FARCE of nature

I never liked the expression about making lemonade when life gives you lemons. Its positivity annoyed me.

Who wants to sit back and take what the world throws at you, instead of doing what you can to change it? This was my persistent thought.

Yesterday, though, was eye-opening. I had the day planned with work for The Big Paper, research for someone else, and then some tennis. My idea of perfect.

Our realtor called the night before, though, to announce an early morning showing. It came as the cat, post-surgery, was bumping around the house in a giant plastic cone, and the dog was sick and throwing up.

You don’t turn down showings when your house is for sale, so I put it into high gear and started whirling. I washed. I dusted. I camouflaged imperfection until I was limping on a sore foot that has bothered me for months. I finally fell into bed with an ice pack after midnight.

I woke lame, but stuck to my scheduled tennis match, too late to get a sub. A friend came to take the dog walking until the realtor left, and after getting my daughter to school and the cat behind a closed door, I jumped in the car, exhausted. It was 8:45 a.m.

I was still in control until the foot doctor called to say my heel may be fractured. Go get x-rays right now! he said. I’m on my way to play tennis, I replied. Can I go after? I won’t detail his reply.

The phone rang immediately, but this time it was my friend saying she noticed blood in the dog’s urine. Now what? I didn’t even want to play tennis, but I had no backup. You haven’t seen angry until there are only three players in doubles.

So we agreed that she’d make an appointment, I’d continue on and play, and then race home, grab the dog, and bring her in. Which I did.

Ten minutes, and $270 later, we had a diagnosis and the drugs to treat it. Poor doggie was shaking in all the uproar so I leaned down to kiss her head. At that exact moment the vet tech moved, too, though, and I kissed her hand instead.

And that’s when I started to laugh. Howl, really, completely out of control. Until I was weak and leaning on the steel exam table for support.

As a sort of kneejerk reaction, I joked to the shocked woman I kissed that I’d already had quite a day and could use a glass of wine. Until, in my confusion, I remembered I gave that up a month ago. Which made me laugh even harder as she just stared.

Yeah, I guess I’ve changed my tune some, realizing even I can’t be in the driver’s seat all the time. I can laugh, though. And I can at least control how I deal with the stuff that comes at me. So maybe a little lemonade now and then isn’t so bad.

FREE to be

“I am free, and always have been; free to accept my own reality, free to trust my perceptions, free to believe what makes me feel sane even if others call me crazy, free to disagree even if it means great loss, free to seek the way home until I find it.”
~Martha Beck, “Leaving the Saints”

When you set out to seek wisdom, you find a lot of crap. But occasionally I read something that really hits the mark with me; inevitably it’s both an unanticipated revelation and a “d’oh!” moment. Why hadn’t I realized something so patently obvious?

One morning last week, the above quote landed in my in-box. It’s possible that my mouth dropped open as it sank in. You mean I have a choice?!?

My response: Well of course you do, you nimrod. (Proving that I’m perfectly capable of judging myself – I don’t need other people to do it.)

We are judged all the time: by family, co-workers, bosses, lovers, friends, people we’ve never even met. Most of us return the favor on a daily basis. I have tried to give it up, but judgment is a hard habit to break, probably because it’s often employed as a defensive strategy. And the people who don’t seem to care how others seem them? I’ve judged them, too, as arrogant, blind or just plain foolish. But I may have been wrong.

I have spent practically my entire life letting other people – and their opinions and expectations of me, real or projected – define who I am and what I believe about myself. So the sudden realization that I can choose to see myself however I want to was incredibly, well, freeing. Even on days when I choose to believe that it’s other people, not me, who are off their rockers, I still feel a sort of pang – guilt, or envy, or maybe panic – that I’m a woman apart, and that to be unaccepted by others is to be unworthy.

Well, horse puckey.

Besides trying to save enough money to retire someday, my target destination on the current leg of my journey has been to a place where I can love myself, flaws and all. To take criticism and not take it to heart; to be imperfect and still be perfectly OK; to accept myself according to who I am, not what I do – and certainly not by someone else’s standards – this is my quest. I’m absolutely positive that I’m not the only one who struggles with this.

To quote someone else, every day is a winding road. But each day I am, indeed, getting a little bit closer to feeling fine.

FARAWAY shores

Two weeks ago I said yes to a spur-of-the-moment offer to share a friend’s company-provided hotel room on the beach in Florida for a few days. In an uncharacteristically impetuous burst, I realized I could shift the meeting or two on my calendar, and next thing I knew, I was online watching the price of the tickets I was trying to buy climb steadily. But my tired body needed time away from my tired winter routine, and while Florida is far down the list of my preferred states, it’s warm, it’s sunny and it’s away.

DreamsTime

For several years, until I was 5, my maternal grandmother lived in Florida with her sister, just up the coast a bit from our hotel. My childhood memories are sparse: there were multiple visits, at least once on the train, but I can’t quite see it. I have sometimes shared my most vivid memory, from a visit just after Aunt Bob died (poor Great-Aunt Harriett, even years after divorcing Uncle Bob, she was stuck with both his names). I was too young for funerals, so was deposited with a couple of teenage neighbors who styled my white-blond hair and subjected me to a B-grade horror flick that left me with nightmares for seven years. It involved a small worm and a laboratory and, well, I’m sure you know where that was going.

But other memories surfaced with the seaweed on a recent morning as I walked the ribbon of shoreline just down from the hotel. A dark night on which I am still awake, just yards from the ocean and watching as Aunt Bob painstakingly counts the hundreds of eggs being deposited into a depression in the sand by a giant mama sea turtle.

My mother, as we walked up from the beach, stepping on a pull-tab from a soda can (in the days when they came completely detached) and left with a deep and painful gash in her heel. My mom wasn’t much for Florida, either, and after this incident, I didn’t blame her.

My California cousins and I at a small animal/amusement-type park. There is an alligator, and my oldest cousin and I are wearing garishly colored complementary outfits. They might have been pink and green

And the shells – oh, the shells. There were so many shells on the beach you could barely walk without hurting your feet (rendering injury by pull-tab somewhat ironic). My mom collected them by the boxful. Later, on annual trips to a lake in Michigan, she would collect shoeboxes of smooth, round rocks, destined – like the shells – for multiple crafts projects. My father, peeved at having to haul them back home, stashed them in the basement, but not before labeling them Rocques in his controlled, angular handwriting.

There are few shells on the beach now. Instead, an endless line of high-rises marches from south to north, farther than the eye can see. But in among the cabanas and condos, I unexpectedly unearthed the Florida of my youth. The sun and the sand, and even the afternoon thunderstorm, were wonderfully restorative. The memories were an unexpected bonus.

FAITH and hope

I’m getting ready to leave on a whirlwind road trip to celebrate Easter with my family. It’s a taxing jaunt that involves heading to another state and back in just over 24 hours.

Truth is, I’m happy about it. I can’t wait, really, to get going. Time with loved ones is so fleeting, and this year we have the added bonus of welcoming a family member who is back in the fold after many years. I’m happier than I can say.

And that’s what this season is about, isn’t it? Joy and hope combined with belief in something bigger than ourselves. Knowing without a doubt, no matter the situation, that in the end things work out.

Add in rebirth, symbolized by the resurrection, or crocuses popping out of the thawing ground, if you prefer. Or even the many ways we can reinvent ourselves to find our best lives, and it is clear that miracles do happen.

I had kind of a crap day, today. As a writer, I put everything I had into a piece that didn’t work out. How humiliating is that.

No one is perfect, true. But I’m better than that. And so I went back to the beginning and wrote and revised and wrote some more, and when I finally submitted my revision, after working and working and working, I knew the editor was right. My best would now be out there.

Then, I was thankful. How quickly things can turn around to become blessings.

When I was a girl I loved sitting next to my father in a silent dark church on Holy Saturday as the priest reminded us of Christ’s great sacrifice. It was lonely and scary and I pressed close to my dad as wax from the small, flickering taper I held dripped down and burned my fingers.

When we got home, hours later, we dyed eggs. Any time I smell vinegar now I am back at our kitchen table. With him.

My parents have been gone for a long time now, but my kids have that same love of Easter tradition. Of new life. The sacrifice that made it possible. Hidden chocolate eggs waiting to be found, like all the other treasures that make up our lives. Seeing that, I know now, with everything I have, that I have done my job.

Tomorrow it’s unlikely that I’ll see the inside of a church, but my heart will be there. And at the table later at my sister’s place, as we dip eggs, I’ll think of my dad, as well as the spirit of this holy season that has made it possible to hang on to belief. In others. And myself.

Because of that, I know that anything is possible. Renewed. Rejoicing. And thankful.

FASHIONING the right life

If you had a week to live, would you be at peace with your decisions or in a panic at what remains undone?

A friend’s Facebook post this morning made me think, reflecting as it did on Palm Sunday and the last days of Christ’s life.

Who hasn’t seen circumstances change on a dime? I’m not particularly religious any more, much more spiritual, I’d say. But I’m still struck by the Bible story that shows how Jesus was a rock star in Jerusalem one week, and crucified as a villain the next.

If there is anything life is, it’s uncertain. And it can end at any time, a very harsh reality.

So, when facing a ticking clock, there is nothing worse than regrets, my friend said. And I agree. Whether it’s failing to live fully, putting off needed apologies, or foregoing the chance to let people know you care, assuming they already know.

What were you doing seven days ago? I was stumbling over some writing, watching the skies for snow, and spending the last three hours I had with my son before he left for the military.

I felt panic in the latter instance, cradling each second prayerfully as if there would never be another. I love you, I repeated. I’m proud of you. I’m so glad I know you. When I was finally alone, I allowed myself to wonder if I could survive the goodbye.

A week later, here I am. The writing is done, the snow came and went, and my son is off into his life knowing how much he is cherished, after offering his big heart to me in return. Now, I am fine and I hope he is, too.

Living in the moment has been my thing for a while now. I feel better, and my little world is much brighter even though, to be sure, change is hard. The option — taking the easy road that allows life to pass by– is, well, no longer an option.

Back to the question: if it was my last week, I think I could confidently say I am happy with the choices I am making. The promise of a good life on my terms constantly opens up before me, giving me hope.

This is not without mistakes and roadblocks, for sure. But I am getting there by loving, and being loved, and, when it comes down to it, that’s what the whole journey is about. And, in the end, all that matters.

FAST TRACK, stuck on the

Sometimes it takes a knife in the foot to get your attention.

This, for those who have never experienced it, is a bloody and painful reminder that multitasking is not always successful. Some might think it also ruins a pedicure, not mentioning any names.

My to-do list before I harpoon myself is a little psycho. As I have said before, the number of tasks to tackle in a day can be such a narrow fit it’s like trying to pole vault into a pair of baby tights.

On this day, I spring up before dawn to get a jump on writing, researching, and meeting deadlines. I make a ton of calls in a fit of inspiration. While waiting for returns, I run back and forth to the living room where my lovely, post-surgical patient shouts out commands.

I’m hungry! she cries. So I feed her. I need more ice! I run and get it. OK! I think happily as I meet each need. I am a good mother and a good worker, and I can do it all! I pat myself on the back.

Then it ramps up. I’m so bored, she moans, staring dolefully at the ceiling. I whirl in and deal a quick game of cards. The phone rings. Be right back, I trill! And I’m gone. A minute later: are you done YET?? I head back to the game when I hang up. Let’s make this quick!

With other projects complete, I decide to squeeze in some tennis. But before I’m done getting ready the masses of dishes in the sink catch my eye and I slide over to them in socks, snapping a cobweb in the corner with a dishtowel. Take that!

I watch the clock as I wash and stack plates. And this is when I realize my haste and packed schedule has come back to bite me. Why the hell didn’t I put on shoes?

I am rushing and a shiny black-handled knife with a glinting silver tip slips from my hand, poises in midair, and then dives down and impales me. It happens before I can think.

Oh $%&*, I say as I pull the thing out. That hurts like a ^%$#@*&. … I heard that! wafts a familiar voice from the other room.

So, I prioritize. I mop up blood, truss the wound, and leave for my game. To those of you rolling your eyes, this is just me. Tennis is my life. But, I PROMISE I have learned from this. I really have! And I will try to change. I will change!

I can’t really change today, though, because I’m busy. But tomorrow! That’s different. I promise I’ll work on it tomorrow, right after I finish my list.

FIERCE acceptance

By MMM61, Guest Blogger

It wasn’t until almost my 39th birthday that I found the help I needed for my mental illness. Until then I struggled with trying to succeed academically and professionally against the relentlessness of an illness I didn’t understand. I understand now that I am angry at how compromised I have been by the unpredictability of my capacity to function in this life.

Acceptance of my own illness has come slowly and, I now know, incompletely. Until this morning, I thought I had accepted my fate. I am armed now with tools to work with it, and I have made great strides. But deep within me is a burning anger, and all I can do is face it head-on and move through it. I have to, because now I have my daughter’s mental illness to face.

Mental illness comes with stigma and suspicion, but sometimes it bestows upon us great gifts. I know that I would not be who I am without the demons and the soaring insights that have marked my life. For the most part, I like who I am. The anger comes from wondering who I could have been. Though I would like to jump to acceptance, the anger still burns in me.

Since my twenties, I have loved the poem “Integrity,” by Adrienne Rich. It’s quite long, but I will quote part of it here.

Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me
as angels, not polarities.
Anger and tenderness: the spider’s genius
to spin and weave in the same action
from her own body, anywhere –
even from a broken web.

I long to see the polarities within me as angels and accept the genius in the web I have woven. Maybe there is such a thing a fierce acceptance – an acceptance that makes room for a little anger and a lot of strength.

FORWARD

I read an essay today that talked about choosing a word to live by in the coming months rather than the lengthy list of resolutions we make and break every year.

That was a good segue to this complex and ever-interesting inward journey of mine and I wondered how it would be possible to settle on just one thought to describe it.

Backing up, I have been in flux since last summer when a jolt of self-awareness blew open this quest for my best life.

It was a wow moment, as big emotional earthquakes are, that also filled me with joy. Sometimes you reach midlife wondering where life went. My realization proved that it’s still right here.

We are programmed as adults to slog through our days without a thought for ourselves. It’s ingrained in the sense of responsibility passed on by our parents and theirs. You put everyone’s needs before your own, because, well, it’s what people do, right?

I remember lying awake as a girl, charting my hopes and dreams into the life I wanted. I have happily reached some of them, but others are like precious flowers trying to survive without water.

Then came the hammer-blow that opened my eyes and ears to the long-ignored voice within that still whispers … what about me?

I had actually made a pledge a while ago to live life like I mean it, and the epiphany last summer certainly enhanced it. As do the deaths of three old friends this week. Is there really a moment to waste?

Which brings me back to my word. I’m still deciding.

But I am thinking about FAITH, maybe, to remind me that my dreams can be achieved. Or FRIENDS, perhaps, to help sustain my quest and belief in myself.

FAMILY, of course, signifies the ties that bind, and even FULFILLED looks ahead with confidence to the future I envision as mine.

Maybe FORWARD, though, is the most appropriate, as I move one foot in front of the other, step by step, into the unknown.

Yes, it’s harder in winter to sustain the joy I felt last summer. The day-to-day creeps back in with each bill to pay and appointment to keep. The dog always needs to be walked. And just when I feel on top of my game? Life throws in an ambush to keep me humble.

I’m not an either-or person, though, as I told a friend the other day, and I hope to blend some of the old with the new to sustain my life’s momentum. I’m determined, too, to hang on to my beautiful summer moment, and experience more like it as time goes along.

Because while it was fleeting, as so many important things are, it was also life-changing. And that’s what this effort is all about and what eventually will keep me moving forward.

FLOATING

By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what’s happening, we begin to access our inner strength. – Pema Chodron

Dreamstime

Since the year turned, I have been unable to sit still, unable to concentrate, unable to be comfortable with the tumult of feelings and knowledge and thoughts racing around inside my being. My sleep, rarely good, has assumed a completely new quality of poor – it’s not that I don’t sleep, it’s as if I can’t.

This sensation seems only to have intensified as the days have passed. The air inside on this day was heavy, expectant, like the dense stillness before a storm. Little things have been slightly off; this afternoon, the hallway was so atypically quiet – with most everyone in the office present and accounted for – that a colleague stopped by to ask if I didn’t think the stillness was “eerie.” Indeed, I did. Slogging painfully through parts of a a 300+-page document in preparation for an upcoming meeting, I could feel rather than hear the rumbling in my core, as I wondered vaguely how bad the deluge will be and whether I am brave enough – and my instincts good enough – to make it through unscathed.

This morning, a different co-worker had drawn my attention to this link, from which the opening quote is drawn, about how we can learn to exist in acceptance in the place “in-between,” when we find ourselves unmoored, caught between solid bodies of land, not knowing. Chodron writes that “It’s the kind of place we usually want to avoid. The challenge is to stay in the middle rather than buy into struggle and complaint. … When we are brave enough to stay in the middle, compassion arises spontaneously.”

And so I tried, in between paragraphs, to accept my uneasiness, my not-knowing, and focus on my work. I was mostly unsuccessful. I will keep trying – tonight, tomorrow, the tomorrow after that – to remember to breathe deeply, to just be.

I am exhausted from fighting against the tide, swimming toward a distant and unseen shore. What would happen, I wonder, if I stopped struggling and just floated, embracing my dislocation, seeking not an anchor but a respite? As this thought moves through my brain I can feel the tension draining from my shoulders, my spine sinking back and downward, with relief.

So rest it is. And we’ll see what this tide brings tomorrow.

FAREWELL to 2012

One year ago today, I wrote about the year to come, and the things I wanted to offload from my life. On this New Year’s Day 2013, I find myself reflecting instead on what I gained. Like every year, this last one was full of ups and down, joys and sorrows. It was also a year of tremendous growth. These are some of the lessons life sent my way.

Dreamstime

• I came to understand that I can love and still let go – that, in fact, letting go may be a pre-requisite for loving deeply. I saw that love expressed in actions is often truer and more profound than love expressed in words. Perhaps most important, I came to believe that I am deserving of love, especially my own. Wonderful things may happen to you, but they mean little unless you open your heart.

• The people I love and respect see me much differently than I have seen myself, and their reviews are overwhelmingly more positive. In looking through others’ less critical eyes, I found the strength to stand up for myself, to trust my voice and to dismiss the judgments of those whose values I do not share.

• I learned, slowly, to set aside my fears and to enter the world with greater joy and expectation. Approaching the unknown with curiosity instead of apprehension is not only much less stressful, it’s much more life-affirming.

• Perspective can be fleeting, and so life showers us with opportunities to regain it. This guidance doesn’t always come from the direction you expect or in the form you wanted. I confirmed my belief that very little in life is random, but just because you can see the signs doesn’t mean you’re reading them correctly.

• In mid-life, your body does bizarre things over which you have little control. There are dozens of things that can make you feel old; it’s up to you to find and embrace those things that make you feel young.

• My therapist was right: guys really are flirting with me; I just don’t often notice. I’ve known for a while that paying more attention to my immediate vicinity would greatly improve my memory. But apparently I’ve needed a sexier motivator. And so I will continue my quixotic quest to be exactly where I am at each moment, taking it all in.

I step with great anticipation into this year, bringing with me a new understanding: that it takes the entire spectrum of life to bring us to our full potential. So whatever happens, bring it on. In the end, it’s all good. Happy New Year from Women Overboard!