musings

The receiving end of judgment and assumptions

Two posts yesterday twined together into a solid cord that ran through my thoughts for much of the day. Gale at Ten Dollar Thoughts wrote about the relationship between insecurity and judgment, and about her own (very human) propensity for both. The Kitchen Witch shared a guest post by Naptime Writing which, though ultimately focused on a different (and moving) message, started making a point about the perils of snap judgments, both by and of ourselves.

I’ve written often about the distinction between how people appear and how they truly are, and about the frustrating futility of ever truly understanding the heart of another. I’m awestruck by the mystery of other humans, even those I love most passionately. This inscrutability makes me both feel both wonder and agony, makes me gasp in amazement even as I scratch my fingernails against the person’s facade, trying to get in.

One passage from last fall’s post reminds me in particular of what Gale wrote yesterday:

It amazes me to hear this. I, who feels and is many, many things, but pretty much never either hard or self-assured. I, who mostly feels shy and awkward in social settings but is sometimes told she is a bitch. I, whose personality is defined in large part by a deep seam of insecurity that sometimes manifests as judgment. I was going to ask how it is that vulnerability can come across as such a formidable wall, but I realized that question is dumb: of course in 35 years we build up calluses over our sore spots, build barricades over the holes that have tripped us up over and over again.

I did not dwell yesterday on the ways that I jump to conclusions about others when I ought not, though I do do that much more than I should. Instead, what I mulled is why it is that I seem to have consistently, throughout my life, been someone that others form swift and not-always-lovely opinions of. I sometimes feel as though I’m nothing more than a blank screen that others project onto. Project their issues, their assumptions, their biases. This is, it occurs to me, the curious flipside of one of my true strengths (which is really a weakness, of course): being what others want me to be. I am hyper sensitive to what other people want from me, always keenly aware of what other people are feeling, thinking, reacting to. It’s as though this skill has permeated my personality such that I’ve blanked my actual self out in order to better give people what they want.

I’ve taken endless grief for being such a pleaser and for caring so much what others think. And, to be sure, much of this beating up has come at my own hand. But when I peel back that criticism, and think really deeply about why I am that way, I wonder if in fact it’s just that I prefer to present to others what it is I sense they want because I’m afraid that if I was just me they would not like what they see. This seems so stunningly obvious when I write it that I’m ashamed to say it’s taken me years to realize it.

Somehow the ability to sense what others want from/of me combines with my own deep insecurity about myself to make me an effective screen on which people can play out their instant judgments about who I am. There are so many ways I’ve been misunderstood and misconstrued it’s impossible to list them here. Sometimes this can be really powerful and toxic, to the point where I lose sight of what I know to be true about me. I wonder if this is why I take pictures of my shadow so much: am I trying to prove that I’m still there?  Or is it because my shadow, in its abstraction, is a symbol of being without detail, a mere form for others to color in the details as they see them

Internal drishti

A couple of months ago I wrote about drishti, and about how having somewhere steady to focus our eyes helps us keep our balance in the world. This thought came back to me in a class last week. One of my favorite poses has always been tree. My huge difficulties with meditation are well documented.  For some reason, though, I’ve for years intuitively found myself repeating a small mantra when in tree pose. Reading Devotion, hearing Dani’s metta meditation mantra (May I be safe, may I be happy, may I be strong, may I live with ease) reminded me of this instinctive behavior in tree.

The words I’ve always whispered in my head, in tree pose in particular, are: Breathing in, I feel happy. Breathing out, I feel calm. In the past few weeks they have shifted, for the first time in years, to reflect something that has been tremendously on my mind. Last week, I spoke quietly to myself, saying, over and over: Breathing in, I feel safe. Breathing, out, I feel calm.

As I stood there, breathing in and out, my mind drifted to the idea of drishti again. I looked down at my hands, together at my heart’s center, as I have been taught to do in tree. And I was steady, and I stood there on one leg. But I thought about how the most challenging drishti in many poses is to look at a point inside ourselves: our fingertips, the end of our nose, our hands in prayer position. To find the internal still point is the ultimate challenge. To be able to be strong and balanced without need of an external focus point: this is the highest goal. And so I breathe, and keep refocusing my mind and my eyes, and I stand as steadily as I can.

Life Lessons from Laundry

Karen Maezen Miller is one of my idols. No, really. She, even on the screen, radiates peace, calm, and the hard-won wisdom of someone who has really put in her time to live in her life. I mention the hard-won part because my sense is that for her this is a practice, a deliberate effort. This makes her lambent wisdom all the more impressive to me, and makes her inspiration that much more influential. I highly recommend Maezen’s first book, Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood, and I’ve already preordered her second book, Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life.

Maezen’s blog, Cheerio Road, is one of my absolute favorite stops on my daily web perambulations. I can’t recommend her writing highly enough. Her voice is like that of a gentle but firm, very wise friend, who makes me see things I thought I understood in wholly new ways. That makes me aware of how little I understand, actually, but makes me feel wonder, and not defeat, about that fact. There is insight as blinding as lightning in her writing, but it is always shared in her kind, thoughtful voice.

Maezen is a Zen Buddhist priest, and she views all of life through that lens. She points out the beauty in the everydayness of domestic life, and I always leave her posts with a renewed commitment to stay present enough to see the splendor of my regular days. I’ve written a lot about my preoccupation with maps. I think it’s not a coincidence that at this moment – when I feel abandoned by these maps’ implied clarity of direction and assumption of motion – I’m feeling the lure of Buddhism. Perhaps, finally, it is time for me to stop moving so fast, for me to let go of the desperate need for a destination. Perhaps life is right here. And Maezen points this out more poignantly and powerfully than anyone I know.

Maezen’s post yesterday moved me deeply. It’s both my favorite of her recent posts and absolutely emblematic of all of the rest of her work. Please do go visit Cheerio Road – you won’t be sorry.

8 Steps to Happy Laundering

You might think I’m using a metaphor when I say that my spiritual practice is doing the laundry. Metaphor or not, laundry is the practice of seeing things as they are. Take a look at how to go from the hamper to happiness in eight steps.

Empty the hamper – Laundry gives us an honest encounter with ourselves before we’re freshened, fluffed and sanitized. It gives us a mirror to the parts of ourselves we’d rather overlook, and makes us take responsibility for our own messes. Self-examination reveals the pure wisdom that resides within each of us.

The instructions are in your hands – The tag inside a garment tells you exactly how to care for what you hold in your hands. Not just clothing, but very bit of life comes with instructions when we are attentive enough to notice. Doing it well may take more work than we’d like, but the effort is always worth it in the long run.

Handle with care – It’s inevitable: everything shrinks, fades and falls apart. Nothing stays brand-new. The most precious things we have are fashioned of flimsy fabric. Be mindful with each moment you have and you will experience your life in a different way.

Treat upsets immediately – Tomato sauce sets. Coffee stains. Ink is indelible. In laundry as in life, resolve upsets immediately before the residue of resentment sets in. When they’re not treated quickly, everyday messes can worsen into a lifetime of regret.

Don’t swallow the soap – There are no whiter whites or brighter colors, no matter what the detergent promises. Nearly all of our problems stem from the stubborn view that what we are and what we have is not good enough. We wear our insufficiency like a permanent stain, and that’s why everything we keep buying is some kind of soap. Don’t swallow it! When we release ourselves from judgment, we free everyone else from our criticism and blame. Plus we can save money on cheaper brands.

Let the spin cycle stop – Most of us spin the same anxious thoughts, fears, and worries in our head over and over, creating needless suffering for ourselves and everyone around us. Only when we let the spin cycle come to a rest, quieting our churning minds, can we lift the lid and find the load inside rinsed completely clear. Then, we can move forward into the fresh breeze of daylight.

The treasure lies within – Like the wad of bills left in a pants pocket, or the spare change that turns up in the bottom of the dryer, there’s a treasure to be found where you’d least expect it: inside. Stick your head in and have a good look.

Every day is laundry day – Every day brings the chance to slow down, pay attention, take care and engage intimately with the fabric of your own life. Sort the light from the dark, the delicate from the indestructible, and the heavy duty from the hand wash cold. The very thing you think you’re missing – happiness – is found every time you reach the bottom.

Keep the world at bay

Photograph taken yesterday evening, walking to dinner with Grace.  The iphone, while valiant in its effort, could not really capture the light on the branches.  It seemed alive, warm, full of promise and the hope of spring.

I love the Dixie Chicks.  One of my favorite of their songs is Easy Silence, and it runs often through my head.  It is doing so today.  The lines that I hear, over and over again, are these:

… I come to find a refuge in the
Easy silence that you make for me
It’s okay when there’s nothing more to say to me
And the peaceful quiet you create for me
And the way you keep the world at bay for me…

I love these lyrics, and these images.  Easy silence.  Peaceful quiet.  World at bay.  Doesn’t that sound divine?  It’s the last line that I come back to.  The desire for someone to keep the world at bay for me.  I know this urge.  I know it on days when I’m feeling like the world is too much for me, too much with me.  Years ago, I shared this quote, and this longing, with my father.  His reaction was immediate: he sort of scoffed and then said, “but wait, you don’t really want that, do you?” in a tone that clearly suggested that there was a right answer, and that answer was NO.

That response made me think about how I’m not supposed to want that.  I’m supposed to want to engage in the world, risk be damned, right?  In the immortal words of Tom Robbins:

All a person can do in this life is gather about him his integrity, his imagination, and his individuality – and with these ever with him, out front and in sharp focus, leap into the dance of experience. (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues)

Right? I know.  I’m supposed to leap.  I’m supposed to be a strong woman, comfortable with the pain of loss and the bruises of hurt.  To be open to every experience.  I’m supposed to want to go to the woods, to live deliberately.  Aren’t I?  Well, sometimes I do.  But sometimes I don’t.

The truth is, though, that hiding, having someone shield me, and keep the world at bay, is sometimes very seductive to consider.  Of course, this is just another way to say “keep safe,” and we know that is something I long for.  And I don’t, truly, want to be removed from life.  Of course not.  But I do want to be safe.  And there are definitely some days when I ache for someone to keep the world, with all of its pain and menace and fear, as well as its blinding beauty, at bay for me.

A conversation with my 35 1/2 year old body

Tuesday was my half birthday. Nobody remembered. Why should they? They shouldn’t. I realize my attachment to my half birthday is irrational, and I trace it to the fact that my actual, mid-August birthday was often a bit … well, lacking in celebration. This is not my parents’ fault – they were always wonderful in marking my birthdays. But, say, a party? Not really, on August 16th. This has resulted in some specific tendencies in my adult self:

  • I am totally obsessed with my kids’ birthdays, and their parties
  • I remember people’s birthdays, often send cards, and usually remind others of these key dates (this reached a pinnacle a few years ago when one friend actually got annoyed at me for forgetting to remind her of another friend’s birthday … this was now my official responsibility?)
  • My half birthday is more important to me than it should be

So I decided to mark the occasion of my 35 1/2 birthday with a letter to my middle-aged body. I’m inspired in this by two of my favorite writers out here in the blog wilderness. The Kitchen Witch‘s letter to her her 40 year old self and Momalom‘s letter to herself in her 31st year both made me writhe on the floor in laughter. I also like how I am midway between these two wonderful, funny (not to mention, as far as I can tell from their photographs, beautiful, which is relevant only because we are talking about their physical selves) women. Despite the fact that I seem to have birthed a five year old stand-up comedian, I am not myself funny. But these letters were so wise and poignant in their humor, too, that I wanted to give it a go.

Dear Body, as you turn 35 1/2,

First of all, I’ve finally come around to agreeing with my wise-ass middle school self about the fact that I am actually midway through my 36th year. I don’t much like it, but I can’t see a way around it. Yikes. Crap.

There’s a lot I’m really grateful for, Body. And I think – I hope! – I’m a little better at appreciating what you are able to do now than I used to be. Of course, this is pretty bittersweet, seeing as I’m finally appreciating you just as you seem to be falling apart. But maybe that’s by your design, to show me how ungrateful and horrible I was to you for so many years? I’m sorry.

I’m definitely pretty unhappy about certain things you are doing to me, now, as I glide (saunter? skip? am dragged, kicking and screaming, heels dug in until kingdom come?) into middle age. But I’m also aware of some bad behavior on my part, and I want to conclude by apologizing for some of the abuse I’ve forced you to take.

First, things I really am thankful for, dear Body:

  • I still have 20/20 vision. I don’t wear glasses or lenses. As the daughter of a woman who is practically blind, I really appreciate that.
  • I hope that I share the hair fate of the aforementioned almost-blind woman (hi Mum!), because at 62 she doesn’t have a single gray hair. Please, please, please, genetics, show me your power!
  • Thank you for still letting me run. It is vital to my staying sane, so I’m really glad you haven’t taken it away from me yet. Thanks for letting me finish that half marathon in under 2 hours. I still wonder about a marathon, but I don’t know if you would let me get away with that. I’m sure we’ll talk it over.
  • I am immensely grateful for the fact that you were able to conceive, carry, and deliver two healthy children. I am aware of what a blessing this is and I am sorry if it ever seems that I take it for granted. In fact, it is more than a blessing: it is an outright miracle. Thank you, thank you, thank you. (PS: the no stretch marks and easy return to pre-baby weight were a double bonus, don’t think I didn’t notice those. Thanks.)

There are, however, some things I am pretty pissed off at you about:

  • The chest. My God. I did not know what I had. When I saw one of my college roommates lately, and she saw me shirtless, she did a double take and remarked on the sad state of affairs in my bosom region. Remember, this is from a woman who was seeing said bosom daily during its (arguable) heyday. Alas. I think the best way to describe the situation is that I never really realized you could be both tiny and saggy. That’s just plain cruel. I’d lift – ahem – things up, but I’m told you have to have something to lift first. And while I’m cool with plastic surgery, something about artificial sacks of fluid inside my body scares me. I think Michael Scott, that sage, that cornerstone of today’s women’s studies, described the situation best: shrunken chesticles.
  • The skin.  I hate my skim-milk skin. I hate its pallor, its translucency, its propensity for cold sores, its wrinkles. I’ve been called Casper more than once. Is it a surprise that I chose to run in the Nude Olympics flanked by two dear friends, both of whom have similar coloring to me? I figured we might as well all glow in the dark together. Most days I can see my veins through my skin, not just faintly but in glorious detail: I am aware of my blood throbbing through my arms a little more vividly than I want to be (ironically, it has always been really hard for phlebotomists [great word] to find my veins). And the cold sores? Oh, the horror. So ugly. So painful. Such a physical manifestation of my anxious, nervous personality. Yuck, yuck, yuck. My cold sores have caused me so much embarassment, Body … really, are you not done shaming me with them yet? But maybe most of all, I dislike my skin’s thinness. Everything gets to me. I had hoped that living more years would result in thicker skin but, no, sadly it seems to be going in the opposite direction.
  • The hair. Why do I have so damned much of it?  It takes forever to dry. Blow-dry? Only when my life depends on it. Also, that ever since I had pregnancies, it curls in the back in weird, strange ways (which makes the aversion to blow-drying ever more tragic). I pull my own hair out, specifically feeling around for the really curly pieces. I’m told by people who aced Psych 101 in college that this, trichotillomannia, is the gateway behavior to more awful compulsions. Actually, I think I’m just subconsciously trying to thin my own hair.
  • The joints. You seem to granted me this odd, free-floating joint pain. Some days it is my ankle, others my wrist, for a while last summer, most painfully, my knee. This week my elbow is bothering me. What is this about? Are you asking me to take some kind of vitamin? Speak English! I don’t think I make major demands of my joints: fine, yes, I run, but come on. 4 miles 3 times a week? Seriously?
  • The back. Holy hell does this make me feel old. A long airplane or car ride makes my lower back, on the left hand side, hurt. I understood the back pain in pregnancy. I did, I really did, and I tried not to complain too much. Both of the children were carried basically against my back and I don’t blame you, Body, for finding that hideously painful (it is the downside of the perk of not getting super big when pregnant, I know, I know). But now? Hello, there are no small bodies curled up against my spine anymore. What are you doing to me? You’ve driven me back to yoga lately with this pain. I hope that’s what you were getting at. If not I’m kind of at a loss for what to do next.
  • My teeth. First of all, how could you let me not get any cavities for 28 years, let me develop such an enormous superiority complex about that, and then crush me with four cavities six months after having Grace? That was just plain mean. And in four different corners of my mouth? Thanks. That was an awesome appointment at the dentist, that one (and yes, don’t remind me that I insisted on doing them all at once against the dentist’s advice [ADA?] – you have to agree it was more efficient that way). And the receding gums? I realize that this is my fault for the grinding and clicking as I count off by 8. But come on. I’m just trying to deal with my crazy brain. When I had to have a gum graft, and I had to pick between using skin from the top of my mouth or from a cadaver, that was a nadir. Please just let me have my teeth and gums as they are. Please?

I will, Body, take responsibility for some bad stuff I did to you. Some of the things I am sorry about:

  • The Diet Coke. I know. It’s a really bad habit. But damn I like the stuff. I’ve really cut down; I don’t know if you have noticed, but I used to drink 3 or 4 20 ounce bottles a day and now I’m down to one most days. I hope this is making a difference. When you get annoyed and nauseous on me, please remember I never smoked or did a single illegal drug of any kind! Do I get any credit for that?
  • The conspicuous lack of calcium consumption. I have read in more than one SELF magazine article that this is especially awful i combination with the Diet Coke. I am hoping that my daily venti lattes help with this a little bit, because I really don’t want to start shrinking. I’m not tall enough as it is.
  • My diet. Dear God, Body, I am sorry! I know better. I really do. I eat mostly bread, cheese (see! calcium!), and gummy candy. Occasionally a hamburger or some pizza. I am so sorry. It is truly a wonder that I don’t have scurvy. I keep swearing to do better, and I will recommit to that effort.
  • The sunshine. I cringe when I think of all of the summers that I sunbathed. Wow. That seems amazing now, doesn’t it? I accept that my penance for that is bi-annual dermatologist appointments and a whole lot of small moles being dug out of my skin with scalpels. That’s my fault and I am really sorry. Did you have to retaliate so aggressively with the wrinkles, though?
  • The high heels. I know. I’m not supposed to wear high heels all the time. But I don’t! I really don’t. Just a few days a week. And the rest of the time? Flip flops or sneakers. Haven’t you noticed? I am trying to make up for it, I really am.
  • The broken bones. Maybe more than my share. An ankle, an arm (both bones, both compound fractures through the skin – that one really rocked), some ribs, and a toe. And I guess you thought I was kind of a brat for saying that having broken fingers and toes didn’t count … when I broke my toe sweet Jesus did I realize it counted. Yes, that hurt. Lesson learned. Thanks for healing all of those breaks, as good as new.

All in all, Body, I’m really thankful for all the ways you keep me in one piece (where on earth would this crazy mind of mine be if not contained in you? Now that is a scary thought). Now, I know I’m just plain not psyched about aging, and I’m sure I’m taking some of this discomfort out on you. I’m sorry about that. There are some ways you could cooperate more, though, and I hope my descriptions above inspire you to maybe do that.

Here’s to many more years together, as a team, and by the way thanks for putting up with all the ways I’m a total pain in the ass. I know, you’re as stuck with me as I am with you.

Love,

Lindsey