Champion of Worry

Worry seems to be a popular topic for me.  I spent a good part of Saturday sitting in urgent care.  Lower abdominal pain and some distressing symptoms made a visit the logical choice.  Since I'm a champion worrier, this was like the Worry Olympics for me.  I think I took home the gold.  In any case, my worry fest is not yet over and I have some lovely tests to look forward to.

 I spent the remainder of Saturday in a panic, whirling in a worry tornado.  In addition to bridges, demonic stuff and clowns, I am also pathologically afraid of cancer.  Of course, no champion worrier worth their salt, avoids blaming themselves for causing the things that happen to them.  I was totally freaking myself out, albeit quietly.  No need to panic everyone else in a 1 mile radius.  At least one good thing about my quiet worry fest, I prayed a lot that day.  Turning to a higher power seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

I don't know if it was the praying or the fact that my champion worry skills allow me to accelerate the worry storm so that it passes quickly but by Sunday I was almost back to normal.  I still read the Sunday paper obituaries and noted the ages of the dead.  Three were only 55.  This seems to be the age of facing my own immortality so I've been rubbing my nose in it for the last few years. 

Actually, as I think of it now, my innate ability to worry, (Genetically, I come from a long line of champion female worriers.) is directly linked to the hyperactivity of my mind.  On one end of the spectrum lies intense worry.  At the other end, lies a deliciously, creative mind.  Some might call this mind a bit crazy. Of this, I will provide evidence. 

Yesterday evening, we played games together as a family.  (Yeah, quality time!)  During the course of a normal game, I blurt out what's rattling in my head.  First, I came up with two new wacky sports, underwater aerobic golfing and underwater roller derby.  After my amusement started to wane, I got carried away with my dislike of gnomes.  That, too, I found very amusing so I decided to link the two ideas and created an Underwater Gnome Dome for my new sports.  Maybe if I were writing a cartoon like SpongeBob, there would be some use for my ideas.  That's not the case.  These zany idea are almost useless except that they did a wonderful job distracting me and totally delighted my equally zany kids who often find me hilariously funny.  I can be, although my husband might not always agree.  Sometimes, he just finds me annoying.   Sometimes I am, but that's a topic for another day.

It would appear that my capacity for worry is inversely proportionate to my capacity to be zany.  I think I can live with this curse/gift until some natural occurrence takes me out of the game.  Since no one gets out of life alive and middle age is a minefield of potential death, it would seem infinitely wise to get used to the idea and learn to live with a little worry now and again.  But right now, I'm going to give my Underwater Gnome Dome some more thought.

Lost and Found

At some point today, I decided that today's title would be "Lost and Found."  Then I tried to write about it and nothing seemed to flow out of my fingers and on to the screen.  Some days are like that.    I tried to find a catchy song that had the phrase in it and some words of deeper wisdom but I couldn't find anything.  I tried to link it to the book I'm currently reading, The Trace of Scarcity by Victoria Castle.  No luck there either.

The line in "Amazing Grace", "I once was lost but now am found." wasn't conjuring up anything that I could latch on to much less write about.  Maybe I was lost and not found.  I started to feel panic creep up my legs and threaten my solar plexus. . . where ever that may be.  I was lost.  I started to panic.  Age, however does have some advantages.  By now, I've panicked enough times to know the fruits of panic.  I also know it takes too much energy and that picking up the pieces after panicking can be messy and time consuming.  I just didn't want to go there.

Instead, I sat down with "lost" feeling. 
I said,  "Hello, I may not be thrilled to feel you but I know you've got something to say that I probably need to hear.  Please tell me why you're here."
The "lost feeling"  relaxed and smiled.  "I'm more normal than you think.  Lot's of people feel lost from time to time.  Feeling lost doesn't necessarily mean you are."
"Interesting.  Tell me more."
Lost took a deep breath, preparing to explain what must seem obvious.
"You can feel lost and yet be found at the same time.  You can be lost in one or a few areas in life but not really be lost at all.  I know it doesn't make sense but it is true."
"Hmm," I said.  I think I know exactly what you mean but I'm not sure I can explain it either."

What we believe about ourselves does not fully represent who we are.  Feeling lost may just be a way to tap into a common human experience.  It also may be an indication that one's gotten off track, that they have lost sight of their purpose, their raison d'etre.  That's what happened to me today.  For a little while, I felt lost not because I was but  because I had "forgotten" my purpose, my higher calling, my reason for being.  I'd stepped out of the natural flow of my life.  I was sidetracked as I often am.  I wanted to panic and probably would if I could have conjured up the extra energy.

Feeling lost was a wake up call.  It called me back to myself.  It reminded me that even though I felt lost, I really only needed to remember what is most important in my life, to feel found again.  "I once was lost but now am found."  Today's Just 10 with the feeling of being lost brought me back to myself.  Next time, the feeling comes to visit me, I will welcome it and listen to what it has to say.

Morning Message

Life has been hectic lately.  Having a day off during the week was such a nice bonus.  Waking up at 4:54 a.m. was not.  I staggered to the bathroom shuffling like Frankenstein with arms extented feeling for the wall.  All I needed were the bolts in my neck.  My first morning thoughts were not pleasant ones. Dangerous daggers of depression swirled in my mind and threatened to ruin my morning.  Then something unexpected happened.  I realized that I was ruining my own day by focusing on the dark side.   My morning Frankenstein self smiled at this thought.

All  I did was to stagger in to my day with a relaxed self.   Normally, I carry a lot of tension in my body.  My jaw is often set or clenched waiting for the next blow.  I have a knot between my shoulders, My stomach rumbles with anxiety.  First thing in the morning, I'm a wet noodle.  This state of wet  "noodledom" explains why my morning is often blessed with inspiration.  My body is relaxed and receptive. 

In this morning's inspiration festival, I also realized that if I could relax more during the day, I'd be able to tap into this peaceful relaxed state more.  There would be less living in high speed, less frustration, less exhaustion and a whole lot more enjoyment.  I've already found this to be true.  There are times when I have my wits about me and remember to let go and relax.  These times are not as common as I'd like.  It's time to take it up a notch and open the door and to let it in more often.

Surprisingly, my early morning inspiration festival was also visited by another thought.  Recently, our womens' book group had tried reading  The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin.  Individually, each of us seemed to be having a hard time reading it.  We'd put it off to the last minute.  We approached the book without eagerness to read more.  As we began to discuss what we'd read, we all seemed to be frustrated by how good Gretchen's life was to begin with.  She was much more organized than any of us.  Her husband and family all seemed loving and very supportive.  Gretchen was a successful writer.  Her life seemed untouched by some of the struggles we, three women, were experiencing in our own.  Becoming happier with her good life was and is a great goal.   Don't get me wrong.  It's a good book.  It would be wonderful if more people would make that an objective.  

The trouble was this just wasn't the guide book for us.   We needed a guide book written by someone with difficult problems in relationships, with no career, with financial woes,  someone who struggled to survive the days with some semblance of sanity left by bedtime.  We needed a book written for women broken by life but finding the hope to continue especially when the odds were stacked against them.  We needed a book written by women touched by bankruptcy, crazy dysfunctional families, divorce, depression, chronic illness, and a whole laundry list of problems, problems that make being happy a challenge.  We needed a book written by someone just like us who finds a way to capture the illusive "blue bird of happiness" and who also has the strength to let that bird go and fly free when it needs to do so.

This morning's wet-noodle-Frankenstein me realized that this might just be the book idea I've been looking for.  All that's left for me to do is to begin.  So, now,  I take a few deep breaths and tell myself, "Nothing is going to happen today that I can't handle."   but that is so status quo.  I think a moment and tell myself,  "Happiness lies ahead in this day, find it, enjoy it.   Today is all I have.  I'm going to make it a good one."  I think I have a book to write.

The Trance of Scarcity

Some thing I read recommended The Trance of Scarcity by Victoria Castle.  I got a copy from the library and then avoided reading it.  Maybe I was afraid that something within it would require me to change my way of thinking.  Finally, I opened it and began to read.  There is so much wisdom inside, I can't digest it all.

For some time, I've been very aware that mid-life was giving me an incredible opportunity to reframe my thinking, to really question what works and what does not.   The Trace of Scarcity is giving me a lot to think about.  I share a piece of it here:

"Every day we are offered increasingly sophisticated strategies for surviving in a world of scarcity.  No one questions whether scarcity exists.  All such survival strategies share the same starting point:  They accept scarcity (lack of self-worth and lack of resources) as a fact of life, as the only proper orientation in response to the evidence.  But what if the truth were actually the other way around? What if our default way of thinking--maintaining the idea that scarcity is real--is the source of the conditions producing the "evidence"? Which one's the chicken and which one's the egg?

 Many years ago, Albert Einstein pointed to the limitations of the mind, saying that we can't seek to solve problems within the same mindset that created them.  To defeat this way of seeking we must become a little bit radical and impertinent.  I say radical because we try to crack an illusion, our denial often intensifies in order to protect our familiar reality" (Castle 25-26).

Since I'm already a bit radical and impertinent, I'm one step ahead of the game.  

Something Evil

Warning:  After I wrote this I debated whether or not to post it.  It is rather dark.  Rereading it was a bit unsettling but this is what I felt and these were the words that came forth.  Bravely, I share again.

Something evil visited me yesterday.  It sat on my shoulder and whispered evil nothings into my ear.  We traveled together all day but I couldn't see it.   It ate at my soul like a vile cancer.  By evening, I was broken. Evil was winning even though it did not have a name.

I held it inside me as I went about my day.  It licked at my heart and mind with a lascivious hunger.  Once home, it dripped into my mouth and spat frustration at those I love most.  Inside, it had wrapped itself around my heart and soul like a python.  Love was lost in the constriction and so was I.  Still, evil did not have a name and I could not see it.  I wanted to lie down with this mystery and have it swallow me whole.

Time would not allow this nor would an eager young lady, alive with enthusiasm for her evening band concert.  My mind cast about for ways out.  Too much was at stake.  I sat in the van impatiently waiting to go on this undesired outing, hating the moment, dreading the string of moments to come.

I wore a face of stone as I waded through the bodies of noisy children and busy parents.  My face matched my heart as we found seats on the end of a row.  I wanted a clear shot at escape if it should prove necessary. I buried my nose in a book, a book about evil vampires.  It drained my weakened soul even further.  When the music began, it did not touch me.  Dead notes lay all around me.  I had become all that I hated, cold, numb, indifferent, drained of my life's blood.  I starred at the heads in front of me, feeling nothing. 

Just as quietly as the evil had come, the light crept up and sat down next to me.  Slowly, the notes began to pierce my evil armor.  Awareness flooded my mind.  At first, this awareness was a painful thing.  It told me why I was often so critical of others.  It made me see my insecurities for what they are.  I did not like what I saw.  I started to feel regret.  This regret heralded the beginning of my ascent from the darkness.   I was beginning to feel again and while unpleasant and painful, it was proof I was alive, proof that I cared, proof that somethings mattered to me.  Something evil was on the run.

When I was young, the devil was used as an ever present external force waiting to steal my soul and cloud the world's goodness.  Maybe the devil is less of an entity and more a personification of the absence of good/God.  Maybe the greatest danger to us doesn't lie without but within.  An evil within that is the absence of good is an evil that is a powerful threat.  It overtakes us unaware.  It numbs and blinds us to the glory that is also within us.  It destroys our belief in ourselves and that may one of the most diabolical attacks against our better nature.

In the end, this encounter with the absence of good made me more aware of how insidious evil can be.  I will be more wary the next time it comes to call

Head Full of Doubt

Inside a cold metal capsule, I traveled across town, cutting into the fog.    The fog outside mirrored the fog in my head.   Nothing looked familiar.  Lost, inside myself, I struggled to find the way, cursing the fog.  My struggle against the fog didn't change a thing.  What if I stopped resisting?  What if I were to accept the unknowing, the confusion, the self-doubt?  Before I could give it much thought, the opening bars of this song began to flow out of the radio.



In the early morning fog, the lyrics spoke clearly.  I carried them with me all day.  I carry them now.  I can't tell you what this song really means.   I understand the spaces between the words.  What is not said is more than what is.   In the early morning darkness and fog, the light broke through.  My head was full of doubt but the road remained full of promise.

Head full of doubt, Road full of Promise – The Avett Brothers

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what's right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I'm frightened by those who don’t see it
When nothing is old deserved or respected
And your life doesn’t change by the man that’s elected
If you’re loved by someone you’re never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it.
There was a dream
One day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage a broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid, with a head full of doubt
So I scream till I die and don’t ask for those bad thoughts to find me now
There’s a darkness upon you that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell you what’s wrong and what's right
And it flies by day and it flies by night
And I’m frightened by those who don’t see it

Short Story Fun Continues

A recent post outlined a short story assignment given the Freshman English class.   I wrote several different stories before moving on to the next shiny idea.  This story is based on an idea given me by one of the students.  He'd heard of a Japanese soldier who had spent years on an island in the South Pacific unaware the war had ended.  He'd heard a family member relate a plot of a B-movie they'd seen in which an American and Japanese soldier where stranded together.  It became the basis for his story and for this little one of mine.

The Pacific Theater

South Pacific sun bakes two men, once enemies.
Guns forgotten, as they build a raft.
They do not need words as they work to leave the island.
Action is everything.
When the raft floats, they celebrate together.
On the sea two days, a ship spots them.
A single shell hits.
The sea embraces them.