Originally published 5/11/12

You Say You Want A Revolution

So the other day I was home supervising someone who was giving us a quote on work that needs to be done around the house. He was really nice, and we were getting on like a house on fire when talk turned to a recent improvement he’d made to his lifestyle.

“I just started wearing these new shoe inserts,” he said. “I’ve only had them on for a couple of days,but I can already tell a huge difference.”

“Wow-that’s great!” I told him.

“I know,” he replied. “I hurt my foot a while ago but I refuse to get surgery, because I’ve talked to too many people who did have surgery and then months later are still having problems.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I have a lot of lower back problems but I’m never having back surgery, for the same reasons.”

“Well let me email you the information about these inserts,” he said. “They’re pricey, but they’re working really well.” Then, our rapport well-established, he continued.

“I know a woman,” he began, “whose second toe has started growing across her big toe. So she had surgery to correct it, but it’s eight months later and she still has problems walking.”

“Ooh,” I said, grimacing. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” he agreed. “But a woman at her church had the same problem, so she told my friend that she just went to the doctor and had them cut that toe right off so she could be done with it, and now she’s fine. So now my friend has scheduled surgery to have her toe amputated too.”

“Huh,” I said, as one does when confronted with an unexpected amputation anecdote.

“Yeah,” he continued, “because you know you can lose up to three toes and be OK. As long as you have your big toe and your pinky toe, you’re fine.”

As a matter of fact, I did not know. But thanks to my new friend, whom we are TOTALLY going to hire, I know now. And I did not have to put on pantyhose, drive in rush hour traffic, or sit through one single Power Point presentation to find that out.

Eat your heart out, guys.

Normally I try to live as phone-free a life as possible, so the other day when the phone rang at 8 am  I just ignored it. But the caller ID showed the name of a hospital, so thinking that it might be one of my 72,000 doctors, I answered it.

“Hey,” said the voice on the other end. Then after a pause, “Are you awake?”

I thought that was an odd way for a doctor’s office to begin a call, but then I recognized my neighbor’s voice.

“Yep,” I said, to which she replied, “I need to ask you a huge favor.”

She asked if I would let the Internet repairman into her house, so I said sure and went to get dressed. But because it was early and I hadn’t quite woken up all the way, I forgot that every time this particular neighbor asks me for a favor she always leaves out some key piece of information, creating a situation that makes it nearly impossible for me to carry out her request, and forces me into questionable actions.

Case in point: That time she asked me to pick up her son from kindergarten.

My first job out of graduate school was teaching at an elementary and middle school where, in addition to my classroom responsibilities, I ran the carpool line with four other teachers.  A year of strict adherence to the approved carpool protocol drilled into me the importance of guarding students’ safety by following all the rules at all times.  So I knew what a big deal it was that I was about to break the rules, and I was nervous  about getting everything right.

As pickup time neared I set off, armed with my neighbor’s cell phone number, her promise to call the school and let them know I was coming, my ID, and my most innocent, endearing, I-promise-I’m-not-here-to-kidnap-anyone smile.

After getting lost twice I finally found the school, and after explaining my mission to three different people and being sequestered in the close-enough-to-be-observed-but-not-close-enough-to-harm-anyone section of the parking lot they brought out my neighbor’s son. And in a move that I still question to this day they let me drive off with him, despite the fact that 1) he had no idea who I was; 2) I wasn’t entirely sure I had the right kid since the last time I’d seen him he was 6 months old; and 3) I did not have a carseat.

But worse was yet to come, because I wasn’t bringing her son back home; instead, I had to take him to his babysitter. And there we ran into a bit of a snag because my neighbor could not tell me the babysitter’s house number, her street name, or how to get there.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time you’ll know that unlike my husband, I have the innate directional sense of someone who lives in a black hole, so sending me off with your child and no directions is pretty much asking never to see your child again. (But on the bright side, if you ever marry the King of a Far-Off Land and need to get rid of your unfairly beautiful step-daughter, forget ordering one of your evil henchmen to abandon her in the middle of a dangerously enchanted forest; just stick her in a car with me and carry on.)

So I did what I always do in this kind of situation: I scraped together what wisps of information I could and then called my husband, the man who successfully navigated his way through Mexico using only a pencil, a ruler, and a satellite photo of earth. (For real.)

Guided by my husband’s unerring directional prowess and legions of guardian angels we all ended up where we needed to be, and things calmed down until the next time she asked me for a favor. Namely,

That time she asked me to pick up her boys from Vacation Bible School.

At first glance the odds seemed to be stacked in my favor this time since the church is literally around the corner and down the street from my house, and we were coming right back home.

Unfortunately, my optimism crashed headlong into the rock of reality once I reached the church.

“Hi,” I said, smiling extra-warmly at the teacher manning the front door. “I’m here to pick up James and John Smith (not their real names).”

“Who?” she asked,  reading down the list of names in her hand.

“James and John Smith? Their mom should have called to let you know I’d be coming to get them?”

She read the names again, my optimism draining away with each furrow that formed on her brow.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

So I did, relief flooding through me as I spotted the boys in the very first pew.  “See, ” I pointed, “James and John”.

“Oh,” she said, “you mean Shimbleshanks and Griddlebone”, which are obviously not their names either, but that’s what it sounded like to me because apparently the names I’d seen on every birthday invitation, the names they used at our front door when collecting for their various school fundraisers, the names painted on the basketball hoop in their driveway, in short, the only names I’d ever heard their parents use in the 8 years we’d been neighbors? NOT THEIR NAMES. Or, not their “formal, what-we-use-to-register-for-official-things” names, which would’ve been really helpful information to have in my attempt to come off like someone who should totally be entrusted with the welfare of two small children.

Luckily the teachers were all very trusting, and even more luckily, the boys waited until we were in the parking lot and out of earshot of all the adults before asking me who I was. After that it was just a matter of making sure no one was killed during their full-contact, death-cage, trampoline soccer match, and convincing them to wait to “play boxing” until their mom got home.

A few years have passed since then, with her boys growing, and my dealing with my illness, and all of us settling into our comfortable routines. Then we arrived at last week, or,

That time the Internet repairman and I bonded over the possibility of jail.

In what can only be described as the triumph of hope over experience I figured this favor would be easy-peasy, only slightly more difficult than falling off a log (which is my baseline measurement for “as easy as is humanly possible”). I fully expected the most difficult part of this favor to be the fact that I had to wear clothes. But clearly I should read my own blog more often, because of course that was not at all how things panned out.

At first it was easy, once I dug deep and overcame the mental barrier of having to pick out and put on clothing (I kid; but only a little). Because there was a chance that the problem could be fixed by rejiggering something outside, meaning that my participation would be limited to standing in my doorway and thanking the repairman for his time.

But of course, and here I’m quoting the universe, “BWA HA HA HA HA HA!”

First of all, before we even got to the problem of getting inside the house, I had to deal with the problem of getting across the lawn. Now, their backyard is beautiful; they’ve spent years aerating, and seeding, and fertilizing, and planting, and building decks and gazebos, and basically crafting a gorgeous retreat where normal people would love to hang out.

But I am pathologically neurotic about walking in places where I can’t see my feet, ever terrified and unable to breathe  on the verge of a nervous breakdown alert to the possibility of snakes. So the effort it takes for me to let grass touch my skin without descending into hysteria means I’m pretty much trashed by the time I reach wherever it is I was going.

However there’s only so much craziness I’m willing to let other people see, so we did eventually make it inside. I breathed in the sweet feeling of relief that the worst was over, which lasted right up until the moment the repairman cocked his head and asked, “Do you hear that?”

There’s a special kind of bond that forms when you and your companion are waiting for the police to come and question you as suspects in a possible home invasion. It’s born the moment you look deeply into each other’s eyes and yell, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” as the burglar alarm your neighbor neglected to mention shrieks its way down your spine and into your nervous system.

I’m happy to report that we were able to get the alarm code before the situation required the presence of armed law enforcement officers, and as an added bonus my partner-in-crime was able to fix the problem with the internet.

So now I’m off to ponder the problem of how I get myself into these situations in the first place. Because on one hand, yay for blog material gold; but on the other hand, boo for police. It’s a hard choice to make sometimes.

I wonder if this is what they mean when they talk about suffering for one’s art.

 

 

 

Here’s another lovely resource that swooped into my inbox as I was wrestling with reunion stuff-so perfect as a balm for all the second-guessing I was doing around the choices I’ve made in my life.

“You must give up the life you planned in order…”

“You must give up the life you planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you.” – Joseph Campbell

I’ve always loved that quote because it appealed so strongly to 12-year-old me, the me who carried a copy of Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe everywhere, and told anyone who asked (and many who didn’t), “I will never live an ordinary life.”

The me who thought living in the suburbs and having a regular job was tantamount to death.

The me who judged adults for doing so. (Oh so smug, that young me was.)

The young me who was so sure she would fearlessly live a life of making movies, writing books, traveling to wild places, journeying deep within…

Now I bow down before this quote, shaking my head at younger me with tenderness and a measure of chagrin.

Because now I know: giving up the life you planned is hard. Much, much harder than declaring, “I will live an unconventional life!”

Because the “life you planned” isn’t just about leaving a job that has gone stale or a relationship that has folded in on itself. It is not just insisting your siblings help you care for your father or that your marriage continue to evolve. Those are all important,

and

Giving up the life you planned is also about leaving dreams you have outgrown or that will never grow.

It is about giving up the someone you once were but aren’t any longer.

It is also about leaving your plans to become someone better than you are right now and your fantasies about what will happen in a fabled future.

Our stories of the past and our fantasies about the future, our woulda-coulda-shouldas and our “But I used to be able to…” block the life that is waiting for us just as effectively as any need for job security or ideas adopted from our culture or parents, or any fears of vulnerability and intimacy.

Here’s the good news: The life that is waiting for you is here now. There isn’t any waiting – I think Mr. Campbell got that part wrong. Life is continually informing you, nudging you right now. But, as the saying goes, you must be present to win.

For me, it’s much more fun to imagine that living unconventionally or doing something brave will unleash the life that is waiting for me. But that is just another story blocking the life that is here now. (That idea makes me dizzy but it’s so true.)

To open to the life that is here now means welcoming what is here now.

Welcoming my jiggly thighs without veering into a fantasy about how much exercise I will get starting this afternoon and for the rest of my life.

Welcoming how tired I am without wishing I had the energy I had last month when I was feeling great.

Welcoming how sad I am about my mom’s steep decline instead of bolstering myself with, “But I’m a good daughter, I’m doing a great job.”

Welcoming saying goodbye mindfully to my home I will be leaving soon rather than vaguely pretending it’s not actually happening because we don’t have a firm move date (or a house to move to).

To open to the life that is here now means I keep stopping as I write this to listen deeply, to feel if I am telling my truth in the best I know how, without veering off to check email or veering back to tinker with words.

This life is here now. All it requires to show itself to you is for you to show up for it. To welcome reality as it is now.

Just that. (Said with a wry grin.)

I’m so glad we are doing this welcoming together!

Love,

Jen

Jennifer Louden is a personal growth pioneer who helped launch the self-care movement with her first book, The Woman’s Comfort Book. She’s the author of 7 additional books on well-being and whole living: The Couple’s Comfort Book, The Pregnant Woman’s Comfort Book, The Woman’s Retreat Book, Comfort Secrets for Busy Women (The Comfort Queen’s Guide to Life in hardcover), The Life Organizer, and A Year of Daily Joy.  There are about million copies of her books in print in 9 languages.flickr

Jennifer has spoken around the U.S., Canada and Europe, written a national magazine column for a Martha Stewart magazine, been profiled or quoted in dozens of major magazines, and appeared on hundreds of TV and radio shows, even on Oprah.  Jennifer has been teaching retreats and leading workshops since 1992, and creating vibrant on-line communities and innovative learning experiences since 2000. She married her second husband at 50, and is the very proud mom of Lillian and very proud bonus mom to Aidan.

I love those moments in life when I’m really struggling with an issue, and then the perfect resource just drops into my lap as if by magic. And that’s what happened to me while I was thrashing through all the “stuff” that was triggered by the high school reunion. Into my email inbox popped this essay by Rachelle Mee-Chapman as part of a series she wrote on the idea of Devotion. This installment beautifully discusses those times when our practice of devotion involves tending to our places of grief, and I am thrilled that she agreed to be a guest author here on the blog.

Devoted To Grief

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about happiness, and contentedness, and how all the Great Sages say being singularly devoted to the moment is what brings both into your line of vision.

And…

And I’ve been thinking about losses and how many times Grief asks for our attention.

The older you get, the more of those there are–the losses. There are the big, culturally acknowledged ones. Deaths in family. Romances that go painfully sideways. Jobs that evaporate without a severance package. Saying goodbye to dogs.

These are the losses that we get at least a small chance to mourn socially — through memorials and tubs of ice cream; friends who take you out after work for drinks, and condolences on Facebook.

Then there is a legion of less obvious losses–all the things you always thought you’d get to, but which you now realize, maybe you won’t. Like singing on stage with a microphone and an audience. Learning modern dance. Writing a best seller. Marrying a guitar player.

Me, I am very aware lately of the losses that come in an accumulated life. When you’ve had to surrender large parts of decades to chronic illness, there are many, so many. They add up fast if you’ve spent a couple years to fighting cancer. They accumulate like packing boxes in the time-suck and upheaval that is moving again, and again, and again.

Even more prominently are the feelings of loss that come when you trying to make peace with the trade-offs that come with having children — especially if you are the stay-at-home parent, or the default parent. Yes, there is an undeniable joy and wonder in watching humans come to life. And….and this is tempered by the way raising children can dim your career, or curb your sex life, or impede your ability to become a master of your craft.

For years I tried to practice mindfulness and presence as a way of minimizing the pang of those losses. I thought if I just focused on the Privileged That it Is To Breathe This Breath, I would step into a vast field of gratitude and the grief would go away. Or if I could just be mindful How Amazing It Is That This Machine That I’m Loading Washes My Dishes, I would never regret the way the entropy of house and home impinged on my creative pursuits. I thought, if I could just see every moment as sacred, I would never have to feel loss.

I say we call bullshit on that right now.

Being singularly devoted to the task at hand is not designed to help you avoid grief. It doesn’t numb out loss with a bonus dose of gratitude. It doesn’t shine a light on you abundance so bright that you never notice lack. It turns the volume up on those positive things, yes. But the truth of practicing presence is this:

Devotion doesn’t insulate you from feeling your losses. 
It asks you to be devoted to your grief in the moment you feel loss.
(spread the good word)

When we become committed to a life of devotion — to the task at hand, and the next, and the next — we become devoted to a life that feels it’s bruises. To a heart that beats as an ache in your chest. To tears that come at unexpected moments.

Listen friend, this is what I want us to whisper together:
Loss is also scared. So is grief. So is mourning.

It’s sacred because it is part of your actual life. It’s part of the essential experienced of being a living animal. There’s not a creature among us who gets through a lifespan without it. We might as well embrace it as holy.

This is the ebb and the flow of it, the hot and the cold of it, friends. You can be strolling around one day, grateful to be walking in the sunshine, and the next minute your heart can break with grief at the friend who no longer calls you. Or the way your job will never be as prestigious as it could have been if you didn’t share your time with infants. Or that the first-flush of romance doesn’t last. These things will arise behind your clavicle. They pool in the corner of your eye.

And this life we are building, this life of devotion, is asking you to be devoted to that too.

To feel grief when it comes to you.
To get curious about why it arrived.
To ask it if it needs anything.

Now this doesn’t mean you have to stay devoted to story of never-ending loss. It certainly isn’t asking you to camp out in victimhood. You don’t have to stay devoted to a narrative that says you’ll always be alone, or you’ll never do meaningful work, or that this stage of your relationship is not as real as the last. You can rewrite your story. You can see it from a new  and hopeful angle.

But maybe not until you devote yourself to Grief for whatever length of time it wants to show up.
A flash mob. A long term tenant. Who can say? All I know is that resisting and ignoring it only makes it metastasize.

You might as well give your grief the devotion it deserves.

What about you friend?

Are you ready to be devoted to every moment, even the moments of loss?
Can you get curious about the pangs in your chest?
Will you ask your grief what it needs?

I think you are.
I know you can.
I hope you will.

Amen? (Amen.)

Much Warmth,

Rachelle Mee-Chapman

Rachelle Mee-Chapman specializes in helping people create right-fit spiritual practices for themselves and their families.

Learn more about her online community Flock, or follow her on Instagram for special offers on her new coaching + card reading service

Hey, Everyone!

As you may have noticed, it’s been a while since I’ve blogged with any regularity. So in order to prevent myself from trying to write an excessively voluminous Master’s Thesis on “Catching Up: The Year That Was, But That You Don’t Know About Yet Because Life Spent A Whole Bunch Of Months Trying To Kill Me”, I decided to ease myself back into things by sharing this story that’s been rolling around in my head for a while.

So a few months ago a friend of ours called us and said, “If the FBI or the Secret Service call you about me, then here is what you can and cannot tell them about me.”

Well alrighty then.

As it turned out, she was applying for a fairly high-level government job, one which required being background-checked by other high-level government agencies. So she was calling to sort of point us in the direction of the things she hoped we would say about her.

“OK,” I said, as I quickly ran through the years of our friendship. “As long as they don’t ask me to swear that you always knew where your bra was at any given point in time.”

“Well,” she said, “a lot of people may have seen my bra, but I knew where it was at all times.”

“Um, WHAT?!” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Yeah. It was at this party I went to right after I moved up here. I was wearing this awesome orange snakeskin bra. And if you have something orange and snakeskin, then people should see it. Plus, I had to flash it to escape from the crazy people.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, beginning to warm to her story. “There was this guy there who was trying to convince everyone that he was an actual pirate. And he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s not something you hear everyday.”

“I know. So I played along with it for a while, but then I got tired of it, so I told him, ‘You’re not a pirate-YOU’RE JUST A HAIRY WHITE GUY. And while I do appreciate that you stay in character 24/7, even to the point of not wearing any deodorant, YOU STINK. And you don’t have a ship. And you live in a sh***y apartment. Even a pirate would say you’re gay.’ ”

“All very good points,” I said.

“I know. But actually, he’s not the scariest person I’ve met here. Like when I’m out walking or riding the subway late at night, I’m always wanting to get out my taser. But it’s hard to get to, because it’s under all my makeup, and my wallet, and my bullets…”

“WHAT?! You carry bullets around in your purse?

“Jenny,” she replied, “I carry bullets everywhere. And I always have my gun within arms’ reach. Because you never know when you might need to shoot a zombie. Or something.”

Me (to my husband): “I mean, I’ve had people not like me before, but I’ve never had someone physically cringe like that as if I were psychically killing them with the power of my gender.”

My husband (after a thoughtful pause): “That’s actually kind of cool.”