The Buddha at my Table

I woke up this morning feeling royally pissed off and not sure what to do about it, not even sure, for that matter, what I was mad about. As luck would have it, I had some time to myself to think on it, which is just what everyone needs when feeling angry — time to stew and think, and stew some more. What I wanted to work out wasn't so much my shit list (that's easy: getting divorced, being stood up last night, financial insecurity, no cream for my coffee). Rather, I wanted to know, what am I supposed to do about it?

What is the best way to deal with anger?

I've spent the last 14 months trying to master an "is that so?" attitude. This comes from Tolle's book "A New Earth" in which he tells a parable of a Japanese monk who responded the same way to a variety of accusations and injustices: is that so? The lesson is to rise above circumstances by refusing to react.

I'm no monk. But, speaking of monks, I did have a monk in my dining room last year and his presence happened to coincide with another angry time. I was on my way to a therapy session and my babysitter Prisana, who is Thai, had just arrived. My son came in to say that there was a man in an orange cape at the table. I came out of the kitchen and sure enough, there was a Buddhist monk, bald and be-robed, at the table. Prisana introduced him. He didn't speak English but he did a lot of smiling and nodding while I served him tea. Then I rushed off to sit in a room with my husband and listen to him say things like "I'm sorry I broke our contract," and "Can we wrap this up in 4 weeks?" (Fun trick — if your computer does that talking thing, type in those words and have the computer speak them. That'll really recreate the experience for you.)

Leaving, I felt an anger like I've never felt. I literally could not see straight as I drove home. But I kept thinking of the buddha at my table. Had he ever felt such rage? How would he express it? Was he sent to me as an example? I was certain there was a message there. (Because really, what are the odds? How many of you have had a monk at your table?)

So since then I have tried, truly, to maintain my 'is that so?' mojo. I've tried being the change I want to see in the world. I've tried being the still pool, examining my anger at others as disguised anger at myself. I've read The Law of Attraction and understand that anger lowers my vibration and attracts negativity. I've screamed into pillows, torn through journal pages, cried to my therapist. You name it, I've tried it.

Yet this morning I woke, once again, with a stiff neck and throbbing cold sore and thought enough! I reached for some of my metaphysical books (Deb Shapiro's 'Your Body Speaks Your Mind' and Louise Hay's 'Heal Your Body') and looked up my maladies. I read that the neck is the bridge between thoughts and feelings and is connected to expression. Do you need to speak your heart? one book asks. Under cold sore, I read that festering angry words and fear of expressing them are indicated. And because earlier this week I was fitted for a night guard, I also looked up teeth grinding and found that teeth are connected with honoring boundaries. Are you saying what you really mean? it asks.

Hmm...I sense a pattern here. But again, what to do? Express, or rise above? I've discussed this with several wise people in my life and have gotten some interesting advice. One tells me to play with it and see how it feels to express anger with someone. Do I feel lighter? Or like I have an emotional hangover? Another tells me to stay present, to express it, own it, and let it go. Why is this so hard? I think because we're taught to be polite, to not bring up a problem unless we also have a solution. But what I want is permission to speak without thinking, to make a mess, to even say Go F@#%k Yourself!

Healthy? Or not? Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that venting does nothing but train one in aggression. That the trick to dissolving the knots of anger is to recognize it, then embrace it with awareness and tenderness. He gives this meditation: Breathing in, I know that anger has manifested in me. Breathing out, I smile toward my anger.

Maybe that's why the monk at my table was smiling so enthusiastically at me! I don't know. I'll grind on it tonight.

These Shoes Were Made For Ogling!

I gave my boyfriend a hard time for having expensive shoes, only to be told that, according to GQ magazine, a man's shoes are one of the first things a woman notices. Really? It's certainly not true for me. I couldn't tell a Florsheim from an Allan Edmunds. And yes, I had to ask him for that info. That's how clueless I am. I am also, needless to say, not very well-heeled.

So I was stunned recently when I went to meet him at the train station. He texted me that he was already there, but I didn't see him anywhere. Since he's in a wheelchair, I went to look by the elevator. Not there. I approached the station attendant, about to ask if she'd seen him.

"I'm looking for my friend..." I began.

"Brown shoes?" she interrupted.

Not the guy in the wheelchair? Red coat? Dark hair? No, he was the guy with the brown shoes.

I stared at her, thinking how the heck do I know what shoes he's wearing?

Now I simply have to know. Ladies, do you really notice shoes? Please respond! Meanwhile, I stand corrected. In very average shoes.

This Year's White Elephant

In writing my last post about how I spent Christmas Day, I'll admit that I left something out. The elephant in the room, so to speak. Close friends have seen it hulking there in the corner, but I haven't known exactly how to talk about it.

It's a gift I got Christmas morning: an email from my dad, asking me to forgive him for being a complete failure of a father. He was scheduled for a risky heart surgery. After years of living with a severely enlarged heart that was pumping at only 15% capacity, he was getting a new aortic valve.

As it happens, my heart is fine. Good and strong. Compassionate. Even forgiving. In fact, I've given plenty of thought to forgiveness. But what I discovered Christmas morning is that thinking about it doesn't necessarily translate to feeling it. I mean, here was the ultimate white elephant, which, according to Wikipedia, is defined as something with a maintenance cost exceeding its usefulness. Or, both a blessing and a curse.

To his credit, my dad was up front about his reasons for reaching out. He wanted to get right with God. Okay. I can understand that. Still, I wasn't sure where to put his offering. Display it loud and proud? Stick it on a top shelf to gather dust? So I wrote back as honestly as I could. I told him that this his unexpected Christmas present was probably one of the greatest I've ever gotten. But, like any long-anticipated and long-desired gift, it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations, because, mixed with the relief and gratitude I felt reading his email was also a lot of pain. I'm 43 years old and still angry that I didn't get to have a dad to do all the normal father/daughter stuff with. I'm sad that I never felt that I knew him, or that he knew me.

And his timing...well, let's just say that I'll never again doubt that there are greater forces at work in the universe. His change of heart (no pun intended) comes as I struggle with my own divorce from a man who turned out to be uncannily like dear old dad. Both in that club, you know, that starts with the letters 'phila..' and I'm not talking stamp collecting.

But it was Christmas Day, and I was seriously scared my dad was going to die. I wanted to go all Frank Capra-esque. I wanted to gather up those bad feelings like so much shredded gift wrap and stuff them away. It would really tidy the place up. So I sat down to write this blog, a book of flowery quotes about forgiveness by my side. I read what my pastor had emailed me, pointing me toward Jesus as an example. I waited for my heart to open with a burst of white light.

But I finally had to admit that my dad's 'gift' didn't look like the one in the shop window. In fact, a second email from him made me feel decidedly ripped off. He said he had no interest in reliving the past and really just wanted to start with a clean slate. IF he lived, that is.

Call me ungrateful, but isn't that a little like giving something with the price tag still on it? Look what I paid for this baby!! Don't you love it? Huh? Huh? It was too similar to these recent, illuminating words from my husband, his cell phone still vibrating from some illicit text: I SAID I'm sorry, what more do you want? Or, for you Fargo fans, think of the way William Macy tells Marge, the pregnant cop, I'm cooperating here! just before he flees the interview. At least that scene was outrageous enough to make me see what I hadn't before: there are people who will say one thing but do another.

Am I one of them? I'll talk forgiveness, but will I give it? I've asked myself, what more DO I want? I certainly don't want an interview with either my dad or husband. Their answers would mean nothing. The words themselves are the white elephant. Both blessing and curse. Costly, and ultimately useless.

My dad came through his surgery with flying colors. My brother told me that my name was one of the first things he said when he woke up. I admit I was touched. But 6 weeks have gone by and I haven't heard from him. No big deal. So nothing's changed. Except that I have realized something. My dad has asked me for forgiveness, with strings attached. I'm trying to forgive him, with strings attached. For me to cut those strings I have to accept that he is being who he is. I'm never going to get exactly what I want from him, but the truth is that I don't need anything. I can turn back to my little book of quotes, and now one makes sense. It's from Robert Holden, who says that "in essence, true forgiveness is the willingness to believe 1. you are whole. 2. no one can threaten or take away your wholeness."

That's big. Elephant-big. I'm not sure what to do with it. I just wonder if it's a coincidence that, in a class I took recently, the instructor, who was Texan and full of folksy phrases, had this to say: 'I know these ideas seem too big to swallow all at once. But you could eat an elephant if you had to, one bite at a time.'

I Need a Better Moisturizer... Is That True?

Life has certainly been strange. On Christmas day, after dropping my kids at their dad's house, I had four hours to kill on my own. I've never spent any part of Christmas alone before, but decided to make the best of it by seeing a movie. First, though, I stopped at Walgreens to shop for some face cream. I was surprised to find it bustling. Apparently there are plenty of us misplaced souls out there. Anyway, it was twenty minutes into my alone time and I was feeling pretty good. Ahh, time to shop! Time to give serious consideration to whether Oil of Olay is worth the extra outlay.

Sadly, I'll never know, since in the end I went for the cheaper Neutrogena, and even then was too cheap to buy the one I really wanted, the one with that beguiling word: ageless.

The movie I chose was "It's Complicated." Call me crazy, but I expected nothing more than a lighthearted romp. I did laugh hysterically, but was also moved to tears more than once. I was especially stunned when Meryl Streep's three grown kids cry at the idea of her getting back together with their father. It's been ten years since their divorce and the kids tearfully explain that they're still getting over it. I imagined my own three kids a decade from now saying the same thing. Ouch.

I also loved the part where Steve Martin has to be brutally honest with Meryl Streep and, in response, she says "Wow, so that's how grown-ups talk." It got me thinking about other things grown-ups do, besides fail their children, see movies alone, worry about their age, or remember when Alec Baldwin was buff. Something immediately came to mind (and I'll share it only because I know you are grown-up enough not to laugh).

Lately my friend Victoria and I have been filling out Byron Katie worksheets. For fun. Katie is the author of great books like "I Need Your Love. Is That True?," "Loving What Is," "Question Your Thinking, Change the World," none of which I've read, but I'm meaning to. So she has you do this exercise where you begin with a judgement you have about someone, then ask 'Is that true? Can you absolutely know that it's true?'

The idea is to debunk beliefs that may be causing you pain in your relationships, to understand that others are simply distorted mirrors of yourself. Cool, huh? I mean, really, you've got to try it. Forget Scattergories or Taboo or even Wii Fit. The next time you're with your family or loved one, grab a legal pad and start shouting out your grievances (You only wear that shirt to annoy me! Your mother hates me! You are so f@#$% selfish!) It's scary at first, but if it works you sort of recognize that you're not alone, that we're all misplaced souls. At the very least, it makes for a memorable night.

And by the way ladies, the bathroom mirror is NOT distorted, so yes, you do need a good moisturizer. Look at Byron Katie (fabulous!). She would absolutely say that this is true.

The Color of My Parachute

I made an appointment today to be evaluated by a vocational expert. What fun! At long last I'll find out if my current job as stay-at-home-mom has earned me any street cred, or if, in fact, serving sausage patties twenty years ago at Bob Evans was the apex of my career.

This amusing little diversion is being "offered" to me compliments of my estranged husband, who was kind enough to bring this matter before a judge, who was gracious enough to pen the invitation on fancy paper with a Cook County logo on it, and even stamp it with a fancy stamp!

It's all part of that intricate pas de deux known as The Divorce Proceeding. I'm while I'm told that it's not uncommon for a working husband to want a non-working wife to be given a gentle nudge toward employment, I know of only one other person (my cousin) who was "invited" to career counseling. Her ex is a prince, a successful hotshot who had it all, including a pregnant girlfriend in Mexico. My cousin was tested and questioned and evaluated and told she might make a good office manager. She's now finishing anatomy and biology on her way to becoming a registered nurse. Which is a shame, because she makes a mean cup of coffee.

I can't wait to find out what MY skills are! There's that bachelor's degree hiding around here somewhere (buried under my Victoria's Secret undies, perhaps?). There was that pesky 12-year stint as an entrepreneur and business owner. But that's all a vague memory, made murky by years of lactating and, you know, other mom...stuff. Because what do moms really do anyway? I heard on the radio once that if you break down the duties of a mom and assign market value to each one, a mother would earn a salary of $118,000. Ha! A conspiracy theory, no doubt, started by lazy, unqualified whiners who want credit for living the easy life.

Not me. I'm ready, EAGER to be tested, to have another man tell me what I need to do. Lead me, I say! It's just that, well, the $2,500 pricetag of this particular dance is a little baffling. Wouldn't a new computer be a better investment and help generate income? How about a training course? Or even childcare to allow time for new pursuits? But gosh, thinking of ways I might spend $2,500 just makes my pretty little head hurt! I'd rather think about what I'll wear to my appointment. The frilly apron is nice and goes with anything. Or the mom jeans and white sneakers. Oh, and I can't forget my giant Mary Poppins-inspired carpet bag. It's one of those magic ones that allows me to stuff the three kids inside and forget about them. They don't require much, really. Just a little air. Otherwise they mostly take care of themselves.

Yes, I am really looking forward to this opportunity to show off my talents. I might speak a little French. Or play the pianoforte. I might even take a refreshing turn about the room (to show my figure in the most pleasing light!)

Hmmm. What color is my parachute? (And will it match my shoes?) I think it's more of a mantle, anyway. As in a cloak worn by women in Victorian times. How fitting. I'm a modern day Elizabeth Bennett. Plucky and independent. And I have so many more choices than she had in her day. Nevermind that determining my own path is not necessarily one of them. There's no time for that when I have laundry to fold. And yes, that's on my resume.

(Check in next week to hear which vocation the magical expert chooses for me!)

Yearly Resolutions are for Wimps. Not Divorcees.

2009 seemed to be a year of major upheaval. I found myself going through a divorce, but, with a good handful of friends contemplating, initiating, or reeling from their own break-ups, at least I had company. (Granted, not the kind of company you want for dinner unless you plan to hide the sharp knives.) I think I speak for most divorcees out there when I say that what we want is Resolution. Not a silly list of do's and don'ts. Real Resolution. An end to the re-hashing, the second-guessing and what-ifs. A giant kiss-off to quitters, cheats, Peter Pans and control freaks. A rousing 'up yours!' to the judges and lawyers playing God in our lives. A signed document that sets us free.

Except. The document is just the first step. What divorcees really need is the manual. The 2010 Code on Divorcing Gracefully.

This Manual (mine at least) might include the following:

Stop working on euphemisms for what happened, such as: my husband had an interesting take on 'to have and to hold.' Or 'the grass was greener.' Or, as the legal documents would have it, it was a matter of 'lifestyle choices.' Stick with 'we're divorced' and don't feel compelled to launch into the unabridged saga. Face it. No ones cares as much as you think they do.

Accept that, yes, SHE is 12 years younger. Know that whoever 'she' is, she will undoubtedly stay the same age, while he ages and becomes pathetic. Allow yourself small satisfaction on this point.

Stop flinching when your son goes on about the girlfriend and how awesome she is because she calls him 'dude.'

Believe your therapist when he tells you that your Ex did you a favor. Resolve to continue therapy if you have to donate blood to do it.

Stop expecting to understand your Ex. Remember that peace described in a very famous book, the kind that passeth all understanding? Ponder that, and enjoy the superior feeling that comes from knowing verbs that end in 'TH.'

Know that cooperation with an Ex is overrated. Learn to make decisions — about finances, housing, kids, career — on your own. Embrace the single mom power and mystique. If you've never done it, raise a fist and yell 'girls rock!' (Except girls who call boys 'dude.')

Don't take it personally when friends treat you as if you're contagious. They simply want immunity from this particular plague and know there's no magic pill they can take to get it.

Enjoy alone time. Learn the difference between loneliness and solitude. Consider these wise words from Anne Lindbergh, who writes about solitude in her memoir Gift from the Sea: Woman must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities, she must be the pioneer in achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization.

Follow your own bliss. Stop following a blueprint with someone else's comments scrawled all over it. Thank another wise soul who said that the best revenge is a life well-lived.

Live 2010 well.

What do you buy at Crate and Barrel?

So I was wandering through Crate and Barrel last night having a text message fight with my boyfriend. I went in specifically to kill time, hoping that if I admired the $2000 leather chair or the espresso stained coffee table long enough, I might someday attract them into my living room. But naturally I was distracted, because it's really hard to fight when you're using only a thumb, and I didn't notice much of anything. In fact, I circled the same floor two full times before realizing it, and then I was so disoriented it took me a crazy amount of time to find the escalators.

Fight aborted (not resolved), I tried to focus on some dinnerware. The store was about to close, but I felt a desperate – okay, angry – urge to buy something, anything, quickly. I stood in front of a mini waffle griddle for some time (security definitely had me in their sights by now). Not a mini griddle; a regular griddle that made mini waffles, but there was no top to it, which really confused me. Still, I wanted it. It was cute. And good for smacking someone in the head.

I didn't buy it. Instead, I started thinking about the crap I DO buy: that at fortysomething, I deserve to have these nice things. That these things represent a happy home. That if I can't afford to have a dining room table with matching sideboard, I've somehow failed. And speaking of failed, how about this one? That I'm too old to have a boyfriend, for Pete's sake, and to be feeling the same communication frustrations I've felt a hundred times.

I moved on to contemplate a napkin ring. Shiny, gold, pretty. Suppose that when I said to someone that my feelings were hurt by a certain behavior, that person were to hand me a so-called napkin ring. Wouldn't cost much, but as a gesture, how nice. Then if that person wanted to say 'we really need to look at the entire table, at the way you're serving things up,' well...fine. But start with something shiny, please. That's all I'm asking.

People who shop here must know this. They're undoubtedly mature, self-actualized grown-ups. In order to be able to make a decision faced with so many beautiful options, a person has to have her life defined. Traditional? Or contemporary? I thought I was traditional, with the kids and husband and house. But now I find I'm contemporary, with an Ex, an inflated T-Mobile text package, and a boyfriend. I'm wandering the aisles, wondering where I fit and what fits me.

The same thing happens when I go walking in a nice neighborhood. I love to look at houses. And in windows, if possible. The nicer the house, the happier the family. Isn't that right? I'm not so foolish, but I do covet various places not so much for the houses themselves, but for the life I imagine would go with them. If only I could live there, or there, I'd feel younger, be more forgiving, listen better, argue less. My days would have that gauzy, soft focus look, like a Hallmark movie.

But why do we (because I assume I'm not alone here) ascribe such meaning to structures or objects? Why do we think life has to come in a certain color, match a set, or be made of brick? Is it that it's easier to look at pretty things than at ourselves?

I don't know. But if we had a nice big shiny bowl, we could throw all these questions in and have a party. I'll text you the details when my thumb stops aching.