Letting go…of doing something just because you said you would do it

Last week I expressed dismay about not completing a thought. I wrote at length about finishing the incomplete thought. I set out on a mission.

I know of the incomplete prose that lies hidden in my computer and tucked away in notebooks strewn around the house. So I embarked on the project to dig them out and complete what I had started.

I riffled through electronic files. I found many. I read some; I balked at others. Some inspired me; others gave me a knot in my stomach.

I did find a piece of writing that I wanted to add to. I didn’t necessarily complete ‘that’ thought. I simply attached my present day thoughts to that piece. But for the most part, I was hit by a gamut of emotions when I read what I found.

While I imagine I may be a somewhat guarded person these days, most walls come crumbling down when I write and that was apparent. Emotions were staring at me through the black and white words. Some were heavy, some were fun, some were hard to read; but they were all in the past.

I had moved on. Away from the words I was staring at. True. They were all my words. But the flow of my words, the course of my thoughts, the beating of my heart no longer shared the same rhythm of the previous sentiment.

Completing the earlier thought seemed like a contrived activity. Like a phony project. And why would I want to embark on anything that doesn’t seem real enough?

So I simply let go.

Slow down Mommy…

Found this unfinished piece from some years back…

I scrambled through the morning rush trying to get my three-year old to school on time. I was on my routine brink of insanity. Thoughts rushed through my head; responsibilities wandered by; and a list of unfinished tasks meandered close by.

I scrambled and dashed and rushed. “Finish your last bite”, “where is the other sock?”, “let me clean your face”, “be still when I comb your hair”, “your left shoe is on your right foot”, “did we put lotion on your face – your lips look chapped”, “do you have your lunch box?”, “please don’t swing your lunch box like that…”  

Despite my barrage of words, the child carried on in slow motion (or so it seemed to me). Bewildered, bemused by the manner in which she was being herded around like cattle (Hey, cattle with a clean face! Remember I wiped her face and put lotion? Sigh… at least I think I did.)

Some whines, some protests, some disgruntled looks later, I was finally buckling her up in her car seat. “Lunch box! We forgot your lunch box,” I exclaimed. Within a split second, super-mom returned with it. I continued buckling her; muttering of course, how we were always late.

That was when she put her chubby fingers on my hand and simply said, “Slow down Mommy”.  And for the first time that morning, I slowed down. I stared at her, at her wisdom, at her intuition.

I didn’t know whether to feel proud, sad, or irritated. I kissed her; I thought I was going to tear up. Then of course, I noticed the time and started dashing again.

“Slow down mommy,” she said – simply, innocently and fittingly. The three-year-old was following her instincts. This wise little being innately knew what to do and what not to do.  “Slow down mommy,” she said…

I read this over and over. I wanted to complete the thought, remember? But I couldn’t.  My stream of thought, the range of current emotions, didn’t quite match those from that day.

For reading this was emotional. I was touched by the innocence, intuitiveness and astute observation of the child.

Reading this was painful. It was almost like a slap in the face. I knew from so many years ago – how not to be; how not to parent; how not to live my life. And yet I had done just that.

Reading this made me feel guilty. For my now eight-year-old no longer says, “slow down mommy”. She is often in a mad tearing rush herself. And I have probably made her so.

Reading this makes me wonder if I can do anything about it. Can I change the course or rather the speed, the hurry and the rush?

Reading this makes me want to try…

Letting go… of not completing the thought

Have you ever been in a conversation – right in the middle of saying something important, something that mattered, with words and thoughts pouring out from deep within - and you were interrupted? That thought no longer has room in the ensuing conversation and it simply dies unheard. It leaves you with an uneasy feeling – of something that remained to be said; a thought that needs to be completed. 

Well I have hundreds of unfinished written pieces – on the computer and in numerous diaries scattered around the house. Some thoughts just got started and were met with an unfortunate early demise; others wait patiently to be completed.

A thought springs in the mind with a life of its own. It has its own energy; it takes its own course. It wants to stay; it wants to say. It needs me to sustain it; it needs me to complete it.

So why do I let it fade away? If a thought matters enough that I sit down and put it down on paper. Why don’t I complete it?

It’s funny how we pay little attention to things that matter to us. There are a hundred things in the course of the day that I will diligently try to “complete”. Why then do I find it hard to stay put and complete that thought? Was it too fleeting? Was it too hard to face? Was it making me uncomfortable? Did the doorbell ring? Or was I just plain tired?

This is an attempt to honor the thought that had the courage to spring. I will try to find words to give it the life it needs to breathe, to survive and to sustain. This week shall be an assay at completing some incomplete essays.

Letting go… of not expressing

My writing sometimes feels like stray wisps of thoughts flying in the wind. I am able to catch some, while others are lost forever. At any given time, a good many of them hurtle around in my head.
When my thoughts do touch paper, it often feels as if the whirlwind in my head has calmed down. And it feels quiet – even if it is only for a brief moment till the whirring starts again.

The need to express is in many of us. I hear that the “creative types” feel the need more than others. And there is, of course, the obvious therapeutic effect.

I am reminded of this story from my college days. The street near our journalism department was lined with Banyan trees that were hundreds of years old. Huge beautiful Banyan trees that stood proud; with sweeping roots that dangled dramatically in the skies. Unfortunately, the city decided to cut them for road-widening and it was tragic to see them go. The street looked bald, weary and unhappy. And we felt just as unhappy and bewildered walking down that street.

We were sad and grumbled unhappily. But one of my friends decided to give his pain an artistic manifestation. He stomped home angrily, brought out his paints and painted images of the trees. He wrote some verses, journaled away furiously and artistically emptied out all painful emotion. His art and his expression helped him make peace with the matter.

When I learnt of it, I was impressed at how proactive he had been. The fact that I am still thinking and writing about it is evidence enough. While the rest of us wallowed in the unease, he had expressed, dealt with it and moved on whilst creating art.

Not many of us can paint or spout poetry in a bid to express. But we can find our own medium. Why then do we hold ourselves back and balk at expressing?

Writing is my expression and despite having known that for a long time, I feel as if I have not honored it. Much of my writing lies unfinished and forgotten. I needed to have a public blog that forces me to complete my thoughts and essays – for I cannot post unfinished ones.  Where friends message me saying, “Why have you stopped writing?” or “When will you write the next blog?” That forces me to find my way back.

If this is my expression, why do I balk so? Why do I need the push? Why do I hesitate or put it off? Why is it always the last priority?

No matter if it is a public forum or a quiet note in a private journal - why do we hesitate to express?

Letting go…of the expectation of being nice

A good chunk of my life has been spent in being “nice” to people around me. Unfortunately (or fortunately) it is now mostly a thing of the past. For my current “nice-value” is rather dubious.

As a child and young adult, I made an attempt to be pleasant to people around me. Somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed, it was important for me to be liked by people around me. I was probably myself around kids my age. But I was always polite, pleasant and helpful around adults. Hearing praises was not uncommon. I would often watch my mother’s face beam when she heard praises about me. Now if that is the reason I was nice may be a topic for the therapist’s office, but that was what I grew up with and that was the expectation I set for myself.

So to my surprise, my eight-year old daughter seems to be diametrically opposite. She is not quick to smile at you simply to be pleasant. When asked “how are you?” she will most likely mutter a barely intelligible “good” ending the conversation right there with never a thought of asking the other person how they might be.

She will talk to you – nineteen to a dozen, but only when she feels like it. When she thinks she has something to say. You will never find her engaged in a conversation that may seem insipid to her. This behavior seems baffling and even rude to someone like me accustomed to being pleasant to people.

I look at all the “polite” children around me and wonder what I’m doing wrong. I wonder too how despite being a chip of the same block; we could be so different.  

But I realize it is silly of me to try to change her. She has friends and seems to get along with other kids. What then am I trying to achieve by trying to make her “nicer”? She is honest and genuine and doesn’t like frills of any kind. Her straightforwardness and lack of guile prevent her from trying to be superficially pleasant. Why then should I try to make her a people pleaser like I? And that is an alarming thought.

Things have to be meaningful to her and I should be so proud. I can see her as an adult doing something that means something to her. Whether she will save the world, by discovering the wonder drug she talks about to make all illness disappear…well that remains to be seen. But whatever she does, my guess is that it will mean something to her.

And hopefully the next time I get irritated on getting a bored look when I oh-so-cheerfully ask her how her day was, I shall let it slide and remember the words above.

Yikes! Head lice... time to let go of those for sure...

This was on my old blog which is now hard to reach. I forget the url, the password, the blog id...you get the drift. But I seem to need the info every time there is a lice alert in school. So posting it here...

And yes, I sent my child to school today slick and greasy with shiny hair smelling of coconut and neem oil... Still stunned that the poor child didn't complain.

Nit picking...are we?

Written -Summer 2011

About the same time last year, a lice alert appeared in the school newsletter. Children in the affected classrooms would receive an email it said. I checked my email with baited breath and heaved a sigh of relief when I saw no emails from the school. The summer break commenced and with it commenced incessant head scratching in our household. 

Mortified, I watched my child furiously scratching her head like her primate ancestors. I shook my head in disbelief and held hers in a tight grip. Close scrutiny (and vociferous protests from the then four-year old) failed to reveal sign of any mutli-legged life in her locks. There did seem to be some white traces, but due to lack of contact with these tiny organisms for decades, I was not sure.
 

But my hyper-active imagination did not remain quiet. On occasion in India and Central Africa, I have seen “lice-chains” where one woman picks nits from the lady in front of her, while another woman checks her head.  But things like that don’t happen in the developed world, right... right?

Sigh...head lice seem to be oblivious of any snob-stigma. For this same child had attended a school in somewhat ghetto settings in India for a few months -- but no creepy crawlies there.

Images of possible “lice chains” (as I call them) flashed before my eyes. There I stood in my imagination – picking lice from my daughter’s head, while my husband picked mine.  Nausea probably brought my thoughts to a screeching halt! I resolved to find a solution.

Since I had not actually seen living, crawling creatures in her head, I decided to not use any “mild pesticides “.  So I feverishly searched the Internet, spoke to my naturopath and sought wisdom from those older and wiser. And yes, my ever so dramatic story comes with a happy ending!

The happy ending lies in the tiny jar of “neem oil” and other neem tree products. I mixed about 1 tbsp. neem oil with about 3 tbsp. coconut oil. I also added a half tsp of ‘tulsi’ (holy basil) powder to the concoction (it should be fine without it too).

I rubbed this oil all over my unwilling daughter’s scalp (not the greatest smell). But like magic, my restless child calmed down and her hands left her head. This would be a good time to comb the head with a fine tooth comb (I didn’t). I left it on overnight and washed her hair with some Neem shampoo (I got a cake like soap from a health store as well as a bottled shampoo).  We repeated this for the next few days, applying the oil in the morning and washing in the evening, or leaving it on overnight. In fact the whole household followed the same procedure.

Neem oil is probably available in most health food stores (I got mine from New Seasons). Opt for the ones that come in little jars. It is easier to scoop out the oil small jars than struggle to squeeze it out.

Maybe you will never need it and no complaints there. I definitely have my fingers crossed that we won't ever need it again!

 

 

The letting go inspiration box

Courage is the power to let go of the familiar

 

                                     ~ Raymond Lindquist

Letting go…of meditating while cutting vegetable…sigh…

So much for yesterday’s post. Meditation whilst cutting vegetables went kaput! It was a complete bust.

Inspired by the idea of doing mundane chores in a meditative manner, I started to get dinner ready last night. My daughter sat at the counter eating her snack and I brought out the veggies to chop.

I decided to share contents of yesterday’s blog with my eight-year-old. Of course, the goal was lofty. I was going to demonstrate turning the vegetable chopping business into a calming meditative experience.

I told her of the commune story and how folks there were “meditating” through their vegetable-cutting activity. Her eyes squinted, then turned wide and then she burst out laughing (sigh… the wrong gene returns once more). This is even before I told her how my friend and I had laughed till our sides hurt.

 “Vegetable meditation”, she guffawed. “Maybe it would go like this:
OM… chop chop chop… OM… chop chop chop,” all in a chanting monotone with eyes closed and hands in a meditative pose. Evidently, it had captured her imagination and her funny bone. Laughing (in snorts by now) and barely able to speak, “Carrots…chop chop, OM…chop chop, OM OM….give me all these things – that I don’t really need… OM (I swear she said that!! I don’t know if it was part of a profound thought or just random speaking – more likely the later…).
By now her eyes were closed and hands and feet in the lotus pose, she continued through her giggles, “Carrot meditate with me…OM…chop chop chop.”
By now I was in splits too. So much for a calming meditative activity – we were both hysterical as she continued to come up with new “meditation techniques” for vegetable chopping.

Finally the laughter stopped. I resignedly put the knife down and gave up any effort of meditating while chopping vegetables.

Complete failure. Complete fun.

Letting go… of the prickliness in everyday tasks

View them as meditations instead

Yeah right. How much more new-agey and woo woo can I possibly sound? It does remind me of a day many years ago when my friend and I took visiting French students to the Osho commune. Some of the commune members were cutting vegetables for their meal. They solemnly explained to us how cutting veggies was their meditation. And that they were converting this simple task into a meditative experience.

My friend and I struggled very very hard to keep a straight face. Most giggly teenagers would do so. The moment we were out of their sight and earshot, we burst out laughing. “Cutting vegetables is meditation!!” more chuckles followed. “The woman was probably going to cut that one cucumber for the whole hour at that meditative speed!” we doubled up with laughter. “That cucumber may have to be appetizer, entrée and dessert” more giggles ensued. Sigh… insensitive teenagers who find everything funny fill our world, don’t they? We certainly gave our bellies a good workout that day with our laughter.

I was reminded of those relentless giggles today as I read a piece by Bari Tessler Linden, a money-therapist and coach. In her Golden Nugget series, she recounts how her husband who hated bookkeeping had converted it into a meditative process. How when he started meditating through bookkeeping, it “shifted his entire experience”. While the giggly teenager from long long ago still wants to burst out laughing, a relatively boring middle-aged-me wonders if that is possible. And if so, how do we make it happen. For it would certainly take the prickliness away from all things mundane that we cringe at having to do.

While I have no techniques or knowledge to offer, I imagine like in meditation, we would try and focus only on the task at hand with equanimity and lack of judgment. As in breath meditations where you are asked to bring your awareness back to your breath, you would do the same with the task. Notice the thoughts and body sensations that fleet by and bring the awareness back to the task.

Hmm…definitely worth a try. For staying in the moment and focusing only on the task at hand can definitely have its benefits. And oh yes, I do have some vegetables to chop and dinner to cook. Let’s see how meditative I can make that! Onion, parsnip, and squash… here I come.

Letting go… by letting it out

“The first step in letting go is letting it out,” wrote a cousin after reading a blog entry I had written. I paused for a moment and reread her message. Maybe that is exactly what I have been trying to do. And this uneasy, uncomfortable clean-up is one heck of a messy process.

My cousin was spot on. To let go of all that is unpleasant, inelegant and unsavory inside, we must first let it out. And to let it out, we need to face it. To look at it, to acknowledge it exists, and to accept it as a part of us. That is no easy task. Nor is it a pleasant one.

To come face to face with things about us that make us squirm, make us uncomfortable, sad or angry and question our self-worth is not easy.

Facing this unsavory takes pluck, courage and steadfastness. To accept that it is a part of us takes more pluck, more courage and more steadfastness.

Sometimes, I picture a lid on the top of my head. Pop! It opens. Whoosh! The gunk inside erupts and leaves my body. Straight out of me, and far far away from me. What a wonderful image. And so much easier than having it sitting around, staring me in the face.

I have no clue what else is out there – or rather in there and wants to come out. And though I’m scared to look, I’m willing to try... And if it does want to be looked at and let out, I am willing to try... And if I need to honor and respect that which lies stuck inside, I’m willing to try...

Letting go… of doling out life lessons

Every now and then, I dole out life lessons to my eight-year-old. Not in a rehearsed planned manner, and only if something pops up. But as you may have correctly guessed, I have been trying to figure out a thing or two myself. The process has not always been an elegant one and it seems to involve some emotional wrangling and wrestling.

Everything I tell my child, I wish I had been told when I was younger. So I consider it my duty to hand these “life lessons” out to her every now and then. And when I explain something, I try to explain it ‘well’.  Sigh… in my opinion at least. The other day, I felt as though my eight-year-old’s eyes were glazing a bit as I spoke. Alright, they were glazing quite a bit as I spoke.  

So I finally asked her. “Are these talks useful or are they frightfully boring?” With as much diplomacy as she could muster, she replied, “I like them Mom. But sometimes you go on and on for like half an hour,” she said with a tired sigh and a gleam in her eyes. We laughed it off, but I was a little disappointed.

Later I realized that my attempt to grapple with life was my struggle and my choice. These slivers of clarity I seem to be having were part of my own discovery. They may not resonate with someone else. And they may simply be “too long and boring” for my eight-year-old. 

The other thread running simultaneously here is one of guilt and motherhood, I suspect. I feel guilty for being so caught up in my own illness that I have not been able to be quite the mother I would have liked to be. I feel guilty for not having had enough energy for her. I feel guilty that she has not been able to count on me.

And I imagine this may be my effort to make up for lost time. But I wonder how much good it can do to serve life’s wisdom thus. For this may be something she may need to work out on her own. And if we’re lucky, she’ll ask for help in figuring it out or else she may choose to figure it out on her own. Yes it is going to be hard to watch her struggle. But all we can do is let her know we’re there without telling her exactly how to lead her life.

I doubt I’m ready to desist from flight on this one. Remember, how hard it is for me to let go? But I’ll take the cue when I see an eye roll and hear a “here we go again”, from a certain eight-year-old.

Letting go…of trying to fit it

Stories abound of how tall people often hunch over to “fit in” with the rest. Of how very intelligent people shy away from “showing off” their intelligence. Of how very beautiful people (women in particular) may at times choose frumpy clothing to avoid drawing too much attention.

Unfortunately, I have none of the above “problems”. I am neither too tall, too intelligent nor too beautiful. And despite being ‘oh so ordinary’, I feel at times I try to be a certain way to blend in with the crowd. I may dress a certain way, or speak or (more often in my case) not speak out views and opinions in conversations with certain groups of people.

So do we often not allow ourselves to be ourselves in an attempt to fit in? To avoid the discomfort of standing out. For me it is probably the ensuing attention that would entail which could make me uncomfortable. But I suspect I’m not alone here.

Most women (and perhaps guys) have probably selected or not selected something to wear based on the crowd to attend a certain event, for instance. “Oh it’s always a formal setting there”, “they’re always in casuals – I don’t want to stand out”, are lines I have often uttered. At times, I drag my hapless husband into the dilemma, “Am I overdressed?” “Are these earrings too much?” He normally stares back at me in mild confusion. He once asked me, “What do you want to hear? I can say just that.” (!!!) I glared at him and laughed simultaneously. Followed by a “If I knew what I wanted to hear, I wouldn’t ask you.” (ladies (and most guys), you know the tone of voice that went with that line, right?)

Hearing myself right there, I realized how ambivalent I was. Although the example here is one very trivial, it makes me wonder if it is an attempt to hide myself.  

So how do I learn to feel completely comfortable in my own skin? And what a wonderful thing that would be. How can I learn to be true to myself and choose to do things simply because they seem right to me? Without any worry of how it will be perceived or if I will stand out... And the energy spent it trying to fit in can be used for more worthy causes, I'm sure…

Letting go… of not allowing myself to be supported

I was listening to Janet Gallin’s radio show, Love Letters Live the other day. The interviewee Jane Bragg was talking about a breakthrough she had during an actualization workshop. She spoke beautifully about how cement blocks around her heart came crumbling down and she no longer felt alone. In her words: “for the first time in my life, I felt I was sitting in a chair and it was holding me.”

The comment made its way deep into my heart. I was struck by its beauty and was almost envious of the experience it must have been. Allowing ourselves to be supported is something so basic and simple. And like most things simple, so hard to achieve.

How do we let go of all the walls, shields and barriers we have constructed around ourselves. Do the walls that I have created around myself help me in any way? Or do they simply hinder me from feeling supported by that chair?

Why do some of us want to do everything by ourselves? Why not allow these walls to dissolve and allow ourselves to be supported – by the chair, by our people, by our community, by our world... Can we allow layers of distrust to dissolve, to allow confidence in being supported to emerge, to dare to not feel alone…

I want to walk on the ground and feel completely supported by it. I want to sit in that chair and feel completely supported by it.

And the first step in being supported may be to allow myself to be supported. And that may be the most and again, the only difficult step in the process.

The letting go inspiration box

Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.

~ Hermann Hesse

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