The Only Way Out Is Through

Since it's the last Tuesday of November, that means we're going to talk about NaNoWriMo and how far behind I am. 

Here's a screenshot of my progress: 

This is what the graph of a busy procrastinator looks like.

I think my favorite part of the month is the four days that just go straight across the top with zero progress, not coincidentally overlapping my monthly work deadline of November 20th. Also, I took this screen shot after writing over 5,000 words today, making the graph only slightly less bleak than it was mere hours ago. 

So I should feel stressed. Yesterday I was stressed, and also super bummed because I really love NaNoWriMo, for so many reasons. 

I love that an entire virtual community comes together every year to finally attempt the dream of writing a novel. Many are successful, many not, but all of them are thousands of words closer to that goal than they were on October 31st, and many of those for the first time ever. 

And I love the camaraderie, the feeling of everyone finally chucking the perfectionism we all heap on ourselves and focusing instead on tapping in to whatever stream of consciousness inspirational mecca is out there, the thing that you can't mistake for anything but divinity when it hits you and grabs you by the lapels and pulls you wherever it wants you to go. There is a fabulous TED talk on this concept of elusive genius, by the way.

I love boycotting the constant self-editing, both literal and figurative, that populates my life and so many other people's lives, writers or no, and instead just focusing on words on page. Pen to paper. (Okay, fingers to keyboard. You know what I mean.) Even if it's just for 30 days.

Because there are so many reasons not to follow through on your plans.

photo credit

Many of them valid. 

But the thing is, even if I don't get there-- even if I don't reach my 50,000 words-- as of this moment, I have put 29,816 words toward my own goals this month. That's nearly 30,000 words slammed out toward a future of my own making, without killing myself or staying up till midnight like I did last year (yet). And that feels amazing, whether or not I make it to 50,000. 

At the same time, I haven't had to sacrifice a huge amount of family time, and I managed to please my notoriously picky client-- who was so happy with my work this month he actually sent me an email thanking me, a huge turnaround from last month. 

Oh, and this nearly 30,000 words is of course in addition to the 65,663 words I wrote for work in November. So far. Not including lengthy emails or edits or rewrites. 

My 10 minute plan is working, my back is still unhappy but not impossible to work around, and I feel like I'm through the crunch. I feel like I won. I really do. Even with 20,000 words ahead of me over the next-- oh my god, only four freaking days, I have to finish this blog IMMEDIATELY and get back to work. 

Arrgh, no. I can't leave without a conclusion. DAMMIT.

Okay, so here it is. 

Sometimes the only way out is through. And the interim is impossible and murky and ridiculous in every respect. But then once you're out the other side, inevitably you look back at all the thorny, brambly nonsense and think "Huh, that wasn't so bad. I don't know why I was such a baby about this back on the other side." 

It's not because you were wrong about it being hard and sticky and scary. You were totally right. It was all of those things. But on the way through, you change. You grow. And by the time you reach the other side, you're someone who is less scared. Who is more capable. Because you know now that things that seemed impossible from one end are, in fact, possible. You know this because you just did it. And then you start to wonder what other things are possible that you always thought were impossible. 

And if anyone would know, it's Muhammad Ali.

And then life gets real amazing, real quick. Just as soon as you push through to the other side.

What Can You Do in 10 Minutes?

In an effort to alleviate at least the physical crux portion of my discomfort zone, I changed up my work schedule. Before, I'd force myself through two or three hours before talking a break. Only far too often, that "break" was still spent at the computer: paying bills, checking emails and whatnot. Always the damned whatnot.

And then I wonder why I'm so sore and miserable at the end of my 10-12 hour day.

My new schedule is to work for an hour, then leave the computer for at least 10 minutes before returning to work. In that 10 minutes, I have to find things to do. Things that are not computery things. And I set my timer so I don't get distracted; 10 minutes bloats out to an hour a lot faster than you'd expect.

I started small:

• Dump out my clean laundry on the bed; start folding. 
• Chop potatoes and onions to cook up in a big batch for breakfasts during the week. 
• Sweep up gross dog hair. 
• Clean the bathroom. 

And before I knew it, a bunch of stuff that regularly gets pushed to the back burner is actually taken care of. My kitchen is cleaner. My desk is more organized. Little nagging projects I never found time to take care of are getting completed. 

Slowly. In 10-minute segments. But getting there. 

The most interesting thing about this (besides the fact that my neck pain is actually tolerable now, even if not entirely resolved) is learning just how much I can accomplish in 10 minute chunks.

It's so easy to put stuff off until I have time for this or time for that. I keep wanting a week off to just write my own stuff and work on art projects. Catch up on movies. And I think society trains us to think this way, too-- how much more do you hear about planning for your retirement compared to making your life work for you right now? There's so much emphasis put on work first and other stuff later. But I don't want to wait till I'm 65 to do cool stuff.  

And I'm not getting a week off anytime soon to just indulge in the things I actually want to do. I have to make room for them right now. In among everything else. And these 10 minute breaks give me the perfect opportunity.

Life is never going to go on hold so you can live your "real" life. This is it. You're already living it. If you want your right-now life to evolve into your ideal life, you'll have to carve enough room out of your day for a good foothold, then launch yourself toward that ideal. Even 10 minutes can be enough.

So.

• First 10 minute break: Set up a canvas, some clean water, some brushes.
• Next 10 minute break: Mix a glaze; brush a coat on.
• 10 minute break after that: Work on NaNo outline... in longhand.
• The following 10 minute break: Find my journal. Write until my timer goes off.

In the few days I've been doing this schedule, I can't believe how much more I'm getting done-- and how many more of the things I am doing are the exact things I am always irritated at not having enough time for.

Turns out, there is time. Even if it's only 10 minutes.

What can you do in 10 minutes?

Your Discomfort Zone

Just as we all have our comfort zone, we all have our discomfort zone. It's located between this rock and that hard place. Mine has been particularly discomfortable lately. [Yes, apparently 'discomfortable' is an actual word.]

My job took a turn for the crazy stressful right around when it went full time about 3 months ago. I'm happy that it's gone full time; I've wanted this to happen for a long time now. And actually, it's kinda sorta miraculous that this job I never exactly planned on applying for is now supporting my family, so I have a lot to feel thankful for. At the same time, it's brought a level of pressure with it that is decidedly unpleasant.

Full time shouldn't be that much different from part-time. Right? Other than more hours. Except it is so different, and so much more stressful.

My client is giving me more work, which means his business is growing. Becaue I put in more time, his business is able to expand further. My boss is also giving me more work, which means our business is growing too. Because I put in more time, our company is also able to expand further. The stakes are steadily increasing from both directions; both companies are completely dependent on me, without exaggeration.

And as far as I can tell, neither of them realizes that this level of intensity is untenable and unsustainable for me. Probably because I've been sustaining it just fine. Until this past month. This month, the hairline stress fractures widened enough that everyone felt the shift.

This month, I was exhausted. This month, for the first time, my client told me I need to up my game. This month, for the first time, I had to tell my boss that my client wasn't happy. My boss then told me that it is my job to figure out how to make the client happy again.

And he's right. It is exactly my job. I just have no idea if I can do it, because I am totally mentally and physically exhausted. I cannot string two more words together. I'm positive I have written the same sentences over and over again a thousand times. I no longer know how to keep my writing fresh and engaging on the same subjects again and again. I have nothing left to say.

Plus my neck is freaking killing me from sitting at a computer all day. I'm on my second desk and my third office chair with only minor physical improvements. Unlike a job I physically go to, I clock every minute when working at home. To put in 8 hours of work takes at least 10 actual hours, because I clock out to get up and grab some water or send a text message. An 8 hour day takes even longer than 10 hours when my brain is fried like it has been and I can't concentrate.

I'm missing time with my family in the evenings. I regularly end up putting in a few hours on weekends, which has more than once led me to working 2 straight weeks with no days off. I am totally invested in and thrilled about the success of both of these companies, and at the same time feel trapped because I cannot see a way out of this. Their success means me continuing to sit at the computer for long hours every day. I don't think my body can handle it. I have no idea what to do to support myself instead. And it's so incredibly disheartening to find out the thing you've wanted and worked toward for years may not be the answer after all.

I even debate about spending the usual hour or so I put in on this blog every week because every second at the computer needs to count; every second adds up to more back pain. But ultimately, I do my weekly posts here because I need to have just one thing that is fun to write. JUST ONE.

I'm not pleased about ruining my body for another job. It's still pretty ruined from construction. If I'm spending 12+ hours further destroying my back, I want it to be working on my own stuff. And that could really pay off big-time; I'm still pulling in monthly cash off the smut I published almost 2 years ago. If I put up a few more titles, I would be making just enough that I could cut down on some work hours maybe. So then I feel committed to finishing up those three or four nearly-done books I wrote for last year's National Novel Writing Month. Except I can't. Be. At. The. Computer. Another. Second.

And yet I have to push through all of this. Because I am committed to my job. And I don't just have to maintain the course. I have to up my game.

No pressure or anything.

Last spring or so I got a cold and skipped yoga for a few days. Then my shoulder was hurting and I thought I'd injured it so I skipped for a few weeks. Then summer came and I gave up on it entirely. Just this past few weeks I feel committed to my mat again-- mostly in an effort to uncrick my body from long hours at a keyboard every day.

And even yoga irritates me. What used to be a physical and mental solace now feels like weird and awkward stretches.

This is the last straw; if the thing that used to ground you and bring you peace fails you, what the hell is left? 

This moment, this moment when everything is falling on your head at once and you see zero solutions-- this is your discomfort zone. There is no visible escape route. There are no clearly marked exits. You can't move in any direction far enough to unkink your life, even though what you really need is a good long stretch.

So I'm cranky and on my yoga mat, angry at my body's inability to do what was so easy just six months ago, and the teacher says "It's easy, in this pose, to get frustrated with yourself, to think 'Oh my gosh, I'm so weak.' But you're not weak. You're getting stronger. If you were weak, you wouldn't even be trying."

Then my practice dissolved into tears, about the 23rd time I've been in tears this month. Only this was the good kind of cry, the kind that cleanses and centers and heals and isn't just your work-related stress running around in circles chasing its own tail.

And I thought, damn straight I can up my game.

After all, wavering is not a sign of weakness. It's a sign that you're finding your balance.

When life is discomfortable, every instinct tells us to fight that unease. But the truth is, the discomfort is essential; as my mom said the other day when I was venting to her, "Well, we don't change positions until we're uncomfortable." And she's right. I do know that. I know that release doesn't come until after the stretch, I believe in the importance of pushing your comfort zone.

With NaNo just a few days away, I am more determined than ever to figure out how to carve a space in my rock and/or my hard place that's large enough for me to fit comfortably. I know exactly the future I want. There will never be more hours in the day to get there. It's up to me to find a way, and sometimes the only way out is through. 

Becoming a "No Problem" Person

One of the things I love most about my husband is that he always says yes, and never yes but.

Yes, but just this once.
Yes, but I can only stay until 8.
Yes, but lemme check on some stuff first.

Dan's eternal yes is also one of the things that irritated me the most when we first started dating. He would ask the girls what they wanted for dessert. One kid would ask for a little tiny Häagen-Dazs from the grocery store. Another wanted a Blizzard from DQ. Dan himself wanted coffee ice cream from the local candy shop. And I wanted a caramel apple empanada from Taco Bell.

"Ugh, there's never any CHOICES around this house!"

I grew up in a house with 3 kids who never liked the same things, so this is nothing new to me. My dad handled this scenario with "If you kids can't agree on something, no one's getting any dessert." Very practical. Even a dessert you don't like is still a treat, right? As such, I suffered through many a horrible vanilla milkshake as a kid. Besides, what parent in their right mind wants to drive around town for an hour getting everyone their own separate dessert?

No one except Dan.

It's isn't that he's an indulgent parent (although that is certainly true). He's just a no problem person. A yes person. He says yes to everything. There is never a but. There is never an attached string. His generosity is utterly unconditional.

I have always hated asking anyone for anything. Until I met Dan I didn't realize that this was not just because I'm obnoxiously independent (again, certainly true), but because I dreaded the strings. The conditions. The guilt trips. The inevitable extraneous nonsense that comes with even the simplest request.

"Hey, could you grab some milk on the way home?"
"Weren't you just at the store yesterday? Never mind, it's fine. I guess I'll just be a little late for dinner."

"Hey, can you drop me on your way past my house?"
"Well, I was planning on running some errands right now but I'm sure I could make time. Hop in!"

"Hey, could we reschedule our meeting next week?"
"Yeah, I can probably move some stuff around to make that happen."

Not one of those answers sound like a real yes, even though they technically all are.

Asking Dan anything-- still, even after 8 years together-- is like when you expect closed-door resistance and, finding none, stumble across the threshold in surprise.

"Did you guys know there's, like, awesomeness out here?"

I never realized how much all those non-yes yesses wore on me. From every single person. Every single day. And it's not like I just hang out with sucky people; we ALL do this. I do it myself. We want everyone to know exactly what they owe us. Exactly how much we should be worth to them. Or how much they're worth to us, as measured by the amount of effort we're willing to put forth.

Dan's simple yes is a such a powerful and welcome presence in my life that I've decided to try and become a no problem person myself. I practice saying yes when people ask me things.

No excuses.
No temporizing.
No subtle punishments hidden between words.

Just yes. No problem.

Focus on What's Good Instead

A couple months ago, I found out that I have non-celiac gluten sensitivity. At the same time, I found out I probably have a lactose or casein intolerance of some kind.

"It'll be way easier for me to give up gluten than dairy," I said to my doctor. I'm hypoglycemic, so I have problems maintaining my blood sugar at reasonable levels. Lots of protein helps with this; dairy is one of my major protein sources. And also because of the blood sugar thing, I'm not a huge carb eater anyway.

"We can start with that," she said.

Farewell, my friends. Farewell.

It turns out that going gluten-free-- while about a million times easier today than it would have been even 5 or 10 years ago-- is way more of a pain in the ass than I realized it would be.

Gluten, by its nature, is all sticky and gluey, so it hides in things like wooden cutting boards. Also, if you live with other people who are still eating gluten, there are all kinds of cross-contamination concerns. Like, bread crumbs in the butter. Dipping a knife into the mayo, spreading it on bread, dipping it in mayo again. Learning that there's gluten in soy sauce, of all places. And my grocery trips take twice as long now, because I have to read every single ingredient on every single package. Modified food starch? Usually wheat-based, and a common ingredient in things like salad dressings. Oh, and malt vinegar is out too.

Fun quiz: Is this safe or not?

As involved as all this is, I will also say that it is far, far less of a pain for me than it is for many. I'm not a carb queen, I don't eat many things with long ingredient lists anyway, and I cook most things from scratch rather than using dips, mixes, or eating out. And I'm not so sensitive that just opening a bag of flour has me sick for days. Plus I don't actually have celiac disease, so that's good.

That being said, it's still a pain in the ass.

One of the things that every single book or website about celiac disease, non-celiac sensitivity, and eating gluten free says again and again is to think about all the great foods you ARE allowed instead of bemoaning all the stuff you can't eat.

You just focus on the good instead.

And it's true that the list of things that do have gluten in them is much, much shorter than the list of things that don't:

• Fresh fruits and veggies
• Homemade chili
• Split pea soup
• Steak, baked potatoes loaded with butter and sour cream, and a green salad with tons of avocado and a nice balsamic vinaigrette on the side
• Enchiladas, if I use corn tortillas and buy gluten-free enchilada sauce
• Homemade granola, if I use gluten-free oats
• 15-bean soup, with a handful of sautéed apple-gouda sausage and kale tossed in
• Roasted autumn vegetable bake-- sweet potatoes, parsnips, yukon gold potatoes, onions
• Pasticcio made with this pasta, my favorite of all the brands I've tried so far
• Mushroom alfredo over chicken instead of fettuccini
• Gluten-free pizza from Beau Jo's that's actually delicious
• Sushi, dipped in tamari instead of soy sauce

Sushi actually freaks me out, but it's so pretty I eat it anyway.

Much like gluten, the less-ideal things in our lives feel sticky and everywhere a lot of the time. Relationship problems. Money stress. Dull cubicle jobs. The daily grind. It's easy to get hung up on these things, give them weight, dwell on what you wish they were. Mire yourself in lack.

But, just like wishing my unpleasantly dry and crumbly gluten-free toast were a thick slab of delicious whole-grain goodness slathered with fresh apple butter, wishing doesn't make it so.

I focus on what's good instead.

• A husband who puts up with my nonsense and makes me laugh every day
• My teenage daughter who, as yet, is not doing drugs or having sex, and has decent grades to boot (except in Spanish, and I'm willing to overlook that) 
• Ever-decreasing back pain; ever-improving overall health (quirky gluten issues notwithstanding)
• A job that has become the impossible pipe dream I would've sold my soul for two years ago
• Fruition everywhere

Every day, my life looks a little closer to ideal.

The stuff that takes you further from your ideal? Get it out of there. At the very least, refuse to dwell. 

Focus on what's good instead.

Finding Your Niche

In Vegas, our shop was located just off the strip in the main industrial park neighborhood. There was this great Greek place right down the road. We'd stack our breaks so we could enjoy one long break (gorging on the best spanakopita I've ever had) instead of a lunch and and two short breaks.

Oh, yes.

Then our shop moved. Although we found new love at the Pizza Cafe (and an absurdly handsome barista named Pablo), it wasn't the same.

Then, lo and behold, the Greek place relocated too! RIGHT BY OUR NEW SHOP! So exciting! As soon as we found out we were neighbors again, we skipped our morning break to hit the hummus over an extended lunch. We ordered without looking at the menu first.

"No, no. No spanakopita. We got new things now." The guy puts a menu in my face and points a thick, furry finger at the grease-splotched paper. "See? We got subs. We got pizza."

We all expressed sorrow over the loss of our beloved spanakopita, but found other things to order. And they were delicious. Just not quite as delicious as before.

The next time we went back, a bunch of the Greek menu items were crossed out with a ballpoint pen, and the burly Greek guy who usually took (and cooked) our order was no longer in evidence.

Pasticio? Gone. Tabbouleh? Falafel? Gone and gone. And the top-notch quality that used to be in evidence had, like Elvis, left the building.

That was our last time visiting the Greek place.

I am always baffled by businesses-- and individuals-- who have a niche all nailed up, then water it down with some dumb crap that anyone could do. ANYone.

Like the disappointingly named VikingHus gift shop that had one small shelf of sorta-Scandinavian swag, and otherwise looked like a Hallmark store. Like the Pizza Cafe, our Greek restaurant replacement that started out as a fantastic high-end gourmet Italian bistro and worked its way down to a quasi-sports bar. Like the last couple seasons of just about any decent TV show where they lose their way and forget what made them stand out from the crowd in the first place.

The world does not need more bland, safe mediocrity.

When you have a thing you nail better than anyone, it's easy to doubt yourself. It's easy to think that the guy over there is seeing amazing success with his broader, less complicated vision that appeals to the public at large. Surely you should cater to the masses too, instead of your small niche market.

Nope!

The people who invest in your goods, your services, your presence give you the gift of their time/money/support because they like what you're offering. What YOU are. Not what everyone else is.

Not despite your differences. Because of them.

They say you should write the book you want to read. I say find your niche, that niche that needs filling that no one else has filled. Then fill it.

This lives on my desk. It's an interesting story. I'll tell you sometime.

Expanding Your Goldfish Bowl

Goldfish, unlike humans, never stop growing physically. They grow until they die. How much they grow is dependent upon the quality of their water, how well they're cared for and the size of their bowl.

"Well hot damn!"

Those of us who've seen Big Fish already know this. (Those of you who haven't need to watch it IMMEDIATELY.)

Yet, while humans are genetically predetermined to stop growing physically at some point, we possess an infinite capacity for inward growth.

Like goldfish, how much we grow is dependent upon the quality of our environment. How clean we keep our water. How well we care for ourselves. And the size of our bowl.

Small bowls are cozy. Small bowls create snug little comfort zones. It's easy to feel good in smaller enclosures. Keeping everything close helps us feel safe. Protected.

And small bowls are easier to control. The environment is predictable and unchallenging. You can let your guard down. Your entire world is well-defined.

I've got everything I need riiiight here.

The problem with small bowls is that predictable and controlled are just a hair away from confining and limiting. Without warning, the concept of Outside becomes scary in all its unpredictable, uncontrollable hugeness. And your bowl actually grows smaller. Then smaller still.

You think you're swimming around your plastic castle in a happy routine; in reality you're stuck in a real small bowl with real dirty water.

It happens so gradually it's easy to miss.

Maybe one day, you wake up. The walls of your goldfish bowl suddenly feel too thick, too close, too covered in greenish slime. That's when it's time to seek out larger shores.

I know it's time for a new bowl by gauging how scared I am to leave my current bowl at any given time. The more anxiety I feel about the unknown, the more critical it is for me to push my comfort zone. And I am always reluctant.

Then reluctance evolves to willing. Not always easily, because change is hard.

"Have suitcase. Will expand world view."

Once you choose expansion, you find that fresh water feels so much better than that murk you were sludging through a minute ago. Comfort becomes less important than growth; freedom feels far less scary than the dread of going back to that small bowl.

What seemed like the big bad Out There becomes just a bigger bowl. A bigger bowl with new scenery and different perspectives. A bowl so big you forget to feel constrained. A bowl so clear you can see for miles.

And it's right there.

Viva la Rentrée!

When I took French in high school, I remember learning that France takes August off. Like, the entire nation just goes on vacation the full month. I always wondered how shops shut down for a full third of summer and manage to stay in business. Also, August is probably a bad time to visit France.

Because of this long hiatus from work and school, going back to school in the fall is a big deal that carries more weight than here in the States. The first day back is called "la rentrée," which translates literally to "the reentrance."

And that phrase has further evolved into the idiom "à la rentrée," which sort of means "See you when school starts up again" and is thrown around a lot in May.

On a deeper level, à la rentrée is much more than a calendar date. It's about moving forward with new focus come September. It's time to pull your big girl boots on, roll up your sleeves and get serious.

VERY serious.

Playtime is over. It's time to leave long lazy summer days behind and reenter reality.

Viva la rentrée!

Change and Chicken Coops

My new chiropractors are very full service. Their clinic offers supplements, special cervical alignment pillows and a slew of classes on all kinds of random things. I've avoided most of these, but one class description was too juicy to pass up, something about discovering your formula for change. Since I've been a virtual maelstrom of change for the last year or so, I thought why not up my game.

The instructor says, "Pretend I hand you a chicken. You need to build a coop for it. What's the first thing you do?"

First, we have a cigarette together. Clearly. 

I write down buy chicken wire and lumber and then think, shit, no-- that's wrong. I have to learn how to build a chicken coop first. So I scratch it out and write instead research how to build chicken coop. There. That's more sensible.

"What's the second thing you do?"

Buy chicken wire and lumber. Yep, I'm on the right track for change now. 

Then I think, we're probably supposed to go with our first reactions and this is probably cheating somehow. So I go back to the first answer.

And then I think, this is why my life is in near-constant crazy. Because I buy the chicken wire before learning how to build the damned coop. And I sigh.

On the upside, this class will teach me how to change all that.

Then the instructor tosses up an image on the projection screen.

Note: This is not the actual image. That one was copyrighted. But you get the gist.

The Triad of Change.

Change consists of three elements. If all three aren't on board, you won't achieve change. Also, if you don't do them in the right order.

Right, just what I figured. I need to stop building chicken coops as my first step. I need to slow down and plan stuff out first. So far, nothing I don't know about myself. Good thing this is a free class.

The instructor says, "Everyone has a lead strategy, a keystone and a drain. When you want to create change in your life, you have to begin with your lead strategy and follow with your keystone. Otherwise you can't move forward. If you try to create change by putting your keystone first, you'll fail. If you start out with your drain, you'll never really start. So, back to the chicken coop. Look at your first reaction."

I look.

"That's your lead strategy. You should always start with this. If you sit down to plan things out and make lists, then your lead strategy is structure. If you answered you'd buy supplies, build a coop, or clear out a space in the yard for the chicken, then it's behavior. If your first reaction is to think 'OMG I have a chicken! This is so exciting!' then your lead strategy is perception."

I write a B next to my original (scratched out and now barely legible) answer. Huh.

"Now look at your next answer. That's your keystone. That's the thing you're always doing without even realizing it. It's probably what others describe you as doing, even though you might not describe yourself that way."

According to my chicken coop, for me that is planning. Organizing. Structure.

Which makes the last side of the triangle, perception, actually thinking about things, my drain.

This can't be good.

I raise my hand.

"So-- you're saying, our first instincts... that's the way we should be doing things? All of the time? That the purpose of this Triad of Change isn't to correct a wrong behavior, but is to show us what our natural behavior really is and-- then make it work for us?"

"Exactly," she says.

"Um, but-- okay, my lead strategy is behavior. And my keystone is structure. Doesn't that seem like pretty much a disaster? How can this be a good thing?"

The class laughs like I'm being charming and self-deprecating but I am totally serious. I don't even listen to the instructor's answer about 'Oh, well, I know it seems that way but each method has its strengths' and yadda yadda yadda. Instead, I start thinking about all the times I've jumped into things without planning or preparation, how often I've ended up in stupid situations and blamed it on my impulsiveness.

Then something clicks. I realize-- Nope.

The times I've been most stressed out in my life have been when I've felt stuck or trapped. Unable to act. The times I've taken a leap of faith instead, exploded into action with zero planning, everything has come together with a cosmic yawp.

I'm always better in a crisis. I hate anticipation. The thing that trips me up the most is figuring out how I feel about something-- which is so backwards, because I'm super intuitive and perceptive and always make decisions based on gut instinct.

Yet when I stop to think about things, my brain tangles up my feet. I go nowhere.

I look at my answers, one scratched out and then circled again, with a B and a LEAD STRATEGY? written next to it. And the other with an S and an arrow and a firm 2 circled, plus a black blotch off to the side that used to be a circled number 1.

No matter how I try to trick the chicken coop test, the evidence is obvious. Even the way I answered the questions clearly shows that I lead with behavior.

Another lady raises her hand and says (in a pointed way that I refuse to take personally) "But how could putting behavior first ever be a good thing? I'm structure first. I just can't imagine that not planning things out could be better."

And the lady next to her, bless her, turns around and smiles at me and says, "What about EMTs? They can't afford to think or plan things out. They just need to move."

I smile back, because I am thinking about the new car* I drove to class tonight, and that it would not be mine if I'd frittered around with perception and structure first.

Another woman says "I'm structure too, and I thought that at first also until I remembered this one summer, I'll never forget it, the kids wanted to go on a picnic. And my first instinct was to sit down and make a list of what we needed from the store, and frustration that we had no food in the fridge, and I was on the verge of telling them it would have to be tomorrow. When I look up, my husband's gotten the picnic basket down and he was just chucking in all the food from the fridge. Hard boiled eggs, pickles, tomatoes, cheese, bread.... It ended up being the best picnic we ever had."

Really, despite my answers, I totally agree with the naysayer lady. Behavior first does seem like a terrible way to run your life. And yet, it has undeniably worked for me, no matter how many people have told me I need to slow down. No matter how many times I've told myself that.

I think now-- the opposite. I think: speed up.

I am better in motion.

*more on this next week, I promise.

Fear-Based Decisions

I'm car shopping at the moment, and went to a dealership yesterday to actually drive something. When I showed up, the super shady used car salesman tells me "Oh, another guy is test driving that car right now. Should be back soon. You know, they're very popular cars. I can't believe we still have it on the lot."

"I've got this bridge we can sell you too... heck, we'll throw it in for free!"

Right.

First of all, I highly doubt someone else is out driving the car. I had an appointment time; it's not like they didn't know I'd be there to test drive THAT specific car. They knew all right.

Secondly, as popular as these cars are, this one's been listed on Craigslist for over a month now. It stretches my improbability muscle to believe that the day I finally get it together enough to test drive the car, someone else just HAPPENS to show up 10 minutes before me to also drive the exact same car.

But whatever. I came here to play, so let's play.

"I want my two hundred dollars."

After about 10 minutes, the salesman pulls the car up-- funny, that "other guy" must've returned from his test drive around the block or something because we never saw him-- and I climb in and shift into first.

At that moment it becomes very clear (if any of us were still in doubt) that the car has not just come back from a long test drive. This is one of the diesel VWs; diesels are unmistakably sluggish when cold, and this car is cold. And sluggish.

The acrid electrical smell Miss G and I caught wafting from under the hood ("I'll be honest with you, you're gonna get that smell with all the diesels.") was plenty to convince me not to buy the car. I know what diesel smells like, and that was not diesel.

But the most entertaining thing about yesterday was this guy's attempts to play on my fear.

Someone's out driving the car right now. These go really fast. You're lucky we still have it. We sold our other one yesterday.

Trying to scare me enough to buy the car on the spot. And in someone more fearful, probably would've worked. Must work pretty often, in fact, or it wouldn't be his usual schtick.

Ever since the Boston marathon, I've been thinking a lot about fear.

After sorrow at the level of tragedy that day, my next thought was "Please don't let this frighten our citizens into volunteering away more of our freedoms. Please please please."

A couple of my FB friends shared blog posts from the running community in the immediate aftermath. One says "I’ll tell you one thing – this makes me want to work my butt off to [compete in the Boston Marathon] again." Another, in response to the bombers' attempts to frighten himself and other runners away from future marathons, just says "It's not going to happen."

These runners get it. Fear isn't going to keep them from what they love.

Fear shouldn't keep any of us from what we love.

Yet, most of us are raised to be fearful. We're raised to be scared of the World Out There. Scared of our families' disapproval, or scared of what our friends might think. We stay in crappy relationships because we're scared to be single, or stick with miserable jobs because we're scared of not being successful. We buy the shit car because we're scared someone else might buy it first.

Fear is such a useful tool for keeping the masses in line; a velvet rope keeping us tidy and contained. And predictable.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe next time."

I've spent a lot of my life making decisions based on fear. No matter how poorly those panicked last-ditch efforts turned out, I kept right on making them. It's hard not to; fear controls us so easily.

Fear of the worst case scenario keeps us on the designated path. Which I guess is pretty enough and all but all the really cool stuff is always off in the bush. And sure, those brambles are prickly and stiff to push through at first, which can be super scary if you don't know that release comes after the stretch.

Some people love the well-lit hallway. They like the safety and comfort of a defined future. Anything else feels super scary. And for a long time I wanted that predictability myself. I was so scared of not having the normal and the familiar life that I'd always envisioned for myself that I ended up trapped behind my fear-based decisions in that stupid boring hallway that was never a good fit to begin with.

Looking back from a place where I can be honest with myself, what I really wanted to do was explore that cool spiral staircase over in the shadowy corner. It turns out, maybe a normal and familiar future wouldn't have suited me at all. And I probably would have been better off if I'd admitted it sooner and gone for it, but I just couldn't get over my fear.

I'm ready to stop making decisions based on fear, and instead go forth in boldness. Step out onto the invisible bridge. Be honest with myself about what kind of life will best suit me.

Fear is the thing we most need to conquer if we want to evolve into better versions of ourselves. But then, so many people are scared to do that too.

Carving Away Everything Else

I watched this documentary the other night called 'Enlighten Up' about one documnetary gal's (and one unsuspecting test subject's) search for the "true" meaning of yoga.

"YO-GA! YOOO-GAAAA!"

I thought the show was only okay, but one little section stuck with me. Nick, the guy who's supposed to be changing his life through yoga, is chatting with an Indian guru. The guru tells him that the most important thing Nick needs to learn is how to find his true self. 

"Great, so how do I do that?" says Nick. 

"Get rid of everything that's not your true self," says the guru. 

They say that, when asked how he created David, Michelangelo answered: "I carved away everything that didn't look like David." 

"That's not really how I remember it." 

My biggest challenge has always been figuring out what I want. Once I have a clear goal, I have no problems getting there. 

Actually I get pretty Ahab about getting there. 

Life these days is pretty damned close to perfect, but I had to carve a lot of crap out of my way en route. Hack off huge swaths of everything that didn't resemble the life I wanted, eliminate everything except the me I wanted to be.

When Miss G's dad moved out over a decade ago, it was right around this time of year. Spring in northern Minnesota isn't much to speak of; the calendar 'first day of spring' seems like a cruel joke. That year, though, it was unseasonably warm. Warm enough for thoughts to turn toward summer, toward sitting outside, smoking cigarettes under the stars.

My grandfather's pet project grapevines had taken over the little patio out back. And for nothing; they only put out one or two teensy bunches every year. In a (not unusual) resolution of sudden jaw set, I decided those vines were going. Right then and there. 

I couldn't give my kid her dad back, I couldn't make sense of my life at that moment, but by god I could hack those damned dead twiggy irritations out of the way and set up a stupid table and chairs. And an ashtray. 

Hours later, covered in bracken, I wondered why I bothered. The weeks that had passed between his departure and my brutal murder of defenseless grapevines had taught me nothing. Also, I was pretty sure I'd killed the grapes off entirely, and felt terrible about that too. I wrestled the decrepit patio set under the trellis and crumpled, exhausted. Spring should be hopeful; I felt more lost than ever. 

Miss G thrived, though. I thrived. And a bumper crop of grapes exploded off the vines that summer. Turns out they just needed a good pruning.

Sometimes ruthlessness brings the best rewards.

Context & Perception

When I was a kid, some teacher or other gave us a stack of optical illusions that blew my mind. Excited, I went home and showed them to my sister.

"See?" I said "She looks so pretty, but then if you look at it a different way, it's an old woman. Do you see it?"

"No," she said, and went back to what she was doing.

"But look," I said, shoving it under her nose. "See, right here, how her--"

"I don't want to see the old woman. I only want to see the pretty one," she interrupted. And that was the end of the discussion.

Huh. 

I never thought about whether I had a choice to see one or the other. 

It was my first real lesson in perception. 

A few years ago, I had a similar lesson in context. 

I was living in Tucson, and dating a guy who lived in LA. On one of my weekend trips to see him, I noticed a guy totally scoping me out at the airport. I gave him a flirty smile, and why not? I looked super cute in my T-strap heels and vintage cranberry velvet blazer. I felt like a million bucks, some exotic adventuress off to explore grown up life. The world was my oyster.

It turned out that was my last weekend trip to LA. On the way back, I wore sneakers and a sweatshirt, and hunkered down at the boarding gate under the weight of my freshly shattered heart. The same guy was on my return flight. I remembered him, and smiled again, but his eyes skittered right over me with zero recognition. 

Because, I realized, I was out of context. 

When I am particularly flummoxed by something, I think about my sister's choice of perception. And I think about context. 

For example. In Vegas, when some idiot driver shoots across four lanes of traffic to the exit ramp, my instinct is anger. My perception is that this dude is an asshat aggressive driver. But on the other hand, I'm looking at his actions totally out of context with the rest of his life. Maybe there's something else going on. 

Because I've cut across traffic like that myself. I read the directions wrong, or my navigator didn't tell me to exit soon enough, or I was having a massive panic attack. Those other drivers, they probably thought I was the asshat driver.

They just didn't know the whole story. 

Sometimes we get so caught up in our perceptions of what is, or what we think things should be, that we lose sight of context. 

And we forget that we have a conscious choice. We can choose to see the beauty, or we can choose to see the old and ugly. 

It's just a matter of perception. 

There is no "there" there.

It's our anniversary today.

I've written before about how Dan & I are opposites. One of the ways we're least alike is that Dan is a total 'journey is the destination' kind of guy.

Me, I always thought life was like climbing stairs. Each stair is an obstacle, sure, but then you eventually reach the top. You're there. You know... there. Despite the years and years of evidence I've lived to the contrary, I keep thinking that I will eventually reach somewhere static. And I keep holding that as my primary goal.

It's just around the next corner, I'm sure of it!

The older I get, and particularly since meeting Dan and learning to (mostly) appreciate his roundabout ways, the more it's sinking in that there *is* no "there." The next landing, maybe, if we're continuing the stair metaphor. But there are always more steps. More landings. Then more steps.

I thought marriage was a There. Like I'd arrived; we'd arrived together.

Turns out the last four years haven't exactly been a staircase.

Are we there yet?

Life gets exhausting when you feel like you're never getting there.

You know... there.

Now, four years in, I can say my marriage to Dan has finally taught me that ups and downs (and upside downs) don't have to be Sisyphean. They can just be adventures.

Turns out marriage is about the journey, not a destination. The point is moving forward together.

Preferably with laughter.

Finding Your Balance

Normally I'd start with an apology to my half-dozen or so loyal readers for neglecting my blog.

Instead, I'll explain that I've been distracted by finding my balance.

You may remember a while back I took this writing job on a whim. What started out as an independent contractor gig that paid a penny per word became, as of February 1, a real-life grown-up job with paid vacation time and sick days and everything. Part-time, but still. Exciting!

Adjusting to this job-- which is pretty much the same thing I was doing before but just different enough to take 3x as long as it used to and also positions me uniquely to literally destroy the company if I screw up-- has me wavering.

Finding my balance.

My whole life has become tree pose.

Oh sure, you make it look sooo easy with your
directional arrows & your giant underwear...

In tree pose, my instructor says, you will waver. But this is not a sign of imbalance; it's a sign of finding your balance. You can't hold yourself so rigid that a little wavering knocks you off your groove.

I swear, part of the yoga teacher training must be a Life Metaphor section or something.

I remember my counselor telling me a story about something her yoga instructor said during class once and I said, "Wow, aren't yoga teachers so profound?" and she said "Seriously. Sometimes I think about just referring all my clients down to the yoga studio and closing up shop."

Now that my trial-by-fire month is over, my second month in feels easier. Steadier. Still nerve-wracking, but in an energizing way, not a terrifying way. And fun-hectic, new-adventure hectic.

Wavering, but in the sense of finding my balance.

Like a tree.

Trust Thyself

The other day I took Miss G to the salon for some facial hair tidying. As we're leaving, the aesthetician says to me, "Listen, I have to thank you."

"For what?" I say.

"Well, last week when you were here you asked for a pillow because you said it felt like you were tilted downhill. And since then I've been using a pillow for everyone, and when I ask all my clients they say 'Oh yeah, this is so much more comfortable, thank you!' So, thank you. I never even realized. Everyone is so much happier now!"

My first reaction was to feel a little embarrassed that I opened my big mouth in the first place. And then I thought, wait a second. All her other clients were uncomfortable. ALL of them. Yet no one else said a word. They would rather be uncomfortable, and trust that Ali the Aesthetician knew better than they about their own comfort level. Not that she isn't delightful but...

Why didn't anyone else speak up?

Speaking up is something I've been working on. Those who have known me a while are probably laughing right now... yes, okay, despite my opinionated ways, I DO have problems speaking up. About some things. Mostly, speaking up in the moments when it's both most vital and most challenging to do so.

We are so willing to subjugate our own instincts to an external authority, whether it's an aesthetician, teacher, doctor, or whoever. What makes us think that an outside party knows what's better for us than... well, us?

On my list of things to do this year: trust myself more. Trust that I know how to be happy better than anyone else knows what I should be doing to become happy. Even if it's as small a detail as asking for a pillow while getting my eyebrows waxed.

What will you speak up for this year?

Fighting Arthritis

For a couple years, I've had nagging hip pain. The longer it lasts, the more convinced I am that it's arthritis. This is crazy depressing, because I am way too young for that crap.

After some X-rays, the good news is that I don't have arthritis in my hips.

It's in my spine.

Externally, the warning signs are easily missed.

"Funny, the damage doesn't look as bad from out here." - C3PO

Miss G spotted it on my films before I did.

"Oooh Mama! Aren't those glowing spots arthritis??" "Gaah, what?!"

And it'd be one thing to just have the doctor hand you an invisible diagnosis, but to see it in real life was a little... chilling.

I've been collecting this for years now.

Vertebrae are supposed to run straight across. Mine, as you can see, have some jagged points combined with some eroded corners. The white-limned edges? Those shouldn't be there. That's all inflammation.

My chiropractor says she can have my spine fixed in six months. I mean, the arthritis is permanent, but once the rest of my vertebrae are in proper alignment, the condition won't be as exacerbated. (In theory. I'll keep you posted, Internet.)

In cases of osteoarthritis, one of the first lines of attack is exercise. This goes against our instincts because it freaking hurts to move arthritic joints around. They're stiff and reluctant, more so after long periods of inactivity, like while you're sleeping. Or after sitting through a Godfather marathon over Christmas break.

Yet you have to fight that instinct and move anyway. The pain unclenches eventually, though it takes a while. And it does feel better in the end.

Getting arthritic happens under our noses, whether it's metaphoric or literal. When there are sections of your life that grow rigid and resistant, that's the time you need to exercise them the most-- before they fuse into immobility and cause more severe damage.

I'm beginning my new year by bringing my spine into alignment along with the rest of my life. Work out the creaks and kinks. Infuse stagnation with movement and fluidity. Not just my spine, but throughout the rest of my life as well.

Murky pond or rushing river. Which provides the sweeter water?

New Year's Sankalpa

Potential is one of my favorite things. The unwritten page (or, uh, blog post), unwalked trails, uncracked book spines, unwatched movies. And January 1-- cold winter air edging toward longer, warmer days-- what better landscape to revel in potential? It's why we make resolutions, right?

Exactly, C.S. Lewis. Exactly.

I don't make resolutions, although I heard about the one word New Year's thing and I really like that. My words worked for me in amazing ways the last two years. This year's word?

Fruition.
fru·i·tion  [froo-ish-uh n] -- noun
1. attainment of anything desired; realization; accomplishment. After years of hard work, all her efforts were finally coming into fruition.
2. enjoyment, as of something attained or realized.

3. state of bearing fruit.

The Sanskrit word, sankalpa, means "resolve; will; determination." Much like a New Year's resolution, a sankalpa is an intention you set for yourself. Unlike a New Year's resolution, you focus on letting go rather than gaining.

Improving your life is not a matter of lacking something external. You improve your life by eliminating whatever's holding you back. A good friend delivered this much-needed message to me a couple years ago. I even wrote a post on moving out the old to make room for the new.

That marinating concept comes into realization this year.

The tools you need already exist within; you just need to dust 'em off. Plant seeds, then be willing to step back and practice thankful observation of new growth. Appreciate your harvest. Revel in what you already have. Savor what your efforts are producing.

Enjoyment, as of something attained or realized.

I am outstanding at starting projects. I'm a great idea girl. Fantastic at inspiration. I have, at any given moment, approximately 86 irons in the fire.

Completion, however... the finishing, the maturation, the see-it-through, the fruition... that part has always eluded me.

This year, I'm ready to clear off the crap that's prevented planted seeds from erupting into vitality. Foundations laid will become reality, not just another faded plan.

Attainment. Realization. Accomplishment.

Bumper-crop, heavy-boughed, juicy reality.

What are you letting go of this year?