Unbalanced at the end of September

September has been challenging, frayed around the edges, its undeniable moments of glowing joy and surpassing peace studded in a background of more chaos and disorientation than usual.  I started a new job.  Grace and Whit started in new grades.  Our brand-new nanny quit after two weeks.  My writing has stalled out, and I’m more startled by the swooping change of the seasons than ever before.  The stunned silence that has settled over me is entirely unsuited to a life that is suddenly incredibly full of details to juggle; my days feel like a blur of new professional responsibilities and routines, all shoe-horned into the school schedule because I haven’t yet found a new babysitter.

This week when I (uncharacteristically) found myself poking through my archives, a post from almost exactly a year ago jumped out at me.  It contains a message I – and, I suspect, many of us – need to hear, ever more critically.

The Myth of Balance

Reading so much great stuff out there in the bloggy world today! I love this post called The Balance Myth, which highlights something I think about (and hear from others) all the time. People ask me all the time how I “do it” which always makes me laugh, as I think of all the things I don’t do, and the ones I don’t do well. I’ve even blogged about this before.

I drop a lot of balls. I often feed my kids breakfast in the car, I never blowdry my hair, I wear Juicy sweatpants 90% of the days that I am not at work, I have a very limited social life, my immune system is a mess from subsisting on caffeine, wine, and gummy candy, and I miss a lot of school functions.

But I also have specific habits and have made certain decisions that help me a lot. I always pack lunches the night before, I pay bills the day they come in the door, I avoid the phone in favor of email (more efficient), I cook for the kids a couple of times a week and the rest of the time I assort and reheat, I live in a small house with limited upkeep that is close to school, I shop a few times a year for kid birthday presents and store them until needed, and I put my kids to bed at 7:00 every night (preserving a few hours for my sanity).  I also use the random pockets of time that open up; for example, if I’m 10 minutes early to yoga class, I’ll fill up the car or visit the ATM, even if neither need is pressing.

Here’s the post’s key paragraph (in my humble view):

The big secret is that very few people feel even remotely balanced. We’re all being pushed and pulled in a thousand directions. I think the best we can hope for is to fall in love with the living of life and enjoy the ride.

Absolutely true and crucial to remember. Most of all feel we are a mass of loose ends inside. I forget this all time, as I admire women I know who seem to accomplish a thousand things a day, all while maintaining a sunny smile, a perfect outfit, and gorgeous hair. My wise friend who reminded me not to confuse people’s outsides for their insides was onto something: we have to remember, every single day, that probably all of those people who seem to have it all under control are just as flummoxed and frayed as we feel.

I think the post has other wise things to say, about finding things to do for “work” that we love, such that they don’t feel like work (I’m nowhere near that point). The line that strikes the deepest chord is me is that the best we can hope for is to fall in love with the living of life and enjoy the ride.

I think, ultimately, that that is the big prize. To love our lives. To accept them, in all of their mess and inadequacy and moments of blazing splendor.

The Perfect Protest

How’s this for imperfection … I could not figure out how to take a picture of myself and not have the writing be a mirror image of itself.  So I wrote it backwards. Dumb or resourceful?  You decide.  Either way, not at all perfect.  My post earlier today, about contradictions and complexity, could be read also as a celebration of imperfection.

I am thrilled to join in Brene Brown’s Perfect Protest.  I have long loved Brene’s blog (I wrote about one of my favorite of her posts here) and am reading her book right now.  I’m only about a third of the way through but already one of her sentences is haunting me:

we cannot give our children what we do not have

There’s no better reason to celebrate imperfection, to continue striving for authenticity, and to live as close as I possibly can to the core of who I am.  Thank you, Brene, for continuing to be such an inspiration.

The contradictions that live in every cell of my body

On Monday afternoon I interviewed about 8 people for positions in finance.  In between interviews, I hurriedly opened Katrina Kenison‘s Mitten Strings for God and devoured a few pages.

This summer I drove down to New York for an event that Aidan hosted with Dani Shapiro.  As I drove, I listened to Mary Oliver reading her poems (At Blackwater Pond – highly recommended) and intermittently switched over to listen to Top 40.  This mirrored my summer reading list, which was conspicuously short: I read almost everything in Mary Oliver’s oeuvre (many for the second time) and also didn’t miss an issue of US Weekly.

I have more photographs than I can count of images like that above, of wine glasses juxtaposed with sippy cups or bottles.

I often toggle back and forth between an Excel spreadsheet and a Word document.

More than once I’ve run home from a yoga class, showered and pulled my wet hair into a ponytail before sliding into heels and a suit and rushing to a meeting in a downtown high-rise.

These are just the kinds of incongruities that exist in every single day of my life.  And these reflect, I am realizing, the contradictions that live in every cell of my body.  Even more than that – these contradictions animate who I am.

I’ve spent so much energy on angst about these things: how is it that I can devotedly shop at only farmers’ markets in the summer months but also down lots of Diet Coke a day?  What does it mean that I give time and money to one of the causes that means the most to me, homelessness, but also own more than a couple of pairs of Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks?  How did I, an at-least-borderline-introvert, end up in a career where I spend most of my day interacting with people?  Why is it that someone as incredibly sensitive as me, who assumes every single thing is a personal comment on my own inadequacies, is often told she comes across as aloof, even a b%t#h?

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

Of course there are lines we ought not cross.  There are ways in which one part of our lives can violate important tenets of others, or choices we can make that conflict with our essential values.  I’m not endorsing this.  But beyond these, I’m increasingly convinced that some contradiction is part of almost every person.  The challenge as I see it is to walk the fine line between acknowledging our inherent variety (and the occasional tension it produces) and recognizing when the friction between the various pieces represents that something is awry.

I remember a friend of my parents’ saying once, years ago, that she was suspicious of people who were, as she put it, “smooth like an egg.”  There’s something to this, I think.  Any time I have really gotten to know someone I’ve witnessed incongruities and things I did not expect.  None of us is as simple as most of the world would like to imagine: that is what makes people so fascinating, so tender and so terrible, so human.

My magazine list represents my multi-faceted interests; you could ascribe this list of titles to someone who has no idea what she wants, or you could simply say they reflect a kaleidoscope of a person.  Even in my “about me” page on this blog I instinctively described myself in terms of some of my seemingly opposed traits: “I am strong (I delivered both of my children without any pain medication) and I am weak (I get really sick at least 3 or 4 times a year). I cry every day, possibly more than I laugh (and I want to change this ratio).  I grew up moving around every five years, which has left me with a contradictory combination of restlessness and a deep craving for stability. I’ve been to most of the countries in Europe and only about ten states.”

As long as we do not make choices that oppose essential values, I think this kind of complexity is both entertaining and captivating.  The fact that we do not, any of us, fit into the narrow categories that the world would seek to cram us into is the source of our very humanity. As long as all of these facets are authentically felt, they are not inconsistent; they are real.

Sure, there is friction, because the world is more difficult to order and understand when people are always overflowing out of their compartments and subverting the black-and-white definitions others would like to impose on them.  But it makes the terrain of the world so endlessly transfixing and the stuff of art.  And I don’t want to live in a world where every single week doesn’t contain both wine and sippy cups, poetry and Hollywood magazines, and sneakers and high heels.

Very well then, I contradict myself.

Present tense with Katrina Kenison

This winter a blog reader sent me a link to a YouTube video that I clicked on (uncharacteristically, since honestly I don’t much like watching video). Before a minute had elapsed tears were streaming down my face.  Before the video was over I’d ordered the book that Katrina Kenison read from in it, The Gift of an Ordinary Day.  I am eager to share this gift with all of you, and so please read down to find out more about winning a copy of each of Katrina’s books!

And since the day I watched that YouTube video, the universe has been taking very good care of me.  One morning this summer I bumped into Katrina, in my town, by chance, and at a small coffee shop around the corner.  I recognized her, at first noticing that she was reading a book by Sylvia Boorstein that Dani Shapiro wrote about in Devotion.  We talked, we made a date for the next morning, and I fell more deeply into my admiration of all things Katrina.  Sometimes I feel as though life is one great stream, and all I really should do is stop trying so madly to direct everything and just let it carry me.  And reading Katrina’s words, discovering the connections we had, and then meeting her in person all felt like that.  I’m immeasurably grateful to know Katrina, both as a writer and as a person, and am already hard-pressed to describe fully the profound impact she’s had on me.

The Gift of an Ordinary Day moved me when I read it, and I’ve returned to it over and over since then, recalling resonant themes and specific images recommending it to everybody who will listen.  I’m just finishing Mitten Strings For God now and it is having a similar impact.  The book is inspiring me in a very real way to be a better and more present mother.  Just today, I surreptitiously read it in between interviews I had with candidates for my “real job,” and came home newly reminded of how important it is to be engaged for Grace and Whit.  We ate a relaxed dinner, enjoyed a long bath time full of laughter, and forfeited television in lieu of reading.  I doubt it’s a coincidence that this was one of the smoothest and most joyful evenings that I can remember with my children.

Katrina is, as I wrote in my review of The Gift of an Ordinary Day, a poet of the everyday.  In her sure and gentle hands the most ordinary moments are burnished into gems.  Through the lens of her eyes I am reminded over and over of the holiness that exists in every single one of our days, and I am called back again to the practice of noticing it.  Katrina writes often on her blog of her own struggles with the very things I grapple with every single day: how to cope with the transience of time, to accept the loss that limns every day, and to be more present in her own life.

If I have learned anything at all these last couple of months, it is that I am still learning how to let go, still caught so often between my wish to stop time in its tracks and my longing to accept with more grace the transience of all things.

When I read these words a couple of weeks ago I gasped audibly: I’ve never heard such a lucid and elegant description of the central tension of my own life.  How did this woman climb into my head?  My heart?  Never mind.  I don’t care how.  I’m glad she did. Katrina expresses the ineffable sadness and incandescent joy that dance together at the heart of the human experience with an eloquence that I regularly feel so keenly it’s like an ache in my chest.

I urge you all to read Katrina’s work – her blog, her books.  She will move you, I guarantee it.  When she read at the Mother’s Plunge on September 18th there was not a dry eye in the room.  Yet they were the special kind of tears that inspire joy, commitment, and engagement even as they acknowledge sorrow.  Katrina’s books stir something deep in me, touch that molten core of what it means to be a person in this world.  Run, don’t walk, to read them.  They will change your life.  That is not an exaggeration.

Because I believe so fiercely in Katrina’s work, and can speak so personally and authentically about how it has affected me, I’m eager to share this with you all.  My first giveaway!  I’m delighted to give away a signed copy of both Mitten Strings For God and The Gift of an Ordinary Day.  Just leave a comment and I’ll draw names in a couple of days.  You won’t regret it, I swear.  The only person I know lucky enough to have a signed copy of The Gift of an Ordinary Day is my own mother (no pressure, Mum, but you can read that at any time), and that’s because I got it for her the other weekend.

And now, without further ado, I share Katrina’s wise, and incomparably thoughtful responses to my questions.

1. When have you felt most present?  Are there specific memories that stand out for you?

Surprisingly, some of my most difficult, painful moments of parenthood have also turned out to be the moments that remain indelibly imprinted on my brain.  An unexpected turn of events, a child’s poor decision, a surprising discovery or confession — and suddenly we are both in brand new territory.  That can be pretty scary, knowing that my reaction in this moment could either support my child’s growth and continued trust in me, or make an already distressing situation even worse.  Whether it’s having third-grade son come to me in tears because he’s being bullied in gym class, or walking in on a sixteen- year-old sneaking a cigarette, these are the kinds of memories that remain sharp and viscerally clear for years afterward.

I’ve found that what I need to do in these moments is to stop, take a deep breath, summon all my love, and then proceed carefully in the direction of truth —  no matter how hard the truth is to say or hear, and even when the behavior that’s led us to this place may not have been lovable at all.
It’s always been easy for me to feel whole and connected with my kids in the sweet, precious moments when all seems right with the world.  What’s hard for me is keeping those lines of love and communication open when the going gets rough.  One thing I’m still learning is that  being fully present in these moments means not reacting from a place of fear or anger — all too easy to do when it feels as if your child’s entire future is at stake — but rather from a place of authentic care and concern.  That kind of response demands a certain vulnerability on my part, and a willingness to be totally present, even when it hurts.  It calls for faith, too, lots of it–faith that no matter how hard the moment is, we’ll all get through, we’ll be okay, all will be well.  It’s taken years, but I’m finally getting to the place where I truly believe that.

2. Do you have rituals or patterns that you use to remind you to Be Here Now?

My yoga practice has definitely helped me to be less reactive to the ups and downs of everyday life. Confronting challenges on a yoga mat, year after year, really has given me a way to move through life with a little less attachment to outcomes, and a great deal more appreciation for process.  As my first teacher, Rolf Gates, used to say at the end of class:  “We show up, we burn brightly in the moment, we . . . ., and when the moment is over, when our work is done, we step back and let go.”  THese days, as the mother of a seventeen year old and twenty year old, I feel as if my life is all about knowing when my work is done, and when it’s time for me to step back and let go.

3. Do you have specific places or people that you associate with being particularly present?  Who?  Where?  Any idea why?

Four years ago, a very dear friend, just my age, was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer.  She entered treatment with incredible courage and determination, and not a day has gone by when she hasn’t inspired me to live my own life with more awareness.  Her appreciation for each ordinary day she’s been given has been a powerful reminder to me that that every moment is precious, every day meaningful, every loving gesture significant.

My friend never wanted to be anyone’s spiritual teacher, she just wanted to be a mom and a wife and to live a good, long purposeful life full of simple pleasures and family times.  Instead, she was handed the job of showing all of us who love her how to look your own mortality in the eye, and, at the same time, how to find the joy in each day’s doings.  When I sit with her now, as she concludes her work here on this earth, we are both fully, absolutely present.  It is so rare, so extraordinary, to cut right to the essence of things in every conversation, to be fully aware of the fleeting beauty of the moment.

4. Have you ever meditated?  How did that go?

I’m well-intentioned and sporadic .  I have meditated for periods of time over many years, and then drifted away for a while–usually when I need it most — and then come back to it.  Right now, there is a lot of intensity in my life, so much going on that seems to need processing and that takes up a lot of time and energy.  And I’m returning to my spot, meditating as a way to step out of the flow and reset my course. Sitting very still in the midst of all the drama feels like a great relief.  I am learning that I can put down my burdens, sit on the floor, and just be quietly aware — this feels more and more like an essential thing to do, and my mat a safe and restorative place to be.

5. Has having children changed how you think about the effort to be present?

I have had children for so long now that I can’t even remember life before kids.  My sons are 17 and 20, which means that these days they come and go.  And so when they both happen to be home at the same time, every single family meal feels precious.  Every night that they are in their own beds in their own rooms is a special night.  I’m getting used to the fact that they both have lives elsewhere, that my mothering job has been transformed, that the time I thought would never come–children grown and away from home–is already here.  That is poignant and wonderful, both.  We raise them to let them go.  But when my kids ARE around, oh my, I am totally present.  And grateful.

6. And just cause I’m curious, what books and songs do you love?

I love being in the car with either one of my boys and listening to their iPods.  Fortunately, their tastes are wide-ranging and excellent and they are happy to play DJ for me and introduce me to their music–Cat Empire and Jamie Cullum are current favorites of mine, thanks to Jack and Henry.
Left to my own devices, I usually listen to Kundalini yoga chant, Deva Premal, Snatam Kaur, Krishna Das.  And then, always, a little Alison Krauss, Joni Mitchell, Madeleine Peyroux.
I was the editor of the Best American Short Stories for sixteen years, which meant that I read thousands and thousands of short stories.  I still love them–John Updike, Alice Munro, Lorrie Moore are in the pantheon.  But mostly these days I read memoirs –Dani Shapiro, Florida Scott Maxwell, Maya Angelou, Gail Caldwell, Karen Maezen Miller, Elizabeth McCracken.  Right now, I’m listening to The Great Gatsby on audio with my son Jack, and we’re both in awe of every sentence.  And if I could be re-incarnated as my favorite writer, well, that would be Mary Oliver.  No surprise there.
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It’s hard for me to add anything here, so I won’t even try.  Other than to express my profound gratitude to Katrina for answering these questions, and, maybe more importantly, to the universe, for bringing her, her words, her example, her wisdom into my life.  I’d love to hear from those of you who have been similarly affected by Katrina’s work – I know there are many out there.
Please leave a comment for a chnace to receive a signed book of Katrina’s!

Truly remarkable to be seen

I was surprised and pleased by the response I got to Friday’s post, which honestly felt to me like a bit of a cop-out when I wrote it.  “Wrote” being a euphemism, of course, because I did more photo uploading than anything.  No big aha or any insight at all, even.  Just a couple of snapshots – literally, from my iphone – of my ordinary life.

And then Tanya wrote this in her comment:

What you have just managed to do here, and what your readers are clearly connecting with, is that joy is everywhere. And it is a worthwhile exercise to take stock. Now. Not later. Now.

I responded to her and said thank you, that her words made me cry.  And she wrote right back with these words, whose kindness is so tangible I feel it radiating off the page even now:

The way you find the time and space to notice joy IS joy to me. And YOU are joy, because you are love.

And I replied, again, saying “The thing is I’m not really aware of noticing it until people (like you) point it out. Thank you.”  And Tanya, ever wise, ever steady, ever there, answered:

Truly remarkable to be seen, isn’t it?

Yes, yes, it is.  I’ve written about this over and over, I realize.  Some themes just emerge, gradually and of their own volition, from the morass of my writing.  Others come to me in a single flash of awareness, like shook foil or lightning, and they are suddenly so true it’s impossible to imagine living without them. 

Being seen, known, acknowledged is a central desire of mine.  Feeling safe is an aching need, deep inside me, one that I’ve only recently realized has gone largely unmet.  As recently as last week I mused on this: “A critical task of our lives is to truly see those we love for who they are, even when that means accepting that there are mysteries inside of them that we will never understand.  To release them from the cage of what we so desperately want them to be, so that they may flourish into who they are.”

Tanya’s words reminded me of all of this, over again.  I feel so intensely grateful for those few people in this world who have really seen me.  Who have seen me and met me with compassion instead of expectation or an agenda of their own.  Who have seen me in my sometimes-contradictory confusion and recognized it for what it is: the kaleidoscope of a person.  Who have patiently walked beside me, often in silence, as I traverse these roads.

I’m incredibly privileged to have known a handful of these people, and they know who they are.  Thank you.