimp)! But I CAN be distracted. The nurse makes a fart noise and my laughing for just one second is enough for me to accept that needle without going down for the count. It's not exactly taking the high road, but it works.
So, today I learned that sometimes catching a wave of distraction can pull me out from under just long enough for me to try to swim back to shore safely again.
So, next time I'm drowning, can you just make a fart noise please?
I was distracted for a minute while bemoaning my plight on the phone. A joke was made. Levity. The dark clouds of Hell, Fifth Circle, broke open juuuust enough. While still on the phone, I acted fast (click & go away you thing that is like crack cocaine to me). I couldn't have done it without the brief distraction. If I had waited 'til I was off the phone, I would've given my stinkin' thinkin' time to pull me down deeper.
I realized this worked in the same way distraction works when I need to get my blood drawn. You'll never get me to "be okay with" getting my blood drawn: I get anxious & queezy every time. (What a whimp)! But I CAN be distracted. The nurse makes a fart noise and my laughing for just one second is enough for me to accept that needle without going down for the count. It's not exactly taking the high road, but it works.
So, today I learned that sometimes catching a wave of distraction can pull me out from under just long enough for me to try to swim back to shore safely again.
So, next time I'm drowning, can you just make a fart noise please?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
A Little Crap is Better Than Big Sh-- !
Probably like most of you, I can get pretty frustrated with my own family. They know how to push my buttons better than anyone else because they're the ones who did the initial install!
Every family has its crap. Crap is normally annoying, very happiness detracting. Little did I know that the horrible nightmare created by my in-laws would be a hidden, happiness-building blessing. The great bag of sh-- I get from my in-laws has allowed me the opportunity to newly appreciate MY family's crap. I am so grateful, so blissfully happy to be with my family now. My family members haven't changed (--gotten worse in fact with age), but my perspective has changed about them.
I am now happy to be stuck with my family's crap. In fact, I kiss the crap my family walks on because now I know it sure beats having to deal with what is much, much worse, the unfamiliar, the dark side, "the Others:" my husband's family who make the guests of the Jerry Springer Show look like smarmy Reader's Digest characters.
And so, I'm happier from a surprising twist. You sure won't hear this message preached from any pulpit, but thank God, "a little crap is better than big sh--!" Amen!
Every family has its crap. Crap is normally annoying, very happiness detracting. Little did I know that the horrible nightmare created by my in-laws would be a hidden, happiness-building blessing. The great bag of sh-- I get from my in-laws has allowed me the opportunity to newly appreciate MY family's crap. I am so grateful, so blissfully happy to be with my family now. My family members haven't changed (--gotten worse in fact with age), but my perspective has changed about them.
I am now happy to be stuck with my family's crap. In fact, I kiss the crap my family walks on because now I know it sure beats having to deal with what is much, much worse, the unfamiliar, the dark side, "the Others:" my husband's family who make the guests of the Jerry Springer Show look like smarmy Reader's Digest characters.
And so, I'm happier from a surprising twist. You sure won't hear this message preached from any pulpit, but thank God, "a little crap is better than big sh--!" Amen!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Chewing on the Cud
Guilty as accused. In his book Authentic Happiness, Martin Seligman says that women tend to ruminate about problems while men tend to do something active and distracting like go out in the driveway and shoot hoops. And you can probably guess that "chewing the cud" is not a recommended path to a sunshiney outlook.
Well, I figure I've chewed more cud in my life than all the cows in Texas put together. In fact, the synonyms for "ruminate" sound like the total contents of my mind: cogitate, contemplate, mull, ponder, speculate. And when I run out of self-propelled ruminating power, I call friends and family for emergency rumination assistance and push until they too chew my cud. Yum, yum. Now I'm pretty sure that those original cud chewers, the cows, only regurgitate and rechew their fodder once to get all the good out of it that they are ever going to get and I'm doubly sure that cud-chewing is never a group activity.
I'm getting better about it. Perfect? Hah. I still love the old "he said, she said" rehash of a recent Trauma Drama. But now I realize the poor choice I'm making when I start down that path and instead, I head out to the meadow to eat buttercups.
"The cows are in the meadow eating buttercups." From "Ring Around the Rosie" second verse.
Well, I figure I've chewed more cud in my life than all the cows in Texas put together. In fact, the synonyms for "ruminate" sound like the total contents of my mind: cogitate, contemplate, mull, ponder, speculate. And when I run out of self-propelled ruminating power, I call friends and family for emergency rumination assistance and push until they too chew my cud. Yum, yum. Now I'm pretty sure that those original cud chewers, the cows, only regurgitate and rechew their fodder once to get all the good out of it that they are ever going to get and I'm doubly sure that cud-chewing is never a group activity.
I'm getting better about it. Perfect? Hah. I still love the old "he said, she said" rehash of a recent Trauma Drama. But now I realize the poor choice I'm making when I start down that path and instead, I head out to the meadow to eat buttercups.
"The cows are in the meadow eating buttercups." From "Ring Around the Rosie" second verse.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Less News Watching Equals Happier Me
Arggghhhh! A classic Sunday morning mistake on my part- I turned on the news. Now a little itty-bitty tiny bit of news watching is necessary if you want to retain your "Good Citizen" award (and we all should) and gives you something to talk about with strangers sitting next to you in the airport. Beyond that, it is similar to sticking bamboo slivers under my own fingernails - it just hurts, especially right now. Yes, in this particular "right now", the economy is scarier than all the old "Halloween" movies put together: there are real goblins knocking at our countries' door, and people are getting in knife fights over a few gallons of gas. Not watching the news is not equal to being passive. And although I'm not quite ready to announce my run for the presidency next time around, I'll do what I can about the things I can do something about and that includes voting.
In the meantime, I'm surfing right on past the news programs on a wild hunt for something with a bit more levity or escape or beauty or something. Wish me happy channel surfing.
In the meantime, I'm surfing right on past the news programs on a wild hunt for something with a bit more levity or escape or beauty or something. Wish me happy channel surfing.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Wiggling My Little Finger
"Leave me alone! Don't make me get up, just let me lay here." I want to whisper. But Mean Yoga Lady wants me to vacate my place on the floor to make room for the 11:30 class. With a streak of sadism that yoga instructors seem to thrive on, she had lulled us all to a semi-comatose state and now that she has us all hanging on the edge of slumber, the witch wants us to get up.
But I have to give her a bit of credit...she lulls us out of our relaxed state too. "Wiggle your little finger a bit," she suggest. "No, I don't want to," I argue with her in my mind. I'm so comfortable where I am, so relaxed, I'm not even sure I CAN will my finger to move. But I try and it works: my little finger moves. "Now wiggle the rest of your fingers, wiggle your toes, rotate your wrists" and on she goes. In just a matter of seconds, we're back on our feet, rolling up our mats, and headed to the door.
Not that I've ever, ever suffered a bout of the lazies, not ever, I say, but IF I ever find myself with a lack of general motivation I'm going to channel Mean Yoga Lady and figuratively "wiggle my little finger". If I can't face the mountain of laundry maybe I can at least carry a basket of clothes to the laundry room. And geez, once I'm there maybe I can just put it in the machine.
But I have to give her a bit of credit...she lulls us out of our relaxed state too. "Wiggle your little finger a bit," she suggest. "No, I don't want to," I argue with her in my mind. I'm so comfortable where I am, so relaxed, I'm not even sure I CAN will my finger to move. But I try and it works: my little finger moves. "Now wiggle the rest of your fingers, wiggle your toes, rotate your wrists" and on she goes. In just a matter of seconds, we're back on our feet, rolling up our mats, and headed to the door.
Not that I've ever, ever suffered a bout of the lazies, not ever, I say, but IF I ever find myself with a lack of general motivation I'm going to channel Mean Yoga Lady and figuratively "wiggle my little finger". If I can't face the mountain of laundry maybe I can at least carry a basket of clothes to the laundry room. And geez, once I'm there maybe I can just put it in the machine.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Coping in Tough Times: Put it on the Shelf
With the world financial markets at risk of a systemic collapse, I find myself standing on the edge of near panic. My husband's business is in investment banking. Every penny we saved in our lives together was nearly lost that first day the Dow crashed and our private bank almost tanked. Like many, we're worried about losing our house or our income, or both.
Whenever I begin to think about what might happen, it feels as though I am about to go down a path that ends with a Tsunami that will pound and engulf me. I realize that if I go down the Worry Road, I could start to really freak out-- bawl, tremble, and feel sick to my stomach with paralyzing fear. I'm very good at worrying and the talking heads on the news are adding fuel to the fire of my anxieties.
So, I don't go down that road. I start and then stop myself. Part of me feels like I "neeeed" to go there, like I have to worry because somehow that gives me a sense of control or that it will help me be more prepared. But I can't prepare for all the possible surprises. So, another part of me knows better: I won't make our situation better by worrying. Many times throughout the day, I find myself having to decide to put my worry on the shelf. If I REALLY feel like I need it, the option to worry is there.
I've learned, though, that you can't just take away some crutch without having something else (ideally, something more productive) to take its place. So, instead of following my Worry Road, I think of something I can DO right now. I have figured out how to save on our car payments. I've sold various household items on craigslist. I'm feeling a sense of creative control about cutting back our home budget by constantly asking myself, 'What do we really need?' I feel oddly proud about the surprising discipline I'm exhibiting over being a newly converted frugal-fascist (to the chagrin of my toy hungry, novelty seeking child and restaurant addicted spouse).
My simple plan to stay sane is to put my worry on the shelf, to focus on our family's vulnerabilities in as practical ways as possible, and to use my powers for obsessing for good (by actively controlling the many little things that I can). I am on a roll! (Just keep me away from the news)!
Whenever I begin to think about what might happen, it feels as though I am about to go down a path that ends with a Tsunami that will pound and engulf me. I realize that if I go down the Worry Road, I could start to really freak out-- bawl, tremble, and feel sick to my stomach with paralyzing fear. I'm very good at worrying and the talking heads on the news are adding fuel to the fire of my anxieties.
So, I don't go down that road. I start and then stop myself. Part of me feels like I "neeeed" to go there, like I have to worry because somehow that gives me a sense of control or that it will help me be more prepared. But I can't prepare for all the possible surprises. So, another part of me knows better: I won't make our situation better by worrying. Many times throughout the day, I find myself having to decide to put my worry on the shelf. If I REALLY feel like I need it, the option to worry is there.
I've learned, though, that you can't just take away some crutch without having something else (ideally, something more productive) to take its place. So, instead of following my Worry Road, I think of something I can DO right now. I have figured out how to save on our car payments. I've sold various household items on craigslist. I'm feeling a sense of creative control about cutting back our home budget by constantly asking myself, 'What do we really need?' I feel oddly proud about the surprising discipline I'm exhibiting over being a newly converted frugal-fascist (to the chagrin of my toy hungry, novelty seeking child and restaurant addicted spouse).
My simple plan to stay sane is to put my worry on the shelf, to focus on our family's vulnerabilities in as practical ways as possible, and to use my powers for obsessing for good (by actively controlling the many little things that I can). I am on a roll! (Just keep me away from the news)!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Brain Pain
I serendipitously coined the phrase "brain pain" when I was writing another post the other day. Ultimately, I edited it out of that post but think it is so deliciously descriptive that it gets to star in its own post today. I love to stock my mental toolbox with handy-dandy little phrases like that so that I can readily pull one out and clobber myself with it when the mood meter dips low.
Like the jargon of any specialty, my own "happiness" jargon is shorthand for a much bigger idea. "Brain pain" is all that pain that only exists in my thoughts. Sometimes it is cud that I'm still chewing from some past ickiness. Sometimes it is pain I'm borrowing from a future that obviously isn't here yet. As I revealed in another post, it might even be angst from a flipping dream that I didn't leave on my pillow when I got up in the morning. I've even had whole arguments with another person that the other party wasn't even aware of because, that's right, the whole drama occurred no where but in my head! But in my head or in reality, it makes no difference, the yucky feelings are all the same and I don't like yucky feelings.
So now that I have this little phrase in my toolbox, I'll use it to help me challenge what is going on in my head and channel surf on past the stuff that is just "brain pain'. After all, there are plenty of fish to fry in real life. I don't need to be creating pretend ones.
Like the jargon of any specialty, my own "happiness" jargon is shorthand for a much bigger idea. "Brain pain" is all that pain that only exists in my thoughts. Sometimes it is cud that I'm still chewing from some past ickiness. Sometimes it is pain I'm borrowing from a future that obviously isn't here yet. As I revealed in another post, it might even be angst from a flipping dream that I didn't leave on my pillow when I got up in the morning. I've even had whole arguments with another person that the other party wasn't even aware of because, that's right, the whole drama occurred no where but in my head! But in my head or in reality, it makes no difference, the yucky feelings are all the same and I don't like yucky feelings.
So now that I have this little phrase in my toolbox, I'll use it to help me challenge what is going on in my head and channel surf on past the stuff that is just "brain pain'. After all, there are plenty of fish to fry in real life. I don't need to be creating pretend ones.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
No Love Stories, Please
If you could look at my resource lists of happy books, movies, and songs, you will not find anything on romance or love stories. Look, I've been married for 16 years. Butterflies, girlish excitement, and the basic gah-gahs are a thing of the past. I don't want to awaken the feelings of tension and yearning that are as associated with being "in love" as peanut butter is with jelly. Even to open the door just a crack to a great love story, leaves me feeling hopelessly wistful sooner or later for parts of l'amour that are no longer in my cards.
Romance creates and feeds off of yearning and longing. I don't need that! Don't get me wrong, I am a typical female in the sense that I adore the fantasy of a charming man who is completely enamored with me. However, time has taught me that most charming men are charming precisely because they have a lot of practice being charming.
Being "in love" is about illusion. It's absolutely, temptingly delicious illusion, but an illusion nonetheless. It ends-- And what's left are two real people in a real relationship with bills, obligations, and sweat pants. I don't want to leave any room for me to be seduced by the idea of being in love, being seduced into the fantasy but left with illusion. Yes, I innately crave the tension filled, dramatic yearning of idyllic romance, but it's never made me happy. So, for this typical female, "No love stories, please."
Romance creates and feeds off of yearning and longing. I don't need that! Don't get me wrong, I am a typical female in the sense that I adore the fantasy of a charming man who is completely enamored with me. However, time has taught me that most charming men are charming precisely because they have a lot of practice being charming.
Being "in love" is about illusion. It's absolutely, temptingly delicious illusion, but an illusion nonetheless. It ends-- And what's left are two real people in a real relationship with bills, obligations, and sweat pants. I don't want to leave any room for me to be seduced by the idea of being in love, being seduced into the fantasy but left with illusion. Yes, I innately crave the tension filled, dramatic yearning of idyllic romance, but it's never made me happy. So, for this typical female, "No love stories, please."
Why I Don't Like Happiness
In another blog entry, I mentioned that I didn't really like the term "happiness" and had "philosophical problems" pursuing it. --Gee, what a downer. Who says stuff like that?! Now we know why I'm not naturally happy go lucky with thoughts like this!
I realize what the problem is: my image of happiness. I resist becoming "happy happy" because I picture a bubbly, wide eyed blond, who is a high energy, cheerleader type whose name ends with an "i" and who dots that "i" with a circle (or worse, a smiley face or heart). That's not me; that's not even the me I would aspire to become.
You can't pursue and achieve a goal unless you have a clear image of that goal (and have a strong desire to achieve that goal). So, I need to realize what happiness would look like for me in detail, what specific, "best possible," happy image of myself would I like to cultivate.
I'm drawn to a quiet kind of happy (vs. the rah-rah, go, go, go, life of the party kind of happy).
Ok, for me: A quiet kind of happy. I need a role model. The only role models I can think of are people I don't know personally. My archetypal image is of one of the many twinkly-eyed, always smiling Buddhist monks who seem so gentle, warm and kind.
Me smiling, warm, gentle, and twinkly-eyed? That's pretty hard to imagine too, but it is more achievable than a super extroverted, high energy kind of happy.
I'm picturing trying on my quiet kind of happy as if it were a soft, warm coat in winter.
I like it. Now this feels like a good fit.
I realize what the problem is: my image of happiness. I resist becoming "happy happy" because I picture a bubbly, wide eyed blond, who is a high energy, cheerleader type whose name ends with an "i" and who dots that "i" with a circle (or worse, a smiley face or heart). That's not me; that's not even the me I would aspire to become.
You can't pursue and achieve a goal unless you have a clear image of that goal (and have a strong desire to achieve that goal). So, I need to realize what happiness would look like for me in detail, what specific, "best possible," happy image of myself would I like to cultivate.
I'm drawn to a quiet kind of happy (vs. the rah-rah, go, go, go, life of the party kind of happy).
Ok, for me: A quiet kind of happy. I need a role model. The only role models I can think of are people I don't know personally. My archetypal image is of one of the many twinkly-eyed, always smiling Buddhist monks who seem so gentle, warm and kind.
Me smiling, warm, gentle, and twinkly-eyed? That's pretty hard to imagine too, but it is more achievable than a super extroverted, high energy kind of happy.
I'm picturing trying on my quiet kind of happy as if it were a soft, warm coat in winter.
I like it. Now this feels like a good fit.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
POEM: "Remember"
No one and no thing can ever take away your worth.
To be uniquely treasurable is in you from your birth.
So when anger, pain, or sorrows appear,
Own them, but don’t let them leave you with fear.
No one and no thing can change who You are.
Only you can extinguish the Light of your star.
Loneliness and hurts may indeed by real,
But never let these feelings your Spirit steal.
Trust also that you are never alone;
The Life in you is your spiritual Home.
To be uniquely treasurable is in you from your birth.
So when anger, pain, or sorrows appear,
Own them, but don’t let them leave you with fear.
No one and no thing can change who You are.
Only you can extinguish the Light of your star.
Loneliness and hurts may indeed by real,
But never let these feelings your Spirit steal.
Trust also that you are never alone;
The Life in you is your spiritual Home.
Toolbox Cope Chest Part I
I need a physical place (a box, this blog site) that I can rummage through and dig out things when I need help feeling happy. When I'm upbeat, I'm proactive and creative, but when I'm already down, I feel stuck and unable to do the very thing I need to help myself. If I could make it easier on myself by having only to open up my little buffet box of happiness tools, then I would be more likely to actually choose one of those things to get me going again.
So, what's in my toolbox of happiness? my own personal cope chest? Tied at number one would have to be animals and nature. If I can cuddle or play with my dog, I feel relief from stress. His happy innocence both comfort and inspire me. If I can get outside and see some big sky, I feel like my problems are little; I feel like the weight of my own little world is off my shoulders.
Music is another biggie. I'm naturally drawn to dramatic music, but it sure doesn't up my happiness quotient. It ups my mood if I belt out a tune, but I also need to listen to upbeat, toe tappin' music. We've included a gadget for a Happy Playlist exactly because we feel we need to have at our fingertips the kind of music you just can't help but move and smile to. I need to work on my own personal playlist. (Note to self: homework assignment for tonight!).
Coming in at number 3: I feel better after having accomplished something, anything-- usually something simple and mindless yet physical. I never felt so great as when I built a small rock wall along our 200 foot driveway.
Number 4: groom home and self. When I feel down, I want to put on sweats and snuggle with my bad mood in a messy bed. Worst thing to do! I may WANT to do that, but what I NEED to do to feel better is get myself and my home looking as best as possible. Clutter depresses me. A sloppy pony tail and workout gear make me feel frumpy.
Number 5: my recent discovery: fake it. Act as if I'm content and I become more content. Smile warmly, feel better instantly. Imagine looking with soft eyes, feel my tension drain from my forehead. Breathe more deeply and relaxed and feel a bit more fulfilled. Speak with patience to my family, feel more like a kinder happier person to be around.
This one's a big work in progress. More later....
So, what's in my toolbox of happiness? my own personal cope chest? Tied at number one would have to be animals and nature. If I can cuddle or play with my dog, I feel relief from stress. His happy innocence both comfort and inspire me. If I can get outside and see some big sky, I feel like my problems are little; I feel like the weight of my own little world is off my shoulders.
Music is another biggie. I'm naturally drawn to dramatic music, but it sure doesn't up my happiness quotient. It ups my mood if I belt out a tune, but I also need to listen to upbeat, toe tappin' music. We've included a gadget for a Happy Playlist exactly because we feel we need to have at our fingertips the kind of music you just can't help but move and smile to. I need to work on my own personal playlist. (Note to self: homework assignment for tonight!).
Coming in at number 3: I feel better after having accomplished something, anything-- usually something simple and mindless yet physical. I never felt so great as when I built a small rock wall along our 200 foot driveway.
Number 4: groom home and self. When I feel down, I want to put on sweats and snuggle with my bad mood in a messy bed. Worst thing to do! I may WANT to do that, but what I NEED to do to feel better is get myself and my home looking as best as possible. Clutter depresses me. A sloppy pony tail and workout gear make me feel frumpy.
Number 5: my recent discovery: fake it. Act as if I'm content and I become more content. Smile warmly, feel better instantly. Imagine looking with soft eyes, feel my tension drain from my forehead. Breathe more deeply and relaxed and feel a bit more fulfilled. Speak with patience to my family, feel more like a kinder happier person to be around.
This one's a big work in progress. More later....
Toolbox Tidbit: Fake it!
I am by nature an introvert. I like what my mother calls "deep thinky thoughts;" to recharge my batteries, I need alone time. I also love to analyze things. All of these things that I am naturally drawn to are the enemies of greater happiness.
I often resist the term "happiness." I have philosophical problems with it. Is it a worthy goal? Perhaps I should strive for quiet contentment or mindful awareness. Hmm, let me struggle with the ideas for a while. No! Get out of your head! Stop analyzing everything and just DO something different. But what? I have tons to do, lots to keep me busy, but I find these activities, chores and duties unfulfilling. So, what now?
I picture the type of person I want to be. I want to be like this woman I met in grad. school who did yoga and centering prayer every day for the past 12 years. She had a softness to her. She was quiet, warm, but glowed. Cliche's I suppose, but all true and very rare. I want to be like her. Instead, I analyze, stress, yearn, ache, and worry. And then I berate myself for these things and feel hopeless about ever being any different.
Stop. Don't go there (again and again). Do something different. Picture her. Channel her. And so I just smile like I think she did. And . . .Oh . . . My. . . God. It works. I actually feel instantly better just having a soft smile on my face. How can that be? Who cares. It works. Keep it up, I say!
I will fake it 'til I make it. I'm not warm, glowy, and content, but if I go through all the motions as if I were, I sure am a lot closer to being like that than with anything else I can try today.
Signed, with soft eyes, a gentle smile, and more happiness.
I often resist the term "happiness." I have philosophical problems with it. Is it a worthy goal? Perhaps I should strive for quiet contentment or mindful awareness. Hmm, let me struggle with the ideas for a while. No! Get out of your head! Stop analyzing everything and just DO something different. But what? I have tons to do, lots to keep me busy, but I find these activities, chores and duties unfulfilling. So, what now?
I picture the type of person I want to be. I want to be like this woman I met in grad. school who did yoga and centering prayer every day for the past 12 years. She had a softness to her. She was quiet, warm, but glowed. Cliche's I suppose, but all true and very rare. I want to be like her. Instead, I analyze, stress, yearn, ache, and worry. And then I berate myself for these things and feel hopeless about ever being any different.
Stop. Don't go there (again and again). Do something different. Picture her. Channel her. And so I just smile like I think she did. And . . .Oh . . . My. . . God. It works. I actually feel instantly better just having a soft smile on my face. How can that be? Who cares. It works. Keep it up, I say!
I will fake it 'til I make it. I'm not warm, glowy, and content, but if I go through all the motions as if I were, I sure am a lot closer to being like that than with anything else I can try today.
Signed, with soft eyes, a gentle smile, and more happiness.
It Was Just a Dream
"It was just a dream. Let it go," I keep telling myself. And then I start rewinding it in my mind once again, dissecting every word and action in this drama that occurred only in my head. I start feeling anxious, angry, tearful. "It was just a dream. Let it go," But something in me keeps pulling towards this little piece of mental masochism. A friend once speculated that most folk seem to crave a frequent hit of melancholy and will go out of their way to find it. (If that sounds implausible, then maybe you are one of the hundred people in the world that didn't flock to see the movies Beaches, Titanic, or The Notebook.)
Maybe that is why I keep returning to the dream. Whatever the reason though, I don't have enough moments in my day to choose to waste any on feeling rotten about something that did not even happen. But my attempt to coach myself out of it is failing so I pull another tool out of my GetHappy toolbox and go for distraction. Yes, at 6:30 in the morning I resort to the remote control. Five minutes of a carefully chosen program and the dream's grip on me has diminished. Chalk one victory up to distraction!
Maybe that is why I keep returning to the dream. Whatever the reason though, I don't have enough moments in my day to choose to waste any on feeling rotten about something that did not even happen. But my attempt to coach myself out of it is failing so I pull another tool out of my GetHappy toolbox and go for distraction. Yes, at 6:30 in the morning I resort to the remote control. Five minutes of a carefully chosen program and the dream's grip on me has diminished. Chalk one victory up to distraction!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Coddling My Egg
My friend Runner is constantly perky, upbeat, and positive so over the years I have, of course, had to examine her psychology every which way I can in an effort to either a) develop a strategy to undermine her natural tendencies and bring her down to my level or b) develop a strategy to be more like her. If my brain chemistry is lined up right, I go for option b and what I've discovered is that she ferociously protects her happiness. It is like she has an invisible shield that she readily throws out in front of her any time ANYTHING negative comes her way. Watch a sad movie? It isn't going to happen. Why would she want to borrow some fictional characters sadness? Listen to sad music? Why would she chose songs that depress her? Listen to your sob story? Nah.
Runner is an athlete so the vision of actively throwing out a shield seems to fit her. Me, I'm more a gentle nurturer and have developed my own imagery to help me hold onto the concept of protecting my happiness. It works better to think of my happiness as an intricately decorated and very valuable fragile egg that I have to protect. I can't be careless, reckless, or casual about its care or it will be ruined. I'm trying to look at everything that I allow into the moments of life to determine whether it is going to emotionally be helpful or hurtful. Is it going to be bring me up or is going to bring me down? Sometimes is is easier than it is at other times to make those choices but the reality persist: in every moment, the choice is mine.
My dorky bike
I may have the dorkiest bicycle in town. It is a late 60's vintage English-made Raleigh, black with finned fenders front and back. All it needs is a big basket and I'd be ready to bike to my job at the factory in the British countryside. That is if I lived in the British countryside and if I had a job (yeah, that is a bit of a temporary challenge to my Happiness Quotient).
I love my bike though partly because it is so incredibly dorky and uncool. Its uncoolness means that it isn't a "serious" bike for a "serious' biker. It isn't meant for speed, it is never going to participate in a triathalon, there will never be any need for me to pin official my official race number to my shirt before I get on it. And if it isn't a "serious" bike then it must by default be a fun bike which is exactly what I need: a bike that is supposed to be ridden with my head up and a ready smile for passing neighbors. It is a bike that isn't insulted when I coast all the way downhill because coasting is just plain old fun. It doesn't feel underutilized when I peddle slowly past a nearby marsh to watch the herons fly into their nightly roost. It doesn't admonish me when I park it outside while I go in and get ice cream.
No, this bike wants to have fun too. What I've found is that as soon as I get on it and peddle a quarter mile, my troubles start to melt away. Maybe it takes me back to those carefree days of childhood, maybe it is the feeling of soaring that bike riding provides, but whatever it is, my Happiness Quotient goes up as soon as the first peddle goes down.
So here is my committment: the next time I'm feeling blue, instead of flopping in front of the tv and channel-surfing, I'm going to CHOOSE to take advantage of this instant mood-lifter and go for a spin.
I love my bike though partly because it is so incredibly dorky and uncool. Its uncoolness means that it isn't a "serious" bike for a "serious' biker. It isn't meant for speed, it is never going to participate in a triathalon, there will never be any need for me to pin official my official race number to my shirt before I get on it. And if it isn't a "serious" bike then it must by default be a fun bike which is exactly what I need: a bike that is supposed to be ridden with my head up and a ready smile for passing neighbors. It is a bike that isn't insulted when I coast all the way downhill because coasting is just plain old fun. It doesn't feel underutilized when I peddle slowly past a nearby marsh to watch the herons fly into their nightly roost. It doesn't admonish me when I park it outside while I go in and get ice cream.
No, this bike wants to have fun too. What I've found is that as soon as I get on it and peddle a quarter mile, my troubles start to melt away. Maybe it takes me back to those carefree days of childhood, maybe it is the feeling of soaring that bike riding provides, but whatever it is, my Happiness Quotient goes up as soon as the first peddle goes down.
So here is my committment: the next time I'm feeling blue, instead of flopping in front of the tv and channel-surfing, I'm going to CHOOSE to take advantage of this instant mood-lifter and go for a spin.
A Bad Photo of Myself
There is nothing that gets me down like a bad photo of myself. Okay, it’s an exaggeration to say this since there are of course other things that are far worse, but I’m trying to underscore a point. When I see a bad picture of myself, it unwittingly opens the flood gates to all the negative feelings I have about my appearance.
I was having a pretty good day before I went to go get my new passport pictures taken. After I saw my new photos, my mood plummeted to the depths of despair. No matter how I felt about what I looked like walking into the store where my photo was taken, I now saw the “real” evidence of how I look: ugly. Not one feature met any of the ideal beauty standards. It was hopeless. Why did I even bother doing my hair, putting on makeup, or dressing nicely? It’s as futile as throwing glitter on poop. It still stinks. (See, I wasn’t kidding about it sending me into despair)!
It’s strange because I do have a number of photos in which I look great. The problem is that I experience these photos the same way a “friend” once did when she saw a great photo of me: She exclaimed, “Oh my God! You look gorgeous! It doesn’t look a thing like you!” Uh, yeah. Thanks for the compliment. But I felt she was telling a truth. I know how to take a good photo: I turn my face three quarters, suck in my cheeks, purse my lips, and “voilá!” a good photo, but it’s not really what I look like.
This could be a very, very long article about how all women are judged by their appearance, how our self-identities are in the hands’ of others’ defining gaze, and how the very thing we are socialized to prize (our youthful, feminine appearance) is a ticking time bomb set to blow up with old age. The intellectualization of the problem doesn’t matter here. What matters is the practical bottom line: here’s something that really unravels me so what am I going to do about it? I hate the power I allow my appearance to have over my happiness.
Here are the things I try that help:
First, I challenge my thoughts the way my best friend would. “OK, it is at least possible that this is just a bad photo of me and that it does NOT reflect what I really look like.”
Of course, I never believe that crap when I’m already feeling down but I suspend my negative attitude enough so that just going through the motions of challenging my negative thoughts has some positive effect despite myself.
What works a bit better is putting things in perspective. I say to myself, “An hour ago you were feeling fine. You looked at a photo and feel terrible. But nothing has actually changed. You’re the same person across all these situations and moods. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass (or come and go).” I also note that “Even IF it were true that you are unattractive, it doesn’t matter to you most of the time anyway. So, why let it matter to you right now?” It’s a tactic kind of like the one my husband uses on me when I’m mad at him: he asks me, “How long will you be mad?” I realize that precisely because it is not a constant state that I CAN ask myself, “how long is this depressive funk going to last?” So, if I’m going to stop being upset eventually anyway, why not sooner rather than later?
Another thing I try is reminding myself about balance and choice. Yes, it is true you are not the most attractive woman on the earth, but neither are you the least attractive. Which side of this are you going to choose to focus on?
I also silently yell at myself, “Stop being so flippin’ narcissistic!” Get over the obsession with your looks and do something productive for others! (This works to make me feel guilty, but the guilt is nonetheless a slight shift away from utter self-pity).
Sometimes I try the standard New Age cliché by asking myself, “What is this trying to teach me?” Whether I’m an awkward looking teen or a midlifer having to face the signs of age, maybe it’s time I learn to accept the inevitable: I cannot rely on my looks to be happy; so, I might as well learn to start dealing better now.
Many times I cope by resolving to try harder. I recommit to better nutrition and more exercise. I start planning all the cosmetic procedures I could endure; I resolve to be one of those women who vow not to age gracefully but fight it tooth and nail every step of the way. I will have cleavage. I will be more feminine. I will be immaculately groomed. . . And then I get tired of all the effort. . . Or the feminist in me gets ticked both with myself and with the cultural ideals of womanhood.
I certainly haven’t solved this little Achilles Heel of mine. Usually time takes care of it. Luckily, I have an attention demanding little child who does not allow me the luxury of bathing in many ruminatory thoughts.
Of course, there is always one sure fire cure to my ugly-mood-blues. They seem somehow to magically evaporate the moment Mr. Man-on-the-Street sends an admiring glance. --- Uh, no! Maybe we’ve got a lot of work to do here!
I was having a pretty good day before I went to go get my new passport pictures taken. After I saw my new photos, my mood plummeted to the depths of despair. No matter how I felt about what I looked like walking into the store where my photo was taken, I now saw the “real” evidence of how I look: ugly. Not one feature met any of the ideal beauty standards. It was hopeless. Why did I even bother doing my hair, putting on makeup, or dressing nicely? It’s as futile as throwing glitter on poop. It still stinks. (See, I wasn’t kidding about it sending me into despair)!
It’s strange because I do have a number of photos in which I look great. The problem is that I experience these photos the same way a “friend” once did when she saw a great photo of me: She exclaimed, “Oh my God! You look gorgeous! It doesn’t look a thing like you!” Uh, yeah. Thanks for the compliment. But I felt she was telling a truth. I know how to take a good photo: I turn my face three quarters, suck in my cheeks, purse my lips, and “voilá!” a good photo, but it’s not really what I look like.
This could be a very, very long article about how all women are judged by their appearance, how our self-identities are in the hands’ of others’ defining gaze, and how the very thing we are socialized to prize (our youthful, feminine appearance) is a ticking time bomb set to blow up with old age. The intellectualization of the problem doesn’t matter here. What matters is the practical bottom line: here’s something that really unravels me so what am I going to do about it? I hate the power I allow my appearance to have over my happiness.
Here are the things I try that help:
First, I challenge my thoughts the way my best friend would. “OK, it is at least possible that this is just a bad photo of me and that it does NOT reflect what I really look like.”
Of course, I never believe that crap when I’m already feeling down but I suspend my negative attitude enough so that just going through the motions of challenging my negative thoughts has some positive effect despite myself.
What works a bit better is putting things in perspective. I say to myself, “An hour ago you were feeling fine. You looked at a photo and feel terrible. But nothing has actually changed. You’re the same person across all these situations and moods. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass (or come and go).” I also note that “Even IF it were true that you are unattractive, it doesn’t matter to you most of the time anyway. So, why let it matter to you right now?” It’s a tactic kind of like the one my husband uses on me when I’m mad at him: he asks me, “How long will you be mad?” I realize that precisely because it is not a constant state that I CAN ask myself, “how long is this depressive funk going to last?” So, if I’m going to stop being upset eventually anyway, why not sooner rather than later?
Another thing I try is reminding myself about balance and choice. Yes, it is true you are not the most attractive woman on the earth, but neither are you the least attractive. Which side of this are you going to choose to focus on?
I also silently yell at myself, “Stop being so flippin’ narcissistic!” Get over the obsession with your looks and do something productive for others! (This works to make me feel guilty, but the guilt is nonetheless a slight shift away from utter self-pity).
Sometimes I try the standard New Age cliché by asking myself, “What is this trying to teach me?” Whether I’m an awkward looking teen or a midlifer having to face the signs of age, maybe it’s time I learn to accept the inevitable: I cannot rely on my looks to be happy; so, I might as well learn to start dealing better now.
Many times I cope by resolving to try harder. I recommit to better nutrition and more exercise. I start planning all the cosmetic procedures I could endure; I resolve to be one of those women who vow not to age gracefully but fight it tooth and nail every step of the way. I will have cleavage. I will be more feminine. I will be immaculately groomed. . . And then I get tired of all the effort. . . Or the feminist in me gets ticked both with myself and with the cultural ideals of womanhood.
I certainly haven’t solved this little Achilles Heel of mine. Usually time takes care of it. Luckily, I have an attention demanding little child who does not allow me the luxury of bathing in many ruminatory thoughts.
Of course, there is always one sure fire cure to my ugly-mood-blues. They seem somehow to magically evaporate the moment Mr. Man-on-the-Street sends an admiring glance. --- Uh, no! Maybe we’ve got a lot of work to do here!
Won't Go There!
I’ve read a lot of self-help books. . . way, way too many self-help books. I’ve searched through plenty of books on various spiritualities and perused much of the positive psychology literature. What I’ve found is that many of these authors underscore the importance of monitoring your thoughts. “You can be happy no matter what” because you decide what thoughts to have about a situation. You can “Learn Optimism” by restructuring negative thoughts in a way that lets more positive thoughts sink in and take root. Even the thought focusing techniques described in the Dalai Lama’s book, The Art of Happiness, match a basic premise behind cognitive behavioral therapy: In order to be happy (or more content, mindful, relaxed, etc.), you have to increase the thoughts that make you happy and decrease the thoughts that don’t.
Lately, I’ve been trying to up my focus on meditation as a means of softening my naturally neurotic (anxious) thoughts. Over the years, I’ve tried to “be still,” “be in the moment,” “be mindful,” and “let go.” I’ve had few hits and lots of misses. Most of the time, I feel the urge to yell, “Shut up!” at all my constant mental noise.
“They” (the many experts I’ve read) all agree that it’s normal to have this mental squirming as soon as you try to be still. They urge me just not to give up, to keep sitting, and inner stillness will come with patience and practice. So, I keep sitting and waiting (impatiently). They also say to observe your thoughts without judgment as they arise and just let them go. I’ve been trying to let go, let go, let go. Relax. Observe without judgment. The few times I’ve even achieved this state it has never felt like it really clicked. I didn’t realize that there might be a better way for me.
I read one little tidbit that has completely changed my meditation experience: When distracting thoughts arise, simply tell your ego, “You can go there, but I’m not following you.”
It was written as a sideline almost, but it just struck me. I tried and loved it right away. I love the different feeling I get from these nuanced words. When I try to just sit, observe, be aware, be mindful, and let go, I seem to squirm even more. To me, there’s something too passive about it. When I say instead, “I am not following you” I am acknowledging the distracting thought; I’m aware that it’s coming from ‘little me’ and not the eternal ‘I’ and I’m allowing little me to do what it wants, “go ahead and pursue it, but I won’t go there.”
This advice helps me step back just like the other “observe-and-let-go” technique. It helps me separate my ego identity from my higher, spiritual identity just like the other technique, but this other “won’t go there” tool allows me to feel both stronger and lighter somehow. I’m not giving up control; I’m allowing for real control. I’m not frustrating myself or focusing on what I can’t or shouldn’t do (because I have to let my thoughts and desires GO); I’m making a proactive decision about something I DO want; I’m no longer trying to avoid being pulled in a distracting direction; I’m choosing where I want sit spiritually and psychically.
Struggling to “observe and let go” left me feeling a bit like I’m STILL (after ALL . . . THESE . . . YEARS) in the equivalent of spiritual preschool. With this slight change to “I’m not going there,” I feel more like my very own wise spiritual parent. I assume the role of one who is comfortable enough to let the rebellious, naughty side have its way without my having to fight it at all. I discover that I am able to smile on the inside about its rebellious, scrambling ways while I choose to be here, in this moment of quiet strength. And finally, that feels great!
Lately, I’ve been trying to up my focus on meditation as a means of softening my naturally neurotic (anxious) thoughts. Over the years, I’ve tried to “be still,” “be in the moment,” “be mindful,” and “let go.” I’ve had few hits and lots of misses. Most of the time, I feel the urge to yell, “Shut up!” at all my constant mental noise.
“They” (the many experts I’ve read) all agree that it’s normal to have this mental squirming as soon as you try to be still. They urge me just not to give up, to keep sitting, and inner stillness will come with patience and practice. So, I keep sitting and waiting (impatiently). They also say to observe your thoughts without judgment as they arise and just let them go. I’ve been trying to let go, let go, let go. Relax. Observe without judgment. The few times I’ve even achieved this state it has never felt like it really clicked. I didn’t realize that there might be a better way for me.
I read one little tidbit that has completely changed my meditation experience: When distracting thoughts arise, simply tell your ego, “You can go there, but I’m not following you.”
It was written as a sideline almost, but it just struck me. I tried and loved it right away. I love the different feeling I get from these nuanced words. When I try to just sit, observe, be aware, be mindful, and let go, I seem to squirm even more. To me, there’s something too passive about it. When I say instead, “I am not following you” I am acknowledging the distracting thought; I’m aware that it’s coming from ‘little me’ and not the eternal ‘I’ and I’m allowing little me to do what it wants, “go ahead and pursue it, but I won’t go there.”
This advice helps me step back just like the other “observe-and-let-go” technique. It helps me separate my ego identity from my higher, spiritual identity just like the other technique, but this other “won’t go there” tool allows me to feel both stronger and lighter somehow. I’m not giving up control; I’m allowing for real control. I’m not frustrating myself or focusing on what I can’t or shouldn’t do (because I have to let my thoughts and desires GO); I’m making a proactive decision about something I DO want; I’m no longer trying to avoid being pulled in a distracting direction; I’m choosing where I want sit spiritually and psychically.
Struggling to “observe and let go” left me feeling a bit like I’m STILL (after ALL . . . THESE . . . YEARS) in the equivalent of spiritual preschool. With this slight change to “I’m not going there,” I feel more like my very own wise spiritual parent. I assume the role of one who is comfortable enough to let the rebellious, naughty side have its way without my having to fight it at all. I discover that I am able to smile on the inside about its rebellious, scrambling ways while I choose to be here, in this moment of quiet strength. And finally, that feels great!
A Donkey Will Always Be A Donkey (An Ass is an Ass)
When my dog bites me, I get mad but I don’t feel betrayed and I don’t hold a grudge. When my husband acts like an ass (I mean, a donkey), I often attribute it to his malicious intent or purposeful neglect. Instead, I need to just remind myself that even though these beings with whom I am in relationship (husband, two mothers-in-law, father, etc.) walk and talk like rational humans, I would be better off if I thought of them as different kinds of animals.
If I really thought of my mother-in-law as a snake, I wouldn’t get so worked up about her as I do. I’d just think, “My son loves to play with this snake; this snake will never bite him, but *I* don’t like snakes. And if I ever get close to being seduced into believing I might be able to trust the snake, I have got to remember: this is a snake; it’s just in a snake’s nature to bite when it’s threatened. Never fully let your guard down.” To personalize it, to get upset, or entrenched with rage over how the snake treats me would be silly. Instead, I could just view things practically: when around a snake, use basic precautions, that’s all.
I once got into a HUGE argument with my other mother-in-law. (What karma blessed me with having not one but two)? I kept pushing her to just talk to me about why she was angry but she evaded --until my continued pressing led her finally to blow up. I should have been smarter. If instead I had perceived her as an animal, I would not have expected this scared kitten, stubborn goat, innocent rabbit, or whatever to be capable of having a rational conversation. In turn, if she had pictured me as a stubborn ol' mule in her own right, we might have spared ourselves a huge blow out altogether.
I believe it was in Thomas Moore’s Care of the Soul that the author suggests thinking about the people in our lives as eccentric characters in a novel. My suggestion is in a similar vein of thought. The bottom line is that in order to be in a better place in my relationships I sometimes have to find ways to lighten up, to depersonalize, and to relativize who all the actors and participants are (including myself).
The Buddhists are right; it really is our expectations of others that cause so much suffering. As a kid, I expected my father to be a father, to be the adult in our relationship. So, I would get really upset when he was even more psychologically needy than I was. I have to get over stuff like that. We’re all human; all flawed. There's both good and bad in all creatures. Cats both scratch and cuddle. Dogs both bite and protect.
To expect all those cats and dogs out there not to bite or scratch sometimes, to expect them to be any different than they are, would make ME crazy not them.
If I really thought of my mother-in-law as a snake, I wouldn’t get so worked up about her as I do. I’d just think, “My son loves to play with this snake; this snake will never bite him, but *I* don’t like snakes. And if I ever get close to being seduced into believing I might be able to trust the snake, I have got to remember: this is a snake; it’s just in a snake’s nature to bite when it’s threatened. Never fully let your guard down.” To personalize it, to get upset, or entrenched with rage over how the snake treats me would be silly. Instead, I could just view things practically: when around a snake, use basic precautions, that’s all.
I once got into a HUGE argument with my other mother-in-law. (What karma blessed me with having not one but two)? I kept pushing her to just talk to me about why she was angry but she evaded --until my continued pressing led her finally to blow up. I should have been smarter. If instead I had perceived her as an animal, I would not have expected this scared kitten, stubborn goat, innocent rabbit, or whatever to be capable of having a rational conversation. In turn, if she had pictured me as a stubborn ol' mule in her own right, we might have spared ourselves a huge blow out altogether.
I believe it was in Thomas Moore’s Care of the Soul that the author suggests thinking about the people in our lives as eccentric characters in a novel. My suggestion is in a similar vein of thought. The bottom line is that in order to be in a better place in my relationships I sometimes have to find ways to lighten up, to depersonalize, and to relativize who all the actors and participants are (including myself).
The Buddhists are right; it really is our expectations of others that cause so much suffering. As a kid, I expected my father to be a father, to be the adult in our relationship. So, I would get really upset when he was even more psychologically needy than I was. I have to get over stuff like that. We’re all human; all flawed. There's both good and bad in all creatures. Cats both scratch and cuddle. Dogs both bite and protect.
To expect all those cats and dogs out there not to bite or scratch sometimes, to expect them to be any different than they are, would make ME crazy not them.
Barbara Walters & Oprah Winfrey
Once in a while I slowly nudge myself out of the blues with a little trick meant to inspire me to cope better: I imagine that in the future Barbara Walters or Oprah Winfrey are interviewing me on television. Barbara (or Oprah) has read about my painful struggle and asks me, "How in the world did you manage through that period?"
At once, it forces me to imagine the future and a possible end to my current state. It also helps me to take an outsider's perspective.
How I handle this moment suddenly becomes more important. I may feel like I'd rather crawl into bed and eat or drink myself into a stupor, but getting up despite it all matters-- maybe it's not apparent to me how it matters at the moment, but it matters.
Of course, my little mental trick is not really about Babs or Ope. It helps me to become more aware that there is a witness to how I cope --whether it is my child, fate, karma, God, or just my own inner psyche. How I choose to cope in this moment matters because there IS a witness.
At once, it forces me to imagine the future and a possible end to my current state. It also helps me to take an outsider's perspective.
How I handle this moment suddenly becomes more important. I may feel like I'd rather crawl into bed and eat or drink myself into a stupor, but getting up despite it all matters-- maybe it's not apparent to me how it matters at the moment, but it matters.
Of course, my little mental trick is not really about Babs or Ope. It helps me to become more aware that there is a witness to how I cope --whether it is my child, fate, karma, God, or just my own inner psyche. How I choose to cope in this moment matters because there IS a witness.
I'm Feeling Lucky
My wonderful, charming, sweet mother died a little over three years ago at the age of 80. Every time I walk in the cheapy closeout chain store Big Lots it happens - the grief swoops back in on fresh wings. My mother wouldn't be flattered to know that Big Lots makes me think of her but in her last ten years we would go there pretty regularly just for something to do. It was an easy, relaxing place to be where we could just enjoy our separate hunts for something interesting. And in that odd place I miss her companionship and constant enthusiasm and a million other things about her. The tears press at my eyes as I try to blink them back but I have very experienced tears. They stubbornly seek out their old riverbed tracing their way next to my too broad nose before they reach the corner of my mouth where inevitably a salty tear leaks in as if to make sure I know that my pain is indeed leaking.
And then I think of Hot Lips Houlihan. She dropped a bomb of wisdom on one episode of M*A*S*H that I've held onto for years. Since I have scrambled eggs for brains, I've misquoted her for years with great conviction and have come to like my version better but the essence of the thought is hers. In the show, BJ whined over how much he missed his wife and daughter. After he attributes Hot Lips lack of sympathy to the fact that she is single and childless, she replys "How dare you think your brand of suffering is worse than anyone else's! Maybe you do have the most to lose but that's only because you've got the most!". Of course, standing in Big Lots what I remember is my misquote which is "you can only miss that which you are lucky enough to have had." I pull that quote out of my brain with such vigor that it almost feels like a physical act: a cerebral parallel for fumbling through my pocketbook for my lipstick.
Then I think of a teenage girl I knew years ago whose mother died delivering her. I think of another friend who was raised in a childrens home, her disinterested mother off living a life of her own that didn't include her. I think of other friends who have tough relationships with their mothers for whatever reason. I think of ALL the girls and women who never got to shop with their mothers. Slowly, I begin to feel lucky. Lucky that I had a mother I loved who loved me back. Lucky that she was a very fun person. Lucky simply that I had a mother for 44 years. Pretty quickly, grief's hold on me loosens as I begin a private celebration of who she was to me. I feel lucky
And then I think of Hot Lips Houlihan. She dropped a bomb of wisdom on one episode of M*A*S*H that I've held onto for years. Since I have scrambled eggs for brains, I've misquoted her for years with great conviction and have come to like my version better but the essence of the thought is hers. In the show, BJ whined over how much he missed his wife and daughter. After he attributes Hot Lips lack of sympathy to the fact that she is single and childless, she replys "How dare you think your brand of suffering is worse than anyone else's! Maybe you do have the most to lose but that's only because you've got the most!". Of course, standing in Big Lots what I remember is my misquote which is "you can only miss that which you are lucky enough to have had." I pull that quote out of my brain with such vigor that it almost feels like a physical act: a cerebral parallel for fumbling through my pocketbook for my lipstick.
Then I think of a teenage girl I knew years ago whose mother died delivering her. I think of another friend who was raised in a childrens home, her disinterested mother off living a life of her own that didn't include her. I think of other friends who have tough relationships with their mothers for whatever reason. I think of ALL the girls and women who never got to shop with their mothers. Slowly, I begin to feel lucky. Lucky that I had a mother I loved who loved me back. Lucky that she was a very fun person. Lucky simply that I had a mother for 44 years. Pretty quickly, grief's hold on me loosens as I begin a private celebration of who she was to me. I feel lucky
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