My husband says I look sexier when I meditate.
At first, I wanted to control. I asked him what exactly does that mean? I figured if I understood exactly what he meant that I could reproduce the results when it suited me. Or, I could avoid the doing whatever caused the symptoms as necessary.
Somehow, in less than a nanosecond, I have turned a lovely compliment into a problem that requires careful management.
Once again, there is no problem, only the moment. I think I felt vulnerable, and somewhat surprised. Vulnerable is a feeling that I have spent a lifetime and at least $100,000 of therapy trying to avoid, but mindfulness means being with what is going on. I am practicing.
But not before I asked him what exactly does that mean.
"I don't know. I just noticed. I don't have anymore information. It is not to be figured out. I am just enjoying it," says he.
Oh, that's right. I said that I wanted a joyful, in the moment husband. That's why I encouraged him to take that meditation class. I don't have to understand. I can just relax and take it in. No need to figure it out. I think "thank you" is the appropriate response here. I am practicing that also.
I must admit, when he shared his observation while sitting across from me on the sofa, he started looking pretty sexy too.
When I was single and dating, I was told to "stay off the sofa" so that there wouldn't be any unplanned sexual activity for at least 30 days. The idea was that you need at least that long to get to ascertain whether this person was worthy of emotional entanglement. It's very hard to go back to holding hands once the deed has been done. The thinking here is that perspective & logic get drowned by lovely brain chemicals like dopamine and oxytocin. The body and brain mistakenly decide this is "the one." I was told that a having a plan would help buy some time as I sought the answer to the question: would he be Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now or, dare I hope, both?
As long as I sat in the chair, it worked. However, not everyone practiced that suggestion, and there were times that I would forget to mention it. Like I said, it was hard to go back to holding hands. I was so attracted to my husband on our first date that I sat on the cold, hardwood floor. I even tore a hole in knee of my jeans. He was my most difficult sofa-challenge. He was my personal Olympics of sofa-challenges.
Having been married nearly seven years, the emerging mystery has faded into something less than an emergency. I now know with certainty that my husband is worthy, and the deed has been done and then some. The sofa-challenge has evolved from let's enjoy "dessert" on the sofa to let's eat a rice krispy bar on the sofa, and watch Idol.
Oddly enough, since he mentioned it, I noticed that I am actually feeling sexier after meditating, in addition to looking sexier. I am going to take my meditated, sexier-looking self over to the sofa and enjoy my Mr. Right, right now. But first, lemon cake.
April 27, 2008
April 23, 2008
No Big Deal?
Yesterday's epic battle of good v. evil has mellowed. I realize that I have a habit of treating these thoughts like a cancer that must be eradicated or else my life as I know it will fall apart. Maybe it does not have to be this high drama. Could I notice and attend to the situation without reacting in fear? I really don't know.
In theory, if I am present in the moment, then I will be able to relax into these darker thoughts. Maybe even find them funny.
This notion is completely counter to my entire life experience. I have been reacting and making things a big deal for at least three decades. I have been in a war with my own shadow, basically beating it down when it appears. I am tired.
What would it be like to treat these thoughts with friendliness instead of fear. Could I survive without taking myself so seriously?
I'd like to try it, but now is not a good time for me to be light and fun. I am spending the evening with my husband.
Okay, now I'm ready.
In theory, if I am present in the moment, then I will be able to relax into these darker thoughts. Maybe even find them funny.
This notion is completely counter to my entire life experience. I have been reacting and making things a big deal for at least three decades. I have been in a war with my own shadow, basically beating it down when it appears. I am tired.
What would it be like to treat these thoughts with friendliness instead of fear. Could I survive without taking myself so seriously?
I'd like to try it, but now is not a good time for me to be light and fun. I am spending the evening with my husband.
Okay, now I'm ready.
5 Little Monkeys Jumping in My Head (at least)
We kicked it to Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed at Math Night at kiddo's preschool. These sort of events are like speed dating. You have under two minutes to make a connection with the parents of the favorite classmates. We agree to get together and never do. I would give up trying to hook my kid up with her friends, but I get requests daily for friends to come over.
I feel blocked about the playdate thing. First, I don't like the name. It sounds like child-version of a To-Do. Since I am trying to move beyond the To-Do List, I hear the word play date, but I really hear forced fun. We had to do forced fun in eating disorder treatment. Sing-a-longs and games after a day of pounding pillows, screaming at imaginery people who had seemingly caused us pain. I really needed rest.
Also, I have house shame. Our house is cute and small. It needs more TLC than I care to give it. In fact, it seems like an endless series of projects. Again, the To-Do list presents itself. When given a choice, I'd rather write, meditate, workout or watch a movie. Or, I'd rather rest.
But kiddo keeps asking, and there is a best friend who we think is terrific. They have been in the same class for two years.
So, I asked the parents one more tiime if we could get together. Now that our world is no longer the frozen tundra that it was only 3 weeks ago, we can go to the playground. No house pressure.
Then I asked what room the friend will be in next year. Chameleons. I felt stomach tighten; my face pinch. Chameleons? My kid is in the Platypus room. This is a crisis. My kiddo loves her friend. I felt afraid. What if she doesn't have any friends?
The other mother saw my face and said, "Well, they'll see each other on the playground." A perfectly logical response.
I heard: What a relief. I am so glad that my child is going to be free of yours.
I went over to the dark side. This time, however, I knew it was a lie. Pretty much. The lie seems pretty real, especially if it keeps repeating in my head. My next step in the old way would be to make them bad and horrible, and decide we will never hang out with them.
Sometimes, being a parent is a moment by moment re-enactment of the epoch battle of good v. evil. Faith or fear. It's my kid so it's hard to keep perspective and remember that there are no big deals. I know I must trust the professionals who put the classes together. They work hard to accomodate a child's needs with the appropriate classrooms.
More importantly, I need to trust God. My child will be given everything needed to move from success to success. If she doesn't have these challenges now, when will she have them? When she goes to college and has no support? I've seen overly protected children end up dating and marrying really sick codependents who will take care of them. Do I want this for my child? No.
For today, I know I will be given the ability to sit in my own fear and grief based on my own growing up. However, calmly sitting with my feelings seems a lot harder than believing the lie I told myself about what the other parents said.
I will call them today, and invite them to the park. I will choose to believe the truth: All is well. I'll let the monkeys in my head jump until they take a rest.
I feel blocked about the playdate thing. First, I don't like the name. It sounds like child-version of a To-Do. Since I am trying to move beyond the To-Do List, I hear the word play date, but I really hear forced fun. We had to do forced fun in eating disorder treatment. Sing-a-longs and games after a day of pounding pillows, screaming at imaginery people who had seemingly caused us pain. I really needed rest.
Also, I have house shame. Our house is cute and small. It needs more TLC than I care to give it. In fact, it seems like an endless series of projects. Again, the To-Do list presents itself. When given a choice, I'd rather write, meditate, workout or watch a movie. Or, I'd rather rest.
But kiddo keeps asking, and there is a best friend who we think is terrific. They have been in the same class for two years.
So, I asked the parents one more tiime if we could get together. Now that our world is no longer the frozen tundra that it was only 3 weeks ago, we can go to the playground. No house pressure.
Then I asked what room the friend will be in next year. Chameleons. I felt stomach tighten; my face pinch. Chameleons? My kid is in the Platypus room. This is a crisis. My kiddo loves her friend. I felt afraid. What if she doesn't have any friends?
The other mother saw my face and said, "Well, they'll see each other on the playground." A perfectly logical response.
I heard: What a relief. I am so glad that my child is going to be free of yours.
I went over to the dark side. This time, however, I knew it was a lie. Pretty much. The lie seems pretty real, especially if it keeps repeating in my head. My next step in the old way would be to make them bad and horrible, and decide we will never hang out with them.
Sometimes, being a parent is a moment by moment re-enactment of the epoch battle of good v. evil. Faith or fear. It's my kid so it's hard to keep perspective and remember that there are no big deals. I know I must trust the professionals who put the classes together. They work hard to accomodate a child's needs with the appropriate classrooms.
More importantly, I need to trust God. My child will be given everything needed to move from success to success. If she doesn't have these challenges now, when will she have them? When she goes to college and has no support? I've seen overly protected children end up dating and marrying really sick codependents who will take care of them. Do I want this for my child? No.
For today, I know I will be given the ability to sit in my own fear and grief based on my own growing up. However, calmly sitting with my feelings seems a lot harder than believing the lie I told myself about what the other parents said.
I will call them today, and invite them to the park. I will choose to believe the truth: All is well. I'll let the monkeys in my head jump until they take a rest.
April 15, 2008
Heroin Chic, Preschool-style
When I look into the face of my angel child, I see the kind of eye bags found only among the heroin chic. The pediatrician and an allergist (twice) told me nope, no allergies. I figured this was another example of how allopathic medicine doesn't have all the answers, unless you have a problem with your penis.
One of my friends insisted that I get the kid off dairy because it is evil. She has been doing research on the internet, which is not always ideal. "It's horrific," she said, "I am going on Oprah [to expose the conspiracy]." Perhaps she's right, but I am not exising an entire food group from my kid's life until there is some profound evidence to do so. I spent 17 years compulsively avoiding sugar, white flour and caffeine, and now that I have been restored to sanity, I just refuse be the food cop.
I have a kid who was not sick once all winter, despite the fact that her parents were laid out for a month each with the flu. Being sick when child is not, it a full slice of hell. Fed mostly organic food, healthy snacks, not too much juice, this kid also sleeps at least 12 hours every night. I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why my child looks, to use a horse analogy, like she's been rode hard and put away wet.
After the third refrain of "this just happens to fair-skinned children," I gave up. I had to admit that I was powerless, yet again. I let it go, sort of. I mean, I did let go of my insane need to understand the inner workings of her sinuses - for right now. Let's just say I left the issue on the desktop of my brain for review if something seemed relavant to the topic.
I learned today that it is not evil organic dairy that is causing the allergic shiners. Turns out, peanut's room is a hot zone.
I haven't spent much time in the room with my new prayer and meditation schedule. Kid gets mandatory break time to play haircutter and put stickers all over the new windows, while I get mindful. I change the sheets, read bedtime stories, pray, kiss, and I'm out of there.
It was time. There were two-inch locks of hair amid various doll clothes, sippy cups and plastic food mixed in with clean clothes. I started in the closet. My nose began to run. I started to feel faint. I was having a non-allergic rhinitis reaction to my daughter's room.
I only felt complete shame and horror for about 22 minutes. I wanted to cry that I had unknowingly let my child sleep in a room that made me feel sick. This line of thinking is the first step into the shame-pit that only a mother could understand.
I opened the windows, flipped in a meditation CD, and kept working.
When I made my list of Why Meditate yesterday, I left one thing out. The missing link. The key to this incarnation is - no big deal. Okay. Just as I was about to cry, I thought: you can cry and get all upset about this and wear yourself out and torture your family while you finish this job OR finish the job. The bad-mom talk persisted. This is not helping, I said to self.
We meditate to see clearly everything about ourselves, even the truly embarrassing things. For many years, I could see what I considered my embarrassing or shameful thoughts or actions, and then used them to build my case against myself. Normally, I would have beaten myself up for at least a month, sharing my inadeqacies as a mother with anyone trapped in the sauna with me at the gym. The thought of laughing at myself and thanking God that she is healthy is a radical approach to mothering for me.
Otherwise, I could continue with the self-flogging and then book a bed at the local mental hospital. Now we have another, well-worn aspect of the case against myself as a mother: I knew I had mental illness before I had her, I should have never subjected a child to this. Might as well book the ECT suite. Just writing this old belief is so painful that my legs go numb.
I am a very attentive mother, who makes mistakes. I am so grateful that God gave me the willingness to reorganize her room so it didn't go on forever or make her truly sick.
I got everything sorted and took an IKEA break. We had a great time laughing and picking out nice storage containers with lids that can be dusted in a lovely shade of Pepto-pink. We had lunch at the cafeteria. Organized some more. Then went to Fat Lorenzo's for pizza, and a trip to the playground.
Knowing how this day could have gone and experiencing what actually happened, reminds me of those mystery books that I used to read in the sixth grade. If you want to go to the mental hospital, turn to page 45. If you want to go the park, turn to page 6. The action of turning the page is similar to choosing my thoughts. There is no good or bad, only options. Meditation gives me the ability to remain detached so I enjoy choice. Today, I can shoot some steroids up my nose and have some fun.
One of my friends insisted that I get the kid off dairy because it is evil. She has been doing research on the internet, which is not always ideal. "It's horrific," she said, "I am going on Oprah [to expose the conspiracy]." Perhaps she's right, but I am not exising an entire food group from my kid's life until there is some profound evidence to do so. I spent 17 years compulsively avoiding sugar, white flour and caffeine, and now that I have been restored to sanity, I just refuse be the food cop.
I have a kid who was not sick once all winter, despite the fact that her parents were laid out for a month each with the flu. Being sick when child is not, it a full slice of hell. Fed mostly organic food, healthy snacks, not too much juice, this kid also sleeps at least 12 hours every night. I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why my child looks, to use a horse analogy, like she's been rode hard and put away wet.
After the third refrain of "this just happens to fair-skinned children," I gave up. I had to admit that I was powerless, yet again. I let it go, sort of. I mean, I did let go of my insane need to understand the inner workings of her sinuses - for right now. Let's just say I left the issue on the desktop of my brain for review if something seemed relavant to the topic.
I learned today that it is not evil organic dairy that is causing the allergic shiners. Turns out, peanut's room is a hot zone.
I haven't spent much time in the room with my new prayer and meditation schedule. Kid gets mandatory break time to play haircutter and put stickers all over the new windows, while I get mindful. I change the sheets, read bedtime stories, pray, kiss, and I'm out of there.
It was time. There were two-inch locks of hair amid various doll clothes, sippy cups and plastic food mixed in with clean clothes. I started in the closet. My nose began to run. I started to feel faint. I was having a non-allergic rhinitis reaction to my daughter's room.
I only felt complete shame and horror for about 22 minutes. I wanted to cry that I had unknowingly let my child sleep in a room that made me feel sick. This line of thinking is the first step into the shame-pit that only a mother could understand.
I opened the windows, flipped in a meditation CD, and kept working.
When I made my list of Why Meditate yesterday, I left one thing out. The missing link. The key to this incarnation is - no big deal. Okay. Just as I was about to cry, I thought: you can cry and get all upset about this and wear yourself out and torture your family while you finish this job OR finish the job. The bad-mom talk persisted. This is not helping, I said to self.
We meditate to see clearly everything about ourselves, even the truly embarrassing things. For many years, I could see what I considered my embarrassing or shameful thoughts or actions, and then used them to build my case against myself. Normally, I would have beaten myself up for at least a month, sharing my inadeqacies as a mother with anyone trapped in the sauna with me at the gym. The thought of laughing at myself and thanking God that she is healthy is a radical approach to mothering for me.
Otherwise, I could continue with the self-flogging and then book a bed at the local mental hospital. Now we have another, well-worn aspect of the case against myself as a mother: I knew I had mental illness before I had her, I should have never subjected a child to this. Might as well book the ECT suite. Just writing this old belief is so painful that my legs go numb.
I am a very attentive mother, who makes mistakes. I am so grateful that God gave me the willingness to reorganize her room so it didn't go on forever or make her truly sick.
I got everything sorted and took an IKEA break. We had a great time laughing and picking out nice storage containers with lids that can be dusted in a lovely shade of Pepto-pink. We had lunch at the cafeteria. Organized some more. Then went to Fat Lorenzo's for pizza, and a trip to the playground.
Knowing how this day could have gone and experiencing what actually happened, reminds me of those mystery books that I used to read in the sixth grade. If you want to go to the mental hospital, turn to page 45. If you want to go the park, turn to page 6. The action of turning the page is similar to choosing my thoughts. There is no good or bad, only options. Meditation gives me the ability to remain detached so I enjoy choice. Today, I can shoot some steroids up my nose and have some fun.
April 14, 2008
Why Meditate?
I have spent the last few days working with a sore heart. I really like being present when I like it; I don't like being present when it is painful.
Why meditate? My answer is focused on results: to have a clear, peaceful mind and heart and to never experience feelings that I don't like. I want to feel safe and loved continuously. Also, I would like to be practically perfect in every way and know the exact right thing to do at all times.
This definintion has resulted in my total failure to meditate, and, thus, experience very little peace and plenty of feelings that I don't like. I also have the bonus of a lot of unwanted, destructive behavior toward self and others.
I am throwing out my answer to the question, and trying another way:
1. To foster a friendly, steadfastness with myself. A really strong friendship where you stay friends, even when the friend behaves in a way that I don't like.
2. To have clarity about the moment and myself to which I will apply the aforementioned friendliness.
3. To be present and work with emotional distress, instead of numbing out.
Now, there is very little opportunity to fail. The only way to meditate wrong, is to not do it all. This is helpful.
Being present, friendly and clear has allowed me to notice some wrong ideas experience their correction. I felt God using me as the right person for a certain job. I liked this stuff. It's easy to write about.
A couple of days ago, I noticed an old feeling. The first time I remember this feeling, I was growing up.
The feeling is an empty, soreness, like a dry socket in my heart. It is really painful.
When I first felt this way, I thought - something is wrong. I must be a bad person to feel this awful. I must have done something bad. I thought maybe if I figured out what was wrong that I could fix it and then I wouldn't have to feel this way again.
I began a journey of solving the problem. Either I am lacking. There is something I don't have (a boyfriend, girlfriends, love, thinness, beauty, etc.), and, if I can get it, I will be at perfect peace. Or, there is something I am doing for which I am being punished. If I can figure it out and apologize, I will be okay.
I couldn't have been more wrong. The truth is, there is no problem. Whatever I am feeling just needs to be witnessed and released.
The last few days I have been suffering so much that I haven't been able to write about it. The heaviness is uninspiring.
I have kept up with my meditation, and I do not feel like a failure because I am back to the same old soreness. I am doing my best to treat it like an sick, old dog. I make a fire, put down a rug, and rub beind it's ears. I make him comfortable. We enjoy the peace and warmth of the fire together. I do not leave the dog just because it is sick. I stay with him even though it is painful to see him in such agony. I love this animal so much that I don't want him to be alone in this pain.
Yesterday, I asked God to be with me while I am feeling this pain. I affirmed that other peopel feel this way. I proclaimed that all is well, despite the conflicting evidence.
There has been a softening to the pain. Knowing that I am growing in friendliness, clarity and distress tolerance, little by slowly actually is a comfort. I never thought that progress would be enough in the face of suffering. I am so grateful to have been wrong.
Why meditate? My answer is focused on results: to have a clear, peaceful mind and heart and to never experience feelings that I don't like. I want to feel safe and loved continuously. Also, I would like to be practically perfect in every way and know the exact right thing to do at all times.
This definintion has resulted in my total failure to meditate, and, thus, experience very little peace and plenty of feelings that I don't like. I also have the bonus of a lot of unwanted, destructive behavior toward self and others.
I am throwing out my answer to the question, and trying another way:
1. To foster a friendly, steadfastness with myself. A really strong friendship where you stay friends, even when the friend behaves in a way that I don't like.
2. To have clarity about the moment and myself to which I will apply the aforementioned friendliness.
3. To be present and work with emotional distress, instead of numbing out.
Now, there is very little opportunity to fail. The only way to meditate wrong, is to not do it all. This is helpful.
Being present, friendly and clear has allowed me to notice some wrong ideas experience their correction. I felt God using me as the right person for a certain job. I liked this stuff. It's easy to write about.
A couple of days ago, I noticed an old feeling. The first time I remember this feeling, I was growing up.
The feeling is an empty, soreness, like a dry socket in my heart. It is really painful.
When I first felt this way, I thought - something is wrong. I must be a bad person to feel this awful. I must have done something bad. I thought maybe if I figured out what was wrong that I could fix it and then I wouldn't have to feel this way again.
I began a journey of solving the problem. Either I am lacking. There is something I don't have (a boyfriend, girlfriends, love, thinness, beauty, etc.), and, if I can get it, I will be at perfect peace. Or, there is something I am doing for which I am being punished. If I can figure it out and apologize, I will be okay.
I couldn't have been more wrong. The truth is, there is no problem. Whatever I am feeling just needs to be witnessed and released.
The last few days I have been suffering so much that I haven't been able to write about it. The heaviness is uninspiring.
I have kept up with my meditation, and I do not feel like a failure because I am back to the same old soreness. I am doing my best to treat it like an sick, old dog. I make a fire, put down a rug, and rub beind it's ears. I make him comfortable. We enjoy the peace and warmth of the fire together. I do not leave the dog just because it is sick. I stay with him even though it is painful to see him in such agony. I love this animal so much that I don't want him to be alone in this pain.
Yesterday, I asked God to be with me while I am feeling this pain. I affirmed that other peopel feel this way. I proclaimed that all is well, despite the conflicting evidence.
There has been a softening to the pain. Knowing that I am growing in friendliness, clarity and distress tolerance, little by slowly actually is a comfort. I never thought that progress would be enough in the face of suffering. I am so grateful to have been wrong.
April 9, 2008
Tender Moment
A mindful moment happened at my kid's preschool. I joined the class on the floor where they were singing along with a tape to Lou, Lou, Skip to My Lou, Miss Mary Mack and the Lady with the Alligator Purse. I grabbed my kiddo and held her like a baby, rocked her back and forth and sang along with the tunes. One of the friends looked over at me and said, "Will you rock me?" This 4 year old child lost her mother a few months ago. I was told she got sick and died.
After my kid's turn, I cradled her in my arms, rocked and sang to her. I kissed her on the forehead.
I thought about my own experience being a child who lost a parent. Although my own father was gone, I see now that I received "fathering" from other people just when it was needed. It wasn't the same, but I wasn't entirely abandoned either.
As I rocked this little girl, I thanked God that for the length of a children's song, I got to be the one offering some mothering to a motherless child. I got to be there for this child in the same way that other's had done for me. I felt a rush of tenderness that comes when I feel a fraction of the extent of God's love and mercy for me and for us all. We are loved and cared for.
She smiled and said, "Mama, Mama," but not to me. She said it with her face out to the universe.
The song ended, and the rocking line had formed. Today I had six little girls in my arms who seemed quite delighted and one who appeared quite relieved. I know the feeling. Getting "parented" even though your parent has died is a bit like a cool sip of water when you've gotten so thirsty for so long that you forget that you ever were in need of drink. It's a relief, but it hurts going down at first. Most of my "other father's" kindnesses have brought me to tears.
She sat in my lap along with my kid during story time. I told her it was time for us to go. I thanked her for letting me hold her. She slid off of my lap. Then she said, "Can I come to your house?"
"Anytime you like," I said.
Later, I felt myself slipping into the drama of pity for her, second-guessing God's plan. How could God let 4 year old be separated from her mother? Isn't it awful? Then I realized that she asked me to rock her. If she knew today that she could ask for mothering and receive it, she can do it again and again as needed. She is going to be just fine. God bless her and all of her "other mothers" who are standing by.
After my kid's turn, I cradled her in my arms, rocked and sang to her. I kissed her on the forehead.
I thought about my own experience being a child who lost a parent. Although my own father was gone, I see now that I received "fathering" from other people just when it was needed. It wasn't the same, but I wasn't entirely abandoned either.
As I rocked this little girl, I thanked God that for the length of a children's song, I got to be the one offering some mothering to a motherless child. I got to be there for this child in the same way that other's had done for me. I felt a rush of tenderness that comes when I feel a fraction of the extent of God's love and mercy for me and for us all. We are loved and cared for.
She smiled and said, "Mama, Mama," but not to me. She said it with her face out to the universe.
The song ended, and the rocking line had formed. Today I had six little girls in my arms who seemed quite delighted and one who appeared quite relieved. I know the feeling. Getting "parented" even though your parent has died is a bit like a cool sip of water when you've gotten so thirsty for so long that you forget that you ever were in need of drink. It's a relief, but it hurts going down at first. Most of my "other father's" kindnesses have brought me to tears.
She sat in my lap along with my kid during story time. I told her it was time for us to go. I thanked her for letting me hold her. She slid off of my lap. Then she said, "Can I come to your house?"
"Anytime you like," I said.
Later, I felt myself slipping into the drama of pity for her, second-guessing God's plan. How could God let 4 year old be separated from her mother? Isn't it awful? Then I realized that she asked me to rock her. If she knew today that she could ask for mothering and receive it, she can do it again and again as needed. She is going to be just fine. God bless her and all of her "other mothers" who are standing by.
April 8, 2008
Not Your Daughter's Jeans
I may have stepped over to the dark side. After 3 years of mother overload sweatpants and t-shirts, I am trying to let my personal style reflect my burgeoning sense of joy. I obtained a copy of "How Not to Look Old" from the library to reflect upon which of my old ways are passe. Turns out, most of the rules that I have been practicing since childhood are no more. Fewer rules is always good news.
Linen pants before Memorial Day? What a concept. I spent the morning looking for cute shoes with arch support that would allow me to wear linen pants next week, despite the fact that today we reached a balmy 37 degrees in Minneapolis. To live in Minnesota is to demonstrate our faith that spring does follow winter, that we are blessed with sunshine even when we can't see it behind a cold, gray sky. The fact that I shave my legs on days like today is a radical act of faith.
I found the shoes, but I had to free my mind that these jazzed up bo-bo sneakers were not just for the geriatric set. Mine have a lovely grapevine design with sequins and cross strap with velcro. The good news is that my wide leg linen pants will mostly cover them. Linen may be okay any time of year, but I simply cannot expose my toes until it is at least 65 degrees or until we have had two hard rains to clear the gravel and salt reside from the streets. Without these shoes, I will have to wait until to July to wear my linen pants.
However, the linen pants are two miles too long because I had to accomodate my butt. Buoyed by my shoe find, the kiddo and I skipped over to the tailor who turned out to be a kind, Russian man who has been in the business for 28 years. I asked him if he remembered the JCPenney store that used to be at the other end of the mall. Oh yes, of course. I told him my father managed that store. I figured he couldn't possibly remember my dad from so long ago. It had been 24 years since he died. The man said, "I'm not sure [if I remember him], but we did all of the alterations for JCPenney, thousands of dollars for us. Actually, your dad told all of the other store owners to use us also. I got a lot of business from your dad." After twenty four years, I rarely meet anyone who even knew my dad. Close friends and relatives who do speak of him usually do so with a serious tone through a tight jaw, I assume, because he died by suicide at the impossibly young age of 40. Though the tailor didn't remember him personally, he did remember my father's loyal and generous way of being which helped him get his new business started. He remembered my dad, not his personality, but how he lived, and without the heavy exhale.
This was an unplanned gift that left me feeling quite tender. Meditation has caused a freakish increase in these types of moments.
Things were going so well that I decided to try on jeans. Or, I couldn't tolerate the tenderness of the moment so I decided to try on jeans. This is when things began to turn delusional. How many times have I said to self, "This time it will be different. This time you are going to find the jeans. These will actually look good from the front and the back and cost less than $50." The fact that I brought my 4 year old to a clothing store where everything costs $8.88 to find the illusive jeans was the single most insane thing I have done in weeks. I put my faith in Sarah Jessica Parker. I lost perspective. The first couple of pairs fit, though not from the back. Then the thought: how long can my kid stay with this process before she freaks. I check my watch. I am breathing quite shallowly, and the sweat has begun to form on my upper lip. 11:30 a.m. I have 10 minutes, 15 tops. To walk away would have been the path to serenity, I chose to press on. I tried on 3 more pairs of jeans, a dress and two shirts in 5 minutes. I was possessed. I will force this solution. I deserve victory. I will find those jeans and then I will have the peace that passes all understanding or at least not this vulnerable sadness that I cannot control.
I cried in the car on the way home, and then spent an hour on-line looking for the perfect jeans. I may have found them, Not Your Daughter's Jeans. That delusion of victory is for another day.
I kept my date with self to meditate and I only looked distractedly at my clock 10 times. I gave myself a hug, said good job and went to the gym. While on the cross-trainer, I felt heavy with grief. I asked the Holy Spirit to lift me out of the darkness. I am on my way.
Linen pants before Memorial Day? What a concept. I spent the morning looking for cute shoes with arch support that would allow me to wear linen pants next week, despite the fact that today we reached a balmy 37 degrees in Minneapolis. To live in Minnesota is to demonstrate our faith that spring does follow winter, that we are blessed with sunshine even when we can't see it behind a cold, gray sky. The fact that I shave my legs on days like today is a radical act of faith.
I found the shoes, but I had to free my mind that these jazzed up bo-bo sneakers were not just for the geriatric set. Mine have a lovely grapevine design with sequins and cross strap with velcro. The good news is that my wide leg linen pants will mostly cover them. Linen may be okay any time of year, but I simply cannot expose my toes until it is at least 65 degrees or until we have had two hard rains to clear the gravel and salt reside from the streets. Without these shoes, I will have to wait until to July to wear my linen pants.
However, the linen pants are two miles too long because I had to accomodate my butt. Buoyed by my shoe find, the kiddo and I skipped over to the tailor who turned out to be a kind, Russian man who has been in the business for 28 years. I asked him if he remembered the JCPenney store that used to be at the other end of the mall. Oh yes, of course. I told him my father managed that store. I figured he couldn't possibly remember my dad from so long ago. It had been 24 years since he died. The man said, "I'm not sure [if I remember him], but we did all of the alterations for JCPenney, thousands of dollars for us. Actually, your dad told all of the other store owners to use us also. I got a lot of business from your dad." After twenty four years, I rarely meet anyone who even knew my dad. Close friends and relatives who do speak of him usually do so with a serious tone through a tight jaw, I assume, because he died by suicide at the impossibly young age of 40. Though the tailor didn't remember him personally, he did remember my father's loyal and generous way of being which helped him get his new business started. He remembered my dad, not his personality, but how he lived, and without the heavy exhale.
This was an unplanned gift that left me feeling quite tender. Meditation has caused a freakish increase in these types of moments.
Things were going so well that I decided to try on jeans. Or, I couldn't tolerate the tenderness of the moment so I decided to try on jeans. This is when things began to turn delusional. How many times have I said to self, "This time it will be different. This time you are going to find the jeans. These will actually look good from the front and the back and cost less than $50." The fact that I brought my 4 year old to a clothing store where everything costs $8.88 to find the illusive jeans was the single most insane thing I have done in weeks. I put my faith in Sarah Jessica Parker. I lost perspective. The first couple of pairs fit, though not from the back. Then the thought: how long can my kid stay with this process before she freaks. I check my watch. I am breathing quite shallowly, and the sweat has begun to form on my upper lip. 11:30 a.m. I have 10 minutes, 15 tops. To walk away would have been the path to serenity, I chose to press on. I tried on 3 more pairs of jeans, a dress and two shirts in 5 minutes. I was possessed. I will force this solution. I deserve victory. I will find those jeans and then I will have the peace that passes all understanding or at least not this vulnerable sadness that I cannot control.
I cried in the car on the way home, and then spent an hour on-line looking for the perfect jeans. I may have found them, Not Your Daughter's Jeans. That delusion of victory is for another day.
I kept my date with self to meditate and I only looked distractedly at my clock 10 times. I gave myself a hug, said good job and went to the gym. While on the cross-trainer, I felt heavy with grief. I asked the Holy Spirit to lift me out of the darkness. I am on my way.
April 7, 2008
A Mindful Mother
I am jodysatva, the mindful mother. I spend my day with a preschooler while my husband works downstairs. I do best when I do major running around in the morning, lunch, meditation, and then off to the gym with the family. While my house is not squeaky clean, I have never been happier or more able to deal with the trials of the day. Frankly, I take 100% responsibility for the fact that my daughter does not have allergies. She has never been subjected to an antibacterial world.
Often, we have to make adjustments, but this basic schedule really helps me. I thrive on loose structure, form with flexibility. Luckily, my kid seems to be the same. I also like that there is a lot of room for play with the kiddo and an occasional chat on the phone.
My goal is to enjoy every moment of the day. My intention is that serenity is my first priority. My biggest challenges are my decisions. When I decide exactly how the day should unfold, I am a mess because there are too many variables while mothering. My other wrong decision is making other folk's opinions of me or my family more important than taking care of myself and my family. Making choices based on how we or I will look is a class-A serenity buster. Game over.
When I attend to myself first and then to my family, I do enjoy every moment. The unexpected becomes fun. I like my life. I am happy.
When I think, my butt is too big; my yard is too messy; my kid has jelly on her face and her clothes don't match... I only want to move, run, explode. Keeping the focus on what God's will is for me and minding my own business is the key.
At any given time, I have a decision to make: where am I going to put my focus? If I do not feel peaceful, I need to make a different choice. Take a breath. Ask God for help. Do something else.
Being a preschooler at this way of living, I keep things simple. I get thrown off a lot, but instead of months of chaos, I have 10 minutes or less. The rest of my time has become fascinating. I am so curious about my little world. I am rediscovering my passions in life, like writing or Dancing with the Stars which is really heating up now.
Often, we have to make adjustments, but this basic schedule really helps me. I thrive on loose structure, form with flexibility. Luckily, my kid seems to be the same. I also like that there is a lot of room for play with the kiddo and an occasional chat on the phone.
My goal is to enjoy every moment of the day. My intention is that serenity is my first priority. My biggest challenges are my decisions. When I decide exactly how the day should unfold, I am a mess because there are too many variables while mothering. My other wrong decision is making other folk's opinions of me or my family more important than taking care of myself and my family. Making choices based on how we or I will look is a class-A serenity buster. Game over.
When I attend to myself first and then to my family, I do enjoy every moment. The unexpected becomes fun. I like my life. I am happy.
When I think, my butt is too big; my yard is too messy; my kid has jelly on her face and her clothes don't match... I only want to move, run, explode. Keeping the focus on what God's will is for me and minding my own business is the key.
At any given time, I have a decision to make: where am I going to put my focus? If I do not feel peaceful, I need to make a different choice. Take a breath. Ask God for help. Do something else.
Being a preschooler at this way of living, I keep things simple. I get thrown off a lot, but instead of months of chaos, I have 10 minutes or less. The rest of my time has become fascinating. I am so curious about my little world. I am rediscovering my passions in life, like writing or Dancing with the Stars which is really heating up now.
Meditation Monday
Typically, my formal meditation practice consists of 7 minutes of mindfulness, then 7 minutes of loving kindness, 7 minutes of compassion and 7 minutes of mindfulness. I chose 7 minutes because 10 seemed way too long. Since I am just getting started, I am giving myself a lot of space to enjoy the practice without making it yet another to-do.
I must be making progress because I was interrupted by my groceries delivery right before the last mindfulness section and felt tired the rest of the day. The fact that I wanted to finish the meditation feels really good. Some days, I just want it over.
The fact that I am willing to do it at all is fairly astonishing to me because I am a stay-at-home mom of a 4 year old and my husband works at home. I finally just decided that if I wait until my house is quiet, I won't meditate until I die. Or do anything that is just for me. The way I look at it, even one breath of meditation is more than I did before. When I finish sitting I tell myself, "Good for you," no matter how I think it went. So I can't lose. I love that there is so much room to practice.
One day, my daughter and my husband were reading in the other room while I was meditating. They started laughing hysterically. What a great distraction. Of all the things that could distract me, laughter is one of the most pleasurable.
I also got a kick out of my husband's girgling tummy. He and I were sitting together and I hear rumbling and burping and I started laughing and could not stop. The last 5 minutes were mindfully belly laughing.
I must be making progress because I was interrupted by my groceries delivery right before the last mindfulness section and felt tired the rest of the day. The fact that I wanted to finish the meditation feels really good. Some days, I just want it over.
The fact that I am willing to do it at all is fairly astonishing to me because I am a stay-at-home mom of a 4 year old and my husband works at home. I finally just decided that if I wait until my house is quiet, I won't meditate until I die. Or do anything that is just for me. The way I look at it, even one breath of meditation is more than I did before. When I finish sitting I tell myself, "Good for you," no matter how I think it went. So I can't lose. I love that there is so much room to practice.
One day, my daughter and my husband were reading in the other room while I was meditating. They started laughing hysterically. What a great distraction. Of all the things that could distract me, laughter is one of the most pleasurable.
I also got a kick out of my husband's girgling tummy. He and I were sitting together and I hear rumbling and burping and I started laughing and could not stop. The last 5 minutes were mindfully belly laughing.
April 6, 2008
Lead with the positive
I spent the evening with my husband and 1,000 other people attempting to live according to spiritual principles. I spoke with some of them and I was really surprised a common theme. They lead with the problem. Ask them how they are and you get: Good, but. Then you hear the pain, the things that they haven't accepted about themselves. The times that they fell below the mark.
We do that. How many times have I led with my pain? After many years of living for "appearances," I learned in therapy that when people ask me how I am I should tell them. I feel sad about this, bad about that. I thought I was being honest, but I wasn't telling the truth.
But is it? When asked, I could have responded, "Well, I scolded my daughter for shaking cumin all over the kitchen while trying to make me dinner and I feel bad about it." Just writing this makes me feel bad. However, I have accepted forgiveness. I made a mistake. I admitted it and I told her that I was sorry, that I didn't understand that she was trying to do something nice for us. I consider the matter closed, except to share it here.
Having been forgiven, this does not define how I am as a person or even a mother. It is not how I am. Actually, I am well. I am peaceful. I am a beautiful, intelligent woman. I am loved deeply. I love deeply and growing in love. I am passionate, interested and excited about life. I am curious about my world. I am a devoted wife and mother. I am happy, joyous and free.
This is the truth of how I am today.
I suppose I could have shared about the tremendous well of grief today that I can feel now that I meditate daily. I could have shared my back and pelvic pain. I could have shared all the fear I feel because I don't know or understand what is going on most of the time. And on and on. This version of truth is only part of the story, the fleeting moments of insecurity and pain. They pass. They are not real. They are just some weird idea I hooked onto today.
I used to think that if I share this personal drama, I would get some credit for working my program in the face of such adversity. They would think I have grown spiritually. I am a giant. I am dealing with life on life's terms. In my desire to appear spiritual, I got it wrong.
Even though we are taught in therapy that we are supposed to share exactly what is going on in our minds at the exact time this question is asked, I will not. I share the hurt and pain with those chosen, trusted few who can give me the gift of listening without judgement and without trying to fix the situation or cheer me up. These folks listen without pity, but with love and concern.
Most folks are not up to the task of this kind of love. I pray to be worthy to truly listen and comfort those in pain today. However, trying to do this with all responding to the question would be exhausting, spiritually exhausting. This level of sharing with a virtual stranger would probably just make them feel overexposed. Then they would just beat themselves up some more. Just like I do sometimes when I gossip about myself while answering the question, "How are you."
God, let me answer the question with the honest answer: I am well. I am enjoying my days, most moments of my days. I have never been happier. I am blessed.
April 5, 2008
Faith in Fashion
My security is shaken. Last night I dreamt that my husband died and left me in my college dorm with our toddler and nothing to wear to a family wedding. I sat at the end of a long banquet table tugging my pale pink blouse trying to cover the juicier areas of my midsection and yanking a skirt fashioned out of a dried scab over my round hips. I kept leaving the table because I knew that everything would be alright if I could just find something to wear. I ran down the long, dark dorm hallway only to discover that this was no home for me or my child and there was nothing else to wear. I woke up exhausted.
I have always believed that one could survive anything if properly attired. I remember what I wore and what most people wore at every major event of my life. What I wore was the preferred object of my attention because typically the inner experience was just unmanageable. For example, Dad dies by suicide? Pale gray pants with lavendar angora sweater for the wake; navy skirt with white blouse for funeral. Perfect.
The world is an unsafe, scary place, but you can have faith in fashion. Find the right uniform and keep the other participation to a minimum. The day we buried my father, everyone said how sorry they were and how much they loved him or look at the beautiful flowers. I took comfort in the words of my aunt, "I am glad you wore a skirt." I got it right and she understood what was really important at a time like this: appearance.
I have always believed that one could survive anything if properly attired. I remember what I wore and what most people wore at every major event of my life. What I wore was the preferred object of my attention because typically the inner experience was just unmanageable. For example, Dad dies by suicide? Pale gray pants with lavendar angora sweater for the wake; navy skirt with white blouse for funeral. Perfect.
The world is an unsafe, scary place, but you can have faith in fashion. Find the right uniform and keep the other participation to a minimum. The day we buried my father, everyone said how sorry they were and how much they loved him or look at the beautiful flowers. I took comfort in the words of my aunt, "I am glad you wore a skirt." I got it right and she understood what was really important at a time like this: appearance.
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