What the Monkeys are Saying

I am no stranger to Monkey Mind. Mocking the quest for tranquility, the monkeys swing relentlessly from branch to branch, careening from thought to thought. I don't know when the monkeys took over, but I suspect it was very early on. And the signs that their hold on me is strengthening are getting easier to spot.

My life seems to have chugged along fairly successfully in part because of my monkey mind. Multi-tasking, we call it on a good day. ADD when it gets out of control. Its rewards are many and not to be scoffed at - high productivity, breadth of knowledge, wide-ranging experiences, quick response time.

Yet, the tree-swinging must at least be put in slow motion.

It was foolish and naive to believe that by the time I reached this point in my life, I would turn into one of those people who spends her days in cleansing breaths and clarity of mind. Just like all of those extra pounds, the skirmish with the monkeys will probably always be with me. So lately, I picture them dropping one by one into the forest - first with panic when they let go, then dissolving in laughter when they hit the cushiony trampoline at the bottom.

Rather than shut them down completely, I've been lately listening to them first, trying to get to the bottom of their persistence. And surprise, surprise, there is an overwhelming theme. It's so violently against the grain of what I believe that it's hard to acknowledge and harder to address. So patience is in order. I will sit with their message for a while, let it wash over me, and hope that clarity emerges.

Crying in the Paint Aisle

My mom was the one who could see. Who could create beautiful things with her hands. Who knew how to make her environment lovely.

She made almost all of the aesthetic decisions about my home for my entire adult life. Painting the walls, choosing the wallpaper, making the curtains. Because she was good at it, and I was lost in it. It was a happy marriage. Now that she's gone, and it's once again time to attack interior design, I am completely lost. And so I stand in the paint aisle at the Home Depot and cry.

This is when I would've called her, and she would've talked me through it - from the overwhelming color choices to the stupid gloss/satin/eggshell/matte decision. She would've clucked a bit at my inability to grasp it all, but been happy to ply her expertise.

To the extent that I can traffic at all in things like gardening and home decorating, I owe it all to her. Since she's been gone, I live between two extremes. Either to admit that these talents were truly hers and stop dabbling in them myself, or to continue to honor her memory by applying what little I managed to absorb. I know what the solution is. But like all children - grown or not - who have lost a parent, I really want her to take care of it instead.

Scratch the Surface

There are waves beneath the surface. Often they churn for a very long time before breaking through. I'm not surprised by them, just by their persistence. And also by the way I resist giving in to them.

Repression, they call it. I come from a long line of private, quiet stock, and we're not good at giving in to our emotions. Most of the time, it seems like a good idea. Perhaps it isn't a bad strategy in the long run, but sometimes I envy those folks who allow the veneer to crack.

The days are too few and the years are too short, and somehow there's no one to keep us from wasting them.