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Hot Tracks

Hot tracks in natureA number of years ago, I read a magazine article by life coach Martha Beck about ‘hot tracks.’  If a hunter is tracking an animal, one approach is to find concrete evidence, or a hot track, of the animal’s existence – a paw print in mud, scat, a recent meal, etc.  From that physical point, the hunter then chooses a logical direction in which the animal might have gone, and pursues looking for more recent hot tracks.  If no further signs appear, the hunter returns to the place she knows the animal once visited and chooses another direction.

Now, when we use that as a metaphor for the internal searches in our own lives, a hot track for us becomes a moment of excitement, a feeling of aliveness, a dot of true presence.  What’s going on around us when that moment comes?  Take note of what the scene holds – thoughts, feelings, environment, memories – because this can be wildly useful information as we seek out more authentically joyful experiences for ourselves and our children.  And they are not as rare as we might think.

Here’s one of mine.  My family lives in a small community surrounding a lake, and the last year has witnessed an impressive dredging project.  One evening, we wandered down to the empty lake bed to find a flatbed 18-wheeler spinning its wheels in the mud.  The bulldozer intended for its cargo was pushing the massive truck sideways and at odd angles to help the truck wheels grab ground again.  This scene lit up every neuron in my head, folks.  I was dancing around in the street, hooting and hollering support, offering an additional set of eyes for the task.  When they finally managed it – a husband and wife team, mom in the truck, dad in the ‘dozer – I wanted to hug them both.

This probably sounds silly to you, and that’s ok.  It’s likely not your hot track — it’s mine.  Participating in or even just observing the process of creating unusual solutions is something that makes me dance in the streets.  If I’d been looking for a new career in that moment, an observer might have (wrongly) signed me up for large equipment management certification.  But no, return to the concrete evidence and search again, this was totally about problem-solving, about working one’s way out of a tight spot that initially looks hopeless.  I just love that.

Hot tracks in our lives can also be more subtle. They are as useful in seeking out self-care opportunities as they are in helping our children find a really good fit in an afterschool activity, but only if we’re listening carefully.  A few minutes ago, someone said the words “hot stone massage” to me.  My brain lit up like Manhattan at midnight, even though other friends specifically saying “you should consider getting a massage next week” had no impact at all.  I am beginning to listen more carefully to these messages, even when I don’t know why it’s something I find exciting.

Hot tracks are messages to ourselves that something here is worth paying attention to; something here is related to the things we are uniquely wired  to want; something here should be pursued again and again.  Acting on a hot track builds trust with our younger selves and with our children — “hmmm, someone here is going to take me seriously… what else might I feel safe enough to share?”

Play

I looooove jigsaw puzzles.  I experience them as pure play, joyful by virtue of their colors, the snap of the fit, the act of creation, even the smell of a fresh box.  I also suspect my brain aligns in interesting ways when I’ve given it time with a puzzle. After 20-30 minutes at the puzzle table for a couple of days running, I become aware of taking in information differently.  I stop thinking about where to find a particular piece and instead let my hand find and place it without effort.  This utilization of my subconscious – which, by the way, has vastly greater resources than the conscious mind – then begins to slip over into daily life.  Intuitively, I just know (and am later confirmed as correct) why my son is upset over something he can’t articulate, or I crave a particularly healthy meal for which I have all ingredients.  Self-confidence and self-trust go up.  Truly, life is often easier for me when I allow playtime at the puzzle table.

But I usually don’t.

Puzzles take the dining room table out of commission for a while.  The cats send pieces scuttling off into black holes, leaving those snaggletoothed gaps that make me mad in the end.  Puzzles in progress make it hard for me to get to bed in a timely way, or pay the bills, or plan ahead for anything at all.  For these and other rational reasons, I’ll go a year or more between slitting open a new box.  You know that puzzle aisle in Richard’s Variety Store?  Off limits.

So, to review: there’s something in this world I adore doing for its own sake, and which happens to also enrich my life in ways that make me a better parent and partner.  I have the power to bring this activity into my life at any point, and yet I consciously deny myself this opportunity most of the time.  What the what?

Sadly, I think many of us do this with play.

When I began coaching parents, I thought I was doing it for the children.  Lately, I’ve been working (playing) through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way exercises.  Because play puts us in touch with an Other part of what we know about ourselves, I now know I coach not for the children in the home, but for the children in the parents.  As adults, we are flat-out better parents when we are feeling safe, connected, and growing ourselves. In play, we connect to stronger, deeper aspects of ourselves, and then to each other.

Also, when we consistently deny ourselves the experience of available joy, the resentment is real, and it escapes directly as anger, sideways as depression, globally as a loss of joy for life, and disillusioningly as an inability to see things as clearly as we might.  There is an impact to denying ourselves play.

So, do it!  Take a moment now:  make a list of twenty things you would do this week if money, time or energy were not at issue.  (My first list of this sort included puzzles, bird watching, swimming, contra dancing, and writing short stories.)  Next, commit to slipping something (or one aspect of one something) from your list into this week.  If what you want is to play racquetball, start by bringing out your rackets and buying a fresh can of balls.  Take one step – any step — now.  Something small is enough. Make time for yourself in this way.  And then, more importantly, get curious: what’s the impact? How does it feel?  Is it worth doing again?

Me?  I’ m headed to Richard’s.

Leverage

Blustery evening out. Those winds are moving the solid old oaks around in my back yard in ways that make me have to deny how vulnerable we are if they aren’t fully rooted.  Those winds are whipping around inside me, too.

What do you do if you want your child to do something he is, let’s say, declining the opportunity to do?  Like, oh, eat his dinner… or put on his shoes for school… or get out of the store without a fit… or just take the freakin’ bath?  If you’re Becky Bailey, you might (among other options) look at creating the circumstances that make him more likely choose to do said something.  If you’re me and you’re frustrated beyond measure and nothing else is occurring to you, you instead use Leverage: applying minimal force for maximum movement.  “Stop kicking my seat (while driving) or there will be no movie this weekend!”  “Stop whining this instant or we won’t go to the park!”  “If you don’t go to bed right now I WILL TAKE AWAY YOUR BIRTHDAY!”

It could be argued that in such leverage there is still choice for the child, but only just.  Really, it’s blackmail.  The child has to choose between two losing choices.  In Becky’s approach, they are more legitimately choosing from one of two positives.  Well, good for Becky, is how I occasionally feel about it.   As adults, the logic of what we’re imposing seems so completely obvious that there’s a clear winning choice to be made by the child.  Take the win, already!  HOW HARD IS THAT!?

It’s a dang obvious tool, to me at least, which unfortunately says something.  In this case, I’ve got three big problems with it.  Ok, make that four.  1) There are poisonous by-products created in the chemical reaction of forcing a losing choice. 2) It feels terrible to me.  I do not feel like a decent mother — or human being — when I employ this tactic.  3) Plus, it’s lazy.  4) For our child?  Yeah, it just doesn’t work, no matter how many times we try it.  And oh, we have tried it…

Much as I hate to admit it, we’ve used leverage with Kylin quite a lot lately, and I think we’re leveraging ourselves into an increasingly uncomfortable spot, too.  Some of the poisonous by-products: Kylin is becoming suspicious of choices we give him.  At the first whiff of us trying to force him down a path that is not his first choice, he balks…. yep, we are teaching him not to trust our options.  His negative reactions to the perception of a lose-lose choice are ramping up, too… getting louder, growing longer, increasing the frustration for everyone involved (and some who aren’t).

Consequences have their place, do not get me wrong on this point.  However, consequences cannot be the main tool employed without greater consequences to the future.

Leverage is something I’ve been thinking about — lamenting — for a while now. It does not feel good to me.  And today, it landed home in a new way.

In my work with David, my nutritionist/food coach, I’m learning to listen to the voices that lead me toward various food choices.  Those voices might be labeled as Food Police, Nutritional Informant, and Food Rebel, and one activity has been to just notice their messages. Simply bringing awareness to their commentary without judgment, without trying to change their words. Then letting in Curiosity, an embodied Food Anthropologist, to ask questions, reframe, and make some more neutral decisions.

Here’s what I got today: know what the Food Police and Nutritional Informant have been doing to  me?  Leveraging.  And I don’t like it.  With them around, there are no purely joyful choices; everything has a benefit and consequence (or, more often, two competing consequences).  Know who often shows up as a result?  The Food Rebel.  Know what kind of food choices she makes?  I bet you do.

For them, it’s almost all about force.

The micro reflects the macro. How I treat myself is a natural blueprint for how I treat my son.  Let me just say that, at the general time of this writing, my son does not see me as someone who has his back. He sees me as someone who very typically comes between him and want he wants.  I can relate to his pain — when it comes to food, this goes so deep I don’t even know what I want to eat anymore.

There’s obviously a balance to be found, and I think it starts the same way in both situations: a pause. I described to David how I give myself a time-out when I get so angry with Kylin I can’t think of anything that would shift our dynamic. In the breathing, in the space set even just mentally apart, awareness becomes a possibility. He pointed out that the same pause can help me recognize when I’m on autopilot with food.  A gentle “why?,” a quiet “I’ve got your back, it’s safe to explore what you need,” a loving “what would help, honey?”  These are curious rather than judgmental questions.  These are questions – not demands – from a different universe.

Well after his bedtime, but still struggling with 3 hour jet-lag, Kylin sat with me during the writing of some of this. I could have — would have — carried him back to bed sixteen times in the interim.  Instead, we paused together.  And then, in about 20 minutes, he decided it was time to try to sleep again.

Whew.

 

 

The season’s body talk

I have lately been working with a fabulous nutritionist named David.  I called him to ask for help in eating for distance running, long term weight stabilization, and – well, just throw it in for good measure – better health. The path we’re taking to all three is the same: nudging me gently and kindly toward listening more deeply to my body.  He’s not gonna tell me a single “should,” may his name be cursed and praised simultaneously!  “The body never lies,” he says.  Oh yeah?  Well, the snack my body asked for last night was shortbread cookies smeared with Nutella.  After taking that apart physically and emotionally, his assignment:  “Eat. More. Cookies.  It’s what your body is asking for.”  I love this guy.

Through conversations with him, I’m beginning to trust again that my body does know.  Our society’s many conscious and unconscious rules around eating work at cross purposes to the connection between actual body needs and food.  The path back to health-driven choices is through deep listening.  (Allowing our children to do the same listening is deep parenting, indeed.)  What a gift to begin moving away from the cantankerous, often rebellious relationship I have with food and toward something more trusting, curiosity-filled, even delicious.

One of David’s early exercises with me was to ask me to slow waaaay down for one meal.  I was to rate my level of hunger from 1-10 on seven planes:  as I look at this plate of food, how hungry are my eyes? My nose? So forth with my mouth, my stomach, cells, head and heart?  I was to do this before, during, and after a single meal, noting the changes across the meal, noting the true sources of my hunger, noting the feel of growing satisfaction (or not) in my body.  I was to taste my food.  I learned there are many ways to be hungry, and many levels of satisfaction as well.

As I bring these concepts into consciousness, I’m led to consider the applicability of that exercise to a wider context.  What is my body-mind’s feedback about the activities of the coming holiday season?  How “hungry” am I for gathering, worship, family meals, carol singing, gift buying, tree decorating, holiday parties, cooking, and envelop addressing?  How hungry for isolating, remembering, feeling, grieving, loving, living or dying?  How do the feelings shift day to day? What does my body want now?  Can some tasks or events be traded out, reframed, or canceled altogether? And if canceling is what I want but can’t do, what am I hungry for?  What would be satisfying, sustaining, life-giving?  Would it be contemplation, prayer, or reading? MORE parties, more cooking, more presence with the children?

I think slowing down to really hear what our bodies feel about anything – whether it’s our relationships, the rituals of the holiday season, our child’s behaviors, or what we really want for breakfast – is a long term and vastly rewarding process, one worth honoring with one small step at a time.  Paying attention and then putting just a bit of action behind what we learn, even once per day, would be an active gift of self-care this season.  What’s does your body say about today?

Glad Game Morphage

Again. Not my dog. But proud, yes?As we headed into kindergarten this fall, our bedtime routine needed revamping;  that much was clear.  We let it hang out in the ether for a while, letting go of the very familiar paths, and found ourselves with almost no set routine (beyond hygiene and reading).  Recently, a new set of questions has evolved and taken hold.  (Have I mentioned how much I love it when these things just evolve into being?)

  1. What’s one thing you are glad about?
  2. What’s one good thing that happened to someone else today?
  3. What’s one thing you saw someone else do that was helpful to another person today?

I’ve enjoyed the concept of expanding his understanding of the world, that there are others here with separate experiences, that we all impact one another.

*****

Separate but related: on the way home from dinner with friends this evening, I shared with Kylin that I had been so proud of him for asking to try a new food that someone else had made.  He paused, and then said, “what else?”  “You mean, what else am I proud of you for?”  “Yes.”  And thus evolved our call and response for the next 15 minutes:

“I was proud of you for giving Zyle a balloon when he asked for one.”

“What else?”

“I was proud of you for staying at the table with us.”

“What else?”

“I was proud of you for washing your hands the first time we asked you to.”

“What else?”

“I was proud of you for choosing food we could share with everyone there.”

“Were you proud of me for leaving when you said it was time to go?”

“Oh yes!  What else are you proud of?”  …

In part, I think he was exploring my use of the word “proud.”  When we got off rhythm at one point, he said, “what was that thing we were talking about?  Like Glads?”  “Proud?”  “Yeah!”  More importantly, though, he also showed me that he’s been hungry for recognition, for being seen, for seeing himself through fully positive eyes.  It was a joy to do that for him.  If I’ve slipped in showing him that, well, I renew my commitment there.  I’m so glad he could let me know in his way that this was what he wanted and/or needed.

Marathon Self-Care

Early in 2011, I took what was for me a fantastic leap of faith: I signed up for a half marathon.  More the musician than the athlete, I’ve gradually been building up willingness and belief and distance.  In that order. Labor Day, I ran a full 13.1 miles for the first time.  And then I went to bed.

I was probably not quite “ready” for that distance, and I was surprised by the extent of the ensuing exhaustion. It was more than physical; it was emotional, mental and spiritual as well.  Back at work on Tuesday, I was all but worthless.

I’m not yet a Zen runner, content with only the rhythm of my feet and full-on awareness of minute aches and pains. Audio books are my distraction of choice, and Monday’s happened to be The Power of Full Engagement: Managing Energy, Not Time, Is the Key to Performance and Personal Renewal, by Jim Loehr and Tony Schwartz. Two things struck me hard, and were compounded by the exertion at hand.  Both can be applied directly to parenting and any other care-giving situation.

First, the key to growth and energy renewal in physical, emotional, mental and spiritual domains comes solidly back to the place many of us ignore completely: intentional renewal. Growth occurs when we extend a bit beyond current capacity or comfort, and then rest to incorporate the new information or give time for the growth of new muscle fibers.  Recovery time is part of a natural cycle; it won’t be ignored for long without consequences. Without both exertion and renewal, there is atrophy instead of growth.

Second, physical energy fuels and supports the other three domains. There’s no separate pot of energy for emotional, mental or spiritual exertion. Hearing it that way struck me anew because I tend to focus so much energy on those three to the exclusion of the first. But, while renewal of physical energy supports the others, the motivation for the growth comes from the opposite end, from our spiritual values. We know the reasons to eat better, sleep enough, and get our heart rate up, and yet knowing often isn’t sufficient for action. When we connect the knowing to our values – “I intend to be alive and present for my children, showing up for them emotionally and mentally” – often only then does the motivation for new choices engage.

With all of that fresh in my ear, I took a new step on my half-marathon journey: I gave over to a period of healing and called it “training.” Tuesday, I took it easy on myself. I canceled my usual evening activities. I went home early. I watched a movie. I went to bed. I honored my process.

Easy, right?  Sorta.

The decision to listen to my body and refuse the messages encouraging me to further extend did not come all that easily.  It was, however, newly rooted in fully honoring myself and my journey.  For me, this became a spiritual task, and thus provided the motivation I was missing before.

So, stretch and rest, rest and stretch. Do it for yourself, do it for those you are caring for. Refusing to rest sabotages all.

A long awaited opening

Seeds on the windThings to know in background to this post:

  • Kylin started Kindergarten a few short weeks ago.  Imagine moving to a new city and knowing 2 people, total.  For an introvert, that’s just stressful.
  • He’s been consistently (but not surprisingly) short on resources at the end of his days, leading to a renewal of physical expression of feelings (read: hitting, biting, kicking, destroying).
  • I’ve been frustrated and worried.  He’s also been reacting to that.
  • Hubby is away this weekend, so Kylin and I have had a lot of time together.  I love these rare stretches of long time together, for there are things possible in them that are otherwise unattainable.

Scene today: Kylin had 3 glorious hours with a best friend, during which I heard vastly more mature interacting than I’ve been privy to til now — true give-and-take, cooperation, equal status in their roles, sharing, social problem-solving.  This was a HUGE balm to my worries of the last few weeks.  Seriously.

I took the boys back to the friend’s home, they played for maybe 20 more minutes, and, dreaded moment, time for us to go.  I pull out of the driveway, realize Kylin has a toy from his friend’s home in his hand, and pull back in.

Thus begins the mother-son tussle, the details of which are no fun to relate.  The relevant upshot to the coming story is that I got smacked really, really hard, which is automatic grounds for evening movie dismissal.  BUT!  This is also where I got the opening I’ve been waiting on for weeks.  Maybe years, actually.

Once the whining about wanting the movie subsided, I laid out three questions he would need to answer in full in order to reinstate the movie opportunity.

  1. What did he do that lost him the privilege of watching a movie tonight?
  2. What was he feeling when it happened?
  3. What could he do differently next time?

This child has been steadfast in his refusal to take responsibility for his actions in situations like this one, so I actually would have bet the farm and horse trailer on a difficult evening ahead of us.  (And, by “take responsibility for,” I’m talking about what can reasonably be expected of a 5 year old, particularly one with the temperament he’s got.)

He insisted he didn’t know what had led to the loss.  I waited, no hints.  Ten minutes later, he said one word: “Hit.”  Nod.

“Ok, what were you feeling?”  “I don’t know.”  Silence. Literally ten more minutes, then, “Mad.”  Whew.

Given what I’d witnessed I felt like there was more there than anger, so we talked about three more words: guilty (when you feel bad about something you did that was bad), ashamed (when you feel bad because you believe you are bad as a person), and embarrassed (when you feel bad because of what someone else saw you do or knows about you).  He chose not to own any of those, but we spent a lot of time on them, and a game even developed out of the conversation.  I’d describe a situation, then ask him to choose  a feeling which fit best.  “What if a girl took her teacher’s apple off her desk and no one saw her do it, but she felt bad? Do you think she might be feeling guilty, ashamed, or embarrassed?”  Kylin repeatedly asked for more of these scenarios — the conversation went on and on through dinner.

Let me say here that I’ve been labeling, exploring, talking about feelings with this child for all five years of his dang life, apparently in such a way that he’s become resistant to having his feelings discussed at all.  This is one reason I insisted he label his own after the Front Porch Incident above.  It’s past time I turned responsibility for that over to him.

“Mama, what was the third thing to answer?”  “What could you do differently next time you feel like hitting?”

And then came the most satisfying discussion of all.  I channeled my phenomenal behavior specialist friend Greer and talked about what happens when we don’t let feelings get out of our bodies… feelings get trapped, and sometimes we get sick because of it, especially if we do it a lot.  We have to find ways to let them out, but we also can’t hurt others when we do.  We worked on this together for a while and came up with a list of things, all while he jumped from mini-tramp to overstuffed chair to back of chair to mini-tramp.

  • jump!
  • hit bed with racket
  • throw pillows at wall
  • scream
  • talk.  Here we actually talked about how feelings get bottled up in the right half of the brain and need the left half of the brain’s help in labeling. He totally got it.

It was dialogue.  With laughter.  And pillow throwing.  And who knows if he’ll put even one piece of it into place. I almost don’t care.  (But of course I do.)

What thrills my heart beyond all else is how this long evolving conversation seems to have impacted his relationship with himself.  At least tonight, this was a child wide open in ways I’ve not yet seen.  Maybe you have to know Kylin to know why each of the following is unusual, but they are, and to have so many of these in 2.5 hours makes it insanely different than usual.  He shelled a bowlful of sugar snap peas, took obvious pride in his work, said that’s what he wants to do when he grows up, and ate every one.  He tried two new foods and declared them good. (!!!)  He acknowledged his residual cough from a recent sinus infection by saying, “I’ve got a problem with this cough…”  When it came time to watch the movie, he chose our shared favorite, and we stopped it frequently to comment on details we’d never noticed before, laugh at jokes he’d not previously understood, and figure out what characters were feeling.  He got in the shower by himself.  He was at ease with himself.

This blog entry is perhaps out-of-control long and inundated with unnecessary specifics, but here’s my harbored thought on that: it’s not really for you.  It’s for me.  Some dreams take a really, really long time to manifest, and require a thousand mini-manifestations and difficult moments to set up their timeliness.  Sometimes, you have to wait and wait and wait for the right moment, and when it arrives, you have to jump it like a bank robber.  Sometimes all the advice you get is worth bunk in your own home, and you’ve got to follow your own nose for your own kid’s highest self.

Don’t. Give. Up.

What if it were easy?

“She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go. She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go. She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go. She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right. She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it. She didn’t write the projected date in her DayTimer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go. She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step spiritual mind treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line. She didn’t utter one word. She just let go. No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that. In the space of letting go, she let it be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.” ~Ernest Holmes

What if it were easy?

SARK’s advice

When I was pregnant with Kylin, friends gave me a SARK shower.  My job was to guess the theme based on the gifts I received, gifts inspired by the passage below written by Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy, or SARK.  I remember receiving (multiple) baby bath tubs, cake mixes, books, blankets, elephants, a large framed picture of an angel, stationery.  Somehow, I have no idea now how, it came together and I figured it out.  “Uhm, SARK?  Is that what we’re doing here?”

SARK”s “How to Really Love a Child” stayed with us, and we refer to pieces of it still.  Recently, when all three of us were cranky for one reason or another, Kevin and I said, “when they’re cranky, put them in water,” and we went to the pool together.  Quite truly, we all felt much better once that was accomplished.  I was telling Kylin the story of that sentence and promised to read him the framed page on his bedroom wall containing that line.  Tonight, he remembered, asking me to take it down and read it to him.  It was a good reminder to me.  I asked him to raise his hand anytime I read one that would make him feel loved.  His hand was up a lot.  What stands out to you?

How To Really Love a Child, by SARK, 1990

Be there.  Say yes as often as possible. Let them bang on pots and pans.  If they’re crabby, put them in water.  If they’re unlovable, love yourself.  Realize how important it is to be a child.  Go to a movie theater in your pajamas.  Read books out loud with joy.  Invent pleasures together.  Remember how really small they are.  Giggle a lot.  Surprise them.  Say no when  necessary.  Teach feelings.  Heal your own inner child.  Learn about parenting.  Hug trees together.  Make loving safe.  Bake a cake and eat it with no hands.  Go find elephants and kiss them.  Plan to build a rocketship.  Imagine yourself magic.  Make lots of forts with blankets.  Let your angel fly.  Reveal your own dreams.  Search out the positive.  Keep the gleam in your eye.  Mail letters to God.  Encourage silly.  Plant licorice in your garden.  Open up.  Stop yelling.  Express your love.  A lot.  Speak kindly.  Paint their tennis shoes.  Handle with caring.

Children Are Miraculous.

******

If they’re unlovable, love yourself… heal your own inner child… reveal your own dreams… keep the gleam in your eye…  I hear in so much of this that a huge part of loving our children is found in loving ourselves.  Yeeees.  Self-care, self-love, taking breaks, healing our wounds, being intentional.  How to really love a child?  Figure out how to really love yourself.

Stories we tell ourselves.

Lately, I feel particularly aware of the stories I tell myself.  Goodness knows, I’ve told myself some doozies… things fleshed out from bits of gossip, obviously relevant email silences, projected reasoning, the need to be right or have a say in what happens next.  I’ve experienced many emotional storms of my own making.  I do this less often now (a little), and I have great compassion for those who tell me their stories.  Because, I mean, so much of what we do and say is based on story, our limited understanding of what’s happening with ourselves and others, projected into future relevance, yes?  Yes.  Well.  There are other kinds of stories, too, stories that teach and inform and soothe.  I love those.

Here’s a story I heard on one of my favorite podcasts, Radiolab.  (Mini-promo attempt: the guys doing this thing are seasoned for radio, seriously funny, can make complicated science and psychology stuff really accessible, and have a thing for creating soundscapes to go with their stories.  Honestly, it’s the soundscapes that feed my addiction to this show.)  Anyway, here’s the story.  There is a woman named Diane Van Deren who is an Ultra Runner, which means she can run and run and run for days in insane conditions (think race across Alaska when I say that).  She does 50 mile races… 75 miles… 100 miles… 300 miles… Sometimes she’s one of two people who finish at all.  I’ve just hit my own high water mark of 9.5 miles and it took me four days to really recover (ahem… story?).  Anyway, one reason Diane can run as far as she can is because she has some brain damage that impacts her ability to deal with time and to form short term memories.  (Seriously – go hear the 17 min podcast to get the whole story.)  Know what that means?  When she’s in the midst of running 300 miles, she isn’t telling herself stories about how far she’s been, how long she’s been out in the cold, how she should be feeling based on that information, or how she’s going to describe to her family the horror she left around the last bend.  She is just present.  To the Now.  And the rhythm of her running.  Wow.

That story represents to me a really cool edge I’ve been sitting on the last few days.  Kevin’s been off on a motorcycle adventure and I’ve been a single mom.  Having just finished The Introvert Advantage, I’m a lot more equipped, for better or worse, with language to describe the ways in which I get can overwhelmed in parenting a strong-willed kid.  I no longer see downtime and self-care as luxuries; these are requirements for my healthy existence as a human, not to mention as a parent.  So, while I have been particularly enchanted this week by who my child is becoming, I’ve also had some sparkler sparks of fear about what it might mean to run out of resources while I’m on deck for four days solid.  That’s my usual story, and it impacted me as Kevin’s trip approached.

(Here I feel compelled to say: I know there are phenomenal parents who do this every day, and do it well, too. I’m just telling you this is a story that can preemptively freak me out.)

So, armed with Diane’s story in addition to my own, here’s what I noticed in the Now of single parenting:

  • I really enjoy my kid.
  • I am fully capable of taking the breaks I need, and Kylin is fully capable of managing his time while I do.
  • It’s hard hard hard, but calming and relaxing myself when he’s throwing a fit in the grocery store is possible, with or without ideal resources.  If I’ve taken the breaks I need, I can do it more easily.
  • Therefore, self-care is not optional when I’m on my own.  (Or… ever?)
  • It was only when I started projecting into the future, “what if I had to do this all the time?!?” that I dumped a different set of neurotransmitters into my brain.
  • Unnecessary suffering can be avoided.  It’s not that I managed to avoid it every time – we had ups and downs just like usual – I just like knowing that avoiding pitfalls of my own making is possible.
  • A predictable rhythm to our day helps, just like the 1-2-3-4 of Diane’s running.

What changed my perception of those four days from something to get through to something precious that would end too soon was recognition of the story I was telling myself.  Just witnessing myself in story-telling mode helped.

Here are some other stories that I sometimes allow to spread like mold in my head, and which affect my capacity to parent well: “Other parents are actually able to keep the big picture in mind and are therefore parenting better… probably most parents are able to do this.”  “The fact that Kylin (at 5) does not yet fully control his temper is a poor reflection on me as a parent, and probably means he’s going to be a bully as a teenager.”  “I don’t know how to handle this thing right now. I must be a failure as a parent.”  Bleah.  Stinky mold.

I am reminded of this way of calming myself, the “1 – 2 – 3 – 4… 1 – 2 – 3 – 4…1 – 2 – 3 – 4,” just keeping in the rhythm of our day, noticing what’s working instead of what isn’t, seeing what is right here, right now, and going with that.  I am grateful that a kiwi-sized chunk of my temporal lobe has not been removed, as in Diane’s case, and that I can choose to return to “there’s nothing actually wrong right now” as needed.  The Now is pretty awesome.