It’s Time to Stop Judging My Life On Someone Else’s Values


Over my lifetime, I have often found myself looking at my house through a different lens.

As a teenager, the hold-over gold velour couches and brown shag rug in the living room were generally ignored by me until the occasion arrived to invite a school friend inside. They became mortifying, shameful objects that mocked me as a poor kid whose parents had no style. Not that most of the families in town were better off, but, still, I wished for something classier at those times.

As a college student, I rarely considered my surroundings more than to discern whether or not there were enough clean bowls for a rapid-fire breakfast before my first class or if the sheets smelled sour. Until Dad came to visit, and then it was a race to clear the kitchen of the silverfish that were constantly scurrying through the cupboards and wash every stitch of clothing and vacuum the cat hair up as best I could so it wouldn’t coat his white athletic socks. Nobody but him ever took their shoes off to come in my apartment.

After marriage, it was my in-laws who most skewed my lens, giving me the critical eye for dust or crumbs swept into the corners of the kitchen. This intensified more after having children despite the fact that their house is not immaculate, either.

I will occasionally don a new pair of spectacles for gatherings we host – a barbecue helps me scrutinize the weeds growing in the cracks of the deck and the fingerprints on the windows always look worst at night for dinner parties when the light from the kitchen is reflected off of the smudgy panes.

Despite all of that, there is nothing so soul-baring as readying your house to put up for sale. The knicknacks have to be banished and the caulk in the shower – black from years of mold – has to be scraped out and replaced. The carpets need to be shampooed, or replaced altogether, after years of chocolate milk and coffee spills, muddy shoes and dog-treasures dragged across them. I never realized how many doors we have in our house until I had to wipe them all down and touch up the paint where it has chipped off from slamming or furniture dinging into them or canine claws scratching to BE. LET. IN. ALREADY. I also never noticed how tarnished the brass door knocker is or paid much attention to the gap between the washer and dryer that fills up with lint.

After a few weeks of packing things and purging others, culling through what goes and what just goes away, I thought I was ready. I thought I had busted my butt preparing the house. And then my real estate agent came in. And she brought with her all of her “feng shui’ wisdom and years of experience and pared down and shifted and, while I never quite saw things through her lens, I began feeling tired.

Which is how I generally feel when I see parts of my own life through a different set of eyes. Tired. That’s because it usually means I begin making to-do lists for myself and bending over backwards to conform to a standard other than my own and, I’m not sure which of those things is more exhausting – running through a list of new tasks, or running through a list of tasks that didn’t originate with me – but I’m not sure it matters.

In the end I know that, for this one purpose (selling my house as quickly as possible), such a process is necessary. But it has caused me to question whether it was necessary all of those other times I chose to look at my life or my house or my parenting from a viewpoint other than my own. I do think it is important to be able to see things from other perspectives, but when it ends up giving me a different set of values about myself, maybe it is all a bunch of hooey. Especially if it makes me feel judged and defensive and not good enough.

So this one time, I’m going ahead and wearing myself out. Pressure-washing the front walkway to get rid of moss and replacing the front door knob with a new one and packing away all of my favorite photos and mementos. If only so that I can sell this place and settle in to a new house where I can put them all out again and relax into my own point of view again.

Little Known Facts of the Leaf-Blower Economic Model


I figured out today that leaf-blowers are responsible for a great deal of commerce in the United States. I know that seems absurd, but think about it.

Everywhere I go there are people with enormous backpacks full of fuel strapped to their backs and gigantic vacuum-pipes in their hands, blowing dust and leaves and grass clippings around. Their co-workers are raking, mowing, edging, pruning, generally creating more stuff to be displaced by these loud, intrusive machines.

Let’s first consider the gear that goes along with the leaf blower itself.
$$- The person running the damn thing has to wear some sort of ear-protection so as not to lose their eardrums while they are working.
$$ They must also purchase gloves to wear lest they burn their hands on the hot machine
$$ They must buy gasoline to power the obnoxious machine.

Then let’s consider what happens to the stuff that gets blown around. An awful lot of it lands on the cars nearby – whether they are parked in lots around the area or simply stopped at a red light or driving past the work crew.
$$ – frequent car washes needed to get the pollen and dust removed from one’s car
$$ – allergy medication for those of us whose bodies wholeheartedly reject the crap being blown all around us – eye drops, seasonal allergy relief, acupuncture, allergy shots, you name it, we’re buying it.

Next, please consider what happens when they remove the leaves from the places where the trees dropped them.
$$ – the natural mulch and weed suppression that is provided by the leaves is gone. Necessitating hiring more workers to come by periodically and pull the weeds or spray toxic pesticides on them.
$$ – medications to combat the negative effects of the toxic pesticides
$$ – protective gear for the workers applying the toxic pesticides
$$ – the nutrients that would be provided to the soil if the leaves were allowed to break down there are no longer available, necessitating the purchase of fertilizers and the hiring of workers to apply said fertilizers.

These workers are all working longer hours than they would if the leaves were left to do their jobs, so they contribute further to the local economy by purchasing lunch in area restaurants and supermarkets.
These workers are doing less manual labor than they would if they simply raked the leaves from the sidewalks onto the beds where they could decompose. This could lead to one of two outcomes
$$ – higher insurance premiums to care for workers that are affected by pesticides and exposure to the exorbitant decibel level of the leaf-blower while not staying physically in-shape, or
$$ – the purchase of gym memberships or sports equipment by said workers in an effort to keep them healthy in other ways.

I am certain that this rudimentary musing has overlooked many other aspects of the leaf-blower economy, but in the ten minutes I contemplated the notion, the fact that I was able to come up with this list of things is mind-boggling.

So, even though it will probably get me labeled as a Communist and might possibly cause the further collapse of the entire Western economical model, I am advocating that these damn leaf-blowers be eradicated from the face of the planet.

Yours, quietly,
Kario

I’m Done Apologizing, I Think


We are doing pretty well.
It’s hard to even write that down. The guilt wells up inside me like the steam inside Old Faithful and I want to cap it quickly and turn away. In our circle of friends, there are those who have been really affected by unemployment, decreased benefits, and exorbitant health care costs (especially if they have kids with special needs). At the school Eve attends, there are fully 30% of the kids who are on some sort of scholarship or financial aid and that diversity is a big part of the reason we love that school. Every day I read blogs written by people who are railing against the inequities in our society that create incredible hardships for hardworking individuals and make it nearly impossible for them to get ahead.

Bubba and I are ahead.

But that doesn’t make us the enemy. I have a hard time not getting defensive about our relative financial security and trying to explain it away. The fact is, we both came from very meager beginnings and made it to college with a great deal of financial aid. We emerged with mountains of school loan debt and both took temporary jobs while we waited for our dream jobs to materialize. We were lucky in many ways, finding ourselves in the right place at the right time and Bubba got a job with unheard-of benefits. He also drew on his lessons about money management and was very conservative, maneuvering our finances deftly throughout the years. We purchased our first house before real estate prices skyrocketed and sold before the bubble burst.

We have worked very hard over the years and have volunteered in our community and donated both time and money to causes we believe in. And I still have guilt.

I have guilt when I talk to friends about our new home purchase because I know some of them are struggling to make house payments.

I have guilt when I tell my little sister we’re headed to Hawaii for a vacation this summer with the girls because I know she’s scraping money together for a long weekend in Vegas – her first vacation since she got married over a year ago.

I know that my closest friends are excited to see photos of the new house we’ll move in to this summer.
I know that my family members don’t begrudge us the tropical vacation as a family.
I know that my friends who have kids with special needs don’t resent me because my kids are growing and thriving.

The notion that it might not be okay to share things about my life with friends and family seems silly, but there are times when I worry that some of the details might be misconstrued. We are fairly open with our girls about the cost of things – gasoline, new shoes, even mortgage payments. We talk often about the difference between ‘want’ and ‘need’ and how to decide when it is important to buy something. They understand that some of the things we value – fresh, organic whole foods, for example – also might be valued by others but are, more often than not, financially out-of-reach. They realize that we have family members who cannot afford many of the luxuries we have and that we help them out when we can. But at the end of the day, I don’t want the message to my girls to be one of guilt and shame.

I don’t want them to feel as though we ought not to indulge ourselves in a trip to Hawaii if we can afford it. We all work very hard throughout the year and enjoy spending time together as a family. I don’t want them to think that they have to hide the nice things we do for ourselves out of a sense of propriety or deference to others. Their father is not Bernie Madoff or some former executive at Enron. His business has created nearly 30 jobs in the past three years and his employees are compensated well and given a great benefit package. We are committed to being a part of our community and doing what we can to make a difference for the families who are struggling and working hard to make their lives better. Hiding our own successes feels to me like an admission of guilt and, the fact is, we are guilty of nothing more than a little bit of luck and a lot of hard work.

So, we are doing pretty well.
And that does not make us the enemy.

The Doors: Then and Now

This one’s for Chris. He was that guy in high school that was consumed by music. He was the DJ for all the school dances and knew about concerts and new albums slated to debut before anyone else. More than that, though, he has a superhuman ability to listen to music with a critical ear and pull out the nuances of songs and melodies that the rest of us find “nice” or “pleasurable” or “awesome” and name them, describe them, flesh them out and give them life. Yup, Chris’ superpower is music. I love reading his blog because even if I don’t know many of the bands or songs he writes about, he gives them life in a way that nobody else can. And generally inspires me to stretch myself and my music habits. So, Chris, this one’s for you.

“Show me the way to the next Whiskey Bar,” Jim Morrison croons in that playful, choppy, dancing cadence and I close my eyes and imagine his unruly head of curls bouncing as he prances across the stage. While I own this song, I haven’t chosen to play it in a long time; maybe 20 years, if I’m forced to calculate.
I love The Doors. There is something about their music that sets me down squarely in a beat-up cabin in Central Oregon, watching the melting snow drip from the eaves as I shiver beneath layers of musty old quilts, thick with the smell of cigarettes and marijuana and sweat. It was during one such weekend that I read the biography of Jim Morrison and was alternately enthralled and disgusted by his life of excesses and childishness, his absolute genius with lyrics and poetry and magnetic, mesmerizing charm.
During the week I was a college student, dutifully plugging away in biology and chemistry classes on a Presidential Scholarship, fulfilling my parents’ edict that I get a degree and Become A Success. By 3:00 on Friday afternoons, I was often headed out to the mountains with my high school boyfriend and a carload of his skateboarding rogues, not to return to my other universe until Sunday night. I stepped out of the predictable and planted my right foot smack in the middle of a soggy, muddy place driven by the most basic desires. Sleep when you want. Eat what you want. Say what you want.
I knew I couldn’t exist in both places for long and reading Jim’s biography was the beginning of the end for me. I simply couldn’t envision a life run by carnal needs. Perhaps because this life was perpetually dark, or at least dim. The lighting in the cabin was poor thanks to the monumental trees that surrounded it and the beating the place had taken over the years. Sleeping late meant we were up late, squinting at each other, the light from the fireplace and the cherries of our cigarettes the only illumination. The mood of the music, The Ramones, The Doors, Sid Vicious, was always dark and angry or melancholy and depressing – even when it pretended to be a rallying cry to action.
I gradually moved away, spending more weekends on campus. Pleading exams or papers due, I was able to extend my days bathed in the fluorescent lights of the dorms or the sun in the quad. My boyfriend and his cohorts mocked me and their words felt a lot like the way I envisioned the inside of that Whiskey Bar.
Today, as I sit in a dimly-lit coffee shop and hear that spark of brilliance coming from the speakers that is Jim Morrison, I am able to stop a moment and remember what it felt like to lie under the quilt and listen to an entire Doors CD. Unlike then, I don’t feel the seductive melancholy pulling me to abandon the outside world and exist solely in Jim’s world. I can recall with some fondness the group of kids that we were, seeking our own rebellion and hoping against hope that it had something to do with following a rock star in to a world of indulgence and camaraderie that never had to end.

BlogHer: Life Well Lived Series

Once again, I have been asked by BlogHer staff to answer a couple of questions about finding balance and happiness in life. The inquiry this go-around was:


How do you put yourself first? How does taking time for yourself help make you happier?

Wow. Tough question. As a mother of small children whose husband traveled nearly every week, I didn’t used to think putting myself first was even an option. It wasn’t until I literally began losing my sense of self and hit a crisis point that I realized I hadn’t even put myself on the list, much less anywhere near the top.

As girls and then women, so many of us were steeped in the tradition of caring for others above all else. We have a biological disadvantage that further complicates the matter, because our brains actually give us a shot of oxytocin (a hormone that reduces anxiety and promotes connection between us and others) when we empathize or take care of someone or something else. We literally feel better when we are nurturing something other than ourselves. Great for promoting motherly love and bonding. Not so much for promoting self-care.

It took a lot of therapy and some really vocal people in my life to convince me that taking care of myself was actually a way to continue to take care of other people better. If I’m a broken-down shell of a human, I’m not much use to my kids or my husband or that cause I so fervently believe in. If I am so depressed I can’t manage to get out of bed in the morning, I’m not doing anybody any good.

Ultimately, though, the most important, most penetrating message I received was from someone who pointed out that I am raising daughters. Daughters who are watching me wear myself out in the unending pursuit of caring for everyone else around me – anticipating and meeting their needs and smoothing out wrinkles wherever I go. Daughters who are learning by osmosis, like little tea bags absorbing all of my “I will take care of everyone else before myself” liquid, that this is the highest, best use of one’s self. Especially if you are a mom. Is that what I want for my girls? To grow up and be of service to everyone else at their own expense?

HOLD
THE
PHONE

No, it’s not what I want. And so when I put my own little girl self in their place and ask what I want for her, it is that she feel loved. Honored. Free to follow her dreams. Comfortable in her own skin.

It took months, but I made it a point to sit down for at least five minutes every day and ask myself what I wanted. What would make me happy? And what could I do toward that today? What small step could I take both for myself and in an effort to be an example for my girls that I am important, too? That my needs are just as vital as anyone else’s.

Over the years I have gone back to writing, making sure to take time every day to ignore paperwork, housework, the whining of the dog, and just write. Because that is one thing that makes me happy. I have also made my health a priority, getting together with a friend at least once a week to walk or take a yoga class and taking cooking classes at the local organic food co-op. More than anything, though, I have given myself permission to have fun. No longer do I watch my children with envy as they scale the jungle gym or sprawl out in a fort they made and stocked with books and snacks. Just as I make sure they have time to play every day in addition to the practices and schoolwork and chores they do, I give myself the same consideration. Some days that means hiding in the corner with my iPad playing solitaire or reading. Other days I crank up the music and dance through the kitchen or get out the fingerpaints and make a mess.

What I have learned is that I am the only person who can choose to make me happy. And while nurturing my growing family and caring for others gives me a great deal of satisfaction, affirming that I am one of the most important people I know and nurturing myself is just as pleasurable. The more self-worth I have, the better others treat me and taking time out to honor myself and all my hard work lets my girls know they can do the same for themselves.

As before, you can click on this link to enter the sweepstakes and win a Kindle Fire.
You can also read BlogHer’s expert’s answer to the question.

Dreaming of Real Life


My sleep was interrupted by an epic dream last night. The kind that just keeps going no matter how many times you rouse and turn over and acknowledge that it is a dream. The kind that, while it isn’t disturbing, it doesn’t exactly please you to be having and you wish it would just stop.

I found myself annoyed that it just kept starting again, like some gremlin had stolen the remote control and was forever changing the channel back to that one I was trying to avoid.
Before opening my eyes to the sun this morning, I lie in bed pondering the dream itself. It isn’t often that I can even remember my dreams, especially once I set out to pursue them, but this one was persistent. So persistent that I figured it was meaningful to try and figure it out. I used the Carrie Wilson Link method. She once taught me that our dreams are always about ourselves and are the path our subconscious uses to teach us. When we assume that each and every player and symbol in the dream represents some part of ourselves, we can begin to decipher the meaning of the dream.
I decided to dive in. This dream featured a book about cancer and some revolutionary treatment. I was to read and review the book, but for some reason I was actively resisting doing so. As I made my way through the dream, I began to realize that the reason I was avoiding the book was because I was afraid that by reading the book I would somehow not only realize that the cure was viable and revolutionary, but that I would then find myself in a position to need it. I was afraid that reading the book would give me cancer, or lead me to realize that I already had it, and that I would then need to embark on this treatment regimen. And if I didn’t, even though I had now learned about the cure, I would be discovered. Everyone would know that I knew about my own illness and refused to treat it in a way that would surely cure me.
I slept the entire night without ever lifting the book or peeking inside, so I don’t know any of the details of the “cure.” Turns out it doesn’t really matter.
As soon as I began applying Carrie’s wisdom to analyzing my dream, I was dismayed. There is something in my life that I know no longer serves me. A habit I have that I have resisted changing for so many reasons (none of them particularly important), and steadfastly ignored. It isn’t one that is terribly harmful, but it’s true that it doesn’t really serve a purpose in the life I am trying to create for myself. A life where I treat my body well, with mindful eating and drinking, getting enough sleep and exercise, meditation and compassion. This is a holdover from the time in my life when I assumed by body would be served by good genes and youth and would withstand whatever I put it through as long as, every once in a while, I took a break to exercise and eat well and “catch up.”
I know the problem.
I know the “cure.”
I am not addressing either.
Perhaps it’s time.

Gender-ation Gap

My girls are addicted to the show “Cupcake Wars.” Bubba is not much of a fan. He claims to be disinterested, but I think it is just that every episode makes him crave cupcakes and, given that he lives with three gluten-intolerant women, he’s not likely to get one anytime soon. Last night we all sat down to watch an episode I taped several weeks ago. Bubba only agreed to watch the show with us because it constituted ‘family time.’
As the first four contestants were being introduced, Bubba was finishing up some work on his laptop and just listening to the commentary. When the final contestant began talking and it was clear he was a man, Bubba folded the top down on his computer to watch intently. The man was a very large, physically fit African American who looked as though he might be more comfortable wearing a Dallas Cowboys uniform than an apron. Big, thick neck, broad shoulders, deep voice. Formidable. Bubba turned to me.
“Not exactly what I expected.”
Lola didn’t take any notice. He pressed on.
“So, girls. What would you think if I spent my days baking cupcakes instead of running a consulting business? Would that make you feel differently about me?”
Lola barely twitched.
“That question doesn’t even make sense, Dad. Is a boy butterfly any less male than a boy tiger?”
I haven’t seen Bubba smile that big in a long time.
Photo courtesy of Cupcake Wars

Not Exactly a Movie Review


Last Sunday I took Eve and one of her friends to see “A Thousand Words.” They had seen the previews in the theater and thought it sounded really funny. The premise of the movie is that the main character, Eddie Murphy, has a tree growing in his backyard that drops a leaf for every word he utters. When the leaves all fall, the tree (and Murphy’s character) will die.

The movie started out true to it’s comedic preview but quickly morphed into a spiritual lesson of sorts, with Murphy’s character befriending a guru who was trying to help him enjoy what was left of his life.
While it wasn’t anywhere near the best movie I’ve ever seen, I appreciate the things it made me think about. Like the main character, the first thing my mind tried to do was find a workaround. Can’t talk? Okay, I’ll write everything down. No such luck. The tree still recognized those words for what they were and leaves came down in droves.
It comes as no surprise that communication is one of the most important parts of any relationship, and not being able to get your message across is frustrating for all parties involved. I found myself struggling to identify those words that are so packed with meaning that they don’t need an entire sentence surrounding them. I was, like the main character, attempting to minimize the number of words used in order to lengthen the life of the tree. As a writer, finding ways to express myself that are concise and clear is important, but so is embellishment. Fleshing out the landscape. Adding detail.
Ultimately, though, the tree would run out of leaves and one thousand words is nowhere near enough for a lifetime. The character’s relationships suffered and he was left frantically trying to find ways to heal the tree instead of accepting the inevitable.
Because this is Hollywood, there was of course a way to reverse the process, but I was struck by the message underneath. The guru was encouraging Murphy’s character to sit quietly and spend time in solitude in an effort to find calm within. It became clear that his constant communication with others was a way to distract himself from the pain he held and the writers had a clever way of showing that he identified himself with some people in his past that he would rather not be like.
The tree had become an external representation of the need for him to heal that part of himself that was most damaged. An undeniable sign that the damaged part and the other parts of himself were forever linked and that without addressing the ugliest portions of his experience, he could never hope to live a full life.
Unfortunately, the film was a very glossed-over, mass-produced one that touched on the issues in a way that would be easy to dismiss, especially in the face of the goofy Eddie Murphy-ness of it all. I appreciated being able to find something redeeming in it, however, that enabled me to start a conversation with Eve about what it is like to sit in silence with yourself and why it is often so uncomfortable.
I was able to dig into my own experiences with self-acceptance and appreciate a scene where Murphy’s character embraces the tree quite literally in a moment of understanding, bridging the gap between the two pieces of himself that make up the whole.
I don’t know that I’d recommend the movie, but I was certainly pleased with the message.

“Because of Katie” Book Review


It took me a few beats to type the word ‘review’ in the title of this post. Mostly because I was searching for a more accurate word which I failed to come upon. This is not a book I am reviewing because it was assigned to me from some third party or chosen from an array offered to me by BookPleasures. I am not so much reviewing this book as singing its praises and encouraging you to go find it and read it. Every so often I come across a book that moves me profoundly. Even so, I can generally write a review of it and move on. “Because of Katie” went one step further and not only moved me but left me with a sense that this book exists for a much higher purpose than simple entertainment.

I know many books strive to do the same, especially nonfiction, especially memoir, and some do manage to leave the reader with that feeling of expansiveness that leads people to recommend them over and over again. “Because of Katie” is different in that it possesses that expansiveness as well as a solid groundedness. Karen Boren Gerstenberger wrote this book not because she was an aspiring writer who wished to share her story, but with an eye toward teaching, informing, deepening understanding of what a family is going through when they are dealing with a major crisis. Her gentle yet firm message comes through without judgment as she describes each step of their journey through diagnosis, aggressive treatment and hospice care for their daughter’s terminal cancer. She is able to acknowledge both strengths and areas for improvement at each point along the way, with each person they encountered.
This book is an absolute gift from Gerstenberger to each and every person whose lives are touched by severe illness or injury. From relatives to hospital personnel, communities looking for ways to help and other support staff, every person who has occasion to be in contact with families struggling with uncertainty and discomfort will find lessons in here taught with concern and gentleness.
I am generally a very fast reader, often finishing a book every two to three days, especially if I am enjoying it. “Because of Katie” took me nearly two weeks to finish for several reasons. The story was compelling but painful and difficult to read as my daughter is the same age Katie was when she died. I found myself empathizing with Karen on many different levels, especially given the years of experience we had with Bubba’s undiagnosed illness and our trips to and from the hospital. I also read slowly because this book is absolutely packed with information and I wanted to be sure I gave myself time between chapters to decompress and absorb it all.
The detail with which Karen writes about the hospital stays and the upheavals to their family’s life brought me right in to the story. The tenderness evident in the way Katie’s family responded to her needs and the acknowledgment of her desires (fairly typical for a 12-year-old girl, but not so easily met) is a testament to the high value this family placed on love and shared experience. While their experiences were most certainly unique, there are so many powerful messages about how to reach out and become more effective in our support of families in any kind of crisis that the book itself has the potential to become a teaching tool for multitudes.
I would like to thank Elizabeth for prompting me to read “Because of Katie,” and Karen for sharing her wisdom with the world. I am honored to have been allowed this glimpse in to your family’s life and feel the better for it.
You can get your own copy of “Because of Katie” here.

Funny Girl


Last week Lola was on edge off and on for a few days. She has trouble with transitions and the weather has been crazy around here – sunny one day and snowing the next – and basketball season ended on a Saturday with lacrosse starting a mere two days later. She expressed her discomfort with the upheavals in her routine by erupting in to hysterical outbursts of screaming about seemingly pathetically small upsets (like being told she had to put her laundry away before watching TV). She was unpredictable – teary one minute and her normal, smiley self the next.

Thursday morning she woke up slowly which is terribly unlike her. She normally bounces out of bed with enthusiasm and a rush to greet the new day. She balked at being asked to eat breakfast and gather her schoolwork up and just wanted to sit on the couch and watch television. She moped out to the car and when we arrived at school, burst into tears when she remembered that her least favorite teacher was teaching that day, substituting for her favorite teacher who would normally be there.
I asked her to climb in to the front seat of the car and close her eyes. I turned on the seat warmer, told her to place her feet on the floor of the car and take a few deep breaths. I guided her through a simple chakra-energizing routine (she loves visualizing the colors of her chakras and sending energy from one to the next) and then asked her to sit quietly and think of a few things that make her unique and special. Is she generous? Funny? Loving? Clever? Artistic? Musical? When she had a short list in her head (I didn’t ask her to share them with me or justify them in any way), I asked her to choose one of her favorites and hold it in her mind, surrounded by a color of her own choosing. I asked her to think of a few examples or ways she exhibits this trait in her daily life and sit with those for a moment. When she was done, I had her breathe deeply one more time and open her eyes. The whole thing took about five minutes.
She seemed much more calm and relaxed when I walked her into the classroom and said goodbye.
At the end of the day when I came to get her, she bounced into the car with her normal mile-wide grin, clamoring for a snack as she rattled off details from her day. Mid-sentence, she stopped and said,
“Hey, Mom! You know that meditation we did this morning? You know what I chose? Funny. I’m funny. And I swear that I was the funniest today I’ve ever been. Just congratulating myself this morning for being funny in my head made me more likely to be funny all day long. I swear I cracked everyone up all day long. It was awesome!”
We agreed that this was a cool new meditation to keep in our bag of tricks and I tried it myself the following morning. The trait I chose was generosity and you know what? Lola was right. I found myself being more generous than normal all day long. Simply because I had recognized that generosity was one of the things about myself I like the best.
What trait would you choose?