Satya is one of the five ethical principles of yoga, or yamas. In brief, it means truthfulness, denying reality neither to ourselves nor others. It goes deeper than simply telling the truth, which itself requires an understanding of what exactly truth is, but it also means seeing things for what that they are without the lens clouded by our own experiences and opinions.
Our expression of satya must be in line with the yama of ahimsa, or non-violence. Though the truth itself might seem overwhelming, scary, depressing, cruel or violent, our sharing of truth must always be done with utmost compassion and understanding. Our words must reflect reality, but possess the caring human element that reality often lacks. Satya must serve a higher purpose, it must serve others and ourselves.
So, what is truth? I think of truth as the baseline of reality, the flat line from which random spikes and valleys occur like a heartbeat on a monitor. It is the unaffected stillness that runs through our lives and the world around us when untouched by opinion, untouched by judgment. For example, a truth of life is that it ends. Death itself is neither good nor bad, neither depressing nor joyful. It is through our own experience of the event of death that it is given these adjectives.
This brings me to the topic of the Little White Lie. Is it acceptable? Perhaps. Little White Lies as they are called are "lies" told for the benefit of others. Sometimes, they might not be lies at all but simply the humble concession of opinion. For example, the answer to the question "Does this outfit look bad?" can be "No" when you feel that indeed it does. Satya here is maintained, because we have to realize that our opinions are not the truth, and if our opinion could hurt someone's feelings or insult them it would be against the philosophy of ahimsa. The outfit doesn't actually look bad; it is just an outfit, and as such is neither good nor bad.
I was thinking about truth today, which is why I decided to write about it. I had a bad day, but if someone asked me how my day was, I would have felt perfectly comfortable telling them it was great.
I took the kids to the library today, where my son was engaged in running full force around the children's area, smacking the aquarium, throwing tantrums, drawing all eyes on me while my daughter was doing who knows what because I couldn't keep an eye on both of them. Deciding the library wasn't the right place for us today, I took them to the park where these bursts of energy and noise are not only better received, but are fully expected.
While at the park, I had to chase two toddlers running in various directions over potentially dangerous tall playground equipment that was a little too advanced for their ages. I had to stop several attempts to run into the parking lot, to run in front of the kids swinging. Then my daughter had to use the bathroom, which involved gathering them both up despite a horrific tantrum from a little boy terrified of the dark public restroom. As I was covering the seat with toilet paper, I turned around to find two kids with their hands in a puddle on the public restroom floor. The sink was too high to wash their hands, so I had to rinse soap off their hands by cupping water and splashing it on them because I couldn't complete the balancing act that would have been required to hold a child on a bent knee while trying to get the motion-sensitive water to turn on, reach the child over and help rinse his or her hands before the water shut itself off. They enjoyed it; I didn't.
Finally, when it came time to leave the park I had to contend with tears from both children. Mothers and caretakers at the park in a well-to-do neighborhood who had their noses otherwise buried in their cell phones turned their perfectly coiffed heads to watch us leave, my threenager pulling me back and screaming that she didn't want to go, my other toddler balanced on my hip trying to nosedive into the wood chips that lined the playground.
When we made it home after stopping at the grocery store, I found that my rescue cat who still maintained some bad habits from living in a cat hoarding situation had managed to get rotten raw chicken out of the garbage can and spread its odorous juices all over my kitchen floor.
My experience with today, the impatience, the exasperation, the exhaustion, the feeling of just wanting to throw my hands into the air and announce my surrender, were just peaks and valleys on the steady base line of my reality.
The reality is that we went to the library, we went to the park. We went to the grocery store where we were able to comfortably afford fresh, nutritious food for dinner. There is still a roof over our head, a kitchen to cook in, cats lounging comfortably in the windows. So the day was a little difficult, a little messy, a little noisy. I am deeply loved, and I deeply love.
Saying that my day was great really isn't a lie, is it?
6/10/14
6/6/14
...The Big Appointment.
"Ready, set..." I said with anticipation.
"GAH!" Gus screamed. With his hands firmly gripped in our own, my husband and I laughed and lifted Gus through the air, swinging him forward and plopping his two feet back onto the ground. He shuffled forward in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sneakers and looked up at me with a dimpled grin. "Ready, set..." I said again.
We walked across the whole parking lot in this manner as we headed to the Cleveland Clinic Center for Autism, a low building that appeared stark white against the threatening gray sky.
As we sat in the waiting room for the final appointment in Gus' autism screening, we watched him run in circles around the line of chairs, giggling and grunting with a car in each hand. He stopped once in a while to throw himself dramatically on the ground, or to squat before the doors, or to run his car over the edge of a chair. I watched the clock tick off the seconds, the minutes. That skinny black hand seemed to tick in time with the light anxiety in my belly.
Finally, the doctor came to get us. In a small room with some toys for Gus, we were handed a stack of papers detailing the various evaluations that he went through. She discussed with us very kindly the methodologies, the observations, the details.
She used words like, "challenges," and "difficulties," even the word "weakness" a few times. She was describing my son - his personality, his habits, his attitude. Everything that makes that precious boy who he is, described as a "challenge" and a "difficulty" and a "weakness." I thought I had prepared myself, but you can never really prepare yourself - not to hear the clinical interpretation of your child's being. Tears welled in my eyes and she handed me a tissue.
We walked across the whole parking lot in this manner as we headed to the Cleveland Clinic Center for Autism, a low building that appeared stark white against the threatening gray sky.
As we sat in the waiting room for the final appointment in Gus' autism screening, we watched him run in circles around the line of chairs, giggling and grunting with a car in each hand. He stopped once in a while to throw himself dramatically on the ground, or to squat before the doors, or to run his car over the edge of a chair. I watched the clock tick off the seconds, the minutes. That skinny black hand seemed to tick in time with the light anxiety in my belly.
Finally, the doctor came to get us. In a small room with some toys for Gus, we were handed a stack of papers detailing the various evaluations that he went through. She discussed with us very kindly the methodologies, the observations, the details.
She used words like, "challenges," and "difficulties," even the word "weakness" a few times. She was describing my son - his personality, his habits, his attitude. Everything that makes that precious boy who he is, described as a "challenge" and a "difficulty" and a "weakness." I thought I had prepared myself, but you can never really prepare yourself - not to hear the clinical interpretation of your child's being. Tears welled in my eyes and she handed me a tissue.
After sitting and listening, and reading through a packet, I finally asked, "So, what is the official diagnosis?"
She nodded slowly, "Autism." Then she went on to describe what everyone has come to know as the spectrum. I kind of started to tune out a little bit. At this point, I knew that she had said he scored below certain thresholds, that his development wasn't where it should be. I'm sure she had said "autistic" several times, and while I expected it, it didn't quite register.
The doctor left the room for a few moments, and Gus came up to me. Snot was dripping from his face and I tenderly wiped it away as I drew his face close to mine and gave him a big sloppy kiss. His dimples and his smile were the same they were an hour before; a day before.
When the doctor returned, she had a very big packet of information for us. She discussed our therapeutic options, education, financial aid. More things to digest than I could swallow at once. As we left, we scheduled a second appointment to follow up and make sure we're able to get the help we need.
I broke down in the car. I bawled as we drove east on Shaker. No, you really can't prepare yourself even when you instinctively know what someone is going to tell you. It's not easy to hear, not from a professional. It is so final now, so real.
It started to rain as we drove home. When we got there, Evelyn rushed up to me as she always does when I cry and immediately asked me what was wrong. "Nothing, baby," I said as we embraced. "Nothing."
And really, nothing is wrong. Life will go on as it always has, only it will probably be busier from here on out. He's still the same Gus, we're still the same family. He's still my little boy, laying on the floor pushing his Matchbox cars back and forth, the same boy who smiles this impossibly big smile when I walk through the door. The same boy who presses his soft little lips against my neck as we rock to sleep.
A few days later, today, I'm comfortable and I'm ready to tackle the hurdles that may stand before us. I'm ready to be his biggest advocate, his biggest supporter. I'm more in love with him today than ever before, but that's nothing new either - I love him more every day than I did the day before. In other words, I'm ready to keep being his mom. Autism won't define our family, and it won't define him.
She nodded slowly, "Autism." Then she went on to describe what everyone has come to know as the spectrum. I kind of started to tune out a little bit. At this point, I knew that she had said he scored below certain thresholds, that his development wasn't where it should be. I'm sure she had said "autistic" several times, and while I expected it, it didn't quite register.
The doctor left the room for a few moments, and Gus came up to me. Snot was dripping from his face and I tenderly wiped it away as I drew his face close to mine and gave him a big sloppy kiss. His dimples and his smile were the same they were an hour before; a day before.
When the doctor returned, she had a very big packet of information for us. She discussed our therapeutic options, education, financial aid. More things to digest than I could swallow at once. As we left, we scheduled a second appointment to follow up and make sure we're able to get the help we need.
I broke down in the car. I bawled as we drove east on Shaker. No, you really can't prepare yourself even when you instinctively know what someone is going to tell you. It's not easy to hear, not from a professional. It is so final now, so real.
It started to rain as we drove home. When we got there, Evelyn rushed up to me as she always does when I cry and immediately asked me what was wrong. "Nothing, baby," I said as we embraced. "Nothing."
And really, nothing is wrong. Life will go on as it always has, only it will probably be busier from here on out. He's still the same Gus, we're still the same family. He's still my little boy, laying on the floor pushing his Matchbox cars back and forth, the same boy who smiles this impossibly big smile when I walk through the door. The same boy who presses his soft little lips against my neck as we rock to sleep.
A few days later, today, I'm comfortable and I'm ready to tackle the hurdles that may stand before us. I'm ready to be his biggest advocate, his biggest supporter. I'm more in love with him today than ever before, but that's nothing new either - I love him more every day than I did the day before. In other words, I'm ready to keep being his mom. Autism won't define our family, and it won't define him.
6/3/14
The Night Before...
Tomorrow has the potential to be a big day for our family. That thought hasn't been lost on me today, and it feels like there is a giant timer over my head, ticking away the seconds until our appointment with the developmental pediatrician. It is our last appointment in a series of three; the two prior appointments were with a psychologist, a neurologist, and who I am assuming were therapists though they never actually introduced themselves by their distinct titles. The wheels have been spinning for a while, and they might finally rest for a moment tomorrow.
I took the first inning of our bedtime routine tonight, rocking my son for an hour. He fell asleep quickly, but twitches rattling through his little limbs told me his sleep was very shallow and the likelihood of transferring him to his crib successfully was low. I tried several times, and each time he woke with a start and a cry.
It's my husband's turn now, and from here in the living room, I can hear the rocking chair above me moving slowly back and forth. My husband hates to rock, says the motion makes him seasick. But his efforts allow me to relax alone in silence until I step in as the closer, fresh and prepared to battle those last few innings when the end of the game is in sight. Last night, the game went on until nearly 11:30 p.m.
It's easy to think that your child is perfectly normal when his version of normal is all you know. I still think about some of the questions they asked me at the previous two appointments and how they apply to my son and to other children. I try to see our answers on paper, try to look at all four people we have met with and imagine them going over their findings together. What they are saying, what they are thinking, on what they may agree or disagree. Then they present their findings to the developmental pediatrician, and she may diagnose my son sight unseen. I was even told I didn't need to bring him to this last appointment where we finally meet her to discuss everything, but he'll be coming with us. Absolutely he will be coming with us.
I have my expectations, but on the flip side, I have no idea what to really expect. I know that any label stamped on him will only be secondary to his primary labels: August James, Lil' Gus, My Son, My Heart, My Breath. I only hope that whatever we hear tomorrow is just a formality, a little hurdle to jump on the road to getting my son whatever help he needs to maximize his potential.
The seconds tick away above my head, and I'm sitting in my living room alone in silence, waiting them out.
I took the first inning of our bedtime routine tonight, rocking my son for an hour. He fell asleep quickly, but twitches rattling through his little limbs told me his sleep was very shallow and the likelihood of transferring him to his crib successfully was low. I tried several times, and each time he woke with a start and a cry.
It's my husband's turn now, and from here in the living room, I can hear the rocking chair above me moving slowly back and forth. My husband hates to rock, says the motion makes him seasick. But his efforts allow me to relax alone in silence until I step in as the closer, fresh and prepared to battle those last few innings when the end of the game is in sight. Last night, the game went on until nearly 11:30 p.m.
It's easy to think that your child is perfectly normal when his version of normal is all you know. I still think about some of the questions they asked me at the previous two appointments and how they apply to my son and to other children. I try to see our answers on paper, try to look at all four people we have met with and imagine them going over their findings together. What they are saying, what they are thinking, on what they may agree or disagree. Then they present their findings to the developmental pediatrician, and she may diagnose my son sight unseen. I was even told I didn't need to bring him to this last appointment where we finally meet her to discuss everything, but he'll be coming with us. Absolutely he will be coming with us.
I have my expectations, but on the flip side, I have no idea what to really expect. I know that any label stamped on him will only be secondary to his primary labels: August James, Lil' Gus, My Son, My Heart, My Breath. I only hope that whatever we hear tomorrow is just a formality, a little hurdle to jump on the road to getting my son whatever help he needs to maximize his potential.
The seconds tick away above my head, and I'm sitting in my living room alone in silence, waiting them out.
Playroom.
I find that the happier I am, the less I have to write about. I'm writing a beautiful life not in little words, but in breaths; not in front of a computer late at night but in the fresh air under the mid-afternoon sun, with my children and their laughter and the love we share. Of course I still feel compelled to write, even when I have nothing much to say. This is one of those "nothing much to say" posts.
I decided to turn the extra bedroom into a play room for the kids, though I don't know why these ideas for inside activities come to me on beautiful days. No one wants to spend the whole day inside rearranging, so of course we didn't. But I did get started, and hopefully that will be motivation enough to finish it in small spurts throughout the rest of the week.
The space was once our bedroom, but it's just a mostly empty space now after my husband moved his bedroom to the attic. HIS bedroom, because we haven't had an "our bedroom" for a long time. I'm sort of a nomad in my own home, sleeping wherever I'm needed - mostly in Evie's room because she still can't sleep through the night without me. I was going to turn the space into my own place, finally my own place in my own home. But the whole house is mine, really. It's painted in colors I picked, decorated with knickknacks of my choosing, my books on the shelves, my cats wandering around.
So, I'm turning this plum-colored room into a play area hopefully before the end of this week. We already picked up some cute kids' rugs - one is the solar system and the other is a map of the continents. I've moved the play kitchen that cluttered up my daughter's room into the space already.
The big task, the worst task, is the fact that the room is full of laundry. Clean laundry that I never got around to folding or putting anywhere. I just kinda tucked in that room and was like "I'll get to it when I get to it." Then I tucked some more in. Then I went in and picked out an outfit. Then more clothes got piled in. It's sort of a living nightmare, as laundry is the worst task ever.
But it'll get done. Eventually. The days are too pretty to sit inside folding clothes.
I decided to turn the extra bedroom into a play room for the kids, though I don't know why these ideas for inside activities come to me on beautiful days. No one wants to spend the whole day inside rearranging, so of course we didn't. But I did get started, and hopefully that will be motivation enough to finish it in small spurts throughout the rest of the week.
The space was once our bedroom, but it's just a mostly empty space now after my husband moved his bedroom to the attic. HIS bedroom, because we haven't had an "our bedroom" for a long time. I'm sort of a nomad in my own home, sleeping wherever I'm needed - mostly in Evie's room because she still can't sleep through the night without me. I was going to turn the space into my own place, finally my own place in my own home. But the whole house is mine, really. It's painted in colors I picked, decorated with knickknacks of my choosing, my books on the shelves, my cats wandering around.
So, I'm turning this plum-colored room into a play area hopefully before the end of this week. We already picked up some cute kids' rugs - one is the solar system and the other is a map of the continents. I've moved the play kitchen that cluttered up my daughter's room into the space already.
The big task, the worst task, is the fact that the room is full of laundry. Clean laundry that I never got around to folding or putting anywhere. I just kinda tucked in that room and was like "I'll get to it when I get to it." Then I tucked some more in. Then I went in and picked out an outfit. Then more clothes got piled in. It's sort of a living nightmare, as laundry is the worst task ever.
But it'll get done. Eventually. The days are too pretty to sit inside folding clothes.
5/30/14
A Date With my Daughter.
I am going to say what every mother has thought at least once or a hundred times in her career as a mother, but has probably been too afraid to admit on the internet at the risk of becoming another casualty in the Mom Wars: My three-year-old daughter was really annoying today.
Wherever I would go, she would follow. She was almost always touching me in one way or another - it was cute sometimes, like holding my hand or hugging me. Sometimes it was obnoxious, like flicking my ears, laying across me, digging her feet under my butt as I sat on the couch or poking me in the neck. At one point, I just wanted to yell, "Leave me alone for five minutes! Find something quiet to do by yourself!" I was very close, but thankfully for all involved, I didn't. I just kept pushing her hand off my ear telling her she needed to stop.
It's hard to deal with these kind of annoyances sometimes, but they'll always pop up so "dealing" is just what we have to do. My first idea of "dealing with it" is saying Welcome Home to my husband as he comes home from work and then immediately disappearing to the bathroom where I can sit in a hot tub for an hour or two and read a book in relative silence.
So, I challenged myself today and did the opposite.
It's hard for Evelyn to get all the attention she craves and rightly deserves. Her younger brother consumes a lot of my time and resources. It's hard for all of us, and can be very frustrating at times. I don't stop and think about the toll it takes on her often enough, though. While Gus is throwing a tantrum and I have to rock him, or while I'm struggling to feed him, or when he's climbing all over me and ripping the book from my hand when I'm reading to Evie, she watches me walk away from her to tend to him very often. She handles it with such grace and patience, though, far beyond anything one would expect from a child her age.
My daughter is amazing. She is at this age where she is realizing the effect she has on the people and the world around her, that she can manipulate her environment to suit her desires and needs. It's a self-centered stage of development, this time when the ego truly seems to come into full glory. It doesn't need to be reigned in and beat down, but nurtured and guided toward the right ends. Even without a constant stream of correction or input from me, she is guiding her ego into this green pasture of love and sympathy all on her own. It astounds me.
It also makes me feel intense guilt. Here I have this beautiful child with an old, wise spirit and I'm not doing everything imaginable to lift her up, enrich her, nourish her mind. The guilt I feel for simply being a mother to two children who must divide her attention - unevenly at times - is suffocating. There have been times when I have called my husband at work in tears convinced that I was failing the entire family and destroying their little lives for simply deciding to stay in on a nice day because laundry needed to be done, or that I felt I was failing Evelyn for not taking her to play with other kids at the playground because I finally got a screaming Gus to take a nap, or that I was failing Gus because he didn't want to play with Evie and I so I wasn't actively engaging in therapeutic play with him when I was giving Evelyn the attention she craves.
My heart is full, but this fullness makes it so heavy. I beat myself up all the time for the many failures I see when I look in the mirror, and the more beat down I become the weaker I am, and then even less gets done. Then the cycle continues.
That obvious solution of running away to my bathtub oasis seemed like the exact choice a weak person would make, something predictable. Run away, indulge in some selfish luxury, affirm my original belief that my daughter was annoying me, justify my escapism with a nice pat on the back and a "You deserve this warm bath and good book."
No. If I was the swearing type, right about now is when I would say "Fuck that."
I took Evelyn out for a Girl Night. We talked about anything she wanted to talk about and sang songs in the car. We held hands around Old Navy and Half Price Books, saying "I love you" freely as often as the spirit moved us. We shared kisses and laughter. We ended our night with new books, a new summer wardrobe for a growing toddler girl, and a table at Menchie's before a huge crowd shoved in.
As we sat there, she with her bowl of berry frozen yogurt with chocolate chips and fresh raspberries and me with my simple honeydew sorbet, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. The guilt was lifting, and for the first time in a long time I feel like I finally did something right. We both needed this time alone together - she needed to know that she's still my best friend, she's still important, she's still a priority, she is valued; I needed to see that she's still this amazing person despite not always being able to go to the park or the library, that I'm not an abject failure at motherhood, that I'm still her best friend and that no, she's not annoying. Not in the least bit.
I still spend most of my night in her bed, because she gets scared and upset without me. I'm writing this now from her room, and the feeling of her little feet burrowing into my back is the welcome sensation of love and trust.
At this moment, I feel good.
Wherever I would go, she would follow. She was almost always touching me in one way or another - it was cute sometimes, like holding my hand or hugging me. Sometimes it was obnoxious, like flicking my ears, laying across me, digging her feet under my butt as I sat on the couch or poking me in the neck. At one point, I just wanted to yell, "Leave me alone for five minutes! Find something quiet to do by yourself!" I was very close, but thankfully for all involved, I didn't. I just kept pushing her hand off my ear telling her she needed to stop.
It's hard to deal with these kind of annoyances sometimes, but they'll always pop up so "dealing" is just what we have to do. My first idea of "dealing with it" is saying Welcome Home to my husband as he comes home from work and then immediately disappearing to the bathroom where I can sit in a hot tub for an hour or two and read a book in relative silence.
So, I challenged myself today and did the opposite.
It's hard for Evelyn to get all the attention she craves and rightly deserves. Her younger brother consumes a lot of my time and resources. It's hard for all of us, and can be very frustrating at times. I don't stop and think about the toll it takes on her often enough, though. While Gus is throwing a tantrum and I have to rock him, or while I'm struggling to feed him, or when he's climbing all over me and ripping the book from my hand when I'm reading to Evie, she watches me walk away from her to tend to him very often. She handles it with such grace and patience, though, far beyond anything one would expect from a child her age.
My daughter is amazing. She is at this age where she is realizing the effect she has on the people and the world around her, that she can manipulate her environment to suit her desires and needs. It's a self-centered stage of development, this time when the ego truly seems to come into full glory. It doesn't need to be reigned in and beat down, but nurtured and guided toward the right ends. Even without a constant stream of correction or input from me, she is guiding her ego into this green pasture of love and sympathy all on her own. It astounds me.
It also makes me feel intense guilt. Here I have this beautiful child with an old, wise spirit and I'm not doing everything imaginable to lift her up, enrich her, nourish her mind. The guilt I feel for simply being a mother to two children who must divide her attention - unevenly at times - is suffocating. There have been times when I have called my husband at work in tears convinced that I was failing the entire family and destroying their little lives for simply deciding to stay in on a nice day because laundry needed to be done, or that I felt I was failing Evelyn for not taking her to play with other kids at the playground because I finally got a screaming Gus to take a nap, or that I was failing Gus because he didn't want to play with Evie and I so I wasn't actively engaging in therapeutic play with him when I was giving Evelyn the attention she craves.
My heart is full, but this fullness makes it so heavy. I beat myself up all the time for the many failures I see when I look in the mirror, and the more beat down I become the weaker I am, and then even less gets done. Then the cycle continues.
That obvious solution of running away to my bathtub oasis seemed like the exact choice a weak person would make, something predictable. Run away, indulge in some selfish luxury, affirm my original belief that my daughter was annoying me, justify my escapism with a nice pat on the back and a "You deserve this warm bath and good book."
No. If I was the swearing type, right about now is when I would say "Fuck that."
I took Evelyn out for a Girl Night. We talked about anything she wanted to talk about and sang songs in the car. We held hands around Old Navy and Half Price Books, saying "I love you" freely as often as the spirit moved us. We shared kisses and laughter. We ended our night with new books, a new summer wardrobe for a growing toddler girl, and a table at Menchie's before a huge crowd shoved in.
As we sat there, she with her bowl of berry frozen yogurt with chocolate chips and fresh raspberries and me with my simple honeydew sorbet, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. The guilt was lifting, and for the first time in a long time I feel like I finally did something right. We both needed this time alone together - she needed to know that she's still my best friend, she's still important, she's still a priority, she is valued; I needed to see that she's still this amazing person despite not always being able to go to the park or the library, that I'm not an abject failure at motherhood, that I'm still her best friend and that no, she's not annoying. Not in the least bit.
I still spend most of my night in her bed, because she gets scared and upset without me. I'm writing this now from her room, and the feeling of her little feet burrowing into my back is the welcome sensation of love and trust.
At this moment, I feel good.
5/27/14
Stress.
I need to learn to deal with my negative energy in an effective manner. I always think that I've got it under control, that I've had enough practice with times that evoke impatience and stress that dealing with them would be easier than it always seems to turn out to be.
I think the problem is that I tend to practice stress-reducing techniques when I'm actually not stressed at all, when deep breathing and meditation and yoga are much easier to do because I'm not fighting against a wall of anger and frustration.
Today was deeply stressful, and I dealt with it very poorly. I decline to go into detail, because looking back on it, I'm ashamed of myself. The things that I would whine about now are so unimaginably trivial in the grand scheme of things that anyone looking in on what upset me would wonder how I could lose sight of the multitude of blessings I have and focus on these tiny complaints.
The truth is that I am incredibly blessed, even when I feel suffocated by tiny dark clouds. My son was having a bad day, but he leaned on me for his comfort. My daughter got to run in the sun, to play at a park we've never visited before, to laugh with her dad. The weather was beautiful, and we were outside to enjoy it even though our planned picnic didn't quite happen the way it was intended. I might not have been able to photograph the several varieties of beautiful spiders I found today, but I got to see them, to let them crawl on me, to peacefully return them to safe places.
But I failed to see these little beautiful things, to really focus on the positives because I was too caught up in how the day was "supposed" to be instead of letting it shift and change organically. I dug my feet into the sand and didn't move when the tide came in, so I really have no right to complain about my wet legs.
Instead of focusing on how to calm myself when I become stressed, I think I need to simply combat the stress before it even arrives by simply giving up, and giving in. Giving up the plans, giving in to the flow.
When we got home from our excursion today, I was moody and irritable. I quietly seethed to myself as I shoveled food into my mouth, though I wasn't hungry. I let myself be broken, and the worst part is that I broke myself. I will not let myself be broken again; I will prevail.
I think the problem is that I tend to practice stress-reducing techniques when I'm actually not stressed at all, when deep breathing and meditation and yoga are much easier to do because I'm not fighting against a wall of anger and frustration.
Today was deeply stressful, and I dealt with it very poorly. I decline to go into detail, because looking back on it, I'm ashamed of myself. The things that I would whine about now are so unimaginably trivial in the grand scheme of things that anyone looking in on what upset me would wonder how I could lose sight of the multitude of blessings I have and focus on these tiny complaints.
The truth is that I am incredibly blessed, even when I feel suffocated by tiny dark clouds. My son was having a bad day, but he leaned on me for his comfort. My daughter got to run in the sun, to play at a park we've never visited before, to laugh with her dad. The weather was beautiful, and we were outside to enjoy it even though our planned picnic didn't quite happen the way it was intended. I might not have been able to photograph the several varieties of beautiful spiders I found today, but I got to see them, to let them crawl on me, to peacefully return them to safe places.
But I failed to see these little beautiful things, to really focus on the positives because I was too caught up in how the day was "supposed" to be instead of letting it shift and change organically. I dug my feet into the sand and didn't move when the tide came in, so I really have no right to complain about my wet legs.
Instead of focusing on how to calm myself when I become stressed, I think I need to simply combat the stress before it even arrives by simply giving up, and giving in. Giving up the plans, giving in to the flow.
When we got home from our excursion today, I was moody and irritable. I quietly seethed to myself as I shoveled food into my mouth, though I wasn't hungry. I let myself be broken, and the worst part is that I broke myself. I will not let myself be broken again; I will prevail.
* * *
Men are born soft and supple;
dead, they are stiff and hard.
Plants are born tender and pliant;
dead, they are brittle and dry.
Thus, whoever is still and inflexible
is a disciple of death.
Whoever is soft and yielding
is a disciple of life.
The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail.
(Laozi)
5/24/14
This Neighborhood.
I'm back in my old neighborhood, the place where I grew up and lived the better part of my life. My daughter was watching a cartoon with my mother, my son was rocking to sleep with his dad. Everyone was taken care of, so I used the opportunity to take a walk to the lake and watch the sun set.
The neighborhood is beautiful and simple. Humble Cape Cods and ranch homes line the streets where well-tended lawns seem to glisten. Cars parked along the street are unlocked, their windows are down. There are no sidewalks, but you can walk in the streets with no worry. It's a quiet neighborhood, a slow neighborhood.
Down at the lake, I sit at a bench. Long grasses flow in the breeze before me, and the sun glows like a golden lamp in the sky. The lake moves gently and constantly, reflecting the light like drops of golden oil floating on the surface. I am a alone, but there are other people watching the sun. Everyone is content to sit in silence, to simply watch the earth slowly turn and welcome the evening. I am sure that my blood nourished a mosquito or two, but they take very little and I have much to share.
The neighborhood is beautiful and simple. Humble Cape Cods and ranch homes line the streets where well-tended lawns seem to glisten. Cars parked along the street are unlocked, their windows are down. There are no sidewalks, but you can walk in the streets with no worry. It's a quiet neighborhood, a slow neighborhood.
Down at the lake, I sit at a bench. Long grasses flow in the breeze before me, and the sun glows like a golden lamp in the sky. The lake moves gently and constantly, reflecting the light like drops of golden oil floating on the surface. I am a alone, but there are other people watching the sun. Everyone is content to sit in silence, to simply watch the earth slowly turn and welcome the evening. I am sure that my blood nourished a mosquito or two, but they take very little and I have much to share.
Soon, the black trees of Presque Isle in the distance swallowed the sun, and following it, a slow exodus of people. Some walked away. Some rode their bikes up the steep hill. Others hopped back into their cars, to drive to some other neighborhood not quite as blessed as this one to have such an unfettered view.
A purple tulip shoots proudly among a small garden of yellow and pink flowers; a robin with her beak full of worms bobs her head into the dirt for another. Lights start to come on in living room windows. A man stands in his garage with a beer, talking to a friend out of my view.
It is a safe neighborhood, a peaceful neighborhood. A neighborhood of working families proud of their homes. Some yards are full of decorations with no worry of vandalism or theft. People walk the streets after dark. As I head home, two young boys are playing a simple game of basketball in the park. One stops and waves at me, and happily says "Hello." I wave back with a smile. They are quiet, respectful.
Soon, I come back up to the house where I grew up. It looks like the other homes around it, but different. The front yard is littered with white petals delicately fallen from small flowering trees; a lilac bush peeking around the side of the house sends a sweet smell through the air. I will never see this house as anything other than my home. This neighborhood will always be the ideal in my mind.
Who can blame me?
A purple tulip shoots proudly among a small garden of yellow and pink flowers; a robin with her beak full of worms bobs her head into the dirt for another. Lights start to come on in living room windows. A man stands in his garage with a beer, talking to a friend out of my view.
It is a safe neighborhood, a peaceful neighborhood. A neighborhood of working families proud of their homes. Some yards are full of decorations with no worry of vandalism or theft. People walk the streets after dark. As I head home, two young boys are playing a simple game of basketball in the park. One stops and waves at me, and happily says "Hello." I wave back with a smile. They are quiet, respectful.
Soon, I come back up to the house where I grew up. It looks like the other homes around it, but different. The front yard is littered with white petals delicately fallen from small flowering trees; a lilac bush peeking around the side of the house sends a sweet smell through the air. I will never see this house as anything other than my home. This neighborhood will always be the ideal in my mind.
Who can blame me?
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