Worry

I wear worry like I wear underwear.  I never leave home without it.

Last night, my husband and I assumed our usual positions;  I, in the brown recliner.  He, in the overstuffed armchair with footstool.  Between us, a lamp sits on top of a shelf.   Strategically placed, this shelf holds our cups full of tea or water, an assortment of pens, a bunch of books for me, my knitting and crocheting, an old Game Boy, well you get the idea.  We are consummate couch potatoes.  Our skill at avoiding getting up is evident in the materials we have within arms reach.

Picture us sitting there, mindlessly watching TV.  We speak little.  Each is absorbed in whatever each is absorbed in.  So, it was a bit of a surprise, when I suddenly said,"I think I'm a better worrier than you."

This kind of statement is sure to capture the interest of my husband.  He looked at me as if my head had turned into the Medusa, snakes for hair, writhing about my head like a halo. Of course, his look communicated a question and I'm never one to let a question go by unanswered.
 "No, honestly.  I think I have more experience in living with worry."
Again, he stared at me in semi-horror.
"Okay, here's the deal."  I worry all the time about absolutely everything.  It's crazy worry.  I'm used to living with it.  I'm pretty sure this crazy worry isn't something you indulge in."
Obviously, this statement needs to be backed up with evidence.  He, still looked at me with mouth agape.

"Do you know that I come from a long line of worriers, who worry about everything?  For example, do you know that I worry about an earthquake hitting while I'm in the middle of the Glen Jackson Bridge?  It would be curtains for anyone caught on the bridge."
"What about the Marquam Bridge,"  he says.  "Do you worry about going off the edge on that one?"
He already knows I hate the Marquam and why.  He just didn't know that I worry about driving off the edge every time I cross it.
"Why, yes, I do."
He replied, "You know the van wouldn't be able to jump the barrier."
Being a male, he had some fancy name for this barrier which I can not remember.  The look of horror on his face relaxed but only slightly.
"You're not being rational."  He announced this like he's Mr. Spock.
With a sassy but playful curtness, I replied, "Don't you think I know it's irrational?  Doesn't change a thing in the worry center of my brain.  Worry still swirls in my head like a constant storm."
His face relaxed a bit more but he still looked at me like I'd suddenly grown a second head but this time without the writhing snakes.  This looks still goaded me on.  Mr. Spock needed more evidence.

"Well, if I'm driving and I'm any where near home and an ambulance or a fire truck goes by, my first thought is something has happened at home."
I could tell by the wrinkles between his eyes that he thought I might be nuttier than he first thought. That and his physical recoil in mock horror as the word, "no" fell from his mouth. 
He quickly added with a quizzical tone, "Are you kidding me?"
"No," I said, nodding my head with dramatic vigor.
"This is just a small sample of the worry that haunts my head on a daily basis.  You should be trapped in this body with this mind." 
I jabbed my finger at the airspace between my head and cranium.

His face relaxed slightly.  I could tell he was thinking he's grateful that he wasn't me.  He shook his head, still baffled by the irrational me. I'm not finished with this topic yet and said,
" When it comes to worry, I'm a veteran.  You can let it drive you crazy or learn to live with it.  I've tried crazy.  Learning to live with it is the better option" 
Sighing, I added, "Besides, I'm too tired for crazy.  It takes too much energy."

The fact that I was wearing pajamas, feet up in a recliner with a drink at the ready helped to prove my point.  That's as sane as it's going to get.  Then the words that all this self-centered conversation prepared for came from my lips,  "I worry about you.  You've got to find a way to worry without it being so hard on you."

I worry that he worries too much.  Worry that overwhelms or slows us down doesn't serve a useful purpose. Worry that wakes us up, makes us a little more careful, points us toward a greater awareness of what we value most, is a worry that I can live with.  By now, my husband looked at me with sleepy eyes.  My chatter had begun to turn into a low and distant droning.  He opened his mouth as if to speak but before he did so, his mouth closed.  He shook his head and turned his attention back to the flickering TV screen. 

We quietly resumed our separate pursuits and soon trudged down the hall to bed.  After a quick goodnight kiss, we quickly fell into an easy slumber.  Worry was placed on the shelf for another day.

Tears for What Matters

Everyday I learn something new.  After years of being perplexed by algebra, I'm discovering it's not nearly as complicated and mysterious as I once thought.  It's fun to be able to solve problems containing a variable that is unknown.  This new interest in algebra takes me completely by surprise.  I was also surprised by tears today.  Tears took me by surprise in a way I'd never expected.  More surprising, still was that I took the shedding of them in stride as if they were as natural a part of this particular day as breathing.  This isn't the me, who began this day.  I'm someone different than the me that woke up this morning.

As I worked with one of the students at school, I found myself shedding tears of empathy.   The biggest surprise to me was how spontaneously those tears fell.  Those who know me, know that shedding tears in front of others is something I rarely do.  In the past, those rare occasions left me feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.  They made me feel weak.  Today, those tears made me feel strong.  They told me how much I cared.   Those tears left behind an awareness.  My job performance, my student's performance was not as important as my concern for his/her best interests.   My anxiety about doing a good job,about doing the right thing, about being acknowledged for doing the right thing can sometimes get in the way of identifying what is most important.  Today, my heart told me what was most important as loudly and clearly as it could.

My face was visited by only a few tears.  I was able to smile through them.  I was able to tell him/her exactly why they were there, how much I felt for him/her, how much they mattered to me.  Tears left quickly, without lingering.  As I moved through the rest of my day, I did so with a greater awareness of what really mattered.  This I carry with me now. The importance of human connections, of making time for others and valuing who they are more than what they can do was the message for the day. 

In lives filled with activities and responsibilities, it is easy to forget what is most important.  What we do is never more important than who we are.  I learned something new about the world today.  Something that tears taught me. Those tears blessed me with awareness.  I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Lufu

Recently,  I overhead a young student voice his opinion on the subject of love.
He said, "Love doesn't really exist."
The student beside me quietly said, "He's right.  Love isn't real."

At first,  I found their youthful cynicism surprising, but soon, I began to wonder if they might have a point.  Their words have haunted me since and today, during my Just 10, I decided to give love some thought.  More specifically, what does love mean to me?

Before I faced deep personal reflection, I decided to look up the definition.    Dictionary.com had so many definitions of the word, "love" I didn't want to cut and paste them all.  I did cut and paste the first few.  I also came away with the knowledge that our current word, "love" used to be "lufu" in Middle English. 

–noun 

1.

a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

2.

a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

3.

sexual passion or desire.

4.

a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart

This four-letter word has a lot of baggage.  Today, as I pondered the complexities of love, and the cynicism of the young, I confronted  my own feelings about love. Like happiness, love isn't always a feeling.  It doesn't always feel warm and fuzzy.  In fact, that warm and fuzzy feeling might not correlate with real love at all. 

Over the years, I have often questioned the love I feel for others.  There are times when what I feel toward them isn't a good feeling.  When the flames of conflict, die down and the heat of passionate intensity has cooled, I discover anew that love doesn't always feel good.  Human love is never perfect.  It is forever flawed.  Love is picking up the pieces and deciding to work it out.  Love is not "never having to say your sorry."  Sometimes it's all about being sorry and saying so.  It's about gritting one's teeth and getting down to business.  Love really isn't roses and chocolates.  It's weeds and oatmeal with an occasional rose and bonbon tossed into the mix.  Love is often messy, complicated,  and a real nuisance.

Despite my years of life experience, I can still be lulled into a false sense of what love is, by the corporate world, popular fiction, TV and film.  Romantic love sells.  It baits me and reels me in.  I am entranced by the promise of it.   Waking up next to the same person for years with morning breath and ratty flannel pajamas does not capture my attention the way a smarmy movie like  An Affair to Remember or From Here to Eternity can.   Yet, slowly over time, the appeal of romantic love has waned.  Inside a greater appreciation for the courage, perseverance and strength of character necessary to commit to years of partner's sharing halitosis has grown. 

Maybe this type of love should be described with the word, "lufu".  It dances across my tongue with all the awkwardness of an elderly couple learning the polka for the first time.  Always slightly out of step, their movement more like lurching than dancing, they look at each other.
"I lufu you," their eyes shout.
Lines of amusement draw smiles on their faces.  The others' face has become more familiar than their own and just as much a part of them. 
"Lufu",  they say to each other as each year folds into another.
"Lufu", they say through the arguments, the disappointments and the heartache.
"Lufu", they say to each other when there is nothing left to say.  
This "lufu" is the love to which I now aspire.   Wish me well as I wish for you a life blessed with "lufu".

The Dark Lover

The darkness wraps itself around my car like a jealous lover as I creep across town on my morning commute. Arriving at my destination with no memory of the trip, I stumble out of the car and into my work day.   Briefly, consulting my mental calendar, I discover that it is only Tuesday.  My body feels the shock of this awareness.  I walk more slowly and with a slight limp.  Tuesday is heavy.  I struggle under her weight.   The darkness of the morning has  followed me.  It nips at my heels  I pretend it isn't there.  Surviving Tuesday depends on my little ruse.  The darkness dances before me, seductively. 
"Join me" it whispers.

My resistance weakens.  I want to lie with it in the parking lot and never cross the threshold into my day.  Longingly,  I peer into the eyes of darkness.  What I see there does not frighten me.  Its caresses me gently and for a moment, I am lost.  Driven by a cold wind, raindrops bring me back, slapping against my cheek. Mindlessly, my feet carry me forward out of habit.   As I dash between the drops of rain, I look to the horizon.  A band of light,swaddled in gray pushes against the darkness.   I see a familiar face and smile.  Day begins.

Frustration

I have an dictionary that is as full of memories as it is of words. 

When I was in the convent, the Sisters didn't really celebrate birthdays but they did celebrate feast days.  My feast day is November 4th.  In the last year of my exile with the Sisters, my superiors decided to teach me a lesson by not celebrating my feast day.  I don't remember what I did to deserve the cancellation of the celebration.  I doubt it was anything serious.  It  may not have even been something real but something they imagined and pinned on me.  The Sisters had a way of twisting reality to suit some mysterious plan.  That plan will always remain a mystery to me.

One of the things I asked for (I was supposed to submit suggestions),  was a dictionary.  When November 4th rolled around, in 1982   Sister C. made a big deal of the fact that I was denied a celebration and any presents. "Dictionary denied!"  When at the end of January, of the next year, I could no longer torture myself by remaining in the convent, many of the Sisters acted with guilt and regret.  Most seemed actually saddened by my leaving.  In a sincere and tearful gesture, I was given a $1000 to start a new life and a large hard-back edition of The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language .  That dictionary sits next to me now.  The binding has cracked.  A few of the pages sit loosely among the others.  Today, I use it to look up the word, frustration.  This is what my 1981 version says:

"Frustration: n. 1. The condition or an instance of being frustrated. 2. One that frustrates."

then I looked up. . .

"Frustrate tr. v. 1. a. To prevent from accomplishing a purpose or fulfilling a desire; thwart. b. To cause feelings of discouragement or bafflement in. 2. To prevent the accomplishment of, development of; nullify. . ."

Finding this definition in a dictionary laden with memories has an emotional impact on me.  As I close the book, several pages try to escape.  I frustrate their attempt by carefully putting them back.   Lately, I've been painfully aware that I'm wearing frustration like a bad tattoo.  I've tried to cover it up but my ability to maintain the denial is weakening.  I'd love to indulge in a good old-fashioned cry. 

Thinking I was making a valiant effort to stave off frustration and depression, I've devoted a lot of mental energy toward positive thinking.  Sadly, I think a lot of my energy has really been spent on denial.  I can deny frustration no longer.

"Hello,Frustration tattoo.  It's time to get to know you." 

For the last few years, the world has been my cathedral.  Organized religion has often been a huge disappointment and a source of pain for me.  I've known some wonderful people, Godly people, over the years.  I have also known some of the opposite, people who used religion as a battering ram.  When I've most needed the connection to a faith community, I have felt the most distant, the most judged and the most unworthy.  While I  bring some of my own insecure baggage to the table, my reaction does have some justification in the behavior of some in positions of authority.   How do I maintain a spirit of compassion toward those who often harshly judged me?  It's a frustratingly difficult thing to do at times but one I'm convinced is absolutely necessary.

Still, the truth is, the frustrations I feel toward others and toward circumstances pales in comparison to the frustration I often feel with myself,  my lack of focus, my lack of accomplishment, and my lack of good judgment.  Lately, I've been indulging in a pity party of one.  Frustration is a bad tattoo, a moldy cake and a filthy party hat all at the same time.    I've used frustration as a whip and engaged in that freakish practice of self-flaggelation.  The mental picture that conjures in my head is giving me a bad case of the full-body shudders. 

So this rainy Sunday morning as I sit in my world cathedral, I intend to soak up the wisdom and energy of acceptance.  In order to move forward, I must have compassion for where I am right now.  I need to look at my frustration tattoo and all that it signifies and see it for what it is.  It's time I got out of my own way. 

Trinity of Happiness

Yesterday, would have been such a wonderful day to play hooky but maybe that's what I've been doing all along.  Stumbling through my days waiting for the proverbial ship to come in to the harbor, I scream "Where is that bloody ship?"  Lately, a lot of days open onto an entire ocean of sand.  No ships here.  This ocean of sand has become one nightmarish sandbox.  My fellow playmates are too busy throwing sand at each other to figure out that sand throwing is a terrible idea.  Standing in the thick of it, I throw sand like everybody else.  Not a very productive way to spend a life, is it?  It's no surprise that happiness has been elusive.

So, yesterday,  I slogged through interruptions, melt-downs, whining, frustration and boredom, (not all of that mine), to finally tackle a task I've been avoiding:  define happiness.   Instead of approaching this task with eagerness, I had procrastinated.  Why?  I didn't really know and so the task ahead had two parts:  first, I must define happiness and  second, find out why I didn't want to.   This is what I discovered.

My Trinity of Happiness

1.) Connections
2.) Meaningful work
3.) Health



Determining the ingredients for my brand of happy was easier than I thought. It was also incredibly obvious to me that these three things were equal in importance.  No hierarchy here.  Their overlapping spheres of influence became my personal trinity of happiness.  Apparently, the number three was the number of the day.

Realizing that each ingredient for happiness was multifaceted, I looked at each of my ingredients and decided to break each down into three subcategories.

Connections

1.) Family
2.) Friends
3.) God/Self and the Universe.

Meaningful Work

1.) Clear Purpose
2.) Serving a Greater Good
3.) A Personal Passion

Health

1.) Physical
2.) Mental
3.) Spiritual

After all the procrastination and resistance, determining what happiness meant to me wasn't difficult.  What was difficult was realizing that I wasn't doing a very good job chasing it.  My poor job performance was the reason I hadn't wanted to define happiness.  When I finally did, I had to accept that I had a lot of work ahead of me. At first, that realization left me wanting to take a nap.  Today, I'm intrigued by the challenge.

Last night as our book group met to discuss The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin,
I was reminded of two truths that are so profound that I like to forget them.  (It is so easy for the mind and soul to fall back into old and often bad habits.)

"Happiness doesn't always make you feel happy." (Rubin.p.79)

and

 ". . . challenge brings happiness . . .it allows you to expand your self-definition." (Rubin. p. 78)

After a little quality Just 10 time with myself, forcing me into positive reflection, I'm ready to strap my trinity of happiness to my back and get back in the game.  I've had enough of the sandbox.

A Flood of Words

Sometimes, an idea comes into my head and pushes everything else out.  Today, I drove home distracted by the force of an idea.  This idea insisted upon  materializing into  printed words.  I'm not really sure what it  means or why I think I have to write it.  It doesn't really matter.  I'm going to toss it out upon the page and then concern myself with the task of making dinner.

First, a little background. . . This past weekend, my youngest sister came to visit.  We discovered that we both share a weird phenomenon.  Each of us thought that "this must only happens to me".  Little did we know.  Often as we lay in bed, at the end of the day, waiting for sleep, we see a calidescope of human faces, heads, really, of people we have never met.  They appear and quickly fade into the next.  Sometimes their faces are contorted or grotesque.   Other times they wear peaceful or happy expressions.  I thought this sufficiently odd so I rarely spoke of it.  Over the years, I've gotten used to it.  It doesn't happen every night but when it does, I don't fight it or let it carry me into the land of raging madness.  I watch the show.  At times, I'm even amused by the odd theatre playing behind my closed eyes.  I no longer fight it.  I've learned to "go with it".

When my sister started to share this experience, I was tingling with excitement and completing the end of her sentences.  Now, I know one other person that shares this odd experience.  We are not alone and we'd never have found out if she hadn't shared this with me.  This desire to share some of the odd twists and turns in my own human experience is the motivation behind this blog.  I find it delightfully cathartic.

And so, when driving home today, the inspiration for an entry was flooding my head with such force, I was having a hard time paying attention to traffic.   I'm used to this flooding in my head.  Gradually, I am learning not to fight it.  On the battered bridge, between the mundane and the other worldly,  (If wordly was an actual word, I'd use it here.) I am a novice, still in training.   Learning how to a "build a boat and stay afloat" has been a life long task.  Today, I'm committed to whittling an oar or two.  Instead of resisting inspiration, I'm going to let it play through me just because I can.  Without further ado, I share today's "word flood".  In started with a simple line from a song. . ."the sun told me to run."


The sun told me to run and I've been running ever since.  Sometimes, at night the moon,  its round, bright face urges me to rest, to settle down, and  to stop running.  The beautiful moon tempts me but day always follows night.  The sun returns. She tells me to do what I have always done.  "Run" she says, "Run".  

As the sun and moon chase each other around the earth, so I chase myself.

STOP. .  My son just accidentally snorted nail polish remover up his nose.  A call to poison control helped ease both our minds.  I'm trying to use this as a lesson on "thinking before acting" which is a bit too common in this house.  Rosie at Poison Control had to ask if he was snorting on purpose.  I had to explain it was just an accident.  Apparently, acetone isn't the worst thing you can inhale.  Fresh air, a hot steamy cloth to breathe through and milk to drink were the recommendations.  Now that a son of a different spelling has gotten my attention, I quit for the day.    I did find a great link to a web site and an 800 number for Poison Control.  His regular doctor's clinic changed her phone number.  An annoyingly useless message gave a new number only once and very quickly.  Thank goodness for the following and Rosie:   http://kidshealth.org/parent/firstaid_safe/home/poison_control_center.html