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.