Aligning Mind, Body & Soul
Do you have new thoughts?
Or do you cut yourself with the same emotions?
Is your joy bespoke?
Or do you suffer from nostalgia?
Is this experience a new memory?
Or is it part of a story written before me?
Are your bad habits new?
Or are they part of your DNA?
When you cry, is it transactional?
Or does it bleed from deep within?
Do you sing in the shower?
Or do you fear your voice?
What are you afraid of?
Or is it this?
2022 was a big read year for me. 35 books, over 10,000 pages, countless new friends in my head, new worlds explored, new feelings tapped into. But I place the most value on the new perspectives acquired by looking at the world and life’s adventures through someone else’s eyes. After doing an IQ test, EQ test, and personality test yesterday, I feel heard and seen, ha. But, one area that plagues me is deductive reasoning. I would make an awful Sherlock, although an excellent Watson. It bothers me, endlessly – my deductive reasoning is inhibited by a combination of my trauma and my lack of skill set. I tend to focus on what any moment/interaction says of me rather than what it says of the person/experience. When I do let observation take over, I feel analysis paralysis. There are characters that instantly put my brain to ease – Stephanie Plum in Janet Evanovich for instance. She is undoubtedly a hot mess on the regular, but she is logical, curious, observant, and has no problem laughing at herself. Armand Gamache in the Louise Penny novels also feels like coming home to me. These types of characters are a heated blanket for my brain. I do have people like this in my life as well, my best friends, my sister, my adopted moms. I love hearing how they think about things, especially things that emotionally plague me, because I can tap into their logic, and their distance (since their ability to observe will be heightened since it is not their personal problem). I would be lying if I said I never ask myself “what would Gamache do.”
Here’s what I learned from my reading this year:
Q1: Escape into things that are scarier than my own life, ha. Included The Ring Trilogy and the book that inspired the movie The Devil Made Me Do It. The Ring Trilogy was good 66.66%. The final book took me all year to finally get through – it went too far into Sci-Fi, when I wanted to read horror. The Devil Made Me Do It (the book is actually called The Devil In Connecticut) is worth a mention as the first legal case using demonic possession as a defense.
Q2: So many books! Thriller, horror, and true crime. Was it a dark time for me personally? Possible 😊 My highlights:
The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune. This was light on the brain! It had some deep concepts but never dug too far into them, whether intentionally or not. I tend to like to go deep and heavy, and I was initially disappointed by aesthetically addressing societal issues of race, discrimination, displacement, “reintegration,” etc. But, the book made me think about these issues in a curious way instead of one filled with deep rooted shame and helplessness. I absolutely loved it.
My Best Friend’s Exorcism by Grady Hendrix. Ok, picture a mall in the 1980s – the stonewashed jeans, big hair, loud music, and bright colors. Now, add in a teenage girl with a demonic possession. That is this book, and it was glorious! Also a great escape even if the writing was a bit diffuse and the ending was too long. I would consider it a marriage of the movies Mean Girls and Now and Then and the show Stranger Things.
Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews. This is a classic banned book that has some horrible neglect and abuse in it. Most people focus on the incest, but who cares when you have a grandma and mom colluding to disappear children?! Sexual experimentation is normal, and if you are isolated to experiencing adolescence with your siblings, then it logics out that some weird sexual stuff might happen. For a book written in the 60s, I get why that was more taboo than the long term arsenic poisoning taking place. And yeah, was it a bit romanticized? Sure. It was also a bit long, in my opinion. But highly recommend reading this for the societal impact this book had.
The 7.5 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton. This was one of my most memorable and recommended reads of the year. Read it. It kept me on my toes, trying to figure out what was happening and why. It was creative, with luscious emotive characters. I loved people, hated people, and sometimes, they were the same characters! Turton was able to create a completely fictional world that was both unique and believable. Wildly interesting.
Q3: busy hiking so only have one good book – Sybil by Flora Rheta Schreiber. You may recognize the name Sybil, the first documented case of multiple personality disorder, now known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). This book is provocative because it compels. Is this fact or fiction? Was it a hyperbolized truth? Check it out and decide for yourself. Regardless, it is a curious documentation of what can happen with intense abuse during our formative years. It is not an easy read – but if you are interested in psychology and trauma, it’s a must.
Q4: Two words. Neil Gaiman. I didn’t realize until just now that he is one of my favorite authors. I read both The Graveyard Book and Stardust. Love both – they were cute, easy, with absolutely terrific writing. (Is he married to a racist bigot? Quite possibly. I have not yet figured out how that incorporates into my appreciation of his writing, if at all. I still like Hemingway, and he was a misogynistic asshole in many ways. I am currently undecided on this bigger issue since we are all humans doing the best we can.) Other favorites:
The Magicians by Lev Grossman. Harry Potter meets Narnia but for adults. See my post Magic in My Moat for a better writeup.
Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore by Matthew J Sullivan. This one surprised me! It’s a murder mystery, but it unveils itself in a nontraditional way. A clerk in a bookstore finds the body of one of her loved patrons, suicide. He left her everything he owns, which isn’t much. And as she tries to uncover why he would take his own life, she solves the mystery of her own torrid past. When she was a young girl, at a sleepover, a whole family was mercilessly murdered. She was the sole survivor. The suicide was the convergence of her past and present. I had figured out the ending, but I enjoyed the journey.
Verity by Colleen Hoover. Colleen Hoover is a-typical for me, but I devoured this book. It is my second most recommended book of 2022. Hoover does a great job of weaving this thriller through diary entries. I was skeptical of all the characters – found myself thinking “and THIS is when they turn on that person.” It was a reminder that believing the best in people goes a long way, and believing the worst in them may inspire you to act in ways you aren’t proud of. Be careful with this one as well – definite more child abuse in here and some truly despicable (and not the fun kind) behavior.
Cabinet of Curiosities by Louise Penny. Penny is another favorite author, and I look forward to reading everything she puts out. She infuses other literature and poetry and art into her detective series, along with this concept of believing the best in people. Her common theme is that even good people do bad things. Forgiveness is a key component, as is justice. This book did not disappoint – in fact, it was beautifully well done. She is a great modern Agatha Christie, with more character development. I truly love all of the characters in these books. Read everything by Penny. If you want to know how to start her books, message me.
Most of my books were bought used from Thrift Books, a local bookstore from my travels, occasionally Amazon, and often Strand Books in Manhattan.
I surround myself with books,
To give words to my feelings
My hopes, my dreams
The relationships that I haven’t had yet
And the ones that I have failed during
As a camaraderie, support group
The backstop to my fall, my failures
And even my insecurities.
Surrounded by greatness,
By creativity, and even the vile.
A fluid scale of normalcy
Against which I can predict how others may
Judge me,
I can prepare for anything that may come.
Witches? Ann Hoffman.
Goblins? JK Rowling.
Crazed murderer? Ann Rule.
The Unknown? Ursula K. Le Guin.
Myself? Ali Smith.
Hope and Love? Louise Penny.
The coven of friends in my personal library
Give me the tool that I need at the time,
Even if it is the Emergency Exit.
It’s been two <million> years since my last post. The time warp that COVID caused has me feeling simultaneously like I aged 10 years and paused life entirely. I am still, much like you I presume, scratching my head. What actually just happened.
Today, I finished watching Netflix’s version of Jane Austen’s Persuasion starting Dakota Johnson. There are several scenes that have me like “yasss queen” to Anne Elliot. Note to the bibliophiles – this is a loose adaptation, and it doesn’t have great reviews. But, if you want my opinion, WATCH IT. It’s funny, charming, endearing, and has great music. Anyway, Anne has a broken heart and pines after this guy for YEARS. Her guide to getting over him:
She obviously gets that universally mandated second chance (because, Jane Austen), she laments a few things, enumerated because that’s what I do:
Some of this stuff bounces off the walls of my rib cage, careening right into that intersection of heart and throat constriction. My last post was about love – and really looking for that balance of choosing to love someone and choosing to love oneself. And really, I learned that if you have to make that choice, it’s a major indicator of fatal flaws. Actually, that is a fatal flaw itself. Wanting something, even badly wanting it, is not sustenance. Hope is not nutrition. Dreams are not a foundation. And as much as it hurts, it’s ok to recognize the limits of hope and dreams. I think now, that hopes and dreams are the airplane flying you to a joint destination. It’s exciting to head out on that adventure and absolutely nothing wrong with coming home alone. Just don’t be afraid to pack your bags and get back on that plane.
Metaphors aside, life can be really hard sometimes. I had a psychic reading this fall, in the midst of my life change, and she said that my chakra was frozen. Excuse me, what. That can happen?! That explained why I felt numb all over. Even my brain felt like it was suspended in a different time-space continuum. After reading about this, I recognized the power the brain exerts over the body, especially during trauma. If our limbic system arm wrestled our prefrontal lobe, it would punch the prefrontal lobe and then run away, leaving the prefrontal lobe wondering what the EFF just happened. Literally. This is how your brain responds to extreme stimuli. The definition of “extreme” is pretty subjective: if we operating on a 10-point scale for stress, and you are regularly at an 8, then you will likely engage your fight or flight faster than someone who operates at a 4. The way this happens is a series of neurons fire pathways leading you to either a reaction or a response. Staying present and grounded supports the response pathways to the prefrontal lobe (mindfulness and meditation are instruments here, but you can also use ice cubes on the wrist, breathing exercises, naming what you hear/smell, etc.).
Aside from the science, I want to share a few other things that may be helpful too. Life has been extraordinarily stressful these past few years. Politics, wars, climate change, inflation, a global pandemic. If you used to be a 4, it’s ok if you are a 6 now. Give yourself grace, and give some thought to my list (Angie’s List, if you will):
Love you all. Find grace, set your boundaries, give grace, and breathe.
After my divorce, curiosity became my driving force. Alongside fear, which is an interesting combination. See earlier posts (and future posts – my crystal ball is spot on with this one). I grew up in the same city that I attended college. In fact, I want to school in the same two block radius for all of my education. I followed the rules – go to school, meet man, get good job, get married, buy house, have kids, buy bigger house, blah blah blah. Except I stopped at the “buy house” instruction. And to be honest, I wasn’t really following the prescribed order of things. But I felt like I was still being true to what I knew to be my life path. Except.
I shed that skin and felt air enter my lungs. The veil was removed. I yearned for new experiences, new places, new people, new ideology. There started my wanderlust. Since I am a rule follower, I did not jump straight to backpacking through Asia, living in Bali, learning to macramé and teaching yoga. I still dream of that. But I felt like paying bills so I found a job, moved away, and travelled the world.
This is a really long fucking way of telling you about this time I was in London. See, I didn’t want to just start with that because I didn’t want you to judge me for being so pompous. Anyway, I was in London and went to see Tina Turner, the musical in West End. Tina had a rough life – but she kept the absolute of who she was regardless of who wanted to demean her, condescend her, beat her, and keep her from her true potential. Tonight, What’s Love Got to Do with It? is on replay in my head. Not because anyone is treating me the way Tina was treated – but because, what the fuck is this emotion. No question mark. I know you all agree.
It is also on replay because I was there with one of my best friends and my favorite travel buddy. I was dating another man, but the man I was travelling with seemed to understand me. He guided me through crowds when I was on sensory overload; he let me ramble about my hopes and dreams; he danced with me; he laughed at my jokes; he even picked bookstores that he knew I would love. He felt like coming home. At the time, he didn’t live in my city. He lived in a different time zone in fact. Had his own life. Had a beard and long hair or not, mainly I didn’t know his daily decisions and that was fine by me. But when one of his emails hit my inbox or his endearing text messages arrived on my phone, I felt warmth radiate through my body.
It’s obvious right – I love this guy. So when he moved to Seattle, I broke up with my guy. I took a break from dating, thinking I was losing my fucking mind. But I wasn’t – I loved him. And I loved me enough to tell him. We have loved each other in the motherfucking public for over a year now.
But I think we may kill each other. Don’t worry, it will be a coffin built for two (thanks Jessie Reyez + Eminem). What I mean is – we are going to eat each other alive. Again, a la Jessie Reyez:
Love you in the worst way,
You knock me down like a heavy weight
We fell in love got KO, oh oh
Too damn young so we broke up, no go
So much for a wedding date
I know nobody gets out of love alive
We either break up when we’re young or we say goodbye when we die
For a moment at least, I know you were mine and it was beautiful
But winter comes and roses don’t survive
It’s getting late and I should go
But I wanna hold ya like its June in the west end
Back when you were my best friend
Before love came to kill us
We’re not supposed to
But I can’t learn my lesson
I miss when you were my best friend
Before love came to kill us
Under the mask of the moon, can we dance in the past
Before love, before love came to kill us
I am scared of this ending. Is it quarantine? Did we move the relationship too fast? Am I flawed? Is he flawed? And if all of these played some role, can we course correct? Or, is it just done. And I need to now analyze what my lessons are.
Aside from these very basic, elementary questions on blame and guilt, I guess I am really digging dip on how romantic love changed everything. Before the “I love you” was uttered, we were a really beautiful enigma. Like, really beautiful. Full of flaws and acceptance. The unicorn of relationships. I miss when he was my best friend. But now it all feels so complicated, and I can’t unwind the yarn to determine what’s just plain bullshit and what is still at the core of this relationship.
Do you find yourself wondering about your most intimate relationship? I find myself pulled between the investment and getting out alive. Maybe if we pull the plug now, we can still be friends. But if we pull the plug now, are we ultimately missing out on the return of the investment.
And let’s just talk about being of a “certain age” and still dating. Words that come to mind: broken, damaged, sex-addict, closeted, project. No offense needed. But we have been there, right? Swiping on Tinder, judging people without knowing their circumstances. I am 35 and divorced. And this is the only relationship since that has lasted a full year. Barely. SPINSTER. There’s a word for ya.
Ok. But really. What does love have to do with life? We all want to receive love. We tend to be wary to give love. We desire acceptance, understanding, listening, connection. We are scared of rejection, judgement, manipulation, distance. For the math lovers in the room, we = me. Without putting words in any of your mouths, I am guessing some of you relate.
I want love to be my core tenant. The reason for life itself. Love, curiosity, growth. A challenging moment in a relationship fits all of these core elements – be curious about your partner, love yourself and that person, and regardless of where the relationship goes, one thing is certain, you are growing. Congratulations.
Boundaries. Bound dairies. Bound uh reese. What do you see when you hear this word? Does it call in to mind crop circles? Or cows out to pasture. Or giant walls along southern borders. Or, even, healthy ways of maintaining your sanity.
That last bit is new for me. I grew up a rule follower. Following the rules strictly meant I was less likely to be yelled at, hit, shamed, embarrassed. It was a protection mechanism I deployed to survive. None of those rules (dare I say, boundaries) were products of my own learnings – 100% were rules imposed on me. I think that’s the natural order of the world. When we are kids, we trust the adults around us to keep us safe – that’s what rules are for. Parents around my age seem to deploy a more democratic environment to rule imposition. However, in my era, I heard “what did I say?” frequently – I get it. “Do as I say, not as I do?” “Do you think I made these rules for fun?” Or the ever fun countdown, which meant, you have 5 seconds to rethink that approach.
That rebellious age of breaking your parents rules is the process of denying someone else from establishing your boundaries only to find out that certain rules actually do make sense.
Don’t stay up too late on a school night. (This one is becoming clearer to me the further I get from my 20s.)
Wash your dishes as you dirty them.
Respect authority figures.
Do not lie.
Wash your hands.
The list goes on. But what is the difference between rules and boundaries?
To be honest, this came up recently because of a romantic relationship I was in. I loved this guy. Thought he a fantastic human – full of curiosity, generosity, intellect, and compassion. But he always seemed to want more of me. That in and of itself is not a problem. But it became a problem because I wasn’t prepared to give more than what I was capable of giving. His need crossed right over a boundary that I didn’t even know I had. And to further complicate the situation, because what relationship isn’t complicated, he wanted blame it on me. I was moody, inarticulate, unpredictable, non-commital, etc.
Where my words fail, Rachel Cusk has me covered. If you haven’t read her work yet, brilliant. She writes on life after divorce, rebuilding yourself and your perspective on life:
“Sometimes it has seemed to me that life is a series of punishments for such moments of unawareness, that one forges one’s own destiny by what one doesn’t notice or feel compassion for; that what you don’t know and don’t make the effort to understand will become the very thing you are forced into knowledge of.”
I remember coming home after an especially difficult weekend, to my boyfriend, who exposed that our relationship was “unhealthy” and he didn’t feel “safe”. I quote, not to degrade his words, but to make it known that I am not putting these words in his mouth. I felt a shock. I thought we had a lovely relationship. We travelled well. We learned from each other. We could go out or stay in. We challenged each other’s beliefs and perspectives and yet had a common belief system that seemed to be a strong foundation. There were miscommunications, missteps, and difficult conversations. But overall, they appeared to be worth it. And frankly, 8 months in, necessary.
Recognizing that as humans, in our 30s or older, we have a certain self-awareness, emotional <im>maturity, and grasp on compatibility. There are kinks to work out and understanding and awareness of the other person to be had. Toilet paper under or over. Spoons up or down in the dishwasher. 2% or whole. Organic and grass fed or economical. Planning or spontaneous. The beauty of the relationship is, for me, finding out these things and learning buttons and triggers. Not to intentionally use them (oops, that does happen sometimes), but to figure out where good and bad energy begins in another person.
After that conversation, I revisited so many of our interactions. What did I miss? What warning signs did he give me that I swept under the rug? Did I actually see the signs but intentionally ignore them? Why on earth would I do that? And did he have a good point? Were we unhealthy, unhappy, and in need of either a change or a solution?
This is where “compromise” muddies the water for me. Where am I unwilling to compromise? And does the fact that I am unwilling to compromise push me into an area of “not good dating material” and certainly “not marriage material.” Not that those are my end game, but you get the gist…
What boundaries my parents taught me in the form of rules – don’t overstay your welcome – became clear to me again as an adult. This was a worthwhile imposition for me. When does a relationship cross from curiosity and joy to expectations and pressure?
“Love and Be Loved.”
As a refresher from my blog post of nearly 3 months ago, this was my closing lesson. Grimm, Roman mythology (not Greek – I studied Latin in school), Hans Christian Anderson, among others, taught me that the best tales told deliver a punch line to the figurative gut as a lesson or moral implication. I strive to make these heroes of mine proud.
And let’s be honest – I am always learning. As much as I would like to think that I know everything, I am constantly reminded that the world is not simple enough for my simple brain to understand in its entirety. Isn’t that beautiful and frightening all at once?
I picked up Leonard Cohen’s book of poetry called book of longing in the CDMX airport (Mexico City) over this past weekend. For a man who lived so much life, I looked to him for guidance. And Mr. Cohen made me laugh out loud with his interpretation of “imposter syndrome”:
One of My Letters
I corresponded with a famous rabbi,
But my teacher caught sight of one of my letters
And silenced me.
“Dear Rabbi,” I wrote him for the last time,
“I do not have the authority or understanding
To speak of these matters.
I was just showing off.
Please forgive me.
Your Jewish brother,
Jikan Eliezer.”
Likewise, I find it comforting and fascinating that other people in this world are looking inward, searching their soul for the answers that I find myself asking my own soul on the regular. Then I find it frightening that millions of years of humans are still searching for these answers. If someone has found them, they certainly aren’t publishing it on Reddit, Twitter, or other public forums. Sadly, perhaps they are, as of yet, untranslated hieroglyphs in ancient ruins. In the past week, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain committed suicide while the CDC was publishing its latest results on the over 25% increase in deaths from suicide in the past few years. Are we getting further from the truth? Are we seeking self-indulgences and vanity through, ahem, blogging, selfies, and tweets instead of what really matters? And, what does really matter?
Excerpt from Through the Painted Deserts by Donald Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz):
My life, this gift I have been given, has been wasted, thus far, attempting to answer meaningless questions. Recently I have come to believe there are more important questions than HOW questions: how do I get money, how do I get laid, how do I become happy, how do I have fun? On one of our trips to central Texas, I stood at the top of a desert hill and looked into the endlessness of the heavens, deep into the inky blackness of the cosmos, those billion stars seeming to fall through the void from nowhere to nowhere. I stood there for twenty minutes, and as it had a few times that year, my mind fell across the question of WHY? … and so in exchanging the HOW questions for the WHY questions I began to probe the validity of presuppositions. … I confess I wanted to believe life was bigger, larger than my presuppositions.
I often think about the time I could be spending to make this world a better place, or at least make one person feel like the world is a better place, if I weren’t spending all of this time in my own head. Searching out meanings to questions. Analyzing interactions and human behavior. Watching life lived and people fall in love instead of living and loving myself. It feels safer to be a voyeur. It takes less energy to sit on the sidelines of passivity and by approximation revel in the love and life of those around you. And by you, I mean me.
But I can’t help but wonder – are you feeling this way too? Clearly Leonard Cohen, Donald Miller, and I have had these thoughts, so it wouldn’t be out of line to think you may as well.
Let’s do this together then. What scares you the most? What keeps you benched instead of out there with the rest of the team?
My fears, in a kind of random chaos:
Is the first step admitting you have a problem? If so, we are on the right track. Second step – learn from others, escape, meditate, practice loving yourself. Read Maya Angelou.
Touched by an Angel (Maya Angelou)
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
Once upon a time, there was a little redheaded boy, named BW, born to a man who was figuring out his life and a woman who took on Responsibility as if it were created only for her. BW was the cutest kid you have ever seen – flaming orange hair. Technically he qualified a redhead, but a true artist would say the blazing orange of a sunset, the heat from a roaring bonfire, and the best mix of ketchup and mustard for sublime tator tot dipping. BW was the apple of his daddy’s eye. Life had some struggles but all seemed smooth when along came another baby – a teeny tiny little girl, with large, dark eyes and dimples that could melt even the most frigid. Sweetheart, she was called by both her mommy and daddy. It was clear from the beginning that she would be the star of her mommy’s story. The family seemed ablaze – full of life and love. But, as with all tales of wisdom, these two young people could not make it work. They fought and created cuts, scabs and scars in each other, until the bond broke, and the two children of fury and flame were left in the middle.
Fast forward over the next 15 years. BW and Sweetheart were best friends. Daddy remarried and adopted two older sons. Mommy remarried and had another baby – with large dark eyes fringed by lashes so dark, they appeared to be cut from a single piece of cloth. Growing up was difficult – between parents fighting, new marriages blooming, and all-American families blending. Needless to say, roads diverged. Sweetheart and BW lost their friendship, and Sweetheart stopped calling, coming to family functions, ceasing to exist in the world they had created.
Fast forward 15 more years. Daddy gets sick. It appears as though it is an intestinal blockage. But it is that C word. That horrible life taker, misery maker, leaving questions in its wake. But Daddy beats it! He comes out the other side, where esophageal cancer is waiting. Again, he fights his battle. His head held high, hope and humor his armor. One day, Daddy starts cursing like a sailor. Trying to escape his house. Forgetting his phone number. It appears this battle cannot be won. That damned C word has taken refuge in his brain, on his adrenal gland, in his bones.
For the last weeks of Daddy’s life, Sweetheart stayed by his side. Washing his face, sharing stories, holding his hand, watching old Westerns. BW joins and the two converge on memory lane where the 3 Musketeers roam once more. Where life seems to have a vintage quality but the characters are more grown up, mature, and facing a mountain of pain and despair. That mountain they will climb as a two-some, as BW and Sweetheart, because Daddy is now in the sky, illuminating the mountain with his brilliant rays, casting out demons, cleansing, warming the soul and shining from the laugh lines and dimples, bouncing off that beautiful orange hair.
This is where “control” doesn’t exist. In this land, there is no word for it. There is only day-by-day. A journey of remembrance. In this world, it is apparent where “control” misled, demanded, judged, forced, and demeaned. And it is in this world where love and laughter, living side by side, accepting people as they come that exists. The message is simple – Love and Be Loved.
I miss you Daddy. I only needed “One More Night” or “Another Day in Paradise” to see your “True Colors”. I “Can’t Stop Loving You” with this “Groovy Kind of Love”. “You’ll Be in My Heart”.
<Phil Collins and Genesis are a family favorite. Please listen to these songs and honor my Daddy.>
I am going through a rough patch. There. I said it.
My word of the year is “temperance” but I am finding “control” to be much more applicable. 2017 was a year of stretching me. I quit my public accounting career, choosing not to become partner but instead choosing my own personal “road less traveled”. I went to work for a small nonprofit at the convincing of a friend of mine, who happened to be the CEO. I started traveling to upstate New York around 30-50% of each month. I learned new things – things I had never worked on before. Budgeting, modeling, forecasting, bookkeeping, efficiencies, policy setting, deferred revenue accounting, human resources, payroll, technology implementation, workflows. I learned about whistleblower policies and how detrimental poor leadership can be for the culture of an organization, how limiting selfish leadership can be for the growth of an organization. I learned that people can mask themselves under any façade, but ultimately it is typically a short-lived manipulation of the audience. I learned that I am indeed capable of love. I learned that my family means more to me than I had ever expressed. I learned that I have a lot of walls up, and while I am communicative, I tend to lack grace in those moments. I learned that it is true – if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. I have also learned that there is a time limit to accepting grace, comfort and interest from those around you when a hard period lasts too long. And then I have learned that friendship, for me, is defined more intimately by those who are willing to pick me up when I fall.
Have you experienced a year of this much transition? This much growth? Did you remain hopeful, optimistic, and even charming? Or did you find yourself swirling around the drain of defeat, knowing you likely wouldn’t be sucked in but wondering all the same what it would feel like to have the current take you away?
I wholeheartedly believe that a “breakdown” means that a rebuild is coming. I know the horizon is beautiful and that the sun is coming up. I can practically feel the morning dew now 😊
All allegory aside, this is still (yes, still) a post on control. In nearly all those lessons learned above, I had very little control. 2017 was a choose-your-own-adventure book! It had the elements of a great story – a classically beautiful heroine, a surprising antagonist turns villain, a love interest, and a dog. And what do we learn from good books? The plot generally thickens through the main character’s choices as reactions to external factors. Why? Because those outside factors are WAY MORE FUN. If this was just about the protagonist, it would be called a “diary”.
I have tried for the past month to make myself ok and “just enjoy” this time. On good days, I can manipulate my thoughts into creating a positive environment which is slightly manic, to be honest. It feels fake, like I just put on my mom’s lipstick instead of my own. Might fool people on the outside, but I know inside it is a shade I would never wear. And that makes me uncomfortable. My attempt to control my feelings is not mastery over my thoughts, it is short term manipulation. Right now, I am accepting this position. This is not WHO I am; this is WHAT I am going through.
For anyone reading this, if you are going through a particularly rainy season in life and find your umbrella bending in the wind, here are my suggestions:
My final suggestion – message me. I am happy to be a ray of sunshine. Together we can make a rainbow.
I love reading books. I love reading books and talking about them with a friend even more. Sharing is truly caring in this area of life. I find other people’s perspectives and memories actually lend to my interpretation. Sometimes I think about writing book reviews like we used to write book reports, just for fun, so that I can remember the book all that much better. Nerd alert.
My girlfriend, Susan, and I have started a Stephen King book club. It’s very elite. In fact, there are only two members. To get in, you must recite your favorite SK quote by memory, disclose what shape It takes in its most natural form, pick a favorite ride from Joyland, and if you think Dolores Claiborne should be innocent or guilty.
Let me know if you want to be admitted 😊
Anyway, we are reading Needful Things. It turns out, this book is all about CONTROL. Pesky little word that is turning out to be. And not any kind of control, but straight up MANIPULATION. In true King-style, there is an element of supernatural at play, some hypnotism, and definitely a good versus evil theme.
A little background on the book (but please read it for yourself, because it is shockingly good!): Leland Gaunt opens a shop called Needful Things in a small town called Castle Rock. He panders to the deepest, darkest desires of his clientele in exchange for a small monetary fee plus a small act of service. These acts are construed as harmless pranks that Mr. Gaunt asks each customer to perform on a seemingly random townee. Once the web becomes visible, however, the sheer power of Mr. Gaunt’s control, and use of the objects of his customers’ affections to dig his hooks in, is illuminated.
What strikes me throughout my reading is that each and every person knows Mr. Gaunt is evil before they strike any deals with him. A handshake causes nausea. A smile looks leering. An approach is aggressive. Familiarity is premature. His skin feels like paper. His eyes change color depending on who is telling their story. Despite that intuition, everyone still assumes Mr. Gaunt “knows best.” Except Sherriff Pangborn who just can’t shake off his intuition that something is not right, with his gut leading him ever-closer to Needful Things and its creepy proprietor.
I am going to confess that this is not my formal book review as I still have about 30% left to read. But I am also going to tell you straight up that I can’t stop considering control as a good versus evil thing. Stick with me here. In my previous post, I explored mastery versus manipulation as forms of control. Here, as I chat with Stephen King about control via Needful Things, I wonder if we know the difference between good control and bad control based on intuition. Our 6th chakra. Ajna. Our third eye. That gut instinct that tells us – don’t do that, calm down, stop being negative, you can do this, don’t give up. That intuition that says that the universe won’t leave us on our asses no matter what is being dished out at any particular moment. That feeling that if we stay centered and uplifted, we will be able to see more clearly.
Should any one of those Castle Rock inhabitants trusted their gut, walked out of Needful Things, or, gasp, returned the item they didn’t want… perhaps Castle Rock would remain intact, rather than the town formerly known as Castle Rock. That, however, doesn’t make as good of a story.
And in this thing called life, struggle is indeed a better story. Mastery of our perception of struggle is the best story yet. Looking forward to see how this chapter of life plays out.