Tag: anxiety relief

Encountering the Grand

I saw the Grand Canyon from the ground for the first time yesterday. 

That statement deserves its own paragraph. #iykyk

No words can describe the experience of standing on the rim of such an awe-inspiring phenomenon and witnessing that scale of grandeur in real time. Many have tried to document its size and beauty visually and verbally, but nothing compares to experiencing it in person. I get it now. 

After we arrived to our new home in New Mexico in February, Daniel quickly got about orienting us to the many roadtrip possibilities we now have access to. He was fortunate to experience the Grand Canyon for the first time years ago with a friend, while they were serving together as JAGs in the U.S. Air Force. It means the world to me that Daniel chose to prioritize the Canyon as our first family roadtrip destination for the July 4th holiday weekend so I, too, could share in such a wondrous experience. 

The three of us – Daniel, Fischer, and I – left Thursday after work and headed west for an all in all, four-and-a-half hour drive from Placitas, NM to Flagstaff, AZ. The wide open spaces of the southwest are sometimes visually overwhelming for me when behind the wheel, so Daniel was kind enough to drive the vast part of the journey. The squared-off buttes and jagged cliffs, red rocks and green pastures, rivers and full-length freight trains, and entirely different weather systems on one side of the horizon from the other – so much beauty to take in. As the elevation rose, so did the greenness around us. By the time we arrived in Flagstaff, the landscape was filled with evergreens, and the cooler temperatures had turned the air extra crisp. 

Yesterday morning, July 4, we headed to the Grand Canyon to beat the crowds. We selected Mather’s Point as our first stop. As the sidewalk curved toward the lookout point and the top edge of the canyon came into view, I could see families out on the ledge taking photos and taking it all in. I saw a section of the rim off to the right where no one else had stopped, so I detoured us that way so my first encounter with the Canyon could be mine and mine alone. As we stepped up to the railing, the only word that escaped my lips for a good three minutes, was a whispered ‘wow.’ My eyes scanned left and right, up and down, near and far, then to Daniel’s and Fischer’s faces, and then back through it all again. Sacred – that’s the only way I can describe it. Silence and stillness were the only possible reactions. So we stood there, breathing it in, just the three of us. 

And it was everything. 

I strongly believe that nature is the healing elixir that most powerfully brings us back to ourselves. That quiets the anxieties, soothes the fears, and clarifies perspective. When we have encounters with places and spaces that involuntarily stun and silence the inner noise and flood us with stillness and space to realign and reset.  When awe and gratitude are the only possible responses.  Where our feet of clay directly intersect with the unexplainable wisdom and immeasurable creativity of our God. 

That’s where the healing happens.  

‘when breath becomes air’

I just finished reading Paul Kalanithi’s book, When Breath Becomes Air, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer in 2016 and this month’s pick for my book club. The book is a memoir of the last seven years of Paul’s life when the grueling hours of a neurosurgical residency burn intensely on one end, a diagnosis of terminal cancer hungrily devours the other, and beautiful, brutal truths reveal themselves in the quickly diminishing space between. The closing chapter was authored by Paul’s wife, Lucy, as she describes Paul’s final days, burial and the legacy he is leaving behind through his research discoveries in neuroscience, the countless lives changed through his surgical expertise, and now through his story. The final page is a family portrait of Paul and Lucy and their eight-month-old daughter. 

When I closed the finished book, I cried alligator tears produced by actual sobs, thinking about the difficulty of his chosen profession, his triumph of reaching graduation, and his desire to bravely continue practicing as long as he could knowing that he was going to die before his daughter would be old enough to remember him. And the strength and presence of mind of his wife as they faced the weight of their reality together. What a read. I came in from the patio with swollen eyes and craving long squeezes from my guy. 

Later in the morning, Daniel and I went to the beach. He was laying on a blanket getting sun on his back, and I was sitting in one of the reclining chairs watching the gulls feed. I looked to my right and saw a man and a woman walking together. They looked to be in their eighties and had stopped to inspect some shells on the shore. They were holding hands – his left, her right – and in their opposite hands, each held a mask and snorkel signaling they had just wrapped up a morning swim. 

“I want to be those people,” I said to Daniel. He raised his head up. “Which ones?” he asked. “You know the ones,” I said, nodding in their direction. He smiled and rested his head back on his forearms. 

The couple resumed their walk, and as they passed by my chair, I had to speak to them. 

“I love your love!” I said. They smiled, and the man took a few steps my way with his arms stretched out to his sides. I thought he may give me a hug. “What was that?” he asked as he got closer and I remembered their age. I stood up from my chair and walked toward them at the surf. 

“I love your love,” I said a bit slower and louder, and drawing an imaginary heart around them for emphasis. “It’s so obvious that you love each other very much.” 

“Oh, thank you!” he said proudly, with a hint of an English accent, watered down from a lifetime in the states. 

“How long have you been together?” I asked. He looked lovingly at his wife and then said, “Well, we got married in 1958, so that should tell you something.” 

“Wow, that’s beautiful,” I said, watching him again take his wife’s hand. “Enjoy your walk.” They thanked me, smiled and continued on their way. Daniel raised his head up again and watched with me as they walked away. “I knew you were going to have to speak to them,” he said. “Yep,” I replied with tears welling in my eyes. 

Sixty-eight years together, and they are still active and enjoying each other’s company. “That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, truly,” I said, my voice breaking a bit. 

It really had been. Thinking about the gift of longevity and that couple’s many years together contrasted with the chasm of loss and what might have been in the book I had just finished reading.

“Think about it…,” I said. “If we are together that long, then it’s a blessing to think we’re not yet even a third of the way through our marriage!” 

“Oh Lord,” Daniel said sarcastically, his voice muffled on his arms. 

I got out of my chair and sat on his bum, stretching out my back along his. 

“Tailbone to tailbone,” I said, rocking side to side and giggling at his groans. 

As I leaned my head back against his and closed my eyes, I gave thanks for silliness after 20 years of marriage and the gift that couple had given me – the hope that this really could be just the beginning. 

sleep, interrupted

Too much caffeine. Anxiety. A racing mind. An unresolved conflict. A suddenly remembered to-do. There are a million and one reasons why insomnia makes its way into the most intimate room in our homes when we are in our most vulnerable state and decides, unbeknownst to us, that tonight’s the night it will do its dirty work.

Ugh.  

More times than not, I am a really good sleeper, and I am grateful for it. I’m also a really deep sleeper. (Just ask the brother of the girl I babysat when I was a teenager about the time he had to crawl through an unlocked window because he forgot his key, and I slept through the repeated clanging of the doorbell.) 

I have definitely become a lighter sleeper as I’ve gotten older, but I still rarely wake up wide awake in the middle of the night. A la the Dos Equis guy, I don’t always wake up in the middle of the night, but when I do, I make it really count. 

I have tried all the tried and true solutions – keeping a notebook by the side of my bed to write down whatever recently remembered task has popped into my mind so I don’t lay there committing it to memory and worrying I will have forgotten it by the time I wake up. I’ve tried counting backward from 100, only to wish I had started at 1,000. I’ve tried the get-up-and-pee-in-the-dark method, the drink-warm-milk method, the read-myself-back-to-sleep method, the fan-favorite toss and turn method, the release-your-muscles-head-to-toe method, and the fuck-it-just-go-ahead-and-get-up method.  

Through the years, some of these tricks have worked from time to time, but none of them have ever worked consistently. So, I invented my own (at least I think it’s an original one, but if I have inadvertently borrowed it from someone, I apologize. And to that someone, I owe you a drink and a debt of gratitude).

Here’s how it works. (I prefer to start out laying on my back, but hey, you do you…)

First, mentally state your intention to go back to sleep. This step may seem unnecessary, but the thing is, if given the chance, our minds will crank up into runaway trains and do a day’s worth of thinking within a few minutes of darkness. That’s why this first step is crucial – you must first decide you are ready to back to sleep, commit to doing so, and give your body (and your mind) permission to drift off. Once you’ve done that, it’s time to begin. Maybe you’ll need all 10 steps, or maybe not. As long as you fall asleep, it’s working.

#1) Consciously will your body to become as heavy as possible. I don’t know about you, but if I tell myself to “relax”, it’s often counterproductive and way too metaphysical. Instead, telling myself to “be heavy” seems less challenging and like a real, measurable thing I can accomplish, no problem.

#2) Do a quick body scan from your head to your toes and notice if any of your muscles are rebelling from this exercise and still attempting to levitate you from your mattress. As you find them, release them. All of them. Even those sneaky ones that tend to fly under the radar. In your jaw, your tongue, your belly, your calves, your biceps – even in your eyeballs. Release everything. 

#3) Focus on where your skin meets your sheets (or your pj’s if you’re not a birthday suit sleeper like me). Feel the warmth of your skin. Relish your sheets, their softness. Stay here for as many moments as you like as you allow your body to sink deeper and deeper against and within your sheets.

#4) Shift your attention to your mattress. Notice if it’s soft or firm. If it’s thick or thin. If it’s smooth or tufted. Scan your mind’s eye across your mattress. See its stitching, its inner materials, its full shape and scope. Consciously become even heavier, and give your mattress permission to hold you. All of you.

#5) In your mind’s eye, scan the rectangular edge of your mattress all the way around. Then notice where your mattress meets its base. Maybe you have a box spring. Or an adjustable base. Maybe a bunk or a platform. Whatever setup you have, visualize your mattress resting on top of its base, and feel each of its layers beneath your body. Grow heavier as you rest more and more deeply into these trustworthy, capable layers of support.

#6) Visualize each of the four feet of your bed. Take your time assessing each corner. Get curious. Examine where each foot stands on the floor. Notice how the weight of your bed squishes your carpet or how the tile, wood, laminate, or concrete supports the bed’s weight without concern, without complaint. Sink your body even deeper into rest.

#7) Now visualize moving beneath the floor, descending inch by inch as inside a glass elevator going lower and lower.  If you live in a condo or apartment, visualize each floor of your descent. See the ceiling, the room, the floor. The ceiling, the room, the floor. Let each layer pass through your mind’s eye.  Keep going until you reach the very bottom and can now see the inner workings of your home or building.  See the pipes, the wiring, the joists.  Each well-designed and functioning part. Allow your body to feel even heavier. 

#8) Now take your perspective even lower, descending slowly until you reach the foundation of your home. Scan the vastness of the belly of your home, the structure that protects you year-round from sun, heat, wind, rain, snow, cold. Feel the concrete beneath you, sitting heavily upon the soil. Observe how the foundation of your home holds everything else above it, sturdy and strong.  Think of the years this foundation has been right here holding everything up, and the many years from now when it will still be here, steadfast, supporting this home. Still and strong. Allow the foundation of your home to hold you. Heavy, relaxed, and whole.  

#9) Move your perspective beneath the foundation and onto the soil. Feel the cool earth, dark and shaded. Feel how it softly, yet firmly, holds the foundation and the entirety of your home. Visualize the flattened earth directly below the foundation, and then scan the soil to the edges of the structure it holds, imagining in your mind’s eye how the soil slopes up to meet the crisp air. It is dark. Safe. Quiet. Still. Peaceful.  

#10) Finally, visualize each layer of support beneath your body, starting with the soil and ascending layer by layer, pausing on each one for a brief moment of gratitude. The earth. The foundation of your home. The structural innerworkings. The floor. The bed frame. The mattress base. The mattress. The fitted sheet. Your skin. The top sheet. The blanket. The room around you. The ceiling. The sky. Infinite space.  

You are held. You are safe. You are whole. 

You are held. You are safe. You are whole.

Give in to your drowsy dreams. 

Give in to comforting sleep. 

Rest well and renew. 

you’re going to be okay

When children fall down, they instinctively show their vulnerability. Sometimes they show it through tears or verbal cries. Maybe the fall was painful (real tears). Maybe it surprised them or scared them (real tears). Maybe they sense an opportunity for attention (not always real tears). Other times, they just need to show us where on their body they fell so they can hear from someone else that they’re okay. However minor, they rarely just get back up and move on without some sort of external acknowledgment that: 1) hey, something unexpected happened to me over there, and 2) I’m going to be okay.

A mosquito bit the top of my foot last night, and I apparently scratched it in my sleep. This morning, I was putting Neosporin and a Band-Aid on it, and I had the urge to go show my husband. I’m in my late 30s and consider myself a fairly independent woman, yet here I was wanting to show somebody my boo-boo. I had to laugh, but then it made me think.

We know that one of the big reasons cognitive behavioral therapy (also known as “talk therapy”) can be so effective is because when we speak aloud our fears/anxieties/vulnerabilities/pain, it allows us to unpack the Big Bad Scary, and bring it down to size. When we can name it for what it is, we can process it and eventually move through it. At several points in my life, I’ve found myself stuck in one (or more) of the steps and benefited greatly from professional therapy by someone trained and credentialed to help me move forward in a healthy way. Journaling, prayer, even voice memos can be really effective pressure valves, but when it comes to the getting unstuck stuff, it’s not enough to just “get it out”. The real magic happens when that other human being is present with us, bearing witness to our pain. My husband, God love him, is a fixer by nature. Sometimes when I need to talk through something I have to tell him: I don’t need you to analyze the problem or propose solutions. I just need you to see me and hear me… and, if you’re feeling really generous, maybe hold me afterward and kiss my hair.

Am I self-reliant? Ummmm, to an extent. Do I also need to be validated from time to time? You betcha. And you do, too. So the next time you tell yourself that you’re “just being needy” maybe there’s more to it. Anthropologists say that we are naturally drawn to fire because our ancestors relied on it for warmth, protection, and community – in other words, for survival. Maybe the child-like urge to show my husband my Band-Aid was an evolved expression of something more primitive. Maybe we’re actually hardwired to share our pain – physical, emotional, psychological and otherwise. The truth is, no matter how old we are and no matter how lightly we land, there will always be healing power in those five precious words: You’re going to be okay.