Yesterday, I achieved a milestone along my personal pursuit of well, something, that was a long time coming: I graduated from the Celebrant Institute. This was two years in the making, involving some falling off course and climbing back on, the churning out of last minute papers, the application of small, steady effort over the course of many weeks.
I feel proud, grateful, and uncertain. Proud that I managed to finish what I started, come back from behind, get back on the horse. Grateful to my family who came to the graduation to support what I've done and who have supported me through everything I've ever attempted in life. And I don't just mean support like, clap as the parade goes by. Support like showing up with construction supplies and snacks and getting in there to help build the float.
And I also feel uncertain. There are still more legal and organizational challenges to surmount. Without the structure of a weekly class, I feel less secure, less confident about my abilities to make incremental progress. Without my routine of which days I do my reading and homework, which days I go to online "class," suddenly my week has a whole lot more amorphous time. The goal I had been looking forward to accomplishing has arrived and passed. And now where am I? Still more goals, more future moments to be arrived at.
And I feel uncertainty about the whole endeavor. At times I think, what an odd thing to have tried to do. I think, maybe I would be better off doing something "normal" and traditional, keeping my head down, going unnoticed. I want to retreat and hide, pass through the back staircases like a servant, behind the scenes.
This is probably just all part of it, these wacky ocean waves we ride as we try to chart our course.
The student speaker at graduation spoke of deciding to be celebrant in terms of a small voice, a whisper that said "celebrant!" and that's something I can relate too. I think what I have to do at a time, like now, when I start to fret about the Big Picture, is just to pay attention to the small voice. Trust that she knows what she's talking about, and that she'll not lead me astray.
Showing posts with label noise and static. Show all posts
Showing posts with label noise and static. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Dissapointment, Malaise, and Pulling Myself Out of It (Again)
I was in an inexplicable slump the past few days. It's harder to write here (or at all) when I'm feeling down. My spiritual advisor Leslie suggested the word inertia. All I wanted to do is get under the covers and watch many back to back episodes of Intervention on the internet.
It might've had to do with the news that Spangles and I didn't get the apartment we applied for. Of course, I dealt with it maturely and moved on quickly, except maybe I didn't, and what was inexplicable was actually my disappointment sneaking to the surface anyway. As much as I wanted to roll with the punches, the news touched a tender spot for me: the fear that even if you work and plan for a desirable life/future, forces beyond your control will eventually use your hopes and dreams as a port-a-potty. So why even try? (Thus, the mouldering dishes in the sink, the tsunami of clothes strewn carelessly about the apartment, the half-hearted and not very successful attempts at, you know, doing anything.)
I know I have to fight this inclination. I have to talk myself out of it, say "Listen, disappointments come but great apartments are plentiful and the great life you imagined in this one didn't come from the apartment, it came from you." I'm also sort of toying with the belief that life is unfurling according to a higher logic that I can't necessarily understand from my vantage point but ultimately makes things work out OK. It's a comforting thought, but I really don't know if I believe it or not.
When I feel myself get down I also get panicky, because I'm like "oh no happinessFAIL" and I have a really hard time tolerating it and reminding myself of what I really do know, that I won't be stuck there forever. That's the problem, my panic makes my mind slow and I can't remember to do the things I know to do.
Finally I did, though. I called The Twin, and she told me to just accomplish one productive thing, because that usually makes you feel in control of the universe again. I walked my rent check over and it did in fact make me feel like at least a minimally effective human being. I took a shower. Then Spangles called and said F-Money and friends were grilling, and you know I was in a bad place because I didn't even really feel like going. The Twin convinced me, however, to put on civilian clothes and a little makeup and get out there anyway. Fake it till you make it, as they say.
And then I remembered my cache of inspirational books, and grabbed one to read on the trolley. I opened it up to a page where they author was basically like "Hey, you think nobody ever has bad days, gets scattered, makes mistakes? You think everyone else has it all together? 'Cause they don't. We're all perfectly imperfect, all the time." And I did that old familiar inner forehead slap and some of the pressure eased.
And then at F-Money's I drank sun tea and talked of other things, and by the time dark had fallen and the tiki torches were lit and we had supped and drank wine, the panic had slipped away completely.
And a lovely coincidence also helped me. Several months ago, as I was crawling out of the rubble of my bout with colitis and hopelessness, I bought myself a pretty little ring as a reminder that I am responsible for my own happiness. I had lost track of it for several weeks, but as I was dumping out a purse to get ready to go, it fell right out onto the floor like a gift.
I picked it up and put it on my finger, a reminder, a message I'd left for myself from a more enlightened time.
It might've had to do with the news that Spangles and I didn't get the apartment we applied for. Of course, I dealt with it maturely and moved on quickly, except maybe I didn't, and what was inexplicable was actually my disappointment sneaking to the surface anyway. As much as I wanted to roll with the punches, the news touched a tender spot for me: the fear that even if you work and plan for a desirable life/future, forces beyond your control will eventually use your hopes and dreams as a port-a-potty. So why even try? (Thus, the mouldering dishes in the sink, the tsunami of clothes strewn carelessly about the apartment, the half-hearted and not very successful attempts at, you know, doing anything.)
I know I have to fight this inclination. I have to talk myself out of it, say "Listen, disappointments come but great apartments are plentiful and the great life you imagined in this one didn't come from the apartment, it came from you." I'm also sort of toying with the belief that life is unfurling according to a higher logic that I can't necessarily understand from my vantage point but ultimately makes things work out OK. It's a comforting thought, but I really don't know if I believe it or not.
When I feel myself get down I also get panicky, because I'm like "oh no happinessFAIL" and I have a really hard time tolerating it and reminding myself of what I really do know, that I won't be stuck there forever. That's the problem, my panic makes my mind slow and I can't remember to do the things I know to do.
Finally I did, though. I called The Twin, and she told me to just accomplish one productive thing, because that usually makes you feel in control of the universe again. I walked my rent check over and it did in fact make me feel like at least a minimally effective human being. I took a shower. Then Spangles called and said F-Money and friends were grilling, and you know I was in a bad place because I didn't even really feel like going. The Twin convinced me, however, to put on civilian clothes and a little makeup and get out there anyway. Fake it till you make it, as they say.
And then I remembered my cache of inspirational books, and grabbed one to read on the trolley. I opened it up to a page where they author was basically like "Hey, you think nobody ever has bad days, gets scattered, makes mistakes? You think everyone else has it all together? 'Cause they don't. We're all perfectly imperfect, all the time." And I did that old familiar inner forehead slap and some of the pressure eased.
And then at F-Money's I drank sun tea and talked of other things, and by the time dark had fallen and the tiki torches were lit and we had supped and drank wine, the panic had slipped away completely.
And a lovely coincidence also helped me. Several months ago, as I was crawling out of the rubble of my bout with colitis and hopelessness, I bought myself a pretty little ring as a reminder that I am responsible for my own happiness. I had lost track of it for several weeks, but as I was dumping out a purse to get ready to go, it fell right out onto the floor like a gift.
I picked it up and put it on my finger, a reminder, a message I'd left for myself from a more enlightened time.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Perspective
Yesterday I experienced the the benefit of aiming for happyish. As alluded to, I had a deadline and I was in that horrible college mid-terms 50% done and I've been working for days phase, greasy hair, empty pretzel bags strewn about, desperation in my eyes. Nevertheless, Spangles was in the neighborhood so I was taking a break to meet him for a cup of tea.
As I drove to meet him, I was full of panic and self-loathing about my project, my deadlines, my ignorance, my inability to just buckle down and work ceaselessly for eleven hours straight - I mean what's wrong with me? I had put on Whitney Houston's "I Didn't Know My Own Strength", so you know things were dire.
But are you happy-ISH?, I asked myself. I found my response to be, "Well...sure."
I mean on the other side of things, it's a gorgeous day, finally spring, I'm going to see my steady, I got paid, and I'll probably survive this project. Beyond today, life is pretty broad and unencumbered and free... so, sure, if I don't have to be weeping tears of joy like I just won an academy award, I mean if you take the long view...sure, I'm happyish.
Et voila. The miracle of lowered expectations.
As I drove to meet him, I was full of panic and self-loathing about my project, my deadlines, my ignorance, my inability to just buckle down and work ceaselessly for eleven hours straight - I mean what's wrong with me? I had put on Whitney Houston's "I Didn't Know My Own Strength", so you know things were dire.
But are you happy-ISH?, I asked myself. I found my response to be, "Well...sure."
I mean on the other side of things, it's a gorgeous day, finally spring, I'm going to see my steady, I got paid, and I'll probably survive this project. Beyond today, life is pretty broad and unencumbered and free... so, sure, if I don't have to be weeping tears of joy like I just won an academy award, I mean if you take the long view...sure, I'm happyish.
Et voila. The miracle of lowered expectations.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Postcard from Petulance
Greetings from the middle of Travelapalooza with The Parent Company. In many ways I have been dreading this week for a long time: a presentation to make to people I'd never met about a topic I don't know much about; two important deadlines in addition, and not a lot of time to work on them; early mornings (never a strength for me) that include a weekend day (a personal blasphemy); being away from my routine and my plants and rituals; wearing control-top hose; and I'll be honest, Bossman? He snores. Loud.
The tricky part of working for the Parent Company is that it's no trouble at all to stick me in a hotel room with them, thereby forcing 24-7 togetherness, which can be lovely, like the dinner and conversation I had with Bossman, or it can be, frankly, a little cramped (e.g. Bossman's choice of the infomercial for "Celtic Woman" as background music at this moment, which as far as I can tell is a lot of really perky women, presumably Celtic, dancing around in prom dresses while playing the violin?) . I'm not hatin' on the choice for his particular life's situation, I'm just saying that a supertogetherness trip such as this doesn't really give me as much of a chance to get away to do my own thang, as it were. And let's be honest, you can have a lot in common with anyone and still not want to do the exact same thing at the exact same time as them at all times for three days straight. The possible exception here is the Twin.)
This trip is something I've been fretting over for the last few days. Naturally, I couldn't just leave it at dread, I needed to add a little soupcon of guilt on top for color. I live in fear of being held ungrateful; the threat of being told I'm acting like a spoiled brat is the kind of epithet that has keeps me suffering in silence for many moons. I have a hard time complaining; I have a hard time not complaining.
So I will disclaim with the following: it's a good job; I like the (usually) flexible hours; it's interesting work and I don't spend my days feeling like I'm wasting away in margaritaville; i've been given a lot of trust/responsibility which it normally takes much longer to earn in a professional setting except that I kind of have a long-standing relationship with the Bosses, what with them also being my parents; also, it's a recession, I'm lucky to have a job at all, etc. etc.
That said... I'm having a hard time admitting that I'm dissatisfied with the current status of things. Which is, whirlwind pace, 6am wakeups, long hours over the powerpoint, short turnarounds, tight deadlines, pressure, stress.
I'll be honest wich'a , this job appealed to me on the grounds that it would be...um, the opposites of those things. Make some copies, schedule some appointments, write up some reports, then go home and live your life.
It almost feels like sacrilege to say that. I am the daughter-slash-employee of two very committed, passionate, motivated, hard-working, hard-driving, high-expecting, high-achieving, long-distance sprinting people. In one sense you could say they are now living out their life's aspirations, making the most of careers they have worked hard in and sacrificed for most of their lives, paths and lives which they have chosen for themselves. So if homies are doing the all-night transatlantic consultant shimmy in the pursuit of achieving their career ambitions, it makes sense.
But pour moi? It's not, you know, like that. And I hear them, I already hear all the arguments in favor of said business trip: that it needs to be done, it's good experience, it's seafood dinner, it's travel, it's the opportunity to see knew places and get paid, work is work that's why they call it work. I hear all this, and none of it's untrue.
Buh like...I'm sorry, it's still not my jam. It's as if my momployer and dadployer are really accomplished collectors of an incredibly rare and well-regarded collection of, I don't know, bird's nests, and I totally respect that and I can groove with that. But they're all "Isn't this great? Don't you want to see a whole 'nother building full of these totally different bird's nests? Don't you want to drive all night to go to this really important nest-collecting area and then hang around with bird's nest collectors for three days talking shop? Isn't this rad?"
It's like, uh, homies? Again, much respect for your passion and for the importance of bird's nests, and I am genuinely glad that you have something with which you are like a pig in mud, but the answer to those questions? Is nooottt reaaallllly.
Look, part of it is generational. The babyboomers are all about work, it's what gives life meaning and pizazz. But how to explain that for me, it's non-work that gives life meaning and pizzaz. It's not that I have something so all-fired important to do that I can't suck it up and go live in a hotel for two nights. But for me, this stuff like mucking around with blogs, and listening to music, and having farting contests with Spangles, and eating sushi with friends, and sleeping and walking around watching the city and reading stuff, is what's important to me. Life, man! The good life! Fun, pleasure, meaning!
I found this web site over the weekend with links to all these articles about "my generation," (that is, Generation Y), and apparently one of our main characteristics is a commitment to "work/life balance" and having fun. I'll say that I highly doubt those articles were written by a Gen Y member, because I hafta say some of them sounded a little...judge-y.
It's about preference, people, it's about lifestyle. I will reserve judgment about what might look to me, frankly, to be a busy, stress-y, crazy choice of life, if you reserve judgment about what might look to you like a life a shirking responsibility, entitlement, unwillingness to do the hard work that's required.
What I'm saying is, required for effing what? I won't even indulge in the ranting rave about what can we really believe in in this bankrupt world of unethical corporations that are constantly looking for ways to dick you over for fun and profit and terrorist attacks and joblessness and politicians who can't keep it n their pants etc. etc. I mean honestly society, what have you done for me lately? Why should I feel any kind of allegiance to you? Doesn't it make perfect sense for me to be looking out for number one, in particular my brunch preferences? As one of these articles pointed out, my formative years had a big old flaming set of towers hanging over them, and all I know is that what we reached for at a time like that was not our WidgetCorp key cards. It was each other.
What all of this might just be a roundabout way of saying, and then I swear I'll let it go, is I wish the Bosses would acknowledge that this trip, perks though there may be, is not how, if given the choice, I would spend my time. And that for them, it kinda is.
Long story long, I felt I did a solid presentation today that still allowed me to be honest about my level of expertise (or lack thereof.) I just kinda decided a) as an experienced tour guide, if there's one thing I can do it's speak publicly, and 2) all I can do is go out there and speak my truth, such as it is. And now I've got the headphones in with the inspirational music playing, jammies on, broiled seafood combo platter in the belly, and I'm just riffin' out in blogworld, so it appears I'm going to make it to another day.
I just have to remind myself that it's a work in progress, and I'm just going to keep working on some of these HR aspects until we have all reached a situation of mutual satisfaction. For one thing I already talked about "working from home" more.
To conclude, I decided that I should sharpen my skills as an optimist by starting a new feature on the blog called The Twist o' Optimist - or maybe The Upshot - wherein, after a long, winding and whiny post like this one I try to sprinkle a little fairy dust on it, and see, if not perhaps the best in things, the better.
So, for example: this hotel mattress is durned fluffy; Brandi Carlile is rocking my world right now with her lyrics about have you ever wandered lonely through the woods; I'm typing this on my brand new computer that's all mine and I'm not even plugged into a power source!; I got to wear my big-girl pin striped skirt; I got some new decorating ideas from the hotel; and at least tomorrow I don't have to wake up at 6am.
It's something, my friends. It's something.
The tricky part of working for the Parent Company is that it's no trouble at all to stick me in a hotel room with them, thereby forcing 24-7 togetherness, which can be lovely, like the dinner and conversation I had with Bossman, or it can be, frankly, a little cramped (e.g. Bossman's choice of the infomercial for "Celtic Woman" as background music at this moment, which as far as I can tell is a lot of really perky women, presumably Celtic, dancing around in prom dresses while playing the violin?) . I'm not hatin' on the choice for his particular life's situation, I'm just saying that a supertogetherness trip such as this doesn't really give me as much of a chance to get away to do my own thang, as it were. And let's be honest, you can have a lot in common with anyone and still not want to do the exact same thing at the exact same time as them at all times for three days straight. The possible exception here is the Twin.)
This trip is something I've been fretting over for the last few days. Naturally, I couldn't just leave it at dread, I needed to add a little soupcon of guilt on top for color. I live in fear of being held ungrateful; the threat of being told I'm acting like a spoiled brat is the kind of epithet that has keeps me suffering in silence for many moons. I have a hard time complaining; I have a hard time not complaining.
So I will disclaim with the following: it's a good job; I like the (usually) flexible hours; it's interesting work and I don't spend my days feeling like I'm wasting away in margaritaville; i've been given a lot of trust/responsibility which it normally takes much longer to earn in a professional setting except that I kind of have a long-standing relationship with the Bosses, what with them also being my parents; also, it's a recession, I'm lucky to have a job at all, etc. etc.
That said... I'm having a hard time admitting that I'm dissatisfied with the current status of things. Which is, whirlwind pace, 6am wakeups, long hours over the powerpoint, short turnarounds, tight deadlines, pressure, stress.
I'll be honest wich'a , this job appealed to me on the grounds that it would be...um, the opposites of those things. Make some copies, schedule some appointments, write up some reports, then go home and live your life.
It almost feels like sacrilege to say that. I am the daughter-slash-employee of two very committed, passionate, motivated, hard-working, hard-driving, high-expecting, high-achieving, long-distance sprinting people. In one sense you could say they are now living out their life's aspirations, making the most of careers they have worked hard in and sacrificed for most of their lives, paths and lives which they have chosen for themselves. So if homies are doing the all-night transatlantic consultant shimmy in the pursuit of achieving their career ambitions, it makes sense.
But pour moi? It's not, you know, like that. And I hear them, I already hear all the arguments in favor of said business trip: that it needs to be done, it's good experience, it's seafood dinner, it's travel, it's the opportunity to see knew places and get paid, work is work that's why they call it work. I hear all this, and none of it's untrue.
Buh like...I'm sorry, it's still not my jam. It's as if my momployer and dadployer are really accomplished collectors of an incredibly rare and well-regarded collection of, I don't know, bird's nests, and I totally respect that and I can groove with that. But they're all "Isn't this great? Don't you want to see a whole 'nother building full of these totally different bird's nests? Don't you want to drive all night to go to this really important nest-collecting area and then hang around with bird's nest collectors for three days talking shop? Isn't this rad?"
It's like, uh, homies? Again, much respect for your passion and for the importance of bird's nests, and I am genuinely glad that you have something with which you are like a pig in mud, but the answer to those questions? Is nooottt reaaallllly.
Look, part of it is generational. The babyboomers are all about work, it's what gives life meaning and pizazz. But how to explain that for me, it's non-work that gives life meaning and pizzaz. It's not that I have something so all-fired important to do that I can't suck it up and go live in a hotel for two nights. But for me, this stuff like mucking around with blogs, and listening to music, and having farting contests with Spangles, and eating sushi with friends, and sleeping and walking around watching the city and reading stuff, is what's important to me. Life, man! The good life! Fun, pleasure, meaning!
I found this web site over the weekend with links to all these articles about "my generation," (that is, Generation Y), and apparently one of our main characteristics is a commitment to "work/life balance" and having fun. I'll say that I highly doubt those articles were written by a Gen Y member, because I hafta say some of them sounded a little...judge-y.
It's about preference, people, it's about lifestyle. I will reserve judgment about what might look to me, frankly, to be a busy, stress-y, crazy choice of life, if you reserve judgment about what might look to you like a life a shirking responsibility, entitlement, unwillingness to do the hard work that's required.
What I'm saying is, required for effing what? I won't even indulge in the ranting rave about what can we really believe in in this bankrupt world of unethical corporations that are constantly looking for ways to dick you over for fun and profit and terrorist attacks and joblessness and politicians who can't keep it n their pants etc. etc. I mean honestly society, what have you done for me lately? Why should I feel any kind of allegiance to you? Doesn't it make perfect sense for me to be looking out for number one, in particular my brunch preferences? As one of these articles pointed out, my formative years had a big old flaming set of towers hanging over them, and all I know is that what we reached for at a time like that was not our WidgetCorp key cards. It was each other.
What all of this might just be a roundabout way of saying, and then I swear I'll let it go, is I wish the Bosses would acknowledge that this trip, perks though there may be, is not how, if given the choice, I would spend my time. And that for them, it kinda is.
Long story long, I felt I did a solid presentation today that still allowed me to be honest about my level of expertise (or lack thereof.) I just kinda decided a) as an experienced tour guide, if there's one thing I can do it's speak publicly, and 2) all I can do is go out there and speak my truth, such as it is. And now I've got the headphones in with the inspirational music playing, jammies on, broiled seafood combo platter in the belly, and I'm just riffin' out in blogworld, so it appears I'm going to make it to another day.
I just have to remind myself that it's a work in progress, and I'm just going to keep working on some of these HR aspects until we have all reached a situation of mutual satisfaction. For one thing I already talked about "working from home" more.
To conclude, I decided that I should sharpen my skills as an optimist by starting a new feature on the blog called The Twist o' Optimist - or maybe The Upshot - wherein, after a long, winding and whiny post like this one I try to sprinkle a little fairy dust on it, and see, if not perhaps the best in things, the better.
So, for example: this hotel mattress is durned fluffy; Brandi Carlile is rocking my world right now with her lyrics about have you ever wandered lonely through the woods; I'm typing this on my brand new computer that's all mine and I'm not even plugged into a power source!; I got to wear my big-girl pin striped skirt; I got some new decorating ideas from the hotel; and at least tomorrow I don't have to wake up at 6am.
It's something, my friends. It's something.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Course Corrections
On Sunday, I was in the mountains of Pennsylvania on snowshoes, gazing at snow-sprinkled trees, trying to remember the words to "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost, spinning a historical fiction yarn in my head set in the adorable town-formerly-known-as-Mauch-Chunk, all but giving Spangles affectionate little eskimo nose-rubs.
Congratulations to me, I said to myself. I am turning the disappointment of a canceled trip to upstate New York into a spontaneous romantic weekend getaway into the foothills of Poconos with my beloved, not to mention living the life I've imagined, carpe-ing the diem, enjoying nature, all the types of things I'm always saying I ought to do to live a happy life.
Fast forward to Monday night, when I was in the car headed home from work, nauseous, scream-crying "I don't know! I don't know!" over and over again to myself in a primal-therapy-like fashion. I was what you might call a touch stressed out. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say the basic story was, too much to do, too little time, coupled with the all the rationality, reasonableness and perspective that accompanies the ole' cyclical female hormone spike.
How did my zen-like weekend state unravel so quickly?, is I want to know. Granted, Mondays are always hard, a crash landing back onto Planet Goal-Orientation, made all the more difficult by a pleasant, relaxed weekend shuffling and daydreaming my way through the sylvan hollows.
But I have been helped immensely in situations like these by an internal project I've taken on, which is the cultivation of my Voice of Reason. She's like my wise, sassy, kind, don't-take-no-shit-from-nobody sidekick, who's there to slap some sense into me when I go off the mental deep end (which happens in some form or another pretty much like every fifteen minutes.) For example:
Isn't she smart? She's nice but no-nonsense. Actually she kind of sounds like my Aunt Jane. And she always has something good to say, if I just let myself listen for her input. Last night when I was melting down in the car she was equally as wise and solution oriented. Regarde:
Lo and behold, the next morning after a good night's sleep life seemed a lot more manageable. And on my way to work this morning I had a chance to reflect on everything a little more and give myself a nice pep talk.
I gotta remember that there's never going to be some magic finish line that I cross, after which I will be sublimely happy and no problems will ever confound me again. It's good to have bright, sunny days when I feel like I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing in life, and it's good to work toward a higher ratio of those kinds of days. But it's also OK if some days are just OK. It's OK to work at a job that doesn't leave you squirming with pleasure to the tips of your toes at every moment, especially if it allows you to take care of yourself and enables you do other things in life that you want to do.
And it's OK to get stressed out sometimes, get out of control, and then pull yourself back in. One of my favorite little life analogies is the explanation of how airplanes fly - it's not a matter of flying in one straight line the entire time. In order to get to a destination, it's actually a series of a zillion little course corrections, moving from one side back to the other back to other over and over again until it gets there. And that's what we humans have to do to - keep your eye on the final destination, and if you go too far to one side, just scoot back a little the other way.
It's a balancing act, a dance, an airplane flight, all of that. It's not about fixing something once and then you're set for life. It's just habit, or mental hygiene, or whatever. The dishes get dirty, so you wash them again. Happiness isn't a goal, it's a lifestyle. It's figuring out the balance between working toward a goal and taking time to play. It's about getting caught up in the flow of working on something, and taking time out to notice your surroundings and the passage of time. It's working toward getting what you want out of life, AND letting yourself fritter away some down time without beating yourself up.
It's saying, OK, this week is shaping up to be a beeyotch and a half, so why don't I schedule an appointment to use that massage gift certificate on Friday? It's staying tuned in to what you're feeling and wanting, and acknowledging it, even if there isn't much you can *do* about it at a given time. It's about taking care of yourself, and the sense of - and I hate to use this term but - the sense of empowerment that comes from knowing that you have the ability to take care of your own needs (even if that means reaching out for help from someone else.)
It's acknowledging that hey, you don't have all the answers, we're all basically wandering around like confused but purposeful ants, each of us just trying to figure out how to operate this big ungainly gift we got of a stroll through the glass-paneled dirt farm.
It's about practicing using and listening to your own Voice of Reason, and the comfort and serenity it brings to know you can summon it whenever you want.
Like right now, she's tapping me on the shoulder, saying "All right, wrap it up, kid. We thought writing this post would make you feel better, and it did. Now what's going to make you feel better is getting down to business and tackling some of this big ole' stack of work you have. You can return to the blogosphere later."
So, like a self-schooled experimenter in home remedies with a long-winded hypothesis on how it all works, I will now leave you to ingest a tincture of my own making, hoping to add it to my shelf of not-so-magical potions.
Congratulations to me, I said to myself. I am turning the disappointment of a canceled trip to upstate New York into a spontaneous romantic weekend getaway into the foothills of Poconos with my beloved, not to mention living the life I've imagined, carpe-ing the diem, enjoying nature, all the types of things I'm always saying I ought to do to live a happy life.
Fast forward to Monday night, when I was in the car headed home from work, nauseous, scream-crying "I don't know! I don't know!" over and over again to myself in a primal-therapy-like fashion. I was what you might call a touch stressed out. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say the basic story was, too much to do, too little time, coupled with the all the rationality, reasonableness and perspective that accompanies the ole' cyclical female hormone spike.
How did my zen-like weekend state unravel so quickly?, is I want to know. Granted, Mondays are always hard, a crash landing back onto Planet Goal-Orientation, made all the more difficult by a pleasant, relaxed weekend shuffling and daydreaming my way through the sylvan hollows.
But I have been helped immensely in situations like these by an internal project I've taken on, which is the cultivation of my Voice of Reason. She's like my wise, sassy, kind, don't-take-no-shit-from-nobody sidekick, who's there to slap some sense into me when I go off the mental deep end (which happens in some form or another pretty much like every fifteen minutes.) For example:
Me: OMG I can't believe I ate TWO porkchops for lunch! I am such a glutton! I am like one trip to Pizza Hut away from being the subject of one of those late night documentaries on TLC about the morbidly obese people who have to be cut out of their homes with a bulldozer to get to the gastric bypass operation! WHEN are you going to figure out PORTION CONTROL you fat stupid lazy moron?!!
VoR: Yeah, Liklik? With all due respect, you were hungry, so you ate lunch. It was pork chops and veggies. This is not a red alert situation. You can always go for a walk or something later. Let's move on with our life. K?
Isn't she smart? She's nice but no-nonsense. Actually she kind of sounds like my Aunt Jane. And she always has something good to say, if I just let myself listen for her input. Last night when I was melting down in the car she was equally as wise and solution oriented. Regarde:
VoR: OK listen. You're obviously stressed out, so let's just take a deep breath. The Bosses already told you that the five-day business trip is optional. Why don't you go to the first part, but skip the second part? That cuts the trip in half and gives you time to work on the other projects. I know your preference is to be the best at everything at all times, but let's not let perfection be the enemy of the good, here. Give yourself time to do a quality job and cut out the non-essentials. Tomorrow morning we're going to go in there and let them know the plan. All right?
Me: *sniffs* Ok. Fine.
VoR: And tell you what, when we get home, want to put on your jammies and eat crackers and download that Tim McGraw song you like?
Me: Yes. Yes, I do want that.
VoR: I thought you might.
Me: I like crackers.
Lo and behold, the next morning after a good night's sleep life seemed a lot more manageable. And on my way to work this morning I had a chance to reflect on everything a little more and give myself a nice pep talk.
I gotta remember that there's never going to be some magic finish line that I cross, after which I will be sublimely happy and no problems will ever confound me again. It's good to have bright, sunny days when I feel like I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing in life, and it's good to work toward a higher ratio of those kinds of days. But it's also OK if some days are just OK. It's OK to work at a job that doesn't leave you squirming with pleasure to the tips of your toes at every moment, especially if it allows you to take care of yourself and enables you do other things in life that you want to do.
And it's OK to get stressed out sometimes, get out of control, and then pull yourself back in. One of my favorite little life analogies is the explanation of how airplanes fly - it's not a matter of flying in one straight line the entire time. In order to get to a destination, it's actually a series of a zillion little course corrections, moving from one side back to the other back to other over and over again until it gets there. And that's what we humans have to do to - keep your eye on the final destination, and if you go too far to one side, just scoot back a little the other way.
It's a balancing act, a dance, an airplane flight, all of that. It's not about fixing something once and then you're set for life. It's just habit, or mental hygiene, or whatever. The dishes get dirty, so you wash them again. Happiness isn't a goal, it's a lifestyle. It's figuring out the balance between working toward a goal and taking time to play. It's about getting caught up in the flow of working on something, and taking time out to notice your surroundings and the passage of time. It's working toward getting what you want out of life, AND letting yourself fritter away some down time without beating yourself up.
It's saying, OK, this week is shaping up to be a beeyotch and a half, so why don't I schedule an appointment to use that massage gift certificate on Friday? It's staying tuned in to what you're feeling and wanting, and acknowledging it, even if there isn't much you can *do* about it at a given time. It's about taking care of yourself, and the sense of - and I hate to use this term but - the sense of empowerment that comes from knowing that you have the ability to take care of your own needs (even if that means reaching out for help from someone else.)
It's acknowledging that hey, you don't have all the answers, we're all basically wandering around like confused but purposeful ants, each of us just trying to figure out how to operate this big ungainly gift we got of a stroll through the glass-paneled dirt farm.
It's about practicing using and listening to your own Voice of Reason, and the comfort and serenity it brings to know you can summon it whenever you want.
Like right now, she's tapping me on the shoulder, saying "All right, wrap it up, kid. We thought writing this post would make you feel better, and it did. Now what's going to make you feel better is getting down to business and tackling some of this big ole' stack of work you have. You can return to the blogosphere later."
So, like a self-schooled experimenter in home remedies with a long-winded hypothesis on how it all works, I will now leave you to ingest a tincture of my own making, hoping to add it to my shelf of not-so-magical potions.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
On Seeing Clearly
I’ve been thinking about windshield wipers lately, in no small part because nephew Edbear got "The Wheels on the Bus” stuck in my head. It’s currently the # 1 hit in Edbearsville, especially the wipers-on-the-bus part. Each rendition he sings (and he is generous with the renditions), begins and ends with that verse, with special emphasis on the "Swish swish swish”.
And frankly I think it’s time wipers got their day. I was reminded of their great utility while driving in the recent snows here. They are the unsung heroes of inclement weather. You don’t have to think about it, but dependably, as raindrops plop, the wipers clear. Yet without them how far could you really get? I remember vividly from childhood the time the driver’s side wiper of my parents’ car gave out during a thunderous storm, my dad driving with his head hanging out the the driver’s side window, getting soaked to the shoulders.
What I’ve been thinking is that sometimes life itself could use a good wipe. I walk around in a haze so much of the time, running from one thing to the next, trying to see between splotches and streaks on the windshield, a continual to-do list falling like fat raindrops from the sky and scattering across my field of vision.
But every now and again I’m aware of a feeling of clearness, like my feet are planted firmly on the ground and I’m awake, I see and understand the road ahead. When I am, however briefly, smarter than my everyday self. I’m all: yes, I am one with the universe! I understand the deep yin and yang of it all! I hold within me with great delicacy all the paradox and pain and deep goodness of the fragile and tantalizingly brief moments we spend spinning around on this precious blue marble! I become like Walt Whitman: all this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well. Her Wiseness Anne Lamott has described this feeling as a veil lifting.
I try to interpolate the graph, to understand which things I do (or stop doing) that lead to this feeling of calmness and solidity.
Sitting for a while with my thoughts helps. It doesn't really help while I’m sitting – a few beats after I close my eyes and tune in to my breath like you’re supposed to, I become privy to the deafening cyclone that is the inside of my brain. The whole operation sounds a lot like these cartoon viking kittens plundering the seas to Led Zeppelin, if the sound were piped through subwoofers and garbled with static and scattered sentence fragments and loops of conversations in which my part of the dialogue becomes increasingly witty and self-righteous with each repeat.
Sometimes I wonder how I manage to function at all.
The clarity part usually happens when I open my eyes and realize I’m back where I began, and the room is stunningly silent and still compared to the white water rapids I’ve been cruising down in my mind.
And the afterglow from that is that I tend to feel a little less like an unstable isotope, always whipping my electrons around me at maximum speed, unable to land anywhere to rest happily, slowly decaying into other things. I feel a little more like I live inside my body, and my body doesn’t stretch a block before and after my mind like it usually does. It’s like in the cartoon Peter Pan when he finally catches that hyperactive shadow and reattaches it to himself, where it belongs. It feels like I turned the windshield wipers on.
Another thing that helps me turn the wipers on is remembering a phrase I read in a book by Charlotte Kasl: what is, is. Here's what she says about it:
It’s kind of a reality check. It helps you identify and accept whatever’s going on in your life at that very moment. It puts the horrible and the sublime in perspective. Keeps you from sensationalizing. Helps you get a firmer grasp on reality.
Our eyes are flawed and we forget to see with them. It’s nice to put on a pair of glasses now and then, and see the sharpness and detail you’ve been missing. It's nice to get the high-def channels once in a while.
And frankly I think it’s time wipers got their day. I was reminded of their great utility while driving in the recent snows here. They are the unsung heroes of inclement weather. You don’t have to think about it, but dependably, as raindrops plop, the wipers clear. Yet without them how far could you really get? I remember vividly from childhood the time the driver’s side wiper of my parents’ car gave out during a thunderous storm, my dad driving with his head hanging out the the driver’s side window, getting soaked to the shoulders.
What I’ve been thinking is that sometimes life itself could use a good wipe. I walk around in a haze so much of the time, running from one thing to the next, trying to see between splotches and streaks on the windshield, a continual to-do list falling like fat raindrops from the sky and scattering across my field of vision.
But every now and again I’m aware of a feeling of clearness, like my feet are planted firmly on the ground and I’m awake, I see and understand the road ahead. When I am, however briefly, smarter than my everyday self. I’m all: yes, I am one with the universe! I understand the deep yin and yang of it all! I hold within me with great delicacy all the paradox and pain and deep goodness of the fragile and tantalizingly brief moments we spend spinning around on this precious blue marble! I become like Walt Whitman: all this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well. Her Wiseness Anne Lamott has described this feeling as a veil lifting.
I try to interpolate the graph, to understand which things I do (or stop doing) that lead to this feeling of calmness and solidity.
Sitting for a while with my thoughts helps. It doesn't really help while I’m sitting – a few beats after I close my eyes and tune in to my breath like you’re supposed to, I become privy to the deafening cyclone that is the inside of my brain. The whole operation sounds a lot like these cartoon viking kittens plundering the seas to Led Zeppelin, if the sound were piped through subwoofers and garbled with static and scattered sentence fragments and loops of conversations in which my part of the dialogue becomes increasingly witty and self-righteous with each repeat.
Sometimes I wonder how I manage to function at all.
The clarity part usually happens when I open my eyes and realize I’m back where I began, and the room is stunningly silent and still compared to the white water rapids I’ve been cruising down in my mind.
And the afterglow from that is that I tend to feel a little less like an unstable isotope, always whipping my electrons around me at maximum speed, unable to land anywhere to rest happily, slowly decaying into other things. I feel a little more like I live inside my body, and my body doesn’t stretch a block before and after my mind like it usually does. It’s like in the cartoon Peter Pan when he finally catches that hyperactive shadow and reattaches it to himself, where it belongs. It feels like I turned the windshield wipers on.
Another thing that helps me turn the wipers on is remembering a phrase I read in a book by Charlotte Kasl: what is, is. Here's what she says about it:
It helped me accept the moment and stop fighting with myself...It’s just what is. It’s the truth, it’s where my life is right this moment. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just what’s happening at the moment. Saying what is, is helps us stop demanding that situations and people be different. It also allows us to drop into our feelings, which connects us to our inner wisdom.
It’s kind of a reality check. It helps you identify and accept whatever’s going on in your life at that very moment. It puts the horrible and the sublime in perspective. Keeps you from sensationalizing. Helps you get a firmer grasp on reality.
Our eyes are flawed and we forget to see with them. It’s nice to put on a pair of glasses now and then, and see the sharpness and detail you’ve been missing. It's nice to get the high-def channels once in a while.
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