Feeling Down

Originally written 11/19/18.

I am sad. The sadness is heavy, like a blanket. It rests on my head, on my eyes, the bones of my face, my hands. The sadness is confusing. It has me turning around from one activity to the next, seeking, searching for some unknowable treasure that will cure me. My heart is heavy. Each beat feels dull, almost painfully inevitable. I sit/fall into a chair, my legs splayed, hands limp in my lap. My head lolls to the side, pulled ever downward by the weight of despair. The future feels grey and empty. There is nothing there to grasp at, nothing to pull me through.

I am sad. Sometimes the feelings rise up in my throat to choke me. The invisible hand that grips my neck tightens its grasp and I well up, defeated. I am dead-weight, hanging by the fact of my existence, unsure of any reality besides that. The tears track icy trails down my face. Angry, I swipe at my eyes, but they refuse to dry. In this place of despair, there is nothing besides me and the four walls of the room. I am trapped in a living hell. 

I am sad. Questions rise up from somewhere below my heart. Why? Why me? Why now? And, how long? There are no answers. Only silence. So the questions repeat themselves. Why? Why me? They sail upward into the black like smoke from a flame, wisped away by unseen currents as if they had never been.

Sometimes I pray. It’s hard to pray - hard to find the will to move towards the siddur, take it off the shelf. Sometimes I pray in my mind. Sometimes I whisper the words that my heart feeds me, prayers for help, for salvation, for anything hopeful. Hope is an elusive being, which, like light, fills the space its in. Where hope is, there’s little room for sadness. And so I pray for hope. The prayers don’t leave. Instead they fill my heart, ballooning outward until the knot of pain can’t reach the walls of my chest. I can breathe now. The air revives me. It tastes sweet, like mothers’ milk. I hold that on my tongue and allow my mind to settle, relaxing outward, beneath the weighty blanket that still enfolds us.

Yes, I am still sad. I still don’t know why, why me, but I’m thinking that it doesn’t matter. The sadness simply is. I observe it with still, patient eyes, eyes still wet, but no longer crying. I write about it. I notice how I can shift beneath the weight, learning the contours of the pressure. Here it weighs more, here it weighs less. I lift my chin. My spine straightens.

I am sad, and I am also okay. 

Did it fall?

It's an old riddle: if a tree falls in a forest, and no-one is there to hear, did it emit sound? Philosophy might say no. Physics might argue. I don't know.

This idea came to mind as I considered a personal need, one that has troubled me for as long as I've had a self-concept. What need?  The craving for external reflection on my existence. Or, to put it mildly, the need for compliments.

See, it's more than an ego asking to be stroked. It's a question of by what measuring stick I determine how I'm doing in life.

Consider that much of my day I spend in my home, devoted to housekeeping and childcare. Children do not provide helpful feedback, nor does the laundry. I rely on adult responses to measure my accomplishment. This places the burden of complimenting on my husband. Fair? Not really. But that's my reality.

Now, to go back to the riddle, I feel like the question forms a perfect parallel to my life: if I receive no feedback on my progress, have I even achieved? Without compliments to reflect on my achievements, do I even exist?

I'm fairly confident that I exist. And compliments are not always forthcoming. But the need remains. And that's where the work begins for me, because living with an unmet need is not a viable option. The question becomes, how can I fill my own need for external reflection? It's a difficult one to answer. In most arenas, I would use a positive affirmation to fill the void. I just don't think that self-reflection is an adequate replacement for external reflection, since by definition, they are not the same thing.

So how do we obtain compliments without going 'fishing'?

Here are my thoughts on the subject:

The first point is to be ready and willing to hear other feedback besides compliments, because you just don't know what will manifest. (This is a good idea in any case.)

The second: ask for what you need in simple English, without inflection. No sarcasm. No passive aggressive implications. Because while 'fishing for compliments' has a bad rap, that's not what you're doing. You're trying to garner external reflection. There's nothing wrong with asking, "How'd I do?".

The third: to overdo it with the 'fishing' thing, spread your net a bit. Don't expect to fill your need from one source. Apply steps one and two with friends and family. Socialize. It helps.

I believe that the tree falls in the forest with a roar of rent wood and a cloud's worth of snapped twigs, whether the sound reaches an ear or not. It has to make noise. It fell, didn't it? That fall generated energies that reverberate through the landscape. Likewise, my actions, my behaviors, all generate vibrations that impact my environment. This is the reality, irrespective of whether I receive external feedback or not.

But thinking about this reminds me how important it is to extend the courtesy to others, notice their actions, and reflect on what I see. There's no harm in complimenting. There's only positive energy to share.

The Dragon

Originally written 01/03/18.

The dragon came on a rush of black scales, huge gusts of air, and the overwhelming stench of ozone. It swooped low over the panicked sheep, scattering them like ants. The sound it made was deafening, wings smacking the air, stirring clouds of dust that rose amid the herd. Blind and deaf, the poor animals didn’t stand a chance. The dragon plucked two sheep and rose into the air. It cut a fearsome, reptilian silhouette against the blue sky, with the sun shooting glances of silver off its hide.

Across the countryside, heads turned, following the dragon’s flight into the mountains. Doors were barred, and children gathered close. Superstitious hands made signs to ward off evil.

In the palace, the ministers wiped sweat off their powdered brows and stowed trembling fingers in silken sleeves. The king looked thunderous.

“How dare that beast maraud the skies and torment our countrymen further! It was sheep today - tomorrow it could be a child! This cannot continue!” The king’s heels beat a frenetic pace along the shiny rim of the royal dais. “Come, my good men, advise me. How might I rid my country of this terror?”

He clasped both hands behind his back and pointed his bearded chin at one counselor after another.

“Hmm? What good word have we to share?”

The advisors shifted. Their eyes darted around the chamber. 

“Who would believe it?” scoffed the king. “The finest minds in the nation stymied by a glorified snake!” He snorted, but the color was high in his cheeks. “Give me one man with a take on this dragon and I will be that man’s solution for the rest of his life. Any challenge of his, I will resolve. Any desire of his, I will see granted.”

The offer hung like diamonds in the air.

“I will do it,” said a voice. The attendants whirled to gape at the speaker. 

“You?” squeaked the king.

“Yes, me,” said the prince. “Give me my desire and I will take on your dragon.”

“Your desire,” the king repeated. His eyes were wide and shiny like coins in his face. “What is it you desire, son? The kingdom is already yours!”

“Ah,” said the prince. “Well that is a slight problem.”

“This is madness,” barked the king. “You shan't go slaying dragons, boy. You are the crown prince of this kingdom, and you belong right here.”

“You asked for one man,” said the prince. He pointed to himself. “You have one.”

“Gah,” said the king. He turned a beribboned back on the room and took a long look at his throne. The prince waited, hands clasped before him. The courtiers shifted and looked around the chamber. “So be it,” said the king at last. He whirled on his son, eyes flashing like dragon scales. “Find the beast. Destroy it. And come home.”

The prince bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.” He strode from the hall.

The king seated himself on the royal throne. He raised his chin, beard pointing straight ahead. His hands gripped the golden arms of the chair, the carved lion’s faces imprinting in his palms. “Well?” he demanded of the nearest attendant. “Next order of business!”

Bullet Journal Reflections

I've been back and forth with my husband regarding investing in a new journal so that I can begin bullet journaling. Of course I found a lovely journal and some really cool pens, and I said to myself, "it's only $20, between the lot"... but for the sake of integrity, I ran it by my better half. He has his reservations. I can imagine what they sound like:

More spending?
Does she need it?
Will she even stick with it?

But I really really wanted to try out some of Ryder Carroll's ideas. After reading up on the concepts, I found a lot of similarities between the BuJo method and the notes I take. The difference is, BuJo is organized, consolidated, intentional. My notes fill simultaneous legal pads. The lists take various forms. A typical page is a rat's nest of arrows, boxes, and lines, and I'm forever searching for the most recent 'to-do' list... that's if I even think to check the list. I'm notorious for making lists and forgetting about them.

So here's what I did:

I took a blank composition notebook that I had overstocked from this year's school supply spree. I began setting up the notebook as Ryder Carroll instructs on BulletJournal.com: index, future log, month calendar (did not do this properly, on reflection), day log. I added a couple relevant collections: my library list, a supper menu... numbered the pages and logged them in the index. And voila! A bullet journal.

Mind you I did all this in plain ol' Bic pen.

The lesson? Sometimes things are possible if you scale down your standards. I did not have to spend $20 to have a satisfactory bullet journal experience. On further exploration, I found that many dedicated BuJournalers use, and even prefer to use, regular comp notebooks of different shapes and sizes. After all, it's not the materials you use but the practice that counts.

Monday Musings

Being home with a sick child is a recipe for doing wholly nothing. This has been well documented. Yet here I sit, adding my two cents to generations' worth of knowledge. I wish I could do something productive, explore new music, write something worthwhile... but I must temper my expectations. Today shall be a "Moderate Monday". If I do no more than care for the children, I will have done plenty - or so I tell myself.

But my heart resists. Do, do, do! screams the inner voice, the same persona that quivers, critically aware of the minutes scrolling by. She helpfully presents me with flash impressions of the items on my theoretical "to-do" list: clean up, find a cleaning lady, do the front closet, make supper, fold more laundry, pay bills, ad infinitum.

And my daughter whines because she lacks the tech skills to navigate my phone and locate the videos her siblings watch. I refuse to sit there showing her video after video until we both snap, screen-crazed and foggy, hungry and neglected. There has to be a way to engage her in real creative play. Or even to "cuddle her", as she sometimes requests.

It's the tedium that gets me, I think. Mundanity has ever been a problematic subject. (I touched on this yesterday when considering the value of intelligence versus hard work. See "You're So Smart." - not.)

What will it take to impress on me the value of, and blessing that is, a normal day? Don't answer that. I need to look at today as an opportunity to flex my gratitude muscles.

Today I am grateful for:
1. Family.
2. Shelter.
3. Security.
4. Spirituality.
5. Theyeshiva.net.

"You're So Smart!" - not.

It's been a while since I've written. And by that, I mean, since I've written anything beyond my journal. (I don't think the journal counts as real writing - it's more stream-of-consciousness than craft.) I'm not sure why, but my creative drive moves in cycles, from music to writing to nothing, or some other sequence of the same. I don't seem to control it, and I have zero discipline, so those artistic practices recommended by William Kenower (see Fearless Writing, here and here) don't actually work for me.

That's the problem.

In the real world, it seems, talent alone doesn't cut it. One needs discipline, consistency, and above all, effort, in order to produce results. I was raised to value genius. For the longest time, I entertained the secret hope that I would turn out to be a prodigy. My husband, on the other hand, grew up valuing effort and results. "You work/ed hard," is a common form of praise for his family.

I've come to recognize that effort and consistency are more likely to produce results than genius alone. Genius can sit in a corner preening, while effort actually moves the blocks. I don't say this to put myself down. Rather, my values are shifting, and this will impact how I parent my children. No longer, "You're so smart". Yes, s/he is smart. But is that worth praising? Did the child do anything deserving of praise? "You gave it your best" actually notices a behavior.

I'm reminded of a period in high school where my peers liked to tell me how smart I was. It was meant as a compliment, but it did not sit well with me. My secular education had been more complete than theirs, plus, I'd spent my whole childhood reading books. I'd picked up a couple things, that was all.

When I entered the real world, I was unprepared for real work. I'd coasted through school on 'talent', never learning the value of effort or consistency. And now as an adult, I'm paying the price.

I only hope that recognizing the value in targeting praise to behavior will enable me to better raise competent successful adults.