Cultivating Happiness

It was the middle of the morning and I was doing the dishes. 

You know, scrubbing the cereal bowls, reheating my cup of coffee for the third time and trying to catch up on my "Moth Radio Hour" listening while simultaneously paying attention to my three-year old who is the perfect mess of a ballerina endlessly twirling in and out of the kitchen screaming, "MAMA...mama, I want chocolate milk...A, B, F, Q, R, S...Twinkle, Twinkle, Glory to God in the Highest, Itsy Bitsy..."

My life is loud and its forever full of multi-tasking.  I'm dead in the water if I try to do one thing at a time.  Raising three little ones and managing the daily in's and out's of it all is loud, busy, and incessantly messy.

And then she called.  My friend.  I love her.  I sort of feel like we were separated at birth.  She's smart.  Beautiful.  Sacrificing for her kiddos at every turn.  And always making time for my stuff.

And about once a week, she does her dishes or cleans her bathroom or vomit off the rug and I do mine and we fancy ourselves mini philosophers taking on topics that enter our consciousness and won't let us fully digest them until we've garnered the input of the other.

On the docket the other day was happiness.  Do you luck into it?  Can it be chased? Pursued?  Or, does it organically emerge?  If you force it, is it ultimately, illusory and bound to fall through your finger tips?  And what if you're unhappy, is it okay to reject your current life station and pursue another, even if there's residual collateral damage along the way?  What is happiness worth?  Is it a worthy pursuit or is it just an ethereal notion?

Post our conversation, I stumbled upon a quote from one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda. 

"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.”


And I think his words sum it up.  We're all searching for purpose, meaning, a sense of belonging, an authentic knowing of ourselves.  We want to know that we're where we're supposed to be.  And when something feels amiss, whether it's in our interpersonal relationships, our workplace, our career, our health, our spirituality, or in general, the quiet moments when we're real, brutally honest with ourselves because no one's looking over our shoulder...we realize that it does matter.


Happiness doesn't emanate from the collection of things.  It emerges when we're being who we're supposed to be.  And the journey affords us multiple opportunities to decide, is this right?  And when we gut check, we find instantly whether we're joy filled or just getting by.


So, as I shared with my friend, being a full-time stay at home mother is fraught with exhaustion, frustration and isolation.  It's not easy to do the same routine day after day after day knowing that your children are not going to provide you with a performance appraisal, a raise, an annual bonus and a promotion.  Nope, but what you will get is time.  Time that you can't get back.  Time that involves story telling, singing, baths, parks, bikes, painting nails, and lots of hugs. And, I'm also hoping (most importantly) that you get staying power.  The memory and the belief that my children know that I was there and I always will be there for everything from the banal to the extraordinary.


And that for me is happiness.  And when I gut check, I know that there is no paying job that would be worth the loss of any of that for me.  Which is why Neruda's quote is perfect...one day, while doing dishes watching the craziness emerge around me, I realized, I'm happy....just not in the ways that I thought I would be...but joy filled I am.  The real cultivation of happiness.

You Only Live When You Feel Like You're Dying

I read once or maybe heard in a song, or maybe remembered in a dream, or maybe all three...the phrase...

You only live when you feel like you're dying.

And this has stuck with me.

I don't take the concept literally as when you're given a terminal diagnosis or the plane is going down, although, many people have shared those sentiments when they've been inches away from their own mortality.

No, for me, the words feel real when I think about the times that I'm most uncomfortable, hurting, unsure of how to get out from the rock...that unknown place where its raw, fragile, brittle, incomplete.

At least for me, that's when I've grown the most, carried the experiences with me viscerally to the point that I can recall the way something tasted, and felt with every fiber of my being that I was alive.

Last weekend, I went for a 9-mile run.  It was one of the first sunshiny days in January and I felt compelled to bundle up and soak it in.  Three miles into the journey, I hit a patch of black ice crossing a major thorough fare and watched myself go down.  Bracing for the impact, I threw my hands in front of my body, twisted, and landed my weight on my right hand and right foot...all within an instant.  It hurt and all I could think was...fuck.

I decided that if this was my last training run due to injury that I would run until I couldn't anymore hoping to complete the 9-miles.  Ridiculous, I know.  But in the grand scheme of wanting something, I didn't want black ice to stand in my way.

I ran the remainder feeling a sore foot, a bruised ego, and a fearful heart.

Over the course of my run, I gave pause and time to a few friends I've been praying for who are going through surreal, unbelievable, and painful times.  And when the miles got hard, my breathing labored and I wanted to stop, I kept thinking of them, hoping for them, believing that through the pain, life would undoubtedly emerge....and with each mile, it all seemed to feel more hopeful.

And the fall and the phrase that I once heard or made up or something...helped to harness both the rawness and the richness of life that finds me frequently when I think I can't give anymore.  And just when it felt like I couldn't make another lap around the bend, my heart took me where my feet didn't want to go and suddenly, a cold, sunshiny January day reminded me that I am alive and all is well.

462

This week, I embarked upon week two of marathon training.

The race is scheduled for the first week of May and by the time I get to the coveted date, I will have ran (in theory) 462 miles...in 18 weeks.

I cannot wrap my head around this.  It's 500 miles to Chicago from here.  500 miles to Denver.  Not far off from how many miles my legs will take me this winter gradually building the endurance necessary to run 26.2 miles on marathon day.

And so, while I'm care taking for my three littles, folding laundry, making beds, preparing meals, supervising homework...my thoughts take me to this place...

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"That's $80 bucks and a shit load of time that you could be doing other things with."

"What if you can't hack it?"

"Stop posting this shit on Facebook...it will be that much more humiliating when you can't deliver."

And then I stop, take in a breath and remind myself of my new years resolution...fuck fear.

I'm tired of it.  What a worthless feeling.  Instead, I'm embracing me.  The me I know can do this.

It's good to be scared, don't get me wrong.  It's a phenomenal motivator.  It's also a beautiful feeling on the other side when you nail that which has nailed you for so long and you realize that you are stronger than that ridiculous voice inside of your head questioning your every move.

And so, the alarm goes off at 4:30am...and believe me, it sucks...make no bones about it.  It's early.  It's cold.  My body aches.  I don't want to go.  But then, I lace up my shoes, Eminem comes booming into my ears.  And I go.  And I am better for it.  And I slowly, patiently, hopefully, tick away at the 462 training miles staring me in the face.

And each day, each time, I am changed.  For the better.  And fear is put back in his proper place.  And later as I'm pouring coffee into my cup, icing my foot, I remember that at least for today, I could and I did.

The World Deserves You...and Me

I had been so busy...

trying to get last minute Christmas shopping completed, helping the big kids study for end of year exams, shuffling family members to and fro, making sure that the holidays were merry and bright.

And so, spending an hour with a poetry group was probably the last thing I should have been doing...

The group is appropriately named, "Lift," not because the poetry they select is necessarily uplifting or a "cup half full" deal, but rather that the experience shakes you out of your status quo and sends you back into the world feeling more buoyant than when you arrived.

The process of sharing is unique.  It's not an open-mic or a slam.  It's well...you just have to experience it.

On my inaugural evening with the group, one of my absolute, hands-down, favorite writers was selected...Pablo Neruda.  Below is the selection.

"Keeping Quiet"

Now we will count to twelve
and we will keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Extravagaria (translated by Alastair Reid, pp. 27-29, 1974)

As I read the words and internalized the piece, it became very clear, yet again....the sacred, the holy, the unique, the "me" that I want to inhabit and to share with the world lies somewhere in the quiet...not in the flailing of limbs, the crossing off of to-do list items or the frenetic, feverish accomplishing of so much.

Rather, the me, the person that I sometimes feel I know the least, lives in intentional inactivity.  But how do I access her?  Is it possible to be in a place of silence and non-expectation while fully embracing my life?

And then another man spoke.  He honored the journey that we're all on to essentially figure out, "Who the hell am I?"  And I stopped and took in one deep breath.

If we only get one go around...no matter how old or how young we are when we leave, shouldn't we be committed to sharing our most authentic selves with the world?  Doesn't the world deserve the best of me and the best of you? 

As we embark upon a new year full of hope, possibility, opportunity and open minds and hearts, maybe we should re-think creating New Year's resolutions and instead, choose to dedicate time and energy to being still.  As frightening as it seems to soak in the moment, the quiet, the inaction, its possible that we'll never find what we're looking for and meant to do, until we let the noise and distraction go.

And so as I was driving home in the quiet, I said a prayer of thanks.  Thank you for making the time to reconnect with me, the me that feels, well, most like me.  I want to share more of her in 2014.

Ode to Claire on Her Third Birthday

I can hardly believe it. 

The day has finally come. 

We've only been talking about it for months.  You've been DYING to turn three years old...ever since you learned that life pretty much begins when you round the bend and officially celebrate your third birthday.  Almost daily, you remind us that when you're three, you can take ballet lessons, go to preschool, sign up for soccer, go potty on the big girl potty, share a room with your big sister, and well...be big.

But, that's the last thing that I want you to become...big.  You, my third child, my last.  My only blonde haired, blue-eyed, doesn't look anything like me and pushes my butons every minute of every day little girl.  You, who is fearless...petite in size, but strong in determination and will.  You, the boundless, crazy at heart, focused and unabashed in your response to the world. amazing one.

You who have learned, probably by virtue of your place in the food chain that in order to be heard, you must yell, have an unwavering opinion coupled with a strong elbow and the will to never let them see you sweat.

As you embark upon this year that you have been so hopeful for...my prayer for you is that you embrace your sass, keep your nerve and know that you are everything I yearn to be when I grow up.

I love you.  I'm exhausted by you.  I'm grateful for you.  And I'm excited to see what a new year brings to the little girl who makes me so proud to be her mama.

To the moon and back, Claire Bear.

Life in the Gray

I've never identified much with folks who find themselves living in the black or the white.

You know what I mean...those who absolutely do this and who absolutely will not do that.

Instead, almost always, I gravitate toward the gray.  There are very few situations where I draw definitive lines in the sand with no room to negotiate or to dialogue and 99.9% of those examples revolve around the advocacy or protection of my children.

But I must say, that I yearn to be them.  It seems like a safe, stable, predictable way to be...where one is in their head very little of the time, content in the knowledge that regardless of comfort, this is where they should be.  Almost like having a playbook for the multitude of sticky scenarios that life throws our way.

And so it was, on a recent outing with girlfriends and their littles, that I found myself opening up about all of the hidden words, feelings, fears that innately women knee-deep in the trenches of motherhood and marriage find themselves in.

Afraid to honestly explore the issues that seem to bubble to the surface but quickly get dismissed out of social norms and quite frankly the things we do and don't say in polite conversation....I was both grateful and elated that my friends rose to the occasion.  We got to somersault in the gray...free of judgement, exempt of the shoulds and the shouldn'ts. 

And as we each shared our tales...examples of what's working and what's not...what we can wrap our heads around and what still alludes us...it became alarmingly clear that the world is messy...marriage and child rearing is raw, ugly, beautiful, painful, fraught with humanness through and through.

And that ultimately, what we need more in the world are less lines in the sand and more appreciation and understanding for the challenges of navigating through it all.  Because as the politically correct walls and barriers came crashing down, the flood of emotions emerged and we all realized that we're not alone.  Shame is a useless emotion.  And that it takes a village or at the very least, a collection of people who welcome you back into the fold when you've discarded yourself out of guilt or fear.

So while living my life in the gray is exhausting.  It feels real, authentic, engaging, and well, more like me...even if it's just one play at a time.

A Chance Encounter in the Steam Room

I'm not the kind of girl who walks around the locker room nude.

In fact, I rarely undress at the gym and almost never take a shower.

I run, row, stair step, take classes, lift, swim, stretch and leave.

The most space I take up is a locker and sometimes, use of the lavatory and a quick spritz of deoderant.

So, it was odd last week when I decided to take a yoga class and indulge in the steam room.

Working through a running injury and feeling stressed with my three kiddos, I decided to fully embrace my time away from home.  After a challenging yoga regimen, I stripped, grabbed a towel and headed into the steam.  I was the only one there and it was nice to close my eyes, tilt my head back and ponder all the crazy thoughts that consumed my being.  After a few tears thinking about marathon training, I decided to lay down on the bench and take in the moment.

And then, the door opened.

I kept my eyes closed, but heard a voice say (visualize east coast), "AHHHH....It's GUORRGEOUS in here....Do you mind if I kick it up a notch?"

"Uh, no," I said...not really sure how you kick it up a notch.  But after a few sprays of water, the room got really steamy...like you can't see your hand in front of you.

And so, I just kept my eyes closed and kept pondering how to let go and lean into the place I'm at in my life.

And then, I started to hear creaking and then rocking and then, yes, moaning. 

And naively, I assumed that like a massage, she was simply settling into the relaxation of the moment, until the light bulb went off and it hit me.  Holy shit...she's well, taking care of herself.

It was in that moment that I froze.

Sweet Mary, Joseph and Saint Jude.  What the fuck?  Um...how do I get out of here?  And that's when I decided to count to 100, jump up, grab my towel and run into the shower.  While showering off the sweat and feeling a little PTSD, I thought, "what in the hell was that?  my imagination?  no, no...that was, well, I don't even know."

What do you do when crazy ass, out of the blue experiences happen to you?  Stand paralyzed?  Run?  Speak up?  Confront?  Laugh?  Join in?

Holy Hell...my eyes are definitively wide open.  Everyone has a different level of comfort at the gym.  I'll have to work on mine.