Now Is Enough

Perhaps this next chapter is to be devoted to cultivating the Zen principle of non-attachment. To learning to cherish without holding too tightly.

Raising children somehow kept me nimble, flexible, and open. There was no time to get stuck in any moment, for better or worse. When the little people went through rough patches, it was a relief to realize that it wouldn't last long; but it also meant that triumphs were fleeting. While life was changing so quickly, it was apparent that both the pain and joy created a foundation for future perspective and balance.

But now I've ended up at a place in life that feels like a pit stop that I want to make last forever. It's not perfection, as dear people and once-dear dreams have been already lost along the way. But in sum, this place is more than I ever expected. It shines with promise, it rests lightly on the years past, and it nearly bursts with more happiness than I can hold. So much so that I am suspicious of its beauty and want to hold it so tightly that it can never change.

But change it will. And the more attached I become to the beauty of this particular moment, the harder it is to keep it unpolluted by the knowledge that there are challenges lurking ahead. Therein lies the challenge and the goal. For in order to truly honor and cherish these wonderful people who are the loves of my life, I must hold them ever lightly in my heart, welcome the changes ahead, and realize that now is enough.

The Other Side of the Trenches

I work in an industry in which the majority of my colleagues are not parents. In a fit of madness, I took my first job in this industry the year my first child was born. Perfect timing.

Much of my last quarter century has been consumed with the tension between work and family, and that makes me no different that any other working mom. For decades, I resented the pull that my work exerted on my time with my kids, and I was exhausted by the way my family responsibilities ate into time when I really should've been working. All that time, I looked forward to the day when the diapers and daycare and homework and carpooling would be gone, and the tension would abate.

You know what's coming, don't you?

The predictable part: The kids grew up way too fast, and I have no idea where I misplaced the last 26 years. But I knew that would happen; it's a cliché for a reason.

The surprising part? Having more time to devote to my work is not necessarily a good thing. To be sure, it   is a relief not to be distracted as much. But there was something about having little people who needed me to come home that kept me grounded, kept my worldview wide, kept me out of my own head. I was exhausted and terrified, but I was keenly in touch with who I was and with what mattered.

Now there are other wonderful things calling to me - my own music, my friends, my grownup kids, my husband, books, theatre - but it's far too easy to tune them out. Their demands aren't nearly as insistent as those two young people who forced me to stay in touch with what's important in life. And so I ignore them. At my peril.

The take-away? If you sit where I did decades ago, take some comfort in knowing that the exhaustion and frustration are small and temporary prices to pay for the gift that is your kids. Meanwhile, on the other side of this divide, I will resist the pull to disappear into my job, and I'll honor the lessons that parenthood taught me.

I'm Not Afraid

My kids turned me into a Jason Robert Brown fanatic. Productions of Parade and Songs for a New World in which they sang in high school and college are etched in my memory. And today's inner soundtrack is dominated by "I'm Not Afraid of Anything" from SFANW.

I've recognized that the thing that keeps me from living my life as I should (and as I wish) is fear. An odd revelation, for I have never considered myself a fearful person. But not only is fear a powerful motivator, it's also a pretty sneaky operator.

Fear of failure drives me to dot every "i" and cross every "t" until I've convinced myself that my karma is so spotless that the gods wouldn't dare hand me a bad outcome.

Fear of disappointment leads me to allow everyone else's opinion to trump my own best instincts.

Fear of disapproval forces me to swallow every potentially dissenting opinion and belief, superficially agreeing with things that I resent.

And of course, the imagined outcome of not keeping these fears at bay is far worse that whatever actual repercussions they would bring. And so, armed with courage and optimism, I begin to slay these dragons.

I'm not afraid of anything,

Be it growing old or going out of style.

I'm not afraid of anything,

Who would give up what they want without a trial?

Another mile...

I'm not afraid.

Subtraction

The annual late August detox has turned into the September Desperate To Get My Life In Order Master Plan.

I stumbled onto my own blog today and skimmed these few dozen posts spanning over 3 years. And I thought that I'd really like to know this woman who is so honest and wishes to be wise. So I will fight my tendency to believe that writing on these pages is selfish and self-centered. Or perhaps I will just acknowledge that it is indeed selfish, but that such selfishness is no longer a vice.

The detox is all about subtraction. I've done it enough times in my roller coaster work life to be intimately familiar with it. 

Visual subtraction, in which I purge everything within my sight that isn't beautiful or highly functional. 

Aural subtraction, in which huge swaths of silence are punctuated occasionally by embarrassing new age music played on a single instrument, with no interesting artistic content... the musical equivalent of warm milk, I guess.

Physical subtraction, in which my daily caloric intake is cut in half, with a satisfying (yet sadly typically short-lived) loss of extra pounds.

Interpersonal subtraction, in which my social world shrinks to my husband and children, and the occasional conversation with a neighbor.

Time subtraction, in which my internal speedometer slows to a crawl, so completely against the grain, but somehow the most important gesture of all.

And this time, one addition: returning to write in these pages. So that perhaps the woman who writes here will have the courage to take over the rest of my life.

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in*

Thank you, dear Presidents Washington and Lincoln, for being born in February and giving us this federal holiday. First day off in over a month, and wow, do I need it.

Having a day with no clock demands is the secret to almost everything. Oddly enough, I still get a lot done, but I am significantly more grounded and calm. Routine is helpful, yes, but I am consumed with the regimentation of it, and I end up spending endless energy managing the system and not the content. When I'm not watching the clock for the next landmark (or staring with panic at the minutes slipping away) am fully present. Perhaps I just need to turn into one of those people who are unpredictably late and otherwise undependable :)

(*Henry David Thoreau)

Losing Myself in my Work

It would seem like a good thing. It conjures up images of immersion in something that is exciting and rewarding; of letting go of all of the habits and fears that get in the way.

Possibly all of those things are true, and yet there is a trap.

During almost half of every calendar year I lose myself in my work, and when I emerge, it feels like a sad and scary mistake. The work itself is wonderful, and of course, the devil's advocate position is that it might not have been so wonderful had I not given up my soul to it. The ongoing challenge is figuring out whether it's worth it.

The things that make us most valuable to the people around us and the circles in which we travel are those things that are at the core of our beings. Our instincts, value systems, courage, hearts, and souls. When I lose myself, I lose traction with all of those things. I draw upon them, but it's mostly a one-way transaction. And when I step off the treadmill, I find them in short supply, replaced by anger, fear and sadness.

The only parallel experience was that of raising my children. But that trade-off was voluntary and conscious, and the potential rewards loomed large. A couple decades' worth of sacrificing chunks of my sanity, health, and desires to those of my kids was part of the bargain. An investment of sorts; not the kind with a guaranteed return, but one that demanded to be made. This is similar but somehow different.

It's a useful skill to be able to switch off personal feelings, opinions, and desires. It certainly clears out all of the noise and facilitates focusing on work that needs to be done. But I actually kind of like that woman who gets buried deep inside the machine. And when I struggle to be reintroduced to her, I find that I missed her more than I knew.

Sunday Before Work

Every day should start like this.

Rested, after a day off and a dreamless night's sleep.
Slow enough for stretching.
With sunshine in the garden, still in its late spring uncomplicated prepubescence.
Filled with unhurried time at the piano.
Offering slow time in these beautiful spaces built by someone I love.
In the wake of a visit from loved ones, who are happy and healthy.
Knowing that my children are finding their way into their own lives.
Without hurry.

Stop Time

During the fragments of my musical life when I would need to make down-and-dirty charts for percussionists, I picked up a few basic terms. "Stop time" meant that the tempo proceeded apace, but the drummer would temporarily suspend whatever percussion pattern had been established. Stop time allows something else to come into focus briefly - vocals, keyboard, bass, etc - before returning to business as usual.

As the name of the blog suggests, I am currently obsessed with all things time-related. The drumbeat that is life pushes us on, for better or worse, and I certainly don't wish for a full stop. I just need for the beat to silence itself periodically. The tempo moves on, but the urgency dissipates, and the pulse floats by on the air.

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.

That Time of the Year

I need to find a new favorite time of year. I had always loved September and December.

The former for its promise of a new start. (Forget January 1; the time to start fresh has always been the beginning of the new school year.)

And the latter, for the approaching sights and sounds of Christmas. Not the shopping (to which I seem to be allergic) and the other commercial parts of Christmas; but rather the dogged infusion of Advent light that denies the lengthening of the nights, and the vulnerable sounds of unaccompanied carols.

After a few years of struggling to reclaim the comfort I used to find in early fall and early winter, I think I may need to move on. Three Septembers ago my mother died suddenly, on a crisp fall day that should have felt like a fresh new beginning. In subsequent years, the accumulated mental fatigue of my summer job and the cyclic reminder of my mom's passing have made September a hurdle.

But I expected that. Not a person who has lost a loved one can help but mark that anniversary. It is early December that surprises me. I have a great job that requires a brief intense period of travel every November. Returning home at Thanksgiving should be, in contrast, a particularly enjoyable time. But somehow it's increasingly accompanied by soul-searching of the worst sort - the kind that feeds on fatigue. And, as I finally realized today, this time of year still belongs to my mother.

See, Christmas was her hobby. She and my dad ran a small cottage business making and selling holiday crafts. Adorable, whimsical and beautiful creations. I always coveted them and enjoyed picking out one of each year's new items from whatever was left over after the series of fall craft shows. So I should take some comfort in that fact that I now have one of pretty much every design she ever made. The truth is that it's overwhelming. My son helped me take 24 boxes out of the attic yesterday. There's no way I can display all of these charming angels and snowmen and Saint Nicks and wreaths. And the act of sorting through them every Christmas is beginning to defeat me.

Clearly a problem that needs to be and will be solved. In the meantime, I am trolling for a new favorite season. This year I have my sights and my hopes pinned on April.

I believe in the tradition of gratitude journals, but I've never been disciplined enough to keep one, and my "real" blog isn't conducive to such things. So here's my Thanksgiving 2008 list. Longer than the typical 5, and a bit more overarching.

• Good health. Can't be overrated.
• Kind, intuitive, loving children. Two of my favorite people in the world.
• A tireless, wise husband who will never let me forget how to laugh.
• Stable, challenging, rewarding work. Grounded, empathetic colleagues.
• Music. Even if I ignore its essence for months at a time. It's always there when I come back.
• Home. I've often been embarrassed about caring, but am realizing that I shouldn't be.
• Time. Eigenzeit. It's doesn't give up its secrets easily, but it's there if I just look for it.

The Plan

Yes, I had a plan. Five months ago I was full of confidence about it. And the fact that I haven't written in as many months doesn't mean that the plan didn't work. It wasn't a wild success, mind you. But it made a dent.

The plan was born of cruel self-examination, and it is characteristically bullet-pointed and compulsive. (To purge those obsessions would've truly been beyond its scope.) It seems odd to say that it's too personal to divulge here, but it probably is. Its primary characteristics are a quest for mindfulness and release from worry. Too much of life escapes my notice. And I'm only beginning to learn that the things that prompt the most anxiety are not the ones that will get you in the end.

Percentage effectiveness? Probably somewhere in the high single digits. But I'll take it, for a start. Even though I almost lost sight of myself many times (the key word being "almost"), most of the time I could conjure up a shadow or a glimmer of recognition.

So it's back to work - refining and recommitting, reintroducing myself.

Transitions

My kids are in transition years. And I get weepy every time I think about it. What's going on here?

I who remained (not resolutely, just by default) dry-eyed at every other milestone, am not able to keep my heart in one piece when I think about my daughter graduating from college... Previously taking perverse pride in being unsentimental, I now can't look at my new high-school-graduate son without tearing up.

What's that about?

A Plan

I decided to walk until I had a plan. It only took about 10 miles.

I believe it's a good plan, too. There's something about putting one foot in front of the other for a few hours that gets the brain in gear. Almost as if the cogs are intertwined, and the feet are an engine that clears the haze. I forget this at my peril.

Too too many weeks (in truth, months) have passed in a state of agitation and lethargy. It must be stopped. And now I have a plan.

Lessons

Some lessons learned in this spring of 2008:

You can't force someone to grow. I've always known this in my heart, but I suspected that my unwillingness to take a tough approach to teaching came from weakness rather than philosophy. But a recent case study reinforces the stupidity of believing that any of us wield enough power to force another person to learn, to change, to grow. All we can do is provide an environment that allows risk-taking.

Details are double-edged swords. Ignore them at your peril. But fixate on them disproportionately and they become missiles of destruction.

Just when you think they weren't paying attention, kids will demonstrate that they have absorbed more than you ever wanted them to. If only we could pass on only our better traits to the next generation.

Having a tenuous grasp on the past can also be a blessing. Forgetting has its liabilities, but the ability to move on may be a gift.

The biggest lessons come as a surprise. A friend who faces terminal illness with grace, another who lives with faith despite crushing economic hardship, a loved one who has the courage to be happy again.

Saturation

My brother taught me that rainy days provide some of the best opportunities for nature photography. Even though bright sunny days seem optimal, the color is most saturated on days like today.

The rain is more welcome than I had anticipated. This week's dose of spring sunshine was exhilarating, but the rain is what I needed.


I'm not a true nature girl, but I relish the power of nature to lift me outside myself, to provide gentle external larger-than-myself motion that somehow quiets my mind. It's why we love the seashore and the fireside. The waves and the flames create a rhythm that's far more harmonious than the frantic rhythm of our own minds. So I submit to the motion of the rain and the drama of the thunder, and I find some of the clarity I've buried beneath the debris of my thoughts.

Taking the camera out in the rain also brought the opportunity to spend time with loved ones. My mom's Garden Angels keeping watch over the flowers, my grandmother's old water pump, and my husband's grandfather's wagon wheel.

Moving On

I just made a familiar commute for probably the last time. A short-term arrangement took me periodically to a town a few hours south of home, and now my reason for driving there is gone. I've never been one to be sentimental about the past, but I'm entering what I sense will be a period of change that will challenge me more than any before.

I shall miss Route 29, oddly enough. I've grown up a lot on this road, perhaps more than I have almost anywhere else. My first dozen trips were fraught with sadness and fear. Incrementally, the anxiety was replaced with quiet happiness and optimism.

This time, there was wistfulness. These days are good days, and I'm not sure I want to let them go.

Heaven

I'm a believer, but I've never felt as if the tools we're given in this life are sufficient to understand what lies beyond. But recently I've discerned a definition of heaven that doesn't feel earthbound.

Heaven is a place where all the people you've ever loved are happy.

Serenity Prayer

I came of age in the 60's and the 70's, and the Serenity Prayer was a bit of a cliche. That powerful mantra that helped so many people get their lives back from all sort of addiction and abuse became trite. So it's receded into a cobwebbed corner of my mind.

Time to dust it off. I tend to be full of misbegotten courage to change the things I think I can. But I'm coming up way short on the acceptance and wisdom parts. I am, more and more, trying to operate outside what the motivational speakers call my "circle of influence."

I don't exactly know why, but I sense that I do need to figure out the reasons before this will be fixed.