Category: ease

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Walking Alone For Awhile

I’ve been thinking a lot about a favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

I see many interpretations of that quote, and I’ve always loved it, even though I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought because I liked the way it sounded. To me it has always meant that we’re in this together. We are all heading in the same general direction. We may walk side by side for awhile, or our paths may diverge, but we’re all going to the same place, so the least we can do is be there for each other as we make progress.

Recently, though, I’ve felt tired. I could blame it on winter, or age, or too much work. Am I expecting my body to still keep the pace it always has? Isn’t it logical to want to slow down at my age? I’m feeling the years, or the miles, as my funny daughter says. I suspect the exhaustion comes from our many attempts. My soul is tired, as I think hers may very well be, even if she’s only 21 in this go ’round. If we are working at it – and I do believe that is our soul’s purpose – then we will get tired.

How should we walk each other home? How much is required of us, and how much might we expect from fellow travelers? Is it up to me to drag you along if you aren’t keeping up? (For that matter, who am I to determine that you aren’t keeping up?) Is it up to you to drag me if I’m lagging behind? Of course not, on both counts, but I often forget that, especially when I’m tired. I know we all get to go at our own pace. Am I still a good person if I’m too tired to be there for you? Gee, *said facetiously* I wonder which spiritual teaching convinced me that always doing for others is what makes us a good person?

Do I have to be continuously walking? Can I just sit on the side of the road in the sun for a bit, and catch up on some reading and screen my calls? Would Dass be okay with that? Why do I even care what he would think?

Perhaps I’m fickle for prescribing to whatever approach appeals to me at a particular time, lacking loyalty to a guru or spiritual teacher for the duration. It got me to this point, didn’t it? It’s my process, and if switching philosophical/mystical/spiritual teams gets me to the next point, then all that matters is that I’m making progress. As long as I’m loyal to my progress, I can change up the method as many times as I like. If one approach is no longer serving, it’s time to try a new approach.

I’m learning that this experimental approach puts me in a position to meet new people. I’ve certainly met some interesting folks who’ve taught me important lessons along the way, but I’m feeling the need to slow down and process those lessons. Perhaps the tired is from an overload of too many messages/lessons.

Speaking of gurus, I’m pretty sure Abraham Hicks would say that I’m forgetting to have fun with the process. I think I moved on from his approach because it seemed, to me anyway, that I should be working harder instead of just having fun. (That probably comes from the same spiritual teaching that I referenced earlier.) Come to think of it, Dass basically says we’d do well to relax and enjoy the ride. I see pictures of the guy and he usually looks happy, and so does Esther Hicks.

What about you? Have you been feeling more tired than usual? Have you been dragging someone along the path, or have you felt as though you need some dragging? A smart someone recently told me, “Sometimes help is not.” Whether we are attempting to help or being helped, is it always helpful? Would we do better to take a break or focus our efforts on ourselves?

The dormancy of winter will end soon. I can already see the greening of the hill across the street. My energy will surge again, as much as the grass will grow, and I’ll be ready to do the work – in the yard and on myself.

Right now, though, I need to slow down and walk by myself for awhile.

I’ll be back.

Take good care.

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LTSG – Let That Shit Go

This is my new mantra. Or, more accurately, when I remember that I have a new mantra, this is the one.

Today I learned that an extended family member came to town and didn’t get in touch. Initially, I was a bit hurt. Why didn’t she call or text? What did I do? Why wasn’t I on her list of folks to see while she was here? While I was in the shower, I remembered: Let That Shit Go! (Also, Jesse, remember that the last time she was in town, you weren’t excited about getting together, anyway.)

As the member of the extended family who struggles the most with sweeping things under the rug, I often find that I’m not invited to family gatherings. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. We assumed you had other plans.” Or another favorite, “The last few times we invited you, you couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t come.” The family Black Sheep needs a poster on her bathroom door that says, “Let That Shit Go!”

When the last social function you went to was attended by library-supporting, long hippie skirt wearing, single women of a certain age, and you wonder why you rarely go out, or why it is that you have found your tribe and it’s nothing like you thought your tribe would be, remember to Let That Shit Go. Let go of those ridiculous expectations of where you thought your life would be right now, or who you thought you’d be spending it with. Besides, those ladies need to have someone to pass the baton to. Accept that baton proudly and with grace. Embrace your patchouli-scented tribe and carry on!

When someone comments that you spend way too much time with your kids and should work on getting a life outside of being a mom (and a dad), give them the side eye and LTSG.

Also, when your kids have issues with their vehicles and you get pissed because their “dad” is clueless and/or rarely checks in on them, LTSG and be glad that he rarely checks in on them because he’d stir up the pot, criticize them for how they handle these grown-up issues, and then give them the silent treatment for not having called or texted him more often. (As you remember, Jesse, he thinks the heavy lifting in the parenting game should be handled by the child, not the parent.) Let That Shit Go!

When you get told that you aren’t doing enough, LTSG.

When you are told that you should do it better, LTSG.

When you are passive aggressively informed that you fail to meet expectations, LTSG. And let them go while you are at it.

When your wardrobe and your yard and your car and your house and even (Goddesses forbid) your kids and your life are not like everyone else’s, LET THAT SHIT GO! (To be clear, I’m not advocating that you let your life and your kids and all that other stuff go. Let the comparisons go! You knew that, right?) It can get pretty quiet over here doing things differently than other folks. Get comfortable with the quiet path. Let the noise and commotion of the well-worn path be for others.

Also, the whole taking things personally? Yeah. I’m trying to Let That Shit Go, too.

Today I’m letting all that shit go. I’m heading out to watch all the bees happily bobbing from one blossom of clover to the next in my unconventional little private funky haven of a backyard.

*I got this cool poster at Society 6. It really is mounted on my bathroom door.

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An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.

 

 

 

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When It’s About Food

Here we are again.  It’s the holidays and we are preoccupied with food – what to eat, what NOT to eat, how much to eat, and the anticipation of how much we won’t be able to eat after the first of the year, because of how much we will most likely be eating between now and then.

It’s times like these when I hear the voice in my head saying, “It’s not about the food.”  I couldn’t agree more, but I don’t have the nerve to utter that to anyone else I know.

Yes, food brings us together.  Nothing accomplishes that quite like food.  Okay, wine and all of wine’s tasty cohorts bring people together, too.  But would we not come together if we learned someone was too busy to produce the epic holiday spread and barely managed to hit the drive-thru at KFC after finding the last gift, and picking the kids up from daycare?  Would we turn up our noses at the chance of seeing her kids in their Christmas sweaters just because she has the nerve to serve Domino’s instead of some impossible smorgasbord that only those who live on Pinterest could pretend they prepare?

Yes, there are times when it’s about food.

It’s about food when I haven’t seen the 20 year old in a couple days.  I send Will a text that says, “Chicken and Broc,” and I am guaranteed that he will cancel plans and show up for dinner, even if he’s in the house for only 20 minutes.  He’ll be here long enough to eat two full bowls of my chicken and broccoli fettuccine, and give me a hug.  Add 15 minutes if he uses the bathroom and takes his phone with him.

It’s about food when Jen and I look at each other after a crazy day and simultaneously say, “Comfort food tonight?”  Then I pull out a can of seasoned black beans, make a pot of rice, and grab tortilla chips.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll find a bag of limp, but not-yet-brown cilantro in the veggie drawer.  (Confession: The only things in my veggie drawer are usually broccoli, almost-brown cilantro, bees wax and a carton of milk because there’s room to store the extra milk in there due to the obvious lack of vegetables.)  Jen sprinkles feta cheese on her pile of chips and nukes ’em for 35 seconds.  Then we grab our plates and settle on the couch to watch another episode of NCIS, and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it through the day.

It’s about food when deciding on Christmas baking.  This year we dug out the caramels recipe I hadn’t made since before the kids were born.  (He never liked my caramels.)  Jen and I stood at the stove drizzling the heavy cream and stirring until our arms gave out.  We laughed about the lawyer we read about in Magnolia who gave up his career to start a candy business.  We agreed he was smart for giving up practicing law, but decided he must have arms like Popeye by now.  (The caramels are velvety and extraordinary.  The only thing I’d do differently is leave some unwrapped to facilitate Jen’s consumption.)

It’s NOT about food when I pick my uncle up for our weekly breakfast.  We always go to the same place, and try to park in the same spot.  As we drive to the end of town, he asks where I’d like to go, and we laugh because we know we are always going to the same place.   The owners are kind and friendly and always remember his order.  Even if my toast is cold and the eggs are never medium, it’s about getting together and sipping the endless hot coffee and discussing the news or his girls or the weather.  We finish our last sip as he gets up to pay the bill.  He will say, “Did you know there’s a picture of your Aunt Pat up by the cash register?”  Of course I remember, but he loves to tell me every week.

It’s NOT about the food when family drives seven hours to get here to spend the holiday.  It’s about quickly throwing together a pot of spaghetti sauce and opening the wine and having another friend text to say she’ll pick up bags of caeser salad, which saves me another trip to the store.

Which, naturally, brings me to life.

Sometimes it’s about the food, like when you are trying to fill a void that only food can fill.  It’s about food when nothing else will do.  But a lot of times, most times, it’s about the people – friends and family.  And if food brings them together, that’s a good thing.  Most likely, tho, they were gonna come together anyway.  Except with 20 year olds, but that won’t stay that way forever, I hope.  I can always make chicken and broc.

 

Merry Christmas!

 

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Cat Wisdom

We were only gone four nights.  We got home earlier than expected, driving a little too fast, because we missed Pansy.   We raced in the door, leaving suitcases in the car.  “Pansy!  Pansy!  We’re home!!” This time we didn’t get the silent treatment.  She wasn’t mad at us, like she was the last time we were gone.

(The perfect number of days to be gone is five, both for Pansy and for us.  Is it possible to visit NYC and be home after four nights?  Asking for Jen.)

The next morning, it was back to scrambling:

“Where did we leave off in history?”

“Can you make an appointment with the orthodontist?”

“I’ve got two appointments on Wednesday.  If Will gets you there, I could pick you up.”

“I gotta get the leaves raked before the snow flies.”

“Can you help me a little with my Halloween costume?”

“Let’s do that right before dinner.”

During this exchange, Pansy was hanging out by the cabinet that stores her treats.  She was meowing at us, trying to get our attention.  I wrote something on a list, and walked over to get her a couple treats.  She didn’t want any.  She just wanted our attention.  I went back to my list saying something about having to get to the office.  Jen was going over her school list and finding where we had left off in the history book.

“Meow, meow, meooooow.”

“I know, Pansy, but I gave you a couple treats.”

“Meooooooow.”

Just then Pansy jumped up on the counter.  Above this spot, I have a mishmash of Post-its.  Some remind me to have Jen check into Red Bubble; start her portfolio; or make a list of her commissions.  There’s also a recipe for window cleaner, and a couple motivating quotes.  There are at least nine Post-its attached to the shelves above the counter.  They are losing their stick, and sometimes I bump one when I go to put an essential oil back on the shelf, or reach for a glass.  It floats to the floor, and I pick it up and place it next to the others, hoping for one more day of stick.

Pansy was reaching up to get at the notes.  She sniffed a couple, but targeted one in particular.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the note flutter to the floor.  Pansy jumped down and walked by her treats, on her way to the living room.

The note said, “Pace yourself.”

 

 

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Letting Go and Hanging On

Did I tell you my back quit hurting?  (Not to make it all about me.  ; )

I talked about chronic back pain on the other blog, where I also wrote about listening to the body when it screams at us (pain!) in an effort to get our attention.

I distinctly remember when the pain started – three months into the last relationship.  (Hello, RED flag!)  The pain ebbed/flowed/annoyed me through that relationship, the breakup, living at mom’s (sorry, mom, but you know what I mean), and through starting a new job at an office that was not a good fit.

I knew the back pain was about stress.  I thought I could push through with yoga, valerian root, whiskey and walking.  Sometimes those things helped, but the pain was still there, waiting to get my attention when I refused to see the stress for what it was.

I started at a new office the beginning of December.  Two weeks ago, I noticed my back had quit hurting.  I didn’t say anything to the kids because I didn’t want to jinx it.  I kept doing the yoga.  The holidays gave me an excuse to drink whiskey.  (In case you’re wondering, I have never combined whiskey and valerian root, though I’ve been tempted.)

Recently, I lifted a heavy object, as a test.  I anticipated a stab.  I thought for sure my back would scream at me.  And, nothing.  No spasm.  No twinge.  Nothing.  I was able to put away the artificial tree without so much as a wince, except I did feel a little guilty about putting Christmas away so early.

I figured I was safe in telling the kids that my back pain was gone.  I did, and didn’t jinx anything.

 

All of this makes me think about resolutions and, conveniently, it’s the time of year when we might take stock in where we are and if we are happy – or at least not miserable – with where we are.

In 55 years, my success rate is abysmal when it comes to resolutions, partly because I rarely make any.

I’m not perfect.  I haven’t got it all figured out.  But I do a fine job of making myself feel bad without adding failed New Years’ resolutions to the mix.

I prefer to look back over the year and decide which things I will let go of and which things I will hang on to.

 

I will hang on to noticing when something does not feel right.  Whether it’s a conditioner or a brand of coffee, a book that seems too violent in the first 40 pages, an acquaintance that drains more than enriches, or a crappy pair of jeans that I never feel good wearing – I will let go of what isn’t good.

It’s in the noticing that something doesn’t feel right, that I learn to let go.

I will hang on to paying attention to my intuition, and let go of the stuff that does not feel good.

 

For Will:  I plan on letting go of worrying.  The worrying feels bad.  I’m tired of communicating those worries to the Universe, and to Will.  I know he is tired of hearing about it, too. (This one will be difficult, and all you seasoned parents are laughing at me because you’ve told me that, as parents, we are never done worrying.)  But, I will stop voicing my worries to him, and I will hang on to letting him know how much I care.

 

For Jen:  I will most definitely hang on to this connection we have, but I will let go when she strives for more independence.  Is that even possible?  I guess we’ll find out.

 

For me:  I will hang on to trusting myself.  I will trust myself to say, “No, thank you,” when something doesn’t feel right.  I will trust myself to let go of those things that do not make me wholeheartedly say, “YES!”

Oh, and I will let go of guilt (stop laughing!) and hang on to letting it be about me, once in awhile.

 

It’s going to be a good year!

 

Happy New Year!

 

 

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The Time-Out Chair

I attended elementary school in an old brick building that, many years later, turned into a church –  I think.  The church was named Saint Some-One-Or-Other, but I can’t remember which saint.  I think it’s now empty, but I’m not sure on that, either.  There was one class for each grade and it seems as though there were only about 20 kids in each grade.

Even though there were only 20 sixth-graders out on the playground, those opinionated kids could get in a ruckus in a real hurry.

That’s what social media is reminding me of – sixth graders blowing off stink, on a playground.

Everyone is yelling.

He yells over them.  She yells over him.  They yell over each other.

No one is listening.

Everyone conveniently forgot the tenet about not speaking if you don’t have anything nice to say.

They’ve forgotten tolerance, and more importantly, they’ve forgotten kindness.

 

I never put my kids in a time-out.  I don’t know why I never liked that form of discipline.  Is the idea that the kid is supposed to sit in a chair, face the corner, and think about how to behave better?  I guess because I’m a natural born over-thinker, I never thought the time-out chair was a good idea.

If – when I was a sixth grader – I’d ever been ordered to a time-out chair, I’m afraid of what I’d have over-thought about.  Back then the subjects could have run the gamut from:  Why do some sixth grade girls have big chests while others haven’t even started their periods?  Why do almost all girls have crushes on sixth grade boys who are so clueless?  Is world domination out of the question or a distinct possibility?  Do I want to even mess with dominating a world inhabited by sixth grade boys?

(I’ve a vague recollection of being sent to my room, which is pretty much the same thing, but for an introvert, that’s like a snow day off from school!)

I knew, when my two were very young, that they had acquired my high-level over-thinking skills.  I wasn’t going to give them an opportunity to over/out think me, so the only time-out chair we ever had was a cute little wooden thing we painted for a school fundraiser.  We ended up buying it to put in the garden.  (Imagine crickets, potato beetles and earthworms assigned to that chair for their time-outs.)

 

Now, however, a time-out chair would be heavenly.  I’m not sure I’d even want the internet in my corner.  I’d have a delicious chunk of time to happily ruminate on the usual subjects – cabernet vs. pinot vs. merlot; techniques for texturing the ceiling after popcorn removal; how to reclaim a neglected garden spot; do I really need AWD when front wheel is less expensive; why is it taking me so long to read the Harry Potter series when I’m enjoying it so much (see aforementioned time-sucking subjects); and what will I do with myself when kids are grown and gone?

I’m not pretending that any of these subjects are even remotely interesting to anyone else, but they aren’t unkind or intolerant or likely to raise my blood pressure.  (That said, the popcorn ceiling removal was a pretty good workout.)

 

Anyhow, the ruckus on both social media and the airwaves has me fantasizing that if I were Queen for a Day, I’d assign everyone to their own time-out chair – especially the sixth graders.

 

 

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You Look Familiar

“Jesse!  Where’ve you been?”  Hank walked to my side of the bar for a hug.  “I see you stopped writing about narcissism.  Does that mean you survived?”  Hank grinned and walked to his side of the bar.

“Funny, Hank.  I’ve missed you, too.”  I draped my jacket over my knees as I sat on a bar stool.

“But, seriously.  Did you run out of things to say on that subject?”  Hank grabbed for a glass and, before pouring the usual, looked to see if I might ask for something else.  I smiled and he let the amber flow into the glass.

“Ha!  Like that’s even possible.  You, of all people, would know the answer to that question.”

 

Hank walked to the end of the bar to take an order.  Just then a woman walked over to stand next to me.  As she waited to place her order, she looked up at the television screen.  She winced, turned to me and said, “Can you believe ….   Hey, you look familiar.  Do I know you?”

I smiled.  “I’m not sure.  Maybe.  I have that kind of face – that ‘everyone’ and ‘no one’ face.  People tend to think they recognize me from somewhere.”

Hank returned.  “Yeah, she gets that a lot.”

He greeted the new customer and said, “This is Jesse.  She has this thing about her.  Lots of folks think they know her from somewhere.”

She reached out to shake hands.  “Do you work at the bank?”

“Nope.”  I smiled and took a drink.

She ordered a chardonnay.  “I know… it’s that coffee shop on the corner of 9th and Main.”

I looked and Hank and laughed.  “Nope.”

She took her wine and turned to walk over to a table where girlfriends waited.  She looked at me and said, “I’ll think of it.  Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”  I looked at Hank and shrugged my shoulders.

 

“So, Hank, why do I get that a lot?  What is it about my face that people I’ve never met seem to think they know me from somewhere?”

It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s the way folks feel when they are with you.  You see them.  That feeling is familiar.  They may not have felt that way in a real long time, but they know it.  They crave that feeling.  They remember how it feels to be seen, and they think that must mean they know you from somewhere.  It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s who you are.”

 

 

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On Mixed Messages and Secrets

Her foot was in that temporary boot they apply when someone has broken their leg.  And because I knew her, I said, “Oh my! You’re the one who is always working out and staying in such great shape.  What the heck happened?”

She was in tears as she told the story.

I said, “Do you ever wonder why the Universe can’t deliver messages in a more gentle fashion?  Maybe you’re supposed to slow down?”

She wiped a tear and shook her head.  She’s not the type to slow down.  I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

And as I sat in the curtained room waiting for the results of the EKG, the blood work, the urine sample and the foot-long swab that actually fit up my nose, I wondered if the words I’d directed at her were really meant for me.

How many times have I written about stress?  How many signs have I received that clearly tell me to slow the hell down?

I guess I’m not the type to slow down either.

And so after being told that my heart was fine, I stood in the waiting room, watching for Will.  I’d insisted he drop me off, so he could get to school and focus.  But then he insisted on picking me up.  So much for his focus.  As I watched for his truck, it was my turn to cry.

The tears were a mix of relief, embarrassment, frustration, and defeat.

Will dropped me at home and went back to school.  Jen offered to cook me dinner, but I let her clean up instead.  (I can only admit to so much defeat in one day.)  We watched mindless television and waited for Will to get home.  I got sick of them asking me how I felt, but hugged them because they asked.

I slept the night through.

This morning I read a post about secrets, and how unhealthy it is to keep secrets.  I didn’t search out this post, it appeared on my laptop the way some gentler messages from the Universe do appear.

Soon after, my brother called to check in.  He listened.  He asked the right questions.  He re-framed what I told him.  He put a new spin on possible solutions.  He made my secret seem less foreboding.  (I realized that my big secret is feeling like I’m a failure.)  He made different choices sound less like defeat, and more like a new route to success.  His suggestions lightened my load.

Then I did the stretching and the poses and listened to the tapes.  My back feels better.  Of course it helps a lot that I’m not worried about the classic signs of heart disease in women.

But I see the pattern.  It’s what I’ve said so many times.  When I allow myself ease – the ability to slow things down, I feel better.  Duh!!

But admitting I can’t do it all is like some f’d up version of defeat or failure.  ‘Ease’ was not part of Wonder Woman’s vocabulary.  Imagine how much better she’d have felt if she had eased up on that belt a little.

Today’s lesson:  Do as I say, not as I do.  Oh, and get the stress test.