Rocked in a Rocking Chair

I do this thing that I am pretty sure no one else does.

When there is something wrong in my life, I truly believe that if I can just figure it out that I can move beyond it. I believe if I do everything right, then I can cure my malady. As in: if I just eat the green leafy vegetables and not the gluten, dairy, meat, nightshades, boxed, canned, or processed food then all symptoms will disappear, and I will lose 10 pounds, look 10 years younger and also gain 20 IQ points. And become spiritually enlightened. And never get another parking ticket. 

It also works for my mindset. If I can just choose my attitude, laugh on demand, recite daily affirmations and fake it until I make it then all of the afflictions of my mind and oh sure why not, my body, too, will evaporate. 

I am sure that these things are true for many people. They are probably true for you. You probably have great stories about curing yourself of something horrible with just a flip of your wrist. Awesome. Fabulous. Great that you can mend yourself and not get poked by the needle. 

Me? Yeah. Not so much. I just try so hard and then harder and then more and then when it doesn't work, when I am still depressed or in pain or unable to process big emotional rents in my life tickety-boo, all set, well, I just find that I just--melt. 

Photo by Anne Principe, Divign Thinking 

Somehow this belief that I can fix things, that I must fix things or I will get another big freakin' black "X" on my score card is sewn deep into my soul. I must be happy, whole and able to skip up and down steps with not a twinge of pain or I am simply not DOING it right. It being everything.

But maybe, I am doing it right. Or right enough to have it not be all my FAULT. Maybe generations of mental health troubles in my family history could be a sign that for me, depression is something that is beyond "choose your attitude." And maybe pain in my joints and crushing fatigue isn't going to be cured by being free of everything in my diet but blueberries and brown rice--maybe there is something, you know, wrong. Maybe there's not, maybe I'm just not TRYING enough, but you know, maybe there is. Maybe. 

I have told my beloveds for years and years that they must take care of themselves like they'd care for a dear friend. This week I decided that there is a higher standard. I think we need to take care of ourselves like we would take care of a four-year-old, and not a four-year-old that we can give back, not a visiting kid who you might feed Froot Loops and take swimming all day long with no nap and only Doritos for food. 

No, this is a higher standard. We need to take care of ourselves like we'd care for a deeply loved four-year-old that we have to keep. That means getting enough sleep every night on clean sheets with soft blankets, and healthy snacks both morning and afternoon. We need playtime and arts and crafts with long naps taken curled around a floppy dog. We need to get taken to the movies and out for ice cream but not too much and no movies that will scare us so much that we can't sleep. We need to be rocked in rocking chairs and read excellent stories--even if that means now we have to do our own rocking and reading, that's OK. We need to treat ourselves as if we actually cared, as if we actually loved us. 

Or, I mean, I do. 

I'm sure you've got it all together and can sew in a zipper that fixes up your broken heart without missing a single, organic, freshly juiced kale fueled morning work out. 

Or, you know, maybe not. 

Every Atom and Love

I have a meditation practice. It's horrible. I have a horrible meditation practice. It does not seem to matter how many books I read or classes I take or malas I hold. It's terrible.

I feel like I have to say to my practice, "It's not you, it's me. Totally me." 

So here I was this morning, sitting, meditating. Of course I had read social media, you know, before, because that's just the shiny draw that social media is. There I saw a post from Marianne Williamson with a charge to go spread love BEFORE you go into the world so it paves your path or something really wonderful like that. 

I sat and did what I've come to call "the gratitude meditation." I notice and give gratitude. 

"Grateful for leaves. Grateful for breeze. Grateful for sun in the leaves. Grateful for the solar panels next door." Seriously. I said I was terrible at this. 

And then I thought about sending love, like Marianne said. What if I did that instead? What if I sent love to my dear ones and beyond, that might be good. It might be better than noticing the solar panels, anyway. 

So I thought about my beloveds; my dear husband and his ever stressful job. My three young adult sons and the spinning transitions: buying a house, crossing the country for grad school, heading away from home for the first time very, very soon--whoosh. Sending big love, paving a path. 

Then I thought about family and dear friends; some sitting by the bedside of critically ill family, some getting married, lots of love smeared across space and time. Whoosh. 

And then to the people of this world; our leaders, our ever marginalized. May love lift each person and let them know that they are valued, treasured, worthy. 

But then, I went to the people who believe that a tyrannical leader is their answer. Love, send them love to know that that's not the way. Love love love. 

Oh but no. My eyes opened and my heart stopped. No. Nope no no. I can't send love to that person who has stood above others. That person who says that he alone can fix this world. No. I can't. 

What? Why? Who says I need to love Donald Trump? I don't think anyone, anyone really loves that person. There is no way. He is unworthy. He has fomented such hate that I truly believe that he is not redeemable.  

So, nope. I can't. 

OK. Moving on. Love the animals, love the oceans. Love the planets and the stars and the ever expanding universe. 

But wait. Do I really believe that every person has worth? Do I? Who am *I**? What is my bottom line. 

OK, OK, OK. Wait. I think, maybe, I can. I can love the atoms in that person's body. The atoms that were created when stars exploded. I can love the hydrogen and the carbon. I can love those basic little parts that are just exactly like the atoms in my body; in the bodies of my beloveds. 

That, I can love. 

Pave the world with love. 

Because really, what other choice do we have. 

Pave the whole world, every bit of it, with love. 

Amen. 

With Open Eyes

Last night I was driving to a lovely little library out in suburban Orange County. It's like a cross between a plantation and a mansion with grounds that host weddings and big parties. As I exited the insanity that is the 405 during SoCal rush hour, I saw a sign for the University of California, Irvine.

"Hmmm" I thought, "I should take a class at UCI, it's really so close."

Sure. Good idea, right? Take a class.

Except that I AM taking a class at UCI. My second in a series. I had even done a big round of schoolwork earlier in the day, posting on the discussion board and reading two chapters of the textbook.

As I pulled into parking lot I parked back in the spots that are not green or signed with anything. I don't really understand the 22 minute parking zones with the green curbs (22 minutes? really?) in California but I don't need anymore parking tickets.

I had parked in this spot before, the last time I'd come to a meeting at what I keep calling the Katy Perry library because I can't for the life of me remember the actual name. But this time, as I got out, I found myself looking for an easy cross to the parking lot and a path that had no steps to get to the front door. Four months ago I'd crossed this same lot. Then, it was without a thought.

Good health is priceless. But sometimes less-than-good-health sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't notice until you stand at the top of a flight of stairs, hesitant to take the first step because you know it it is going to hurt. Maybe you are tired all the time, but you've been busy. Maybe you don't want to notice.

I have noticed. My rheumatologist rocks and I see her for a three-month follow-up next week. But the little meeting at the Katy Perry library was a wake-up call. I need to start, at least for now, making accommodations.

Grocery delivery, someone else to deep clean at least once a month. More sleep.

And, most difficult of all, open eyes.