Letting go…of not choosing happiness

I got out of bed this morning achy and tired. I experience this often and find no particular joy in welcoming the day or even in being. Everything seems difficult and a drag. My body does not seem to be in a place where my mind wants to be.

But in that moment as I brush my teeth, I make a choice. I can if I wish, steer the course of my day in a happier direction, or remain withdrawn and continue feeling sorry for myself.

In response to a recent blog post, a friend said that she tries to “train the brain”. “Wake up every morning and while brushing, look to the mirror and say in your mind I am going to be happy and have a great day,” were her wise words.

I realized that I do this to some extent each day. Not in particularly as chipper and happy a manner as my friend. But I do stare at myself. In that moment, I often see everything I don’t want to see. The fears, the fatigue, the sense of overwhelm. In that early vulnerable hour, my face is incapable of masking any emotional response to pain. Everything I may be covering up stares back at me from the mirror.

In that moment I make the choice to guide my day and my disposition to sunnier directions. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I sustain it for longer. Sometimes I give up.

Yes, happiness is an effort. Not in a homework kind of way, but it is a choice. A choice we make. A choice that determines the course of our life. It comes more naturally to some and life experiences, genes and health all add to the equation. But countless stories of soldiers and others who have braved difficult odds and found happiness demonstrates that we don’t have to be born into happiness but it is something acquired by those who are committed to it.

Perhaps, what matters is that I want to make this commitment to happiness. That I want to make each day count. I hear this is a common thread of thought for persons with long illnesses. People often wake up from years of illness, feel a sense of loss for the time they have lost and want to make each day count.

Perhaps this is exactly so for me. And I know it is not going to be easy. But it is an effort I wish to make. And that counts.

Letting go…of responding to other people’s judgment

We pulled out Rockband the other day. My daughter and her friend played drums. My husband took the guitar and I sang. I sang away happily and most likely off-key. And it was fun.
Till the kids decided my score was too high and the level was changed to ‘difficult’. I didn’t notice much difference, except that my singing was now being judged – and quite harshly in that.  The machine told me my singing was “Messy” and my singer feelings were hurt. “Okay”, it said and I tried harder. “Great”, it said and my heart sore. And then we went back to “Messy” again.

How dare this piece of machine call my singing “messy”? I sing in the shower every day for crying out loud. How dare it break my confidence and my belief to hold a tune?

What was worse was that I was responding to this computerized criticism. I realized how much more fun it had been before I began worrying about my performance. And before the Gods of Rockband began to judge me.

So was I actually worried about what this machine thought of me? Did I feet judged? Sigh…if machines have this kind of effect on me, there’s absolutely no hope for me. How have I even lasted this long in a human world, I wonder?

And it’s time to let go of that… And perhaps I can start with at least the non-human kind of criticism. Rockband, here I come…

Letting go of...listening with barriers

Speaking of the philosopher, J. Krishnamurthi, physicist David Bohm once said:

 “I was struck by the great ease of communication with him, which was made possible by the intense energy with which he listened and by the freedom from self-protective reservations and barriers with which he responded to what I had to say.” As a person who works in science, I felt completely at home with this sort of response, because it was in essence of the same quality as that which I had made in contacts with those other scientist with whom there had been a very close meeting of minds. And here, I think especially of Einstein who showed a similar intensity and absence of barriers in a number of discussions that took place between him and me.

To listen without barriers. What a beautiful thought. What an enriching experience for the listener. What a beautiful gift to give to the speaker.  So simple, elegant and meaningful… and yet so difficult. For how often do we apply energy to listening and how often do we listen without any barriers?

It would certainly be energizing for the speaker.  For oftentimes when we speak, a large chunk of our energy is spent gauging the other person’s reaction, noticing their resistance, their mental blocks to the ideas. Trying hard to win approval, we find ways to convince the person by finding new ways of expressing.

I want to learn to listen without barriers. I don’t know that I will be able to do so. But the idea is so beautiful, it reeks of greatness. I imagine it must take a certain amount of courage to let go of all mental blocks, of our own comfort zones, of our rigidities and experiences. It would be hard to stay with the speakers thought process and to not make up our mind – accepting or rejecting the ideas midway based on our viewpoint and experience.

It would mean letting go of the self and the ego to some extent. Setting the mind free. Leaving it open and receptive to new ideas. That to me is a beautiful thought...

Letting go...of trying to be so right all the time

Oh the struggle to be right, to have the last word, to be proven correct...I see it all the time. In myself, my child, (remember I gave her the wrong genes?) in people around me. Being right is a wonderful feeling. It seems to validate our existence. It makes us feel better about ourselves and our judgment. It ascertains our worthiness.

So why be wrong? Why admit defeat? Why allow that chink in the armor? For admitting we’re wrong makes us feel small. I can remember all those times when I felt like I had shrunk -- disappeared completely into my shoes when pointed out I was wrong.

So does it make sense to battle on valiantly only to prove a point? We may feel a few inches taller, but has it helped our relationship? Has it put a warm glow in our hearts? Has it made us feel better? I don’t think it nurtures the soul and is just plain exhausting.

And while I raise this topic, I don't even consider myself the worst culprit. In my opinion, I am quick to apologize, quick to admit I am wrong even. So what is the point of these words?

Agreed I try to correct myself and not be rigid about being wrong. But I doubt I do it very graciously or even innocently. I may not actually say, "I told you so", but my body language and a quiet gloating speak differently. I suspect my spouse and child will concur more quickly than I would like. Of unspoken words that have been surrounded by an aura of self righteousness and a certain smugness.

So if I dislike it so much, why do I do it? Fact remains that I love to be right. What can I do? I just love it. But I also see clearly how getting hung up on it can hurt my happiness. And I don’t want it to.

It may be a victory, but a lonely one. And I would rather be wrong than rigid and alone. Agreed there may be the need to hold our ground in certain situations, and I hope I will find the strength and tenacity for those. But in most instances, it seems only a tussle. A tussle to boost the ego.  And perhaps it is time to let go of that.

That said, it's now time for you to go ahead and admit I'm right. And I hope you will do so quickly...for then I won't have to dole out any "I told you so" later.

Sigh… whoever said it was going to be easy?

 

The letting go inspiration box

My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.
~ Maya Angelou

Letting go…of trying to not fall apart

I feel there has been a lot of falling apart in my life in the past several months. And I have allowed it to happen. I have allowed myself to fall apart. Looking back, I now see that it was bound to happen. I had held myself together through years of illness. I had become tight and resilient and had plodded right along – through life and work, family and motherhood.

I believed staying strong was the only course for me and that it was my time to be brave. Maybe I was brave. Maybe I wasn’t. For I am slowly beginning to understand that falling apart takes courage. Becoming vulnerable takes courage. Knowing that you are vulnerable takes courage.  

I may seem a mess, but perhaps the falling apart was necessary. I feel I can pick up the pieces again. I feel I can pick up only those pieces that I want in my life leaving the chaff aside. To me, that is a beautiful thought.

Yes. Falling apart reveals your vulnerability, and it is hard to remain vulnerable. I believe it takes a lot of courage to walk in vulnerability. And I find this courage faltering now.

I feel like I am beginning to toughen up again. To wear my resilient face more. That ‘everything is fine’ and ‘I can handle anything’ attitude is coming back. In an attempt to be more put-together, I fear that I may close up again.

And perhaps that is necessary too. For I can’t be a heap of emotional mess for the rest of my life.  But I do hope I remember and recognize the value of vulnerability and remain humble enough to fall apart if life needs me to.

Letting go…of avoiding cleaning the fridge

I hate cleaning the fridge. Agreed it would be a rare person to admits a certain love for cleaning the refrigerator. For who in their right mind would want to venture into the throes of refrigerator-land and the mysteries that lay hidden in its shelves.

Much as I dislike cleaning the fridge, I dislike even more the thought of an unclean fridge. It just seems plain unhygienic. The thought of forgotten jars, sticky surfaces, crumbs and the possibility of mold… did I just say MOLD? Yeah, that thought right there can give me a sleepless night or two. So to get a good night’s sleep I have to ensure I have a clean fridge. Okay, a relatively clean fridge will do too.

So if I am going to do it anyways, why not correct my attitude about it? Why not just get on with the darn cleaning? Why waste the energy in humming and hawing and dreading the deed? It’s not like I ever found a dead mouse in the fridge. We did come close, in my opinion with a jar of “dog water” that almost made it in there for a certain eight-year-old’s “research” endeavors. But the idea with all its potential for research was shot down by a cruel mother.

So if I can’t be at ease till it’s cleaned, why not then just drop the sense of unease surrounding it. There is so much else that falls in the same category. And the amount of thought and energy I give to the matter tires me more than actually getting it done. Hmm… wonder if writing about it qualifies as further indulging my thoughts, or am I freeing myself from them? 

Well, I am done writing. A certain fridge beckons. And I’m on my way…

Letting go…of anticipated expectations

Our home was a happier place before Molly the doll entered it. Bedtime was so much easier before the tale of Molly the doll’s story haunted the imagination of our eight-year-old.

Each of us has that one friend with the arsenal of scary stories. My daughter has that friend too and a sleepover later, sleepless nights ensued in our household.

If that has got you curious, here’s the story. Molly is a doll who holds up two fingers and is not to be played with past midnight. The poor girl does and is spooked at night, with “Molly on the staircase…. Molly is in the room…Molly has a knife…” gulp…gulp…I was just as scared! The girl in the story is not to be found the next day and Molly now holds up three fingers (gulp again…). “Mom, that means Molly killed the girl,” my daughter tried to explain with eyes as wide as could be.

“It’s just a story”, “see how safe your room is”, “we’re only a shout away”, “let’s think of a different ending”. Many attempts at rationalizing failed. More nightmares later, we realized that drastic measures were required.

The next day, I had my daughter recount how she felt when she thought of the Molly story. We went through the hallway and the staircase, and the knife and the fingers…Since she refused to write, I did. We put on paper all that was scary and unsettling about Molly and the story.

And since we do things with a theatrical flair, we took the papers outside and burnt them. No such thing as too much drama in our household. As we watched the flames crackle, I gently reminded my child that all that was scary was burning away and nothing but ash remained. Ash that would fly away and turn into nothingness. We went back into the house assured that all traces of Molly had blown away.

It was a proud parenting moment. Till night fell on our household and a small-faced child sat on the stairs stating she was too scared to sleep.

But I had handled it all so well. All that drama for nothing? This was not what I was expecting…was my instant reaction. “We watched it all burn into ashes, remember?” I asked my daughter. “Maybe it didn’t all burn, Mom. Can we burn more stuff tomorrow?” she asked with what I thought was a twinkle in the eye. Wait a minute. My sly little fox was enjoying the little bonfire in the yard.

Sigh… so much for successful parenting. I had thought this one through. We were supposed to burn the stuff and be done with it forever. This was not how things were supposed to turn out. But again, it was not unusual for things to not turn out as expected. Murphy’s law likes to follow me around, after all.

And like many other life expectations that didn’t turn out as expected, I let this one go too.

I gave my eight-year-old the benefit of doubt. The next day, we wrote some more and burned some more. We did it again the following day too. And there is the chance that we may do some more burning again…  And each time, I let go of the anticipated expectation a little more.

The letting go inspiration box

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

-- Lao Tzu

Letting go…of allowing my mind to control my body

My mind and body are not in synch. My mind is swift and moves at the speed of light. In doing so it often leaves my poor body behind. I have often thought of my body as being just plain stodgy. Like a grumpy, recalcitrant child – unwilling, unbending, refusing to move forward, refusing to budge.

I notice it more so now. Post-surgery, it seems like my mind is trying to move ahead, but my body is still not ready.

I am convinced there is such a thing as pure “body memory”. I feel like my body remembers and is holding on to the trauma of everything that has happened to it in the past few months. My mind, on the other hand has spirited away. And that gives me a sense of disconnect between them. Maybe it has been there for a while. Or maybe my whole life even.

In the past few years, it seems like my body has occasionally asserted itself, gone on strike, demonstrated a quiet ‘satyagraha’ or non-cooperation.  At other times it has been tempestuous. And each time, my reaction to my body has been the same – one of disappointment, sadness, irritation and impatience.

But now, I feel as if I owe an apology to my body for the way I have treated it. No, I’m not talking about lifestyle – for I do at least some of the right things. I’m talking about the treatment meted out to my body by my mind.

I think my body has suffered enough. So I need to make sure that my mind doesn’t push it around, bully it, or pressure it into adventures it does not want to be part of.

I believe it is time for me to admit that the body has its own intelligence. No doubt, the body is more organic than the fleeting mind. And it is time to acknowledge that and find a way to slow down my mind to finally synch it to my body which may seem slower of the two.

I wonder if others go through life with this disconnect between mind and body. Have you ever noticed a separation between the pace of your mind and that of your body? I feel it on a daily basis. But instead of irritation, the attempt this time is to bridge it with compassion.  

The letting go intention box

“Go back?" he thought. "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!" So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.”
- J.R.R Tolkien, The Hobbit

That right there summarizes it all. All I can do is to try to keep going…no matter how hard it seems. No matter how rapidly the heart pitter patters. For it’s the only choice that makes sense... and that’s the only choice I have…

And that right there is this week’s intention… So just like Dory said, “just keep swimming….”

Letting go…of the fear of crossing the forest

When life seems uphill, it is so much easier to stop climbing. To turn away from the mountain. To simply be than to climb. For climbing takes breath. And at times like these I find it easier to just hold my breath. To allow a certain placidity to creep over me.  As terrible as that may sound, it is easier than climbing. For climbing takes energy. It involves risk and uncertainty.

And even if the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel does exist, it is hard to see it, squint as you may. For all you can see is a path. A path that is dark and scary. A forest even. One looming with dangers.

My daughter was having trouble sleeping tonight. Something was bothering her and I told her a story. It stemmed from this half-written blog entry and was loosely based on something I had read somewhere.

I told her that we come across many a forest in our life. “Does this forest have spiders?” she asked anxiously. “Yes it does,” I replied. “And it has all the other things we are scared of. For this forest doesn’t really exist. It’s in our mind and everything we think we are scared of, we imagine being in this forest.”

But beyond this forest lies a wonderful land. One that can be reached only after we cross the scary forest. And with every forest, we have a choice. We can either sit at its edge, believing it to be safer there and not move ahead. Or we can venture into the deep dark forest in the hope of getting to the wonderful land beyond it.

She wanted an example and I pulled the one that was closest and scariest – for her and for me - that of the surgery. I told her how I could have stayed on my couch forever rather than have surgery. The surgery was my scary forest. I was scared of everything they were going to do to me. I was scared of being cut and sewn. I was scared of how painful it was going to be. How sick I would feel.

I knew I would probably get worse before I could get better. And that getting worse was the part in the forest. And that was scary.

But again there was the sight of the wonderful land that lay beyond the forest. One in which I was healthy and strong and had the energy to do everything I wanted to.

So it was up to me. Either to sleep on the sofa and have everything remain the same. Or to venture into the forest with all its scary spiders hoping to get to the wonderful land beyond. And who know of this land. Maybe it will be wonderful. Maybe it will just be okay. But I wouldn’t know till I crossed the forest, right?

Other examples from her sweet life later – of math and music, of fear of failure and finding courage… she was finally ready to sleep.  

I was surprised at the impact the story had on her. “I will never forget this story Mom,” she confided and I was so proud of her.

She asked if I would write it out in the form of a story – or even a book – so she could read it over and over. And hopefully I will. If I can cross my forests of inertia and self doubt.  

The letting go inspiration box

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming…swimming…swimming

~ Dory in Finding Nemo

Letting go…of not acknowledging the ‘intangibles’

The intangible value of being kind

A while back, an old schoolmate sent me a message on facebook. I was very happy to meet her in cyberworld after many years. “I remember you as a little girl with braids and an amazing talent for speech writing”, she wrote. My jaw dropped. My ego rose. Fancy her remembering something like that. Of course, I had no recollection of penning any earth moving speeches but happily believed her memory.

I was ever so touched – how kind of her to remember a trivial thing like that and to mention it to me after all these decades. So to reciprocate the kindness, I racked my brains to remember her dazzling endeavors – music, art, theater, singing, sports, academics… oh I wished something would surface. I racked my brain hard – but no, nothing. Not due to her lack of “talents”, but mostly due to my poor memory.

The one thing I remembered very clearly was that she was a really kind person. And her little note to me was evidence enough. It was heartwarming to know she was still just as nice, if not nicer.

But really, how could I write back saying that I remembered her as being a really nice person? How strange would that seem, right? And then I asked myself… why was it weird to tell a person that she was kind? It would be perfectly fine to tell her how well she sang or played basketball. Why then did I balk at the idea of telling her she was nice?

Is it our society that sets the tone for this? Tangible achievements – academics, arts, sports or whatever are awarded for sure. Why then do we hesitate to recognize personal values as kindness or honesty with as much gusto? Why don’t we give prizes to our children for being compassionate, or thoughtful or sincere?

For in the long run, which of these qualities would prove more valuable? My ability to string a few words together or my friend’s intangible quality of kindness?

Letting go… of looking into the future

A while back, as I drove my precocious eight-year-old around town, she asked in a solemn tone, “So, who’s going to teach me to drive? Will it be Dad? Or will it be you?” I gasped. My breath stalled. My eyes were wide as saucers.

“We can talk about it when you’re sixteen, honey,” I replied in as calm a tone I could muster.

“Not sixteen mom, it’s fifteen you know. You can drive with someone when you’re fifteen,” she replied with a hint of disapproval and of course, a ‘mom-knows-nothing’ air. Sigh… that ‘mom-knows-nothing’ tone is getting so familiar, I now almost believe it!

I imagined her steering what looked like a large iron contraption with wheels. She was so little. The car was so big. She was so innocent. The car looked so dangerous.

I gasped again. I felt like I needed more air. I was not ready for this. Not for this conversation, not for this ever happening. I saw myself wiping crumbs off her little face and coaxing her to eat a little more. Then again, I saw her excited to get behind wheels, ready for the next adventure.

Then I brought my imagination to a screeching halt. There was time. I wasn’t ready for these images just yet and I didn’t need to be.

All I can hope for is that I will be ready when the time comes. I imagine a lot of ‘letting go’ will need to happen in that general area. Driving, boyfriends, going off to college… And although my breath is stalling again as I type this, I hope by then I will have learned better to ‘let go’. So I can be strong enough to trust her judgment and allow her to live her life.

So for now, I am simply going to laugh (and grimace) at her mastery over ‘armpit farts’ and leave the future in the future.

The letting go inspiration box

Knowledge is learning something every day. Wisdom is letting go of something every day.

-          Zen proverb