Solitude and the New Mom

I wrote this post many moons ago about the reasons why solitude is such a great and useful thing.  All of these things are completely true, and are major reasons why I think solitude is so grand.  Of course, I was not yet a parent at that time, and looking back on it, I imagine that parents in the know may have wanted to laugh me off the face of the Earth.

"Solitude," I imagine some mother scoffing at me via her computer screen circa three years ago, hair greasy, wearing pajamas, and getting up for the third time in five minutes to deal with some child-related catastrophe before vacating the vicinity of her computer screen for six hours, finally coming back after the kids have gone to bed, sighing, and shutting down the computer while throwing a load of laundry into the washer.  

Now that I'm that mom, I get it.   I continue to need to adjust accordingly.


One of the most challenging things for me about solitude as a new mom is that my opportunities for it have dramatically decreased since the birth of my daughter, especially once I returned to work.  For some people, perhaps this lack of solitude would be a welcome relief.  For me and for others, the demands of being involved with others in a continuous way -- even those we deeply love and care for -- creates a practical challenge to a vital aspect of our self-care.  In my case, lack of solitude makes it difficult for me to approach the tasks of my everyday life with the clarity and connectedness that I'd like to have.  From there, it's only a matter of time before I wind up a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor, hair in a Medusa-esque pile on my head.  

I am one of those people who cannot care well for my kid, my home, my job, or my relationship with my spouse without a little time to myself to fill my own cup, as they say.  Otherwise, I have nothing to give.  At first, trying to find time to myself was a daunting task, but I've managed to find it in a few places I wouldn't have expected before having kids.

1.  The Workplace
Not every mother goes back to the workplace, nor had outside employment to begin with.  However, for some women who relish solitude, going back to work in whatever capacity -- if you have the means and comfort to do so -- provides you with opportunities to be by yourself.  Whether it's in the car, a few minutes with a cup of your favorite (work-appropriate) beverage, or the time between clients, a little downtime can be found.


2.  Night Owls
For those who can wing it (ha ha, get it?  Wings?  Owls?  What a hoot!), grabbing a bit of time after the kids go to sleep and before you go to sleep can help fill your own cup.  Of course, if you'd just prefer to go to bed early, I'm certainly not going to blame you.


3.  Early Birds
If you're this type, go ahead and get up before your kids if you like.  Again, if you want to stay in bed, I won't judge.


4.  The Car
For whatever reason, the car seems to work magic for my daughter, and for other small kids I know.  You aren't exactly all by yourself, but a drive can give you a chunk of quiet time and space.


So I realize I'm not the first mother to ever walk the face of the planet, and I'm certainly not the first to come up with the above ideas.  I have found, however, that you can do all of the above and not feel like you've really had any solitude.  There are a couple of things I've learned about that, too.

1.  Be Present!
I define presence as the quality of bringing your full attention to the task at hand and resting there.  I have found that being by myself doesn't quite cut it -- I also need to be aware of the fact that I am in solitude and to fully engage it.  I check the clock, maybe put on a timer or alarm, and let go of my to-do lists or other activities until the alarm sounds.  By doing this, I get more out of the moments I do have, which leads me to...

2.  It's Not the Time, It's How You Use It.
Even if you were accustomed to spending tremendous stretches of time in solitude pre-kids, as I was, the length of time you have available for solitude doesn't necessarily matter.  Bringing presence to your downtime makes any time you do have -- whether it's three minutes or three hours -- more restorative and filling.

3.  Solitude Is An Inside Job
One of the major lessons I've learned about solitude in the past four months is, by and large, solitude is an inside job.  You can actually build a place of solitude within, like a wellspring or a reservoir, that you can draw upon to sustain you when even those brief pauses are difficult to come by.  I imagine this ability is really helpful once you come to parenting toddlers, but I'll let you know if that's my experience when I get there.   

I love solitude!  I think it's great, and my consistent experience is that it helps me to stay calmer, more competent, and more sane than I would be without it.  I am so glad to discover that I have been able to maintain some solitude in my life post-childbirth, although it looks different than it did before.

 

Grieving and Gratitude

While I was out on maternity leave and home with my then-almost-a-month-old daughter, I decided to start listening to the stereo during the day.  This is something my mother always did while I was growing up.  Leaving the stereo on and one light whenever leaving the house, she always returned to a lighted, sound-filled home.  I don't know what her reasons were for this, but I assumed it had something to do with not wanting to come home to a dark, quiet house.  As I sat at home, nursing, changing diapers, sometimes cleaning the house, and sometimes eating lunch, the combination of our grandmother clock's steady tick-tock, and intermittent newborn cries could have induced a turn for the worse in my mental health.  Fighting this decline was critical, and so I started listening to the oldies station.  

I love music in general, and the oldies are no exception.  Much to my surprise, I've noticed the music of my childhood years edging its way onto the local stations, indicating that the tunes of the decadent eighties are now going the way of the dinosaurs.  It was noticing this, combined with decent pattern recognition skills and auditory recall, that led me to realize the local station was rotating a few playlists.  Tiring of being able to predict the next song to play, I decided to really shake things up and listen to NPR instead.

Although there is predictability to NPR, it didn't bother me because I knew I'd be listening to different topics each day.  I started to learn about politics as I changed diapers, and listened to people I've never heard of talk about their new books while I nursed.  

Then Sandy Hook happened.

It was one of those moments when I knew I'd remember where I was when I heard the news.  That day, I was eating lunch at my dining room table and my daughter was on the floor in her jungle animal play gym nearby when the news broke.  It was the first major tragedy to make news since my daughter had been born, and I had no preparation for the impact it had upon me.

I looked at my daughter.  I thought of my workplace friends.  The teachers filling in for me on leave.  My students.  In particular, I thought of an elementary school in which I work.  The principal, the office staff, the students with whom I work in the halls on travel skills.  The dedicated teachers who support them in their educational programming every day.  I thought of the people at Sandy Hook, desperately waiting for children, spouses, and friends to leave the school building.  I looked at my daughter again and finally understood why some people live in desperate, controlling fear, and cloak their children in it.

Oh, how I cried.

The photos started to go up online.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  Young children and the educators who lost their lives.  The person who carried the gun, and the person who brought him into the world.  I have never cried so much over the deaths of people I did not know.

I began this post intending to write something about safety versus independence, and how being able to live fully means being willing to accept a certain amount of risk, to deliberately exchange our attempts at keeping ourselves safe for the richness and joy that can be ours when we stretch beyond our habitual ways of behaving.  All of that is true.  Sandy Hook is a painful reminder that we cannot be certain that this moment won't be the last one, and of how limited our control is over what happens to us.  

We do have control, though, over the spirit in which we approach life.  After all, we only have our lives, our loved ones, our memories and values and dreams, for so long.

Let us be grateful for what we have while we are fortunate enough to still have it, and let us express that gratitude by living as fully as we can.
 

 

On Heartbreak

Sometimes I find that I have real difficulty in naming what I'm feeling.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Let's take, for instance, the feeling of heartbreak.

Over time, I've been able to recognize and acknowledge difficult feelings as they come up, and maybe even name them properly: grief, loneliness, disappointment, frustration, and so on.  I'd thought about heartbreak, and even thought that I didn't have much heartbreak in my life.

My active, present-day journey in starting to recognize and name heartbreak has a few notable markers that come readily to mind.  One that comes most quickly to mind was when I was at the wonderful Ferry Beach Camp and Conference Center last summer and speaking with new friends about some relationship challenges that I had been grappling with over a period of several years.  One woman -- a thoughtful, articulate woman with a rather quiet demeanor but a wicked sense of humor -- broke the silence after I told my story by saying, "it sounds like a situation of almost constant heartbreak."  I studied her face for a few moments before looking down at my hands.  Heartbreak.  It resonated, and I found myself in this place I find myself in so often, the place where I become reacquainted with some feeling that I haven't felt in awhile and get intensely curious about it: hey, what is this?  Where did this come from?  Heartbreak seems like the right word, but what part of what I'm feeling is the heartbreak part?

The concept of heartbreak has shown up again recently, in an online exchange I read about the distinctions, similarities, and relationship between rejection and heartbreak.  Saying that a lightbulb came on would be an understatement.  This wasn't merely a lightbulb moment; this was a veritable I'm-going-to-light-up-a-darkened-room-and-blow-your-mind moment.  My sudden realization was many times in my life, I was able to identify and work through the grief and loneliness that come with social rejection, death, or that drifting apart that happens sometimes between friends when life changes, but I had not successfully identified my feelings of heartbreak.

To help with my understanding, I went to seek some help from all-knowing Google, who referred me to Wikipedia, that lovely pre-research research page:  "Heartbreak may refer to: broken heart, the emotions felt after the end of a romance, or grief or disappointment."  As I went on to follow links and read more, I discovered that I'm not the only one who has had trouble identifying heartbreak -- or other feelings, for that matter -- and that humans can often have feelings they have difficulty naming, or even may not know they have.  I also discovered that what scientists know about heartbreak is fascinating. There is a real "broken heart syndrome" that can cause the tissue in the heart to break down and is seen at times in a person who has suffered the loss of a spouse after many years.  

As interesting to my mind as all of this was (online research:candy store :: Amy:kids), it didn't really answer the question of what one does with heartbreak, or other feelings that are so challenging.  The only thing I know to do with it is to accept it with as much compassion as you can and, eventually, grow from the experience.  I think heartbreak is one of those givens about life in a human body.  I do know, though, that for me, just being able to identify the feeling as one of heartbreak has already gone a long way toward helping me to accept it when it's there, and to move on from it when it's time.
 

Babies, Loss, and Keeping Secrets

A little over a year and a half ago, my younger sister found her infant son in his crib, cool and unbreathing, on an early February morning.

It's the kind of thing that you think will never, ever happen to you, nor to anyone you love.  Not my family.  Not my children.  Not my niece, nephew, grandchild, brother, sister, cousin.  It's also the kind of thing that you just don't get over.  Life goes on, yes.  New things happen.  People come and go.  Yet the death of a child is one of those things that lingers in your heart.  Like all deaths, it is a forever kind of game-changer.

Early this morning, I awoke to thoughts of the afternoon tea party and shower that my mother and sister-in-law are hosting today in celebration of our first child, who's due to come join the rest of us at some time in November.  It hasn't escaped me that my child's due date is close enough to my deceased nephew's birthday to matter.  It hasn't escaped me that, as we approach the birth of my first child, my sister is approaching what would have been her deceased son's second birthday.  So, I find myself thinking of my sister today, too, as well as my oldest nephews, who are now 13 and 12 and remember all too well the events surrounding their little brother's death.

My child is the first child to be born to someone in my family of origin since J.  passed away.  As I get closer to the end of my pregnancy, I find myself thinking less about the pain of labor, or whether or not I have enough (or too much) stuff packed in my hospital bag, and more about loss.  I find myself staring down thoughts and stories of loss, and remember the words that someone very wise once told me: loss is a part of life, and loving fully means accepting that loss can and will occur.  Even if the loss is something as common as the child being born, growing up, and leaving home, there will be many little losses and changes to meet along the way.  There is the loss of oneself, too, as a person who is not a parent and becomes one.  I think that keeping a loving spirit in the face of loss comes from accepting and acknowledging (but not resigning oneself to) the fact of loss.  Shortly after J's death, a friend also shared what she had learned about loss, saying that it was not something you really get over or move past, and that no one else can take the place of someone who has passed away, but that you discover that you are big enough to hold the space where that person used to be.

I have seen my sister act in ways over the past year and eight months that show something of her own understanding of both of these ideas that others in my life have expressed.  I've been able to witness some of the changes that have come to her over time as she follows her life where it takes her.  I see her growing, both because of her devastating loss and in spite of it, holding the loss and expanding around it as she moves further along the path of her life.  I have the most profound respect for the challenges of her journey and how she has met them.

At my midwife's appointment the other day, I was asked about my sister's kids.  I told the midwife that she had six children.  "How old are they?" she asked.  I found myself saying, "The oldest is 13, and the youngest is almost 2."  That was the first time that ever happened.  Usually, when I talk about my sister's kids, I tell them how old child number 5 is, and that the youngest passed away from SIDS.  I don't ever say, "my sister has five kids," because that is not true and dishonors the short time that J. came to hang with us here on planet Earth.  I suppose that the reason I told the midwife something different was because I just didn't want to get into the big, awkward conversation that tends to happen when someone finds out a child you know has died, even as I wanted to keep the memory of my nephew alive.  I also feared being seen either as attention-seeking for sharing this information in the first place, or uncaring in the way I sometimes matter-of-factly convey this information.

The thing is, I'm not a big fan of secrets, although I've been known to harbor a few.  Privacy, yes, but secrecy, no.  You can decide just once not to tell the whole truth about a situation, for a reason that may feel perfectly right at the time, but then it gets easier and easier not to tell the whole truth.  You start to box parts of yourself and your life experience away.  Whether it's because of shame, or being concerned how others will view you, or whether or not someone's opinion of you will change, or just because it seems easier for the moment, you keep a secret that needs to be expressed or you hide something of yourself that is starving for light and air.  Loss winds up begetting loss.  You may have started by losing a person to death, or an important perceived part of your identity, or all of your money, then you start to hide these facts of your life.  That is where you wind up losing yourself. 

Chicken Little Syndrome

When I was a kid, I went through a period of time where "Chicken Little" was my favorite story. I remember sitting in my grandmother's basement, switching back and forth between that and the children's version of the story of David and Goliath. Even though there were dazzling bright red letters on light blue background that nearly induced nystagmus on the David and Goliath book, I eventually favored Chicken Little, mostly because it was so silly! I mean, this tiny bird ran around all the time screaming about the sky falling when it wasn't! What a goofball!

Well.

Some twenty-odd years later, in the wake of what could have been a horribly catastrophic work situation, I find myself shaking my head, confused and puzzled by the innocuous, low-key outcome that actually took place and feeling a lot like Chicken Little.

All I know is that, time and again throughout my adult life, I've been in positions where I've found myself worried and fearful of what may come next. Worried that I don't have the skills or internal resources to deal with it. Worried that something bad is going to happen because I opened my mouth and tried on being assertive, rather than being passive or aggressive, or passive-aggressive. Worried that this time, this time it's really going to turn out just as badly as the worst case scenario I'm playing in my head says it will. Time and again, I have found that the worst case scenario virtually never happens.

How did I come to expect the worst out of things? I don't suppose the answer to that is really important. What is important to me, though, is all of the time I've wasted on worrying about the things that I cannot control. No matter what happens, no matter what I think I want to have in my life, there will always be factors that are outside of my control. It isn't like my worrying makes it easier or changes how other people think or respond. To think so is just believing in irrelevant hocus-pocus.

Basically, I can control how I choose to think about my life and what I choose to do about it. As far as I can tell, that's about it. When I think of it that way, there is so much I can control, but at the same time, so little.

Whenever I hear Chicken Little screaming and scrambling about inside of my head, perhaps I can find a way not to get caught up in it, not to follow him around and start screaming myself, but stop for a minute, look up at the sky, and see if it's truly falling. Chances are, it will still be up there.

Self-Care and the Green Smoothie Fast

I was standing in front of the mirror today and tilted my head to one side. I had to squint, since I wasn't wearing my glasses. I turned my body so that I was sideways to the mirror, rather than just facing it on an angle.

I pursed my lips together, my brow furrowed, as I strode quickly into my office, grabbed my glasses from atop the pile of assessment notes that I've been steadily cranking my way through, and went back in to look in the mirror again. Then I frowned. I hadn't been imagining it, after all. My abdomen was protruding past my breasts.

I know what this means, I thought, as I pulled my shirt up just to make extra sure. I wasn't making up that whole thing about my pants getting tighter.

At the beginning of the school year, I have the best of intentions. I am feeling good, rested, happy. My food is healthy. It's still sunny and reasonably warm outside. I'm drinking three cups of coffee a week, tops, and my water intake rivals my food intake. But then something happens -- usually work related -- that requires my attention and triggers my stress level into sky-high flight.

There are many levels to this pattern. I might deal with whatever is stressing me out on the emotional and spiritual levels, but by that point, I've somehow managed to forget that the way I stay out of the stress is strictly physical. Enough rest. Healthy food. Plenty of water. Not too much caffeine. Going to the gym and doing more than a 15-minute walk around the indoor track. My convenient forgetfulness -- combined with the sharp increase in the cost of produce, the fact that cold weather makes cold food less interesting, and the fact that I know the location of every Starbucks vendor within a 50-mile radius and how delicious whipped cream can sometimes be -- kind of sets me up to put on a few pounds.

I forget this, I swear, every single year.

It isn't really about the weight or the food for me. As a teenager, I was thin. I would have liked to have weighed a few pounds more, but I was generally fine with my appearance overall. I started to gain weight in college, and I was glad about this. But then it started to go too far the other way, thanks to intimate discourse with my Russian textbook and the Papa John's delivery guy at 2:30 a.m. on most nights of the week. Well, I take that back. It had to do with feeling most of the time like I was in way over my head at a private college 13 hours away from home, and believing that I did not have the emotional resources I needed to deal with such a huge life change.

There were several things I deeply understood about myself when I was 18 or 19, but I didn't realize that much of how I was thinking about my life at the time was contributing to my stress level, and that much of what I was worrying about wouldn't matter much in the long run. Like some new college students, I was terrified, and as badly as I had wanted to get away from home and try something new, I feared that my adjustment was going much more poorly than it had for my peers. I wasn't completely oblivious, but I didn't have a solid idea about how to comfort myself well through some of these major changes. I also didn't have a great sense of how prone my body was to chemical ups and downs depending on the food I ate.

I have learned a lot about this over the past 12 years or so, about my food, my body, and how I deal with my needs for comfort and care. Sometimes my strategies are effective, and other times, they aren't. When my belly extends past my breasts, I view it as my wake-up call that my self-care has somehow gone by the wayside, and probably not just physically.

I marched out of the bathroom, walked into the kitchen, and thought for a few moments before I told my Resident Partner-In-Crime that I was going to do a 7-day green smoothie fast so that he had fair warning. It wasn't urgent. It wasn't forced. It was simply an acknowledgment of the fact that it is time to step back from my habitual way of responding to life in the month of November and to pay closer attention to myself. This doesn't mean that I pay attention to the point of self-absorption, but rather that I notice how I'm feeling, how I'm thinking, and what things are in my power to address in a different way. I can't do this effectively if I'm distracting myself by knocking back a bag of smart puffs.

Stepping back to do something as simple as drink smoothies for seven days and get regular exercise feels like stepping into a minefield. I know it isn't, really, that I'll eventually feel much better like I have every other time I've set forth to interrupt an old pattern. It's also helpful to remember that I have the resources within and around me to deal with any emotional or spiritual fallout. I've acquired enough practice and experience with this over time to realize that I've done it before, and it didn't kill me. Quite to the contrary, it brought me to greater peace.

Meditating and Thinking

I meditate twice a day. I do it when I first get up in the morning, and then again before I get ready for bed. Over the past few months, when mentioning this in conversations with friends, the most frequent comment I've heard has been something along the lines of, 'I've tried to meditate/I'm interested in meditating/I wish I could meditate, but I can't stop my mind from thinking.'

When I hear this, I say something like, 'that's kind of the point.' Then I get funny looks, which I've just had to get used to over the years for a number of reasons.

I want to talk about this comment in more detail, because it demonstrates that a lot of people don't know a whole lot about what meditation is, or what it's supposed to do.

Meditation, in the way I use it, is a type of brain training. There are many different ways in which to train one's brain. We train our brains in acquiring information, applying information, thinking critically, and comparing and contrasting, just to name a few. When I use meditation, I'm doing it to cultivate the ability to watch my thoughts and see how they affect my experience of the present moment, and of life in general. From that place of witnessing and knowing the thoughts, I can later work on understanding the role they play in my life and go about changing them or letting them go if that's what I want to do.

One of the most amazing things for me to discover, when I first sat down and began to meditate back in my teens, was that I was thinking all. the. time. I also thought that the point of meditating was to get your brain to stop thinking, and when I couldn't do it, I figured that meditating just wasn't for me and stopped doing it. This was untrue. All of those thoughts that I was having were the means through which I could acquire some awareness and insight into what I thought, how often I thought, and what happened if I shifted my focus. I started to investigate whether all of my thoughts were useful and were working for me, or if there were some thoughts that I could do without. Were there thoughts that were more persistent than others? Were there ones I didn't want to let go of because I enjoyed the emotional state into which they seemed to place me? Yes and yes. Part of meditation is experiencing the thoughts and their associated emotional states thoroughly, without getting stuck in the feelings or caught up in the thoughts, or mistaking it all for meaning something other than me being a person with a brain, and that my brain was just doing what it had learned to do over the years.

Through the process of meditation, I've learned that my thoughts have power. I've witnessed firsthand in myself how quickly I can get caught up in a spiral of negativity by thinking about situations in my life and drawing conclusions about how I have to act because of them. If I'm getting ready to do something new in my life, maybe I have thoughts like, 'I can't do this,' which cause me to feel afraid, or 'This is something I can learn,' which causes me to feel confident.

I have also learned that my thoughts are not all powerful, and am at the very beginning of understanding that my thoughts do not make me who I am as a person. I can think many things about myself, but the content of those thoughts isn't me, and not even the grouping together of those thoughts is 'me'. The part of me that's aware of what I'm thinking is as much 'me' as the thinking is, maybe even more so.

As I restarted my regular meditation practice a year and a half ago, I was initially unimpressed. I'm just sitting here and wasting time, I thought. I noticed I was thinking, and just watched the thought, feeling the restlessness and impatience that came with the thought, and it went away. Then it came back. It kept doing this for a week or two, every time I went to sit. Then something interesting started to happen in my day-to-day life. I noticed that I was going into situations that had previously been highly stressful and overwhelming but was no longer reacting so quickly to what was going on. I noticed how I was relating to challenging situations with a more balanced perspective. Joyful situations brought delight, but also the awareness that it would also pass. I noticed during meditation that I was sustaining chunks of time where I was not thinking...and then realize that I was thinking again. I began to feel calmer and more peaceful during the day as I kept this place of stillness in my life, this place where I could practice noticing thoughts and letting them move on through once I'd brought my full acceptance to them.

A few months ago, I decided to add a meditation session in the morning to my practice, and have learned a great deal about how old habits of negative thinking like to try to weasel their way in as early in the day as possible and take over. When I sit with them in silence, not judging them, not resisting them, but just realizing that brains are like computers and need to be re-programmed with new thoughts when an old program no longer works, I can become aware of the thoughts and then work on changing the ones that no longer serve a useful purpose. It is a process. It's not magic. But it brings me a great sense of calm, stability, and peace of mind that was not part of my life a few years ago.

So if there's anyone reading this, thinking they want to meditate but that they just can't because they think too much or don't have enough time, I encourage you to take 10 minutes a day (or whatever you can handle), sit down, and try it. Don't let the thinking stop you, because it's the thinking that will help you to learn how to meditate. From there, a new relationship to your thoughts, feelings, and life experience can form.

Off the Hook

The first few days of school this year have been filled with hectic pacing, meetings, scheduling, paperwork, challenging phone calls, difficult e-mails, and driving. Through the day-to-day reality of working in school districts, tension and anger have been creeping back into my life baring giant yellow teeth and smelly demon breath. I find myself back in old habits and patterns of thought, yet more deeply aware to them and present to them as I feel them inviting me to further release my grip on them.
I'd really like to write this post in a way that will meet everyone's approval so that I can look really good, really wise, really enlightened, really spiritual. It's not gonna happen. The truth is that I do great work of trying to shut certain feelings out of my conscious awareness with active resistance. I'm finding the process of getting the fact that separating from my felt experience of life from the rest of life gets me nowhere to be a really, really, reeeally slow one. Sometimes my feelings are overpowering in their negativity. Other times, I feel overcome with neediness and the longing for someone else to notice what I do. One moment, I'm singing along to David Bowie, the next minute I've flipped off and cursed out someone who's gradually easing their way in front of my car for the fifteenth time that day. In my attempts to grow and learn spiritually, I am sometimes harder on myself than anyone I know. I try to master it and get it right in the same way I used to practice times tables or shooting on goal or pulling off vibrato on the trombone that doesn't sound like a seizing elephant. I rarely let myself off the hook in the way that I do for others, and then I wonder what I am so angry about. I marvel at people who claim not to judge themselves. I figure they're either lying, oblivious, or nuts. I imagine that I would feel blissful if I were one of those lucky souls.

Since I've had an empty house this evening, I've been able to work with the tension and anger I feel around being in a helping profession where I sometimes feel like I'm helping absolutely nobody. How can I be supportive and helpful to others if I treat others as though they were more precious than gold, while discounting and dismissing my own value as a human being in the process? The answer I came up with this evening (like all the other times I've explored this) is that I simply can't. Maybe I can instead treat myself with just a little more kindness with my next thought, with maybe just a touch more compassion. Maybe I can accept that the transition into a new school year after summer vacation, minor as it may be, is still a transition and requires acceptance and surrender.

Plunking myself down in a chair in the living room, I wonder, now what the hell do I do? I glance out the window, where I can see the sun beginning to set over the hills in the distance. The birds are chirping and a cool breeze blows in through the open windows. One cat creeps delicately by my feet and jumps soundlessly into the window; another curls himself up at my feet. As the leaves rustle and the wind chimes ring, I find myself grateful for the beauty around me in the moment. While I'm not exactly happy or energized, a little wisp of peace rises in my heart. For right now, that's plenty good enough.

The Ocean!

--> Singing to an ocean, I can hear the ocean's roar.Play for free, play for me and play a whole lot more.Singing about the good things and the sun that lights the day.
I used to sing on the mountains, has the ocean lost its way.

--Led Zeppelin

The Spouse and I headed down to Misquamicut for our annual day-at-the-beach last Sunday. It's a pity we don't get to the ocean more often, living as close to the coast as we do. After driving and being pleasantly surprised at the lack of traffic, we got within 2 miles of the coast and were rudely awakened by the reality of end-of-summer beach traffic. Since The Spouse  loathes waiting in a non-moving vehicle and I loathe waiting in a non-moving vehicle with people who loathe waiting in non-moving vehicles, we decided for the sake of continued marital bliss that he should walk to the beach while I sought parking.

Once my fine luxury automobile (look, after having driven a 1992 Buick Century for most of my adult life, a Honda Civic is a luxury vehicle) was safely docked in some parking spot a zillion miles away from the bathhouse, I proceeded to track down His Spouseliness. He awaited my arrival in all of his sun-weary excitement at a picnic table. We headed down to what was supposed to be the beach but, due to high tide, a hot day, and it being the last beach-able weekend before the start of the school year, we were instead met with a gigantic people carpet.

Eventually we found a patch of sand maybe about 8x8 feet and planted our stuff. We didn’t fret too much about the insane numbers of people because, well, we were at the BEACH, baby! Yeah! There was pasty-bodied fist-pumping, followed by the two of us trotting eagerly (not running – way too crowded) to the water.

I got to the water and was met with…fear? I sighed and, yes, it’s true, I rolled my eyes with impatience at my own reluctance to ride the waves. Was this particularly compassionate? No, of course not. But I had come to have fun, not to watch The Spouse dive under 300-foot high surf and squint into the sun without my eyeglasses (basically rendering me temporarily blind) until I spotted him again. Since his hair these days is reminiscent of Fabio, it was easier than I would have expected. Men with long blond hair are sorely lacking in New England, and the particular dude with whom I keep company was gleefully frolicking in the surf as I dealt briefly with my inner worrywart.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely LOVE the ocean. I could body surf for the rest of my life if it weren’t for my day job and the fact that lousy surf happens. We had come on a perfect kind of day. Well, I mean, aside from the riptides, the intense undertow, and the waves, which seemed a lot bigger and more intimidating than I remembered them being. The lifeguard kept blowing his whistle. The kayakers kept yelling at people to move back toward shore. I wondered if there were going to be lots of jellyfish. I thought about several bad experiences I’ve had, and all of them have involved the following two things:

1. Being in a body of water.

2. Panic.

Even with these thoughts, it didn’t take me long to get into the water, and it’s because I kept on thinking of all of those metaphors about life that have to do with waves. You know, things like, “Life is like being in an ocean. You just have to let the waves take you where they’re going to take you.” Or whatever. I figured it would be an entertaining way to pass the time to see if I could just let the waves take me wherever they were going to take me.

The other thing that helped was dropping the judgment and totally letting myself be afraid. Once that happened, I had the freedom and space inside of me to realize that I was creating worry and fear. I could feel myself being afraid, just for the sake of being afraid. It was abundantly clear that my mind was just trying to come up with a reason to be afraid. I remembered that, even though I’ve had bad experiences in the water in the past, I can swim now, and I’m even a fairly strong swimmer. I have more confidence in my swimming than I have ever had in my life. I’ve made many beach trips in my day, rode many waves, and lived to tell the tale. I knew that this was just an old habit of fearing everything worth doing that was trying to take the reins, wanting to keep me protected from experiencing new bad experiences in the water.

I feel pretty ridiculous talking about my brief hesitation before getting in the ocean. Yet I realize that it’s the brief moments of hesitation where I have a choice to either act out of my fear and old habits or to continue on with what it is that I originally wanted to do. I noticed that I had a total ball on the waves once I recognized that there was fear, and then was free to make a choice regarding what to do about it. Did I want it to overtake me, or did I want to ride the waves anyway? When I made the choice to go in, the fear quickly transformed itself into the pure bliss and excitement of flying toward shore on the top of a wave while slamming your thighs together so that the bottom of your bathing suit doesn’t disappear.

Of course, the waves had to test me a little bit. At one point, one of them totally bitch-slapped me on the back. That kind of hurt. I slapped it back, and then we were on okay terms. Another one tried to separate my lower body from my upper body, but I just did my Superman pose and I was fine.

So. Waves. Get in the ocean and ride them! And if they’re too big, just dive underneath them. If only all of life were so simple.

Acceptance, Resistance, and Judgment

I was having a conversation with a friend not too long ago and she mentioned something about how she liked talking with me because I was non-judgmental. It was high praise. As I suspect is the case for others, we rarely judge others as much as we judge ourselves, and when it comes to myself and my own perceived shortcomings, I am perhaps the harshest judge of all. With the passing of time, I find a little more compassion for myself, a little more willingness to drop something I've been telling myself for many years that I could have sworn was the truth but that my life experiences are showing me is not as true as I thought.

Earlier today, I thought about this as I drank tea and attempted to find something funny to watch on Netflix. I was thinking about the stuff I have to do to get ready for the school year, my concerns about being off on my triathlon training schedule, the trash needing to be taken out, the weather, and my slightly lower-than-normal energy level over the past few days. I wondered if I was at the very start of becoming sick, since there has been some kind of virus going around. My inner sense was that the low energy had to do with my body dealing with something and not quite falling over into full-blown illness. Then I wondered if I was just playing a game with myself and trying to get out of doing stuff that I haven't been feeling super psyched about doing lately. The reason I'm not feeling super psyched is because I've been feeling low on energy. It's fabulously circular reasoning, and until I wrote it out just now, I didn't realize it.

Something else that's going on beyond this surface level of thinking is that I have a tendency to become judgmental of myself when my energy drops. It took me a long time to be aware of what's going on when my energy drops. I started to notice that I would see the energy drop, and then I'd get curious about the drop and an answer would come to me. It's usually something like 'you're getting sick' or 'you've been staying up until 3 am the last four days' or 'you did just run five miles'. At this point, one of two things happens. Either I am able to accept what is going on and deal with it from there, or I start to resist it. In today's situation, the judgment hit as soon as I started resisting that I wasn't feeling well in the form of, 'you're just trying to get out of doing stuff that you have to do, and if you don't do it, it means you're failing at everything you're doing.'

Once I start resisting the way an experience is for me, things go downhill quickly. If I'm getting sick and I don't want to be sick, it takes me no time to start judging myself and berating myself in an attempt to rally and motivate myself into doing stuff even when I'm not feeling well and know that the best thing to do to care for myself is to just chill out. Sometimes the judging shows up when I'm taking a big ol' leap out of the status quo and trying to change something that is important to me and matters in my life. Over and over again, I find that the best thing to do in these situations is to let go of the judgments and the resistance. This lets me just be with however I'm feeling in a place of gentle acceptance.

Yeah. Not so easy to do. I know.

Part of the reason it's not so easy is if we're really good at judging ourselves and resisting ourselves, we might not even know we're doing it. The only way to deal with this, as far as I know, is to be willing to start noticing when we're judging ourselves, or to notice when we're feeling agitated, or when something is happening within our emotional or physical experience of ourselves that we just want to get the hell out and not come back. When we have the awareness, we have to just acknowledge that this is what is going on and not use it to beat ourselves up some more.

Another reason it's not so easy has to do with our understanding of what it means to accept something. Acceptance has nothing to do with rolling over and letting life batter you about while you submit resignedly to your fate. It has to do with being aware of what is happening in a situation and staying with it, without needing to change it right now and make it different right now. In order to accept difficult feelings or thoughts in a moment, it's helpful to realize that they all eventually pass, and when acceptance happens, a lot of the tension and struggle that surrounds something passes, too. If you resist that something is happening, you render yourself powerless to do anything to change it. Accepting something means that you are aware of it happening and that you are present with your felt experience of what is happening, rather than just observing it with intellectual distance.

So, as hard as it is to just kind of hang out and be generally non-productive without beating myself up for it, that's what I'm trying to do today. I can be all right with being tired. I can totally embrace the fact that I don't want to do something without getting caught up in the 'not wanting' part of it. The funny part is that, as I do just hang out and accept that I'm feeling resistant, or notice that I'm judging myself and handle it with a soft touch, it gets easier for me to treat myself with greater kindness. The judgment eases up, the resistance may or may not linger, and I find myself able to do what I absolutely must in that particular moment to care for myself.