Let’s just say it’s been a week and leave it at that. No wait – let’s just say that it’s been a week and I’ve been hacked and my laptop, iPad and iPhone are engaging in acts of such exaggerated non-compliance that I am comparing them to any adolescent who takes pride in exhibiting high levels of snark.
I could go on – but honestly you get the point. And yes, I am sitting here in my family room engaging in a modified happy dance that it is Friday. And maybe all of this stuff will get fixed today (these are technical terms I know).
But I can’t leave the week this way. Sir Bogey has opened his eyes, showing us the bright little gleam that suggests brilliance and wit. If my understanding of royal baby development is correct, he actually may begin to scoot around with a skosh of intent in a few days. Happy Friday all…
I want to be young again, but I really don’t want to re-live all the lousy stuff that occurs in the normal course of growing up.
I want to be old enough to fully accept that ‘legacy’ has nothing to do with what I did for a living, but what I did with my life – and that it mattered.
I want to find my waist again.
I want my waist not to matter as much as the shape of my soul.
I’d like to have no regrets, yet I regret that I think one can’t live without them.
I want to be remembered despite not having any wish or intent to go anywhere which would prompt people to miss me.
I wonder when I’m going to feel like I’m making my mark, yet delight in doing nothing but watching two fawns practice leaping in my backyard.
I miss the sounds and smells and demands and affection of having little boys, though my sons as adults delight me as no other adults can.
The rain is welcome, despite my wish for the sun.
In my head I’m far younger than the mirror suggests. I find that a little insulting, and adds still more dissonance.
I want to read and read every book, blog, essay that grabs my curiosity and still take time to relish every sentence that I love.
I want to travel more and still cocoon at home.
I want to dare more though I’ve never been known for being particularly intrepid.
Nobody gets everything in life; yet everything in life is not worth having.
The ebb and flow of extremes. The push and pull of our hearts and minds. It’s ok to grapple with this confusion, I tell myself. It’s that insistent feeling I have that somehow, we’re supposed to ‘know’ by now. The irritation I feel when I find that when pressed, I really have no clue – and the smile on my face as I realize that I’ll likely never get off this swing, so while I’m on it I’m just going to see how high I can go.
“In these bodies we live and in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life” — Mumford & Sons
Such a simple concept, yes? Hard to argue, pointless to debate – and yet. There is no doubt that I have exhausted this body with thoughts and actions and feelings that had little to do with love. There are years when I succumbed to the pressure of living to work, displaying outrageous disconnection between value and true purpose. I don’t think I’m unique. I think we remember what is in front of us in the moment.
It’s been a challenge to get the karma truck in gear over these last few weeks, and I’m not sure why. Feeling that perhaps my thoughts are becoming trite and overdone like a delicate Jenga edifice of clichés. And this morning something clicked, the starter turned over. Back on the road.
I had a particularly challenging consulting project that is now over. The participants were awesome, the conversation engaging. The untenable weight was a result of the politics behind the engagement and I agitated beyond anything remotely sensible. The details don’t matter – the phenomenal emotional toll that was exacted each time I received vitriolic emails and disparaging comments from the company that had arranged this program – was far more than I should ever have permitted. The client was thrilled with me and I was happy with the terrific group with whom I spent many hours. And that’s where I should have been able to insert a full stop. It’s like trying to separate egg yolks and whites – it takes practice. I still conflate the relevant and irrelevant; arguably giving way too much attention to the latter.
With the luxury of time, I watch people around me as they approach the tender reality of savoring what really matters. There is the obvious – our families and friends, a firefly playing hide-and-seek before becoming invisible in the daylight, a newborn fawn nursing vigorously and then falling over his/her legs in an initial attempt at play. Finding the delight in every story told to me, by people I may never see again, and others who I will know forever. Holding on to curiosity and expanding the vista to include more and more and more. I’m not ready to narrow the perspective – this body has room to breathe and absorb and take in and wonder. This body has room to rest and rejoice, listen and learn, commit and walk away and commit again.
Such simple, unassailable truths – yet coming to this post, I was close to breathing into a paper bag. The anxiety of insecurity, the constant questioning of whether or not I’m getting this right. It’s done. It’s written, and I’m on the road again. With time however, to renew.
“And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on” — George Gordon Byron
I struggle to describe this week. All of the adjectives in my mind seem to collide with one another in a frenetic game of bumper cars. Contrasting realities – awful, horrific, mind-numbing, tragic, senseless, obscene, heartbreaking; life-affirming, connectedness, heroic, powerful, humbling, breathtaking, faithful.
Some people don’t do well with lots of stimuli – I’m one of them. It’s why I hate the mall. Too much going on that is competing for my attention and focus. This week makes a trip to the mall look positively mundane.
I was in the city on 9/11; in the Sears Tower (as it was called then – now the Willis Tower) two days later and flew to the Library Tower in LA thereafter. My mom thought the firm was asking too much and was a wreck while I was gone. I really think that had she known who to call, she would have dialed immediately and railed against anyone who had arrived at this decision. Other than that, the trips were all about being there and not being rattled, reassuring those who needed it and confirming our collective strategy for responding to this serendipitous element of the new normal.
Of course, as this week shows there is no strategy for these traumatic reminders of the new normal. The new normal wrenches us out of our skin, changes the rhythm of the day into a monotone dirge that quietly plays on an endless loop. Daily stressors are too much to bear, everything that is routine is somehow, not. I found myself in tears for no reason (when of course there were all the reasons in the world), sitting with my body wrapped around itself, trying to contain this inexplicable sorrow, covering my mouth so the screams would remain silent while they vibrated through my body. Did I even hear the birds engaged in their gossipy conversation over these past few days? I don’t think so.
The collective release of tension in Boston last night infused my soul with light (and the hearts of many I am sure). To see such joy and gratitude after these incomprehensibly tragic days returns my heart to baseline. The treadmill begins to slow, the incline is less arduous. The music changes – not necessarily exuberant, though hopeful. And when I walked the Sirs this morning, I heard the birds engaged in a rockin’ game of Marco Polo. And with a heart that is bruised, perhaps even broken, we return to our lives.
“Child, child, do you not see? For each of us comes a time when we must be more than we are” — Lloyd Alexander
Well the last few weeks have brought with them a frenetic level of activity reminiscent of earlier chapters in my life. Facilitating training sessions at two law firms; attending a national convention where I will be moderating a panel on effective communication between leaders in practice offices and their counterparts at ‘headquarters’; discussions on employee engagement at another company and then back to another professional services firm to chair forums on a number of issues all rolling up under the header of ‘organizational dynamics’. Ok, stop yawning – I find this stuff pretty fascinating, and the people I meet as a result, even more interesting and engaging. It’s the people – I’m just so damn drawn to the people.
So somewhere around the end of May or June, things may slow down a bit once more. Some things haven’t changed – the more I have to do, the less I sleep and the more I perseverate. For those of you who have not been ‘gifted’ with this talent, I’ll describe it quickly. It starts with a benign thought, like “I hope I can pull all this together in time”, and from there it blossoms into a profusion of peripatetic petals (it is spring and Cherry Blossom time here in DC after all) that fall all over my mind, covering the synapses, neurons and pathways with layer upon layer of resistant ground cover. Thought loses all rhyme or reason, and I spend an inordinate amount of time getting in my own way. Do I know that I really should get out the leaf blower? Of course I do – I’m just too busy looking at the magnificent mess I have created.
Now this talent of mine exists in direct counterpoint with another ability that I really do have about many, many issues. When my sons were younger, they maintained their rooms as temples to the God Of Who Cares. Somehow the word ‘messy’ really doesn’t do their efforts justice – neither does ‘unhygienic’. Once a week, I would expect them to make some effort to return their rooms into something livable, for I really didn’t want them contracting some weird bacteria that is only found in the Amazon and the soles of filthy socks. Their disregard drove Andy crazy – he’s the kind of guy who feels that everything has a place and there’s a place for everything – and if not, toss it out. So as he would get increasingly exorcised, I would become calmer. And my mantra through those years was “If this is going to bother you in five years honey, then I will invest in this issue with all the emotional energy I can summon. But if this isn’t going to matter five years hence, then I’m letting it go”.
Hypocrite – thy name is Mimi.
You see I really believe that little mantra – I do. I just don’t apply it with as much conviction when it comes to my own efforts. So in short – I become my own pain in the butt. Somebody needs something from me – ok, let’s jump into hyper-drive, over-think it and deliver with everything I’ve got. And then collapse and chastise myself for all that excess worry and emotional self-flagellation. Oh, and then start the whole process again…because after all, this is different. It’s about someone else’s needs. I have to be better this time, right?
Last night though – somewhere between Carson Daly and the 2:30AM news on ABC – a memory came to the fore and I think as a result, I am going to try to teach my foolish self what I already know.
Years ago, after one back surgery or another, I lost the use of my arms. Truly. I could raise one arm high enough to bring a utensil to my lips, the other only far enough to scratch an inch near my waist. The surgeon wasn’t alarmed (of course, they weren’t his arms) – neurological effrontery can make for some pretty lousy retribution. I was petrified. All of a sudden elements of daily self-care were elusive to me. Andy would wash and dry my hair (with enormous affection and limited expertise – we will not conjure any thoughts of how I looked during this time), I drank coffee through a straw, modifications were made. The doctor was sure my range of motion would return – he had no doubt, so I believed him. My anxiety became more reflective of the ‘when’ not the ‘if’, and immediately became more manageable. In five years, this would not be an issue for me – I knew that. My thoughts became less frantic, I began to clear away the disorderly mess that had become my thought process. And yes, the doctor knew what he was talking about.
Which brings me back to this moment. In five years it will matter to me that I gave my best to others – period. I won’t get there by letting my worry trump my determination. Let me re-phrase – I may get there, but I will be have depleted essential elements of the thoughts I need to be happy. Today, I’m going to follow the advice of Steve Martin – “I’ve got to keep breathing. It’ll be the worst business mistake if I don’t”.
I hope this makes you smile – and if by chance you identify with any of this – I hope it helps you breathe.
“Water is the softest thing, yet it can penetrate mountains and earth. This shows clearly the principle of softness overcoming hardness” — Lao Tzu
I love this quote. I love thinking that relentless softness can erode what appears intractable and immoveable. The visual of solid ground acceding to the dampening of the earth, redefining its crags and layers of stubborn solidity by the insistence of water, becoming a rivulet and ultimately a stream.
And then there’s the old water torture visual (drops falling rhythmically and slowly on one’s forehead) which is far more reflective of my state of mind at the moment. And may I say? The drops aren’t particularly doing much except making me feel like I’m getting a dent in my head.
Over the past two years, I’ve been contacted by executive recruiters asking about my interest in C-level positions – law firms, professional service firms – and I’ve never considered pursuing the inquiries. Last week I did, and yesterday I withdrew my candidacy. It was the drops you see. The persistent drops – “Do you have the chops to do this again?” “You don’t have the chops to do this again” “Do you want to do this again?” “Wanting is irrelevant – what if they find me too old (that’s illegal and I’m way too immature, but…), too irreverent, too out there, not out there enough” “But do you want to do this again” “I want parts of it and I don’t want parts of it” “That’s no answer, Mim” “Can you repeat the question?”…and so on.
And so it went until I was desperately seeking a xanax or at least someone to turn off the faucet. Oh, did I mention that I have a skosh of a problem calling a plumber when I really need one (figuratively speaking of course)? “My family will think less of me for walking away” “They will not, you doof” “Yeah, they will” This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Full stop.
I write Andy and the boys, send an email to two of my dearest friends. Aaron writes back first – “You’ve earned the right to be whatever you want to be…therapist, elephant hygienist..” (I love that kid). Paul chimes in next – “I think you should get re-accredited to be a therapist”..and paraphrasing here, ‘so happy you will pursue what you want’ (I love that kid too). Andy, oh Andy – with his platitudes and deft application of the cliché, rejected both and just reminded me that who I am makes him proud enough. ‘Do what you want, and if you don’t know what that is just yet, that’s ok too’ (I don’t feel that it is, but may I say that he’s a rock star). And my friends..”I’m so happy you said no; I didn’t want to have to share you with that many people” (she’d never have to). “You made the right decision – besides, I think you should write a book!” And here I sit, with a different type of water – the kind that traces down one’s cheeks, gracing each wrinkle, tickling my jaw as they meander down my neck.
How bewildering to be in my renaissance and discover that I am still arguing with these voices of doubt? How breathtaking to realize that with a little effort, I can change a path that has been shaped by years and years of the drip, drip, drip, drip of my own design? I am changing the flow, I am going to try to be more purposeful with this one life I have. Remember my passion, follow my fascinations, remember that it was my sense of integrity and what I believe to be right that prompted my decision to turn around and re-route.
There’s a place for me – little, idiosyncratic, idealistic, sometimes-savvy me. I’m not sure where just yet, and I have to be okay with that for now. For with absolute certainty I can tell you, within me there’s a river.
“The family – that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our innermost hearts ever quite wish to.” — Dodie Smith
I love traditions that endure. They may morph, become slightly diluted, be maintained while slightly deluded – it matters little. Traditions add dimension to the family construct, providing the shading and nuance that help complete the picture. It informs our history and clarifies elements of our future – what do I hope my children will choose to carry forward? What elements of their history and our traditions will they value and hold?
As I watched my father-in-law preside over the Seder on Monday, I was struck by the simplicity and complexity of family traditions. The delight in hearing the youngest children ask the four questions. The enthusiastic negotiations that ensue once the Afikomen has been found. My father-in-law beamed with pride, while still maintaining an air of amused gravitas. Each child kissed and congratulated for their detective work. Parents smiling so broadly – some relief undoubtedly mixed in with all that love. The miracle of generations sharing the secret recipe for creating the perfect olio that makes each family unique, its traditions singularly their own.
And as my brother-in-law referenced those who were not in attendance – his daughter and her family in LA, his mom, my mind secretly wished that my parents were still here, that there were more traditions still to be had in their home. And though this isn’t about them, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that there were memories that shone in my mind’s eye with primary-color-like clarity. I saw a picture my sister had posted with our family’s seder plate in the middle of her table, and my reaction was visceral. Can a heart turn upside down and still beat?
As I looked around the table though, I was also struck by that which was not seen. The dynamics that are tested, the hurt that only family members can inflict upon each other with or without intention. The fibers that are being stretched too thin, the ones that are in the process of being rewoven with such care to ensure they are stronger and more pliable than ever before. Each person’s story as it related to the others, replete with love, frustration, an intractable wish to be understood. These are traditions too – and though arguably not those which we choose to carry forward, they move forward with us nonetheless. Our conscious choice is what we do with them. Family dynamics are rarely enviable – they’re too complex, too imperfect, too full. At some point, we decide which elements are worthy of retention – the good and the not-so-great – the aspects that will comfort, delight and nurture us and those that may always move us to tears. These I suppose are the traditions of the heart, the way we pass on the concept of family. It is part of our legacy, so I would suggest that we choose well. It becomes our imprimatur, our tacit approval for what will become critical elements of our family tradition. May it always begin and end with love.
The weather was accommodating while Joanne was here – it rained without interruption. As a result, we spent Tuesday inside – no distractions (but for the Sirs, who are very capable of disrupting anything for attention), no interruptions. Although Jo and I see each other once or twice a year, we began our conversation wherever we left it last. Given that this thread was picked up after forty-plus years of silence, it’s nothing short of amazing.
I can spot her anywhere – it’s her smile or her eyes moving from one point to another scouring the area around her to ensure its familiarity. Or perhaps it is the intimate awareness that comes from understanding another soul so well that it can call you silently. Alan said she has a ‘beautiful spirit’, a description that she wears far better than her too-loose jeans.
This year has been a test for which no one really prepared. Hurricane Sandy hit her neighborhood almost as hard as it hit her husband’s business. The intricacies of bureaucracies responsible for remediation challenged nerves already too frayed. Rebuilding is expensive, exacting payment from one’s wallet and one’s sense of well-being. She and Ben are well on their way, though anxiety chooses to linger and makes sure that its presence is never forgotten. Jo reminds me of a kite – always has. She flies and dips with the rhythm of the wind, making glorious loops and circles, dipping down precipitously and grandly, only to catch a gust of air to lift her up with easy gracefulness. There is something about the sun and the breeze and Jo in flight – it’s a visual that never fails to delight.
Yet life teaches you that sometimes you have to be grounded. You have to move forward in the far less appealing, plebian way of placing one weighted shoe in front of the next. There is the need to be present when present is the very last thing one wants to be. The relentless reminder that we are needed on this walking path. There is no flight, no game of tag with the wind. It is perhaps harder for those who revel in the movement of the air, those who are defined by their limitless potential for love, ideology, hope and a dash of resistant innocence. I can see the little girl within, arms folded defiantly, her chin raised and her bangs almost shaking with the affront of being grounded. And because I love her, I want for her to always feel the indescribable freedom of dancing in the air. And because I love her, I suggest that there is beauty to be found on the footpath.
And just as she alit on Monday, she was off again on Wednesday morning to warmer climes. But as is Joanne’s way, she left the essence of that spirit here. Sitting in the kitchen on this early Saturday morning, drinking some coffee and regaling me with her tales from the sky…
So many words stung, more words healed. Today, I celebrate where I have been – though I could never have articulated it as magnificently as Shane Koyczan. TGIF all..
“Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement…get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal, everything is incredible; never treat life carelessly” — Abraham Joshua Heschel
It’s been a quiet week here, not much excitement when Andy and I keep trying to see if we can do an organic version of “Dueling Banjos” with our respective nose-blowing (trust me, “Dueling Banjos” sounds way better). So far we haven’t had much success with our syncopation. And because he’s the one who introduced this little bug into our house, he’s also the one who is eschewing chicken soup sooner (he would insist that it’s a function of his recuperative powers – do not believe him). Not the most delightful way to spend a week. But, in one significant way these have been some really good days.
I’ve been agitating a lot lately about what to do next. What should this chapter look like? Does it need to look like anything? How do I frame the story line? All good questions; none providing any further clarity or movement just yet. If this was an existential crisis, I could just leave the page blank and tell myself it’s the best answer. This is an itching-in-your-heart conundrum. If you’ve got any ideas, please share them with me. Maybe I’m too far in the woods to be able to see with the greatest clarity. Ah, but this is not the point of this post…
I came across Heschel’s quote on Monday and wondered if I was in fact approaching life too carelessly. Certainly one assumes a certain amount about the moments in a day. I wonder if we could move forward in any way if we stopped and realized that every single moment, action, word, etc is not to be assumed. I have always been conscious of some of the smaller nuances that might otherwise go unnoticed – a change in the heft of the air as we move slowly towards spring, the state of the buds on a tree, the morning conversations among the neighborhood of cardinals that check in with each other as the sun considers rising. I listen to the world as fully as I can. But could I be missing something? Oh yeah, I’m missing a lot.
I began thinking about all the delicious moments that I recognize but dismiss too quickly, not allowing them to be savored as is their due. Slipping under the covers – the feel of cool sheets against my skin. I burrow into the hug provided by our feather-bed and give myself over to the lusciousness of it all. There is no better feeling. Or so I thought. The next morning with chills and a head more congested than the DC Beltway at 8:45AM, I stepped into the shower with the temperature as hot as I could handle. The spray stung at first, and then became a steaming, head clearing, soothing haven from my sniffling, eye-tearing, coughing self. I stood there just marveling at how good it felt and so I remained until the water heater began to hint that it needed a break. Could anything be better? Later, when I went outside with the Sirs for one of their daily constitutionals, the wind was delightfully suggestive. Living in gratitude is an overused expression; as is living consciously. And I can’t say that I have managed to really do either this week. I can say I’ve been aware of some of the elements of a day that I may notice, but definitely dismiss too quickly.
Maybe this all has to do with having some of my senses dulled and as a result, others see the chance and clamor for attention. Maybe it’s the result of this pinball game my head has been playing trying to arrive at my-next-thing. Perhaps it is my soul’s way of reminding me that I trade each minute of my life for something – and I’d prefer it to be something I appreciate. Regardless, I discovered that with little effort I could find something in each day that I had not fully noticed before. Savoring at least one element among the myriad elements that comprise a day, which had merely been assumed and acknowledge it. It offers some balance to my angst, some delight that offsets a stuffed head and achy cough. I can’t say that I’m amazed; I can say that I’m awake. Good morning and Happy Friday everybody.
Some days need to be subdued. In the silence you can hear your thoughts – jumbled though they may be, scatological and spontaneous, making sense maybe, perhaps not. Maybe it’s the mind’s way of trying to integrate contradictory stimuli.
Is it the phases of the moon or just the stages of life that bring four of my cherished friends to the ragged edge of loss this weekend? Remarkable people who have never met, marking anniversaries of loss, experiencing the passing of a beloved family member, and/or finding themselves staring straight into the sea of frightening inevitability which we deny for as long as we can? And why does life’s corollary have to be so untenable? I have no idea.
I don’t know if there’s a heaven; I have a hard time conceiving of hell. I think I’m very faithful, for I believe in many things that I can’t see – and for me, it is the simplest way to embrace something as indescribably huge as faith. And love. And hope. I know that when we have to let go, we never really do. One of my friends was relating the conversation she and her brother had with their dad, telling him that they were okay, that they would be okay…My sister and I had similar discussions with our parents when they were arguably between two worlds. And yesterday I thought to myself that sometimes the idea of leaving is untenable because we don’t want to leave our children with no barrier against mortality. The thought that they have to assume a different and arguably scarier position when we are no longer physically here. The mere thought is anathema to me. Life – that is all that we want our loved ones to embrace. How dissonant to suggest that our abdication requires their assumption of a new place in line? Perhaps one of the greatest acts of love is hanging in there if one can, with the invisible, powerful hope that we are still protecting those we love beyond measure.
I believe that some souls come into our life for a brief time, and leave indelible imprints on our hearts, our approach to each day, etc. Some remind us that we are loved, when we doubt it; others nurture us when we have forgotten how to do this for ourselves; defiantly protect us when we are emotionally over-exposed. Are they angels? Their miraculous arrival and elusive departure suggest they could be. Is there a better way to define a lifeline when it is provided and holds you together with unshakeable confidence and purpose?
I know the canned answer is that the experience of sorrow somehow makes the moments of joy all the lovelier. Loss underscores our appreciation of that which we have. It sounds good enough to become a cliché, though like most trite comments, it doesn’t necessarily resonate in the heart. Hope however, has wings. Hope that forever is a place, that love remembered is a blessing and love extended is a gift. I wish it didn’t have to hurt so damn much. I wish that tears weren’t necessary. The daffodil shoots are stubbornly insisting on breaking through the frozen ground – indifferent to the reality that greets them when they appear. They persist – with faith. They will flourish in the spring – with hope.
Waiting for the Karma Truck 