The Art of Sitting

I finally did it. I forgot one of my kids. I've managed to keep track of pick-ups, drop-offs, carpools and playdates for multiple munchkins going on a decade now. But the other afternoon, talking on my cell to my brother while my oldest son played soccer, I realized I was ten minutes late to pick up my younger son 4 blocks away. I dragged my daughter to the car and we sped over. It wasn't just being late that was unsettling. It was the completeness of my space-out. I'd dropped him at kung fu an hour earlier, and never made the connection I'd have to be back. Adding to my anxiety was the certainty that this kung fu studio has no real system to keep the kids from wandering out the open door after class. And Boone, poor forgotten one, happens to be a wanderer.

And wander he did. Luckily our house is only two blocks away, but...well, let's just say moms have different worries about different kids. One you might not hesitate to drop blindfolded at Union Station with nothing but a debit card, and the other might awe you with fantastical details of an underground world populated with worm people, but not remember his address even after you incorporate it into a rap.

The good news is that Boone did go home, find no one there, and was in the process of heading back. The bad news is that he burst into tears when he saw me, scared because I hadn't been there. Have one of those moments, moms, and experience the fear I bet we all share: I am not enough. (Fill in the blank ...not smart enough, loving enough, organized enough...)

We want to do it all. And most of us come pretty darn close, but there's a price. Last week two of my mom friends were diagnosed with adrenal fatigue. Having had this myself, I know it's no picnic. (Or maybe the kind of picnic I'd throw together on the fly in an effort to impress someone, where I spend $200 at Whole Foods on imported olives and chocolate truffles and then run to Linens N Things for some marked-down cloth napkins, and doesn't World Market still have some of those cool beach mats? And a little light jazz on the Ipod would be the perfect touch if only I could remember the name of that band, and shit! the forecast calls for rain, there must be someone I can talk to about that.... yeah, maybe that kind of picnic.)

And while I'm speaking for moms here and can attest to the slogging-thru-mud feeling, the cotton-wrapped head, eyelids of lead, the jolting awake at 4 am drenched in sweat, I'm not pretending stress doesn't affect men. In that phone call with my brother I heard the same refrain from him I've heard for years: "I fucking hate my job. I don't want to be around people. I want to go live in the mountains and be left alone."

But we're not a society set up for restfulness or introspection. We bluster around making sure everyone knows how busy we are, yet we don't have the guts to be true to ourselves, to say no when we want to, to risk being judged when we miss the Open House, or ignore requests to volunteer. When we're not appreciated for these sacrifices by people who are too busy resenting their own sell-outs, something inside starts to boil. In this way, our guts (or glands) have us.

Sometimes, when I'm riding high on the illusion of super-momhood, emblem pinned proudly on chest, cape flapping loud and proud, some tiny piece of kryptonite trips me up. The other day it was my favorite Target store, which now carries groceries (awesome) but had to be rearranged as a result. Doesn't anyone know that a complete overhaul of Target is hazardous to an overstressed mom? I felt like someone had added a double shot of espresso to my carefully rationed afternoon decaf. Then dropped in a hit of speed. My heart nearly exploded trying to find a lightbulb. Menswear where toys were? Towels moved upstairs? The only department I could see that hadn't moved was intimate apparel, and what mom shops there? I happen to be wearing a cast-off bra from my mother that's 2 sizes too big.

Without these mini breakdowns, though, could I remind myself to slow down? Or would I be like my friend Jessica, who sat next to me at the school playground while she shared her diagnosis? Though she'd known something was wrong, she was surprised to be labeled with a 'syndrome.' Why not call it the busy mom disease? she wondered. But I'll take the label if it validates the craziness. And I'll continue to be ticked off that we have to --any of us, not just moms -- seek validation. Jessica's taken action, cutting her work hours to part time so she can be sitting at the playground. She tells me she's learned more from sitting on her butt on this bench once a week than she has in years. She's talking about mom things, but I think she's named the prescription for the syndrome.

Sitting. It should be elevated to an art.

Because when I practice being still, that's the only place where I am enough. In that quiet space, when the schedules and the commitments fall away, when I slow down, do nothing, and allow that thing that breathes my body to have its way, only then is there no forgetting. Just remembering.

Franz Kafka puts it nicely:

You don't need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Don't even listen, simply wait. Don't even wait. Be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked; it has no choice. It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

Summer Healing Touch Newsletter

Hi! I haven't been able to post lately since I've been so busy with my study of Healing Touch Energy Medicine. I invite you to view my newsletter at the following link:

http://docs.google.com/View?id=dcd9qd87_299n5rvkcn

Thanks!

Tammy

Decision Deconstructed

I've been wrestling with a tough one lately. Having aced the test to become a Census worker, (turns out I am employable!) I'm given the role of crew leader. At nearly $20 an hour, the job seems an answer to prayer, and at first I'm high on what seems a perfect opportunity. My confidence is given a boost, I get a chance to polish off my social skills, even my long neglected wardrobe feels the love.

But the demands of the job begin to scare me before the first week is over. We'll be expected to work a minimum of 40 hours for up to 3 months, and must meet DAILY with our supervisor. Leaving the city during our employment is frowned on. In fact, if we have prior travel plans, we have to disclose them immediately, and thereby risk learning first hand where disgruntled government workers go.

This leads to: Step 1 of The Decision, what I call The Seeds of Doubt.

First, let me take a detour to provide a framework. Imagine this life event as the size of a seed. Jobs, money, even the need for money, all small seeds, and us people the grand gardeners. We scatter certain ideas, hopes, requests, labor over others, but ultimately what we turn our attention toward is what grows. And most importantly, our garden is ours alone. No one else's seeds exist. In other words, we are each creating our own reality. Opportunities come because we ask for them, believe in them, or just plain need them. Within this framework, who am I to walk away from a Census job? At some level, I made it happen. Do I now thumb my nose at the universe because I can't fill out my D308 correctly the first seven times?

Enter Step 2: The Head Battles The Heart.

The heart says Working with forms and numbers and nonsensical protocol makes you anxious. Trying to find a reliable sitter makes you crazy. Missing homework and dinner with your kids makes you sad. Wondering what happened to your plan to start your second novel makes you miserable.

The head says Stop whining you big baby, this is some serious dough! In two months you can pay off your credit card. You think every other working mother doesn't have these same feelings? Take off the tiara, for Chrissake! Or, (on better days) You should be proud of yourself, being chosen to train and lead 20 other people. What a great experience!

Round One goes to the head. Yes! I say. I'm sticking with it. I'm committed. But then I wake up on the fourth day of training to find my car towed. I hop a cab and make it to class on time, but I'm discombobulated. I worry all morning about how I'll pick my kids up and get downtown to the auto pound. I obsess over whether this incident is a message of some kind. (I parked the same place I park every week!)

Later that night, after walking about a mile with kids in tow (no pun intended), I'm given the ransom amount from the pound: $275. The tow fee plus a charge for a city sticker. And that doesn't include the $60 ticket left on my windshield. Apparantly the street had been rezoned to 'no rush hour parking' two days earlier, and though the city was kind enough to put one small sign at the end of long city block, I'd missed it. Poof! There goes more than half of the money I've just earned. The next day at training I learn that, in my frazzled state the day before, I left out a piece of paper with my employee number on it, a big no-no in the Census Bureau, where confidentiality is Rule One. I will not be given a class of enumerators to train. Instead, I will be trained to fingerprint other employees and then assigned as assistant to another crew leader.

My doubts have taken root and are the size of saplings. There is only one thing I know: I am not seeing the signs.

Step 3: Asking For Guidance.

Thankfully, there is a short hiatus while other workers are trained, so I decide to tend to my doubts lovingly, even talking to them like good gardeners do, to see if they'll respond. I boil it down: Should I quit? It takes a nearly impossible force of will to stop here, with this simple question. I don't want to re-enter the battlefield. I want to watch what unfolds when I respect the vast, unknowable force behind everything. I wait.

Meantime, I receive a phone call that there is an opening with a visiting Healing Touch practitioner I've wanted to see, who was initially booked. It's an opportunity to be worked on and learn from one of the best, an opportunity I would not have been able to take had I been given a group to train. The session I have with him lasts 4.5 hours and leaves me exhausted, enlightened, amazed...I could go on, but one insight is significant: I'm asked to recognize the way I shoulder others' feelings because I think it will make them love me. Ok....sure. I'll do that later. For now, I've still got this Decision thing going on.

And I think I'm getting somewhere with it. Dropping my daughter at the local park, I see a group of Census enumerators meeting on the front steps. I feel an instant weight in my stomach at the thought of being one of them. Hmm? Is this a sign? An ordinary gut-pull?

I walk to my friend's house, wanting to tell her how I am waiting on "Guidance." On the way, my eye is drawn to the bright red of a cardinal swooping through the trees. Since my friend has borrowed my "Animal Speaks" book, I ask for it and immediately look up cardinal. It says that the appearance of the cardinal reminds us that we always have the opportunity to recognize the importance of our life roles. The cardinal has a loud and clear whistle, and the female joins in on the whistling, which is unusual among birds. This reflects the need to listen to the inner, feminine voice more closely. The cardinal also signals the need to assert creativity and intuition more strongly.

Less than an hour later, I've told my friend, my mother, my boyfriend that I'm quitting. Do I mean it? Or am I trying it on for size? Three is the number of manifestation. Say anything three times and you put enough energy into it to put it into motion. Could it be? At last....

Step 4: The Decision. It's made. It feels good. Mostly. Except for that pesky fearful knot that always wants to know what's next. If not this, it asks, then what?

I flip on my CD player and hear, from the new MercyMe CD, this line: Won't you be my hands healing?

I email my supervisor that I am not the person for the job.

Step 5: Sitting with Discomfort.

This is where the end should be. But as I go the rest of the evening and the next morning without hearing from my supervisor, I am increasingly uncomfortable. I'm embarassed to admit it, but my thoughts go something like this: I really let her down. What if she's mad at me? What if she doesn't like me? My God! Like a bolt, there it is. If I have these feelings about a woman I barely know, just think how much I must take on from people who are significant to me!

Which leads me to wonder: when and how did it become so hard to speak up when something is not right for me, without guilt or fear? And why did I ever allow someone to make me feel that being a mother or writer or energy healer isn't enough?

As it turns out, the job, albeit short-lived, was incredibly valuable. I only hope that each time A Decision comes along, I can move a little more quickly to steps 3 & 4. Ask for Guidance. Make the decision. I'd like to be a little like Tom Papa, the host of 'The Marriage Ref' (a show my 10-year old loves to watch with me!). He listens to both sides but you get the sense he already knows what he's going to do. "I'm ready to make the call," he says. He does it, the audience laughs. And on goes the show.

My Parachute Didn't Open

Okay, I know it's been much more than a week since I promised to follow-up on "The Color of My Parachute," my earlier blog about having to see a vocational expert to determine if I'm employable. I haven't known what to write because the experience was just plain strange. The "expert" did a lot of thoughtful nodding, and several times said "interesting, interesting" as I told him I was in the process of becoming an energy medicine practitioner. I described the Healing Touch training I'd begun at Swedish Covenant Hospital and this seemed to stump him. After a short, oddly vague round of Q & A, he said 'Well, I don't know much about that field." At which point I was dying to ask how he came to be known as a job expert. I wondered if it was anything like becoming ordained through the internet. $29.99 for expertise in ten areas. $59.99 lets you claim to know everything! But I bit my tongue.

He also asked about my sleeping habits, what my kids' school schedules were, and whether I had trouble getting up in the morning. The fact that I'm in the process of a divorce and not taking antidepressants seemed noteworthy. He actually jotted something on his pad. I believe his next words were, "You certainly have a lot of energy." I wasn't sure if he was being literal, or attempting a joke about my new career.

We finished earlier than the allotted time, and he told me he'd be writing up a report. It's been a few months and I don't know if any report was ever submitted. Neither my lawyer nor I have ever seen one. I'll admit I'm a little disappointed. Now I'll never know what I'm worth!

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.'