Tag: anxiety relief

chances

“Chances.” It’s one of those rare words that lives in the past, present, and future, all depending on the context. It can be a future-facing word when used to describe the likelihood that something may happen, as in “Chances are …”

It can be the exact right word for the here and now, as in: “I now have the chance to…”

It can also be a rearview mirror word to express regret, as in: “I had multiple chances to…”

Interesting that my brain wants to frame that last one as failure, ending with something like: “… but I didn’t take them.” Or “but I got distracted and missed out on them.” As if chances by their very liquidy, shifty nature must always be seized, captured, and converted into winnings. But is it so wrong to know you had a chance (or chances) to do something, and instead, you chose to do nothing at all? If not, then why all the guilt?

For the first time in my adult life, I’m unemployed. Well, truthfully, I just launched my own consulting business, but I don’t yet have any clients. There’s a reason for that, but it’s complicated. Just know that, for this week (and maybe a few more), I am getting to choose – for the first time in my adult life – how to spend my time. Being that it’s the first time, as I said, it’s been a bit of an adjustment. Part purgatory, part time warp, part freedom.

Monday was the first day of this new reality, and to be honest, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I did what I always do when I don’t know where to channel my energy. I cleaned. Like super-duper deep cleaned. Like YouTubing how to use a flathead screwdriver to remove the tricky glass from the shelves so I could wipe away the unidentifiable gunk in the corners, clean. I’m pleased to report that my refrigerator is now sparkling, and there’s not an ounce of expired condiments anywhere in sight. Sure, that chore felt good to do for my home, but by day two, I realized I needed to step away from the rubber gloves.

On Tuesday, I planned the week’s menu, made a grocery list, went to the gym, and put all the groceries away before lunch. Then I took a nap, watched a show, and soaked up that rarest of jewels: unstructured time.

Wednesday began with good intentions to spend the day writing, after a quick trip to the dog park, which turned into what I thought was a sprained paw, which led to a visit to the vet and then a pet emergency clinic, and a prescription for pain meds. (Sigh) I’m thrilled nothing was urgently wrong with my baby girl, but also, I hated she had to endure the stress of “ going to the vet” not once, but twice, and maybe there wasn’t a reason to even take her in the first place? Hindsight, I guess. But I did go to the gym that afternoon, which felt like a big win after the rest of my day had run off the rails.

Thursday, I went to Pottery Barn and picked up a new cover for one of our throw pillows that keeps dropping feathers, and I decided to double the expense and get two. I mean, why not? It’s not like I’m not bringing in income right now… oh wait. Then I found this cute little local luggage store where I bought Daniel’s birthday gift – a real beauty of a carry-on, which I justified the pricetag for due to the lifetime warranty, “suitor” feature, and expandable/compressible functionality. It was definitely the most grown-up purchase I’ve made since my mortgage. What can I say? The fact that there are still mom-and-pop shops selling exclusively luggage and travel accessories delights my heart. It just does. So, if I’m going to spring for sticker shock instead of sensible, let it be there.

For dinner, I made spaghetti with a side salad using only ingredients grown in my garden – butterleaf lettuce and radishes, plus fresh parsley to sprinkle on the spaghetti.  Being able to eat things grown from tiny seed specks, watered every day, and lovingly nurtured into recognizable ingredients was a real treat.

Today is Friday, and I haven’t gotten out of my pajamas. And I watched three episodes of reality TV – probably the first time I’ve ever done that. And I mean, ever. And it wasn’t even good. It’s like I wanted to see the ridiculousness that the rest of the world is so transfixed by, but I just didn’t get it. When it was over, I only felt guilty and that I really wanted the past three hours of my life back.

Then a fear started to creep in: maybe this unemployment shtick is revealing me to be one of those people who think they crave freedom only to discover that they’re their healthiest when they are smack dab in the middle of a structured routine. When I was still working full time, I found myself fantasizing about the possibilities this time would bring: rest, the space to create, the opportunity to rediscover the deepest parts of myself, to cash in on all of the chances being presented to me… Okay, yes, I have a teeny bit of a tendency to romanticize, but I will not apologize for being who I am. (There, I said it.)

So here I am in my pajama-ed state, thinking about the definition of “chances” in hopes that, by knowing its etymology, I may be able to better examine how I’m using my own chances this week. There’s gotta be a scoresheet for this kind of thing somewhere…

Merriam-Webster defines “chance” in six different ways – three of them are similar to my past, present, and future usages above. “Chance” is also defined as “risk,” as in “I’m not taking any chances.” The final usage is “chance” as a synonym for “possibility,” as in the likelihood of an outcome. But isn’t there another component to this connection with possibility, as in the possibilities the chances may be presenting? The chances for something great? The chances for positive change and reinvention?

This week has given me numerous chances to think, reflect, ruminate, and meditate. To choose to do or not to do. To explore newness or stay close to the familiar. To accomplish or to rest. My default mode tends to be questioning whether I’m making the right call with all these either/or choices. But chances are not mathematical certainties. If they were, there would be a lot more winning lottery tickets, yes?

By the same logic, I guess there is no right or wrong way to spend your time when given the opportunity – the chance – to choose. Perhaps the rightness can only be measured in the satisfaction of the choice. Or maybe the satisfaction comes from having the agency to choose, not from the choice itself. Or maybe I’m gravitating to that explanation because it absolves me from having watched three hours of “Love is Blind” today – like when I was a kid on summer break and spent the whole day watching VH1 rather than ticking off my assigned chores before indulging in mindless media.

But I don’t have any assigned chores right now, and that’s a really weird frontier for me. Perhaps that’s what makes it the exact right analogy to run with for a while. Like a permission slip to stop overthinking and just go outside and play. After all, kids don’t first run through thought exercises about their own worthiness. They just take the dang hall pass and relish every minute of being on their own. It’s worth a shot…

Cue the mixtape. I’ll be back by suppertime.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, or pass these words along to a friend. Relatability is a powerful antidote. Appreciate you!

slow takes

Today’s writing prompt is about slowing down and using silent observations as a guide for where to begin. The chapter’s author, Rachel Schwartzmann, author of Slowing and the multimedia project Slow Stories, suggests setting a five-minute timer and doing nothing but looking and observing what comes up. This is my slow story.

Gratitude.

For the house around me that has become my first single-family home. For the architect who designed the blueprints, long ago sketching marks on a page to represent rooms that would someday hold space for my life to unfurl. For the vision that formed in the architect’s mind for a home, the last of sixteen Daniel and I would walk through on a cold December day, some 25 years later, and instantly know was meant to be ours.

Gratitude.

For the interior designer who thoughtfully selected each material and texture, like the golden lumber beams shouldering our ceiling’s rough-hewn planks, each positioned beautifully at alternating angles that invite you to lie back, relax, and look. For the round smooth sections of adobe walls that soften square corners and invite your hand to reach out and touch.

Gratitude.

For the muscular, yet delicate fingers of the Moroccan weavers who hand-knit the vanilla and indigo rug beneath my feet as I watch Fischer twist on her back, dancing belly up in its soft shag threads.

Gratitude.

For the craftsman who artfully split the cream and copper ledgestones that would one day become my fireplace hearth, and for the nursery gardener who lovingly cared for the foyer fig tree long before she was mine.

This carved out time of slowing and observing sparked gratitude for the endless stories my home holds – the ones I know, the ones yet to be told, and the ones that will ever remain out of reach.

Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, and pass it along to a friend. Connection is a powerful antidote. Thank you!

alchemy

In this new year, I am aiming to be more intentional in my writing practice. Not just in the doing, but in the cultivating. Deliberately getting into the headspace and rhythms and comings and goings that feed my practice. That attract spark and freshness and – most importantly – the desire to move the ideas from head to hand.

I recently started reading The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life by Suleika Jaouad. Every chapter is a short essay by a different author, each closing with a journaling prompt thematically connected to the essay. I look forward to this book. I am delighted by this book. It is now an essential part of my morning. The way it helps me mine your memories and connect with the deeper parts of myself. The way it kickstarts my creativity for the day ahead. It is one of the best gifts I have given myself. And when I find something I love, my most earnest desire is to share it with others.

Over the next series of posts, I’ll share a selection of the prompts and what came up for me, in hopes it will call to that thing that also lives in you. The creative connection we humans all share.

“Write about a time when you began doing something daily, be it a creative endeavor, a new course of study, or a form of exercise. What prompted you to start it? What obstacles got in the way? When you felt resistance or missed a day, what called you back? What did you gain from it and how might you apply that knowledge to a new daily creative practice?”

Oh, let me count the ways… the numerous endeavors I have aimed to complete daily: exercise, meditation, sweating, scheduling my tasks, journaling, praying…

I detect a theme: they are all tools I believe I need to regularly sharpen in order to be my best self. Inevitably, I get bogged down in the “have to” of the assignment, which usually comes with a self-imposed and wildly unrealistic goal (“every day at 9:02 a.m.!”). When I inevitably miss a step or get off the schedule because, well, life, I view the entire system as one big failure. The goals, the intention behind them, the structure of the schedule, the method of the reminders, all of it.

And here’s the naked, raw, unfiltered reality: I then translate that failed attempt into believing I am the one who is failing to launch. So I must try something else! Some new calendar pad, or a dry-erase board, or getting up an hour earlier, or fill in the blank. Then, ready, set, go, new structure activated! But then the same outcome over and over and over again.

Through the years, I have gotten better at setting realistic expectations and a manageable list of tasks – accepting there are but 24 hours in a day (sigh) and that I am human with undeniable requirements to subsist that my keyboard and computer screen cannot provide. But, if I’m being honest, I still overdo it from time to time. Believing I can squeeze more into my day. That TODAY will be the day I accomplish the ONE GREAT THING on my to-do list. And then, as with every other time, ending the cycle with a big slice of humble pie and, once again, renewing my mindset. But, honestly, isn’t that the point?

To forgive myself, no matter how many times it’s required. To honor the intention of reinvention and reinvestment in myself. To smile at my child-like enthusiasm for the newness. To reflect on the insights gleaned from each round of the rinse-retool-repeat cycle. To give thanks for the learning in my lifelong pursuit to be… me.

Authentically and wholly me.

Please take a moment to like this post, share your thoughts in the comments, and pass it along to a friend. Connection is a powerful antidote. Thank you!

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.