All I Can Say

#68: The cruelest month

T.S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruelest month (mixing memory with desire), but I’ve always thought that distinction belongs to January. I agree, April is no picnic either, with its grim palette of greige. But since both my babies were born in April, its status has been greatly elevated for me — except when I consider the birthday parties that are now the primary features of the month. No, I have to say January is the longest, weariest, most punishing month.

This year so far, there’s not much to complain about. Here in Maine it feels more like October. The sun has been shining and it’s going to reach 50 degrees today: perfect conditions for walking or running outdoors. And if you suffer from SAD (it sounds so pitiful, but who doesn’t?), it doesn't seem so difficult to get your dose of daylight. You just have to get it early.

I definitely have less energy, though. The light barely skims the tops of the trees, and by the time my rooms darken, at about 4:15, I want to curl up in bed and call it a day. It seems that there is a natural cadence to this — if there were 18 hours of daylight every day of the year, my candle really would be burning at both ends. In January I feel a bit like I’m parked into a battery recharger, quietly blinking away in the dark, building up my reserves.

So it’s a time to rest and turn our attention inward. Gone are the adornments of December, and we are stripped down to our more essential selves. We reflect and intend to do better, to be better human beings. Who pauses to think this way in the full glory of July?

It’s lovely to be able to run outside comfortably in January, but I miss the cold temperatures and the snow. I think of the frigid air masses that usually bear down on us all winter long as part of a cleansing process, leaving us disinfected and purified in the spring. A few years ago we were putting an addition on our house, and the builders would show up on the job site at 7:00 in the morning, the coldest time of the day, heavily layered under their insulated work suits, hatted and hooded. The project leader, who we became so attached to, told me that he would get out of bed in the morning and hope for the coldest temperatures yet. For him — bring it — the colder the better. I just love that attitude.

I wonder what it would be like to live in a part of the world where seasonal changes are nearly imperceptible. I suppose you would just have to be more tuned into the subtle adjustments. I need regular change in my life — to discover and reveal different parts of myself. And I even feel like a different person in the summer than I do in the winter. When I was younger, I wanted to hurry through the first quarter of the year to get to the good stuff. But I know that it’s all part of the process, the evolution of the year, of my life. I wouldn’t trade my January day, cruel as it might feel, for anything.

And the good news is, the days are getting longer.

#55: Enjoy yourself

There is a bit of advice I was given at one point — by a stranger actually — that holds the most value for me in terms of how I want to live my life. Two simple words: enjoy yourself.

I initially heard it as a mere platitude, but lately I have been able to see the brilliant idea in it. You are all you have. Joy comes from within you. Enjoy yourself. What more is there?

Climb away

My forearms are quite sore today from a long session with the rake on Sunday, and then aggravated by rock climbing last night. The experience was completely worth this little bit of discomfort, though. I went with a big group of women, and most of us had never climbed before. Trying something new like that automatically puts you in the position of being a beginner, and that’s not a place I tend to go very willingly. On the one hand, I felt confident that I was strong enough to do it, but scaling a wall takes more than just strength. As I climbed higher my heart was racing and the adrenaline was flowing, especially when I needed to really stretch and let go of my hold — and for a split second be without any hold at all. There’s a leap of faith that involves agility, strength, confidence that you can do it, and trust in the one on the ground who is belaying you. At the end of one climb, I had to completely throw myself off of the safe footholds and handholds and swing, twenty-five feet in the air in order to be belayed to the ground. Irrational fear, because I knew I wouldn’t fall, but letting go went against every force of self-preservation in my body. Could I invent a better symbol for what I need to do right now in my life: let go of the safe handholds and take the leap? I don’t think so.

There was one woman who came late and was sort of reluctant. I don’t think she planned to climb at all. After doing a couple of easy climbs, she was encouraged to attempt a more challenging one. With her feet still on the ground, she said, “No way am I getting up there.” So we gave her more encouragement and some suggestions for how to start. She climbed a little, got stuck, reached higher, seemed like maybe she wasn’t going to get beyond a certain point, found the way, and continued on. I was so proud of her and inspired because she got all the way to the top — which I couldn’t do. She didn’t start out eagerly or with a lot of confidence, but she had what it took anyway. What a rush to see her discover that.

A few years ago I don’t think I would have joined this group — women I like but don’t know very well, and some I didn’t know at all. I might have been willing to try rock climbing, but in a more secure setting. A few years ago, I valued composure over almost everything. But I think last night I set out with a healthy combination of self-assurance and willingness to try something I might not be good at, that I might even fail at. And that feels a little bit like living with passion. Yay!

The silent one inside

[I am not the person who is writing these words. I am the silent one inside]

…to paraphrase Paula Cole’s achingly beautiful song, Me. When it first came out a few years ago it really tugged at me, especially the refrain: it’s me who is my enemy/me who beats me up/me who makes the monsters/me who strips my confidence. I never knew whose song it was, never owned it, though I loved it both musically and lyrically. Today it came on the radio in my car, just at the moment when I was ready to hear that song. And when I got home I immediately bought it on itunes and have been cranking it, over and over, all day. I wish I could sing like that, the way she is able to radiate such powerful emotions.

Music reaches me more directly than any other artform, can make me cry my eyes out, can force me to confront certain things. This song, the way Paula Cole sings it, makes me realize that I am not living my life with passion. I am not walking on a bridge...over the water. I am not scared as hell but onto something better. I desperately want to feel that. We are all searching, I see and hear that from just about all my friends. Those who are pushing through their fears and living up to their true potential are among the tiniest minority. In many ways through this blog I have expressed my longing to go for it, yet I don’t know what it is. All my life I’ve thought maybe it was writing but I’ve been afraid…to fail I suppose. Maybe I am getting there. I must be or I wouldn’t have heard that song the way I heard it today. I can no longer deny that an important part of me is trapped and fading, the silent me inside. The invisible me. And that’s not going to work anymore. I know that I am strong and even extraordinary in certain ways. Well we all are, every single one of us, and our mission in life is to find out how, and celebrate it for all it’s worth.

How old are you?

I think there are several different ages you can claim for yourself: your chronological age, related to your date of birth; your real age, which has been getting a lot of attention lately, indicated by your physical health; and the one that I am most interested in at the moment, your internal age.

Your internal age is the voice inside your head and the image that you hold of yourself. It has nothing to do with your last birthday, or the age you appear to be from the outside. Internal age is guided by a completely different set of principles than chronological age, in that older is better. In some cultures there is parity here — the chronologically old are equally or more valued than the chronologically young. But that’s certainly not the case in this culture, where “age management” is practically a medical discipline all its own, and where looking younger is one of the fastest growing industries. But what about what's on the inside?

I can acknowledge that my internal age is not very old. For a while, I felt so internally young that I was overwhelmed by my life as an adult, despite how it might have appeared from the outside. I had all these adult competencies — I could throw a dinner party for 20, make sound decisions about the wellbeing of my family, conduct myself appropriately on most occasions — but inside I felt like a very young girl…and I was really struggling.

When this became clear to me, that I was not truly the age on my driver’s license, I wondered if I would ever “grow up.” I began to look at older people I would see and wonder about the voice inside their heads. How old were they internally? It seemed strange that an eighty year old grandmother could have a sense of self that might put her at 25, but I’m sure this is true for many eighty year olds. If you really look, you can sometimes see that younger person unveiled. Likewise, some children just seem wise beyond their years — spooky-wise. My daughter is like this with her old-soul eyes. Sometimes I feel that she is actually my protector, which I suppose will ultimately be true if we both have luck and longevity.

In the last few years, I’ve noticed that my internal age has been slowly appreciating, though I am sure that it will never catch up completely. I don’t know what has changed for me, but it feels a bit like outgrowing  adolescence. Suddenly (and gratefully), you find you’re on the other side of it. I have written that my forties are about self-discovery, and I think this journey has advanced my internal age, at least a little.

When I was in my teens and twenties, a thirty year old seemed like some ancient relic, but I know now that thirty is exceptionally young. Now I am starting to cast my eye on fifty, although it’s almost a decade away. It’s an age that my mother, who died of cancer at 49, never even reached. What will it be like — again, given luck and longevity — when I am older than she ever was? Will I still see myself as younger?

Do you think you know yourself? someone asked me recently. Well the answer is yes. And no. I can see how far I’ve come on this particular information highway, but I am still evolving and changing. I don’t have any idea what my full potential is — it’s all wrapped up in time and opportunity and push.

Candy store

The other night my husband and I were talking about the ways that you limit your life. We can be so profound sometimes! But really, what else are you going to discuss over your turkey meatloaf? He is in the midst of a three-day seminar that investigates how to fulfill your personal potential. He says a lot of what he is learning makes him think of me (Gee, thanks honey!). Is that because I am clearly fulfilling my potential as a person, or because I am clearly not? I don’t know, but I suspect it’s that second one.

Well maybe I know what he means. I’ve always been aware of the ways in which I won’t go all the way. Example: if I am in a new city and I have time to go and explore, I don’t like to go too far. I want to stay close to my home base. Similarly, if I am hiking, I become more anxious as I travel away from where I started. Going up a mountain or around some sort of feature is never a problem, because I can judge where I am and when I will be returning. It’s charting new territory that’s challenging for me — not knowing where I am in space. The idea of exploring the Arctic, a la Shackleton, would be hell for me, and not just because of the weather! Here's another example: For a while, I was making hand knitted, felted bags with a friend of mine and we were selling them. Eventually, she took the next step and got a tax ID number and set herself up as a business. I kept working on it as a hobby. I wouldn’t go all the way with it. And guess what? I’m not making them anymore!

My husband claims this is a lack of vision, which inspires, motivates and guides goals. I might be goal-oriented but not have the overarching vision of what fulfills me that would make those goals meaningful and attainable. I turn away from each endeavor and become ensconced with something else. One exception I can point to is that I am going to get my black belt. I’ve been working on this for almost three years, and it may still be a year or more before I’m ready to test for it, but I know I will go the distance with karate. And I’m starting to think that I am going to go all the way with this blog. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’m way out there now and I’m not turning back. So that’s two things.

I turn away from endeavors when it’s clear they aren’t working for me. But in order to pursue the ones that are going to work for me, and fulfill my potential in life, maybe I do need a vision. I sometimes feel like a kid in a candy store. I pick something up and it looks good, but then I put it down. I pick something else up, but eventually put that down. Funny how the difficulty seems to be in actually eating the candy. Self-deprivation really isn’t my thing, but maybe that is what I’m doing with my life in not going for what I really want.

You get what you want

I’m feeling kind of low today, and I don’t know why, exactly. It could be that my house is in need of deep cleaning, which I am never in the mood to do. Maybe I should tackle one room at a time and just rotate around the house, but then it would never be done. It’s never done anyway — there is always something to be wiped, vacuumed, mopped, dusted, scrubbed. It sucks.

Also, I haven’t been listening to much music lately and that could be contributing to my sense of malaise. And in my blog coma, I’ve missed some major news events over the last couple of weeks and I’m feeling a bit out of touch.

Last night I went to Bunco, a group of women getting together to talk and drink wine and play a mindless dice game — with prizes and all. Something really struck me: there are two obvious sub-groups. Some of us play with the objective and expectation of winning, and some of us play with no expectations at all. I am in the latter category. This is just anecdotal, but it looks to me like the people who expect to win actually do win more frequently than those who don’t. It’s fascinating to me that you can force your luck, because Bunco is entirely a game of luck. You simply roll the dice and hope to get sixes. Maybe some people just try harder to get sixes, and that works for them.

It supports the idea that you get what you want in life. Whatever it is that you value most is what you will ultimately have — even if it’s not what you think you want. For instance, I might say I want to learn, but what I really want is to win. I might say I want a challenge, but I really want to be perfect. I might say I want to travel, but what I really want is community. I might say I want to be strong, but what I really want is help. In the spring I went on a retreat at Kripalu to see this zen guy, Adyashanti, who made a lot of statements like this. He was a very credible teacher, one who seemed to have made a huge impact on many people’s lives.

You get what you want. I am trying to figure out what this means for me in my life. I say that I want a job (I don’t actually say this out loud much but I often think it), but what I really want is a sense of purpose and meaning. There must be dozens of things I say I want that are at odds with my deeper desires. I say I want a clean house, but what I really want is time to do other things, things that are more meaningful to me than dusting. Is it all just about priorities?

The Rolling Stones pretty much said it in their great song, You Can’t Always Get What You Want. You don’t get what you (say you) want all the time, but sometimes you get what you need (i.e. what you really want). When I first heard this song as a teenager, the lyrics didn’t really make logical sense to me, but they contained a truth that I understood on another level. I loved what that song seemed to say, which is that there is no need for yearning.

Preverberations

Someone I knew in high school and haven't seen in 20 years is going to be on Fresh Air tonight. I heard her name, Ingrid Matteson, mentioned on NPR but I assumed it was another Ingrid Matteson. Then they identified her as the President of the North American Islamic Society, and I had heard that she had converted to Islam, so I know it must be her. I'm definitely going to tune in.

This after I had conversations today with two other high school friends (although much, much closer friends). It puts me in mind of those strange coincidences, the ones that I believe are not coincidences at all. I believe there are reverberations, or preverberations, to events, and if we're tuned in, we can have what we think of as premonitions regularly. How often does it happen that you'll be thinking of someone, and that person will materialize in some way? If I'm in a crowd, I will think I see Sue. On closer inspection, it's not Sue. Then, later that day, Sue appears. That happens to me often enough that I don't even react very much; I usually just feel pleased with myself, as I would if I had done something with great skill, like build a big roaring fire.

So I think there must be other timelines in effect than the past-present-future context in which we live. But maybe as human beings, this linear timeline is the only one in which we can function. If you've lost someone in your life, though, it can be a comforting notion that time itself is some sort of illusion. I guess if you are religious, God is your answer here, as it is the answer to so many questions for so many people. I'm not evolved enough, or committed enough, to have that sort of faith, and I don't know if I ever will be. Getting religious on one's death bed seems like a bit of a cop out and I don't imagine myself trying to get into the party at that late hour. But I think I'll have to delve into religion — hopefully with more depth and sensitivity — at some later date. Right now I have to get some kids to soccer.

The skin I'm in

I am going to reveal something about myself that might seem a little bourgeois, if that word can apply to these times. I have a personal trainer. I go once a week and he gives me different exercises to do and I think I’m getting stronger. My goals are unclear, though, which is sort of an issue for us. I’m not seeking a perfect body, but why not? I’ve never had a perfect body, not even when I was 15. There has always been something that I have not been happy about. How sad is that?

On the other hand, I do have a perfect body, because I am strong and fit and healthy, and I try very hard not to buy into some cultural judgment about what is perfection. It’s near impossible though for me, and I struggle every day with concerns about how I look. I wish a personal trainer could help me with that, but that’s probably a whole other kind of professional I’m in need of.

I did figure out that what I want to accomplish is to be completely unselfconscious about my body, the way my eight-year-old son is. I’m a woman in my forties, and I regret that I never got to run around in the skin of a boy. He is so sure of himself physically, and he’s compact and wiry and lean. What a joy it must be to have that kind of physical confidence. Girls don’t have this, or they don’t have it for long. Too soon the self-consciousness seeps in. The self-hatred.

Which leads back to me. I am fully aware of what a waste of energy it has been to be so unhappy in my own skin all my life. And I know too that I have a really, really good thing going here, this thing I walk around in. It has carried two pregnancies to term with ease. I am practically never sick, and despite that I am experiencing some injuries and aches and pains as I age, it has pretty much always let me do what I’ve wanted. It has responded well to any of my physical pursuits and has not failed me yet. (I’ve never tried to run a marathon or anything, but I believe I could do it if I wanted to). And if my body isn’t “perfection” it’s not totally unlovely, either. On a good day I can see that. So maybe my goal should be to try to see that more, and waste less time wondering and worrying about what I look like to others.