The Significant Pause

I didn't publish a blog on Friday that made fun of someone's enormous face. I did it in the name of the buddhist precept, "Right Speech." I usually know when I'm not using "Right Speech" because I have a nagging sensation that I'm not being nice and whatever it is I'm about to say or write, I probably shouldn't.

Of course, impulsive youngest child that I am, I usually shrug off that feeling (dismiss it as "No Fun!") and go ahead and go for the laughs. But I tried something different on Friday, and then wound up reading about "The Sacred Pause" on Sunday.

The Sacred Pause is that moment when you choose to not react, to not be impulsive. That moment when you overcome your own pressing need to be heard, to vent, to matter. If we could only just pause and listen to what someone else has to say rather than trying to get a word in edgewise, or if we only paused long enough to consider our own misgivings for what we are about to do, we might actually save ourselves a lot of grief.  We get more perspective on the situation if we just shut our mouths.

It's hard to think and consider, to weigh the situation objectively, if you're constantly reacting. In the reaction mode we defend ourselves, we fight, we try to win regardless of the bloody aftermath. When you pause you actually gain the advantage, if you think about it.

You can watch while your opponent (whether it be friend, lover, co-worker, Self) flails, yells, prattles, cries — and in  your pause you might actually learn something. Maybe you'll notice their body language, perhaps you'll hear their words, perhaps in  your own moment of stillness during the cyclone that's hit, you'll realize what is actually going on behind the surface. You can at least figure out what your own motivations are. You'll be less likely to regret something you said, in self-defense or anger. And when you're battling with Self, if you pause, you may actually discover that there is no demon. There is no fight.

It was only a moment. A moment of fear, of rage, of insecurity — whatever — and it passed like the thousands of ceaseless waves that crash upon the shore and slide gently back to sea. Why fight the waves? Why scream at them for threatening the sand? So many useless, wearisome battles. If we keep fighting them all, we'll be used up, dried up things by the time it's time to die. I don't want to live my life fighting and regretting.

I like the idea of hitting the Pause button. Seems we're always pressing Play. Or we get hurt and insist we're pressing Stop and we're not going to listen ever again. Pause offers a Middle Way. Pause says we're just going to rest a bit while we consider. Pause implies we'll play again — but not just yet.

There's much to learn in silence.

By pausing on Friday I learned that it was my own insecurity that caused me to write that blog. I couched it in humor and it certainly would have made you laugh, but my insecurity was misplaced. To direct any unkindness towards a girl who once dated my boyfriend, or towards any of the women he may have dated, is just perpetuating the hurt in my jealous, fearful heart.

Let it go, baby.

You won. There are no more demons to battle, no girls to mock. Let them go nurse their heartaches undisturbed by you. Let them go and love others, free from your judgement and superiority. Turn your eyes to what you have, right now.

The past is nothing. The future unknown. Happiness lies here, in this moment now. Let us pause here for a spell.

(Source: I'm currently reading Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of a Buddha by Tara Brach, PhD. The "Sacred Pause" comes from her book.)

An Unexpected Guest

Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi


Sometimes you come across just the right words at just the right time. This weekend I listened to vitriolic voicemail after vitriolic voicemail, each one nastier than the previous. Each one mocking me, making fun of me, questioning my morals, questioning my decency, lambasting my character.

I mean, it could be laughable since this diatribe was mainly based on the fact that I wear high-heeled shoes (hence, I am a whore). But even the laughable isn't so funny if you hear enough of it.

I really wish Mom wouldn't call so often.

(Kidding.)

It wasn't my mom, and it wasn't a friend or family member — or anyone that has anything to do with me. It was a very troubled person, a person who is suffering, a person who would like to see me suffer, others suffer — anything to not be alone with such intolerable pain. In such a state, we can fire off shots haphazardly, not caring who they hit, only hoping they hit someone other than ourselves. Well, in this case the person knew her desired target.

If only they knew there's no need. Everyone suffers, you don't need to supply suffering to anyone. None of us is alone in pain.

And though I was rattled by this tirade, and though I was shaken to hear such things about myself — however untrue — I dug down deep into myself and found a shelter there. I know who I am. After all these years, after all this struggle, I really do know me. It has taken so long, and there have been many curves along the path, times I got lost and more times that I fell, but they've gotten me to where I am.

And those things for which some would have me be the most ashamed, are actually the things of which I am the most proud. I am a single mother. I had a child out of wedlock. And truth be told, that has made me who I am today. I am so much stronger, so much more resilient than I ever knew I could be. Having the strength to say "No" to those who would bully me into an abortion changed something in me forever.

I never had to take a stand before that day, or I never had the will. I never thought I was strong enough, important enough — hell, never thought I was "enough."

Well I am enough. I like me as I am. I am better for the very things you would criticize. And so bring it. Bring your criticisms and your judgments, call me a whore. Hell, sew that red letter and affix it to my chest, it won't change me. I know who I am and I like who I am.

I am remarkably human. Fragile. Imperfect.

Any other names you want to toss at me may stick or they may fall. It doesn't matter. So far as I'm concerned they're just synonyms for my humanity, and yours. You lob your pain at me in hopes to rid yourself. I see it. So toss away, toss away your pain, your rage and that profound fear that threatens to tear you apart.

If it lessens your suffering, I can take it. I know your words will fall away as I continue on my path, and I'll thank you for reminding me of who I am, and of how much love I have discovered in myself.

Namaste, suffering woman. You are a guest in my house, and I will make something lovely from your pain. Let it humble me, and let it teach me to love even more. I only wish the same for you.

How Our Kids Love Us And How To Love Them Back

My son is leaving me for a week.

I'm half-excited for the freedom, and half-sad to have him gone that long. I don't think he's ever been gone from me that long when I wasn't on vacation or on a business trip. It's going to be hard to be at home for a week without him.

Last night he snuck into my bedroom and played with my hair while we listened to the thunder.

"I'm going to miss you when you're gone," I said.

"Like you missed Fred?"

"Yep."

"I'll come back, Mama," he said, not sounding at all sad to be leaving. He's never sad to leave me.

"Who will be my teddy bear?" I asked, trying to guilt him a little.

"Fred," he said.

He wrapped his arm around me and slipped his fingers through my hair over and over again until he fell asleep. I reminded myself that the fact that he is so comfortable leaving me, and so unconcerned about me is a good thing. I've done a good job. My son does not feel responsible for my happiness. He knows I'll be here when he gets back, and I'll be just fine.

But still.

Sometimes I wish I knew he missed me. Or maybe just once he could be sad to see me go? Okay, there was a time or two that he was sad, and I didn't like that. Whenever I get to thinking that his dad is his favorite and I'm just reliable old mom, I remember that when I pick him up from daycare, he always has a picture he's drawn from that day. For me. Of me. And my yellow hair.

And when he was named Student of the Week, this is what he had to say in his interview:

"Hi my name is CRACKY.

I am 4 years old. My favorite thing to do at home is play with my toys.

When I am at school I like to make art. I have 0 brothers and sisters. My favorite thing to watch on TV is "Aladdin." My favorite color is Dark Blue. My favorite food is chicken nuggets. My favorite animal is a horse. My favorite toy is Potato Head.

If I went on vacation I would go to my Mama's work and bring my music playing thing."

I guess he does love me after all. I mean, he must, if his idea of a vacation is coming to work with me. And I guess I don't need him to carry on about how much he'll miss me in order to know that. Besides, what's important here is that he knows I love him.

That's the way parenting works.

Everyday Offerings

Every day I walk by our little corporate galley kitchen, and oftentimes my co-workers have left some communal offering. On Fridays there might be donuts or bagels. The middle of the week might bring homemade cookies. After any holiday there is sure to be leftover candy. There is never a sign, but everyone knows that anything left on the red counter is an offering to all.

An altar to we mortal gods.

Today I walked by and it was a handful of fresh strawberries. Not on a plate or a napkin. Just scattered on the counter, like a lazy gift, and I laughed.

Life is a red countertop. We are all gods, with altars full of offerings, if only we would see.

How Will I Remember This?

I often remind myself that it is the times I struggled most that I recall most fondly.

I remind myself of this so often because it seems I have struggled more than I've coasted. As a matter of fact, does any period of of our lives seem particularly easy as we experience it? Are we ever really happy in the present?

I often recall the years I was in college as the happiest years. But if I take the time to pick apart the memory, I recall that I was so broke I ate boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese because that's all I could afford. I had patio furniture in the living room. I never went out and I never went shopping. I studied a lot, even on Friday and Saturday nights. I dreamed of the day I would graduate and make more money. And have a social life.

But this crusty 37-year-old brain recalls the way the sun shone through the empty attic of my Detroit bungalow and the near-giddy feeling of, "This is mine!" I was so busy trying to get a 4.0 and keep myself fed, I really didn't have too much time to trouble with existential angst. And though I recall these years as the golden years with my ex-husband, I can't help but recall all the nights I got in my car and drove around the block because I was so angry with him I didn't want to go home, but drove home anyway because I had no place else to go.

That makes me laugh now.

I looked at seven or eight houses on Sunday, and quickly ascertained that the affordable houses weren't as nice as my apartment, and the only houses I liked were about $300 more than I pay now. Returning home to my clean, bright, sunshine-y apartment after looking at other people's rundown houses, I couldn't help but tilt my head back and laugh.

I suddenly realized that some day I will look back on the apartment days as some of the fondest memories of my life. My years of struggle as a single mother, climbing my way up the corporate ladder and eeking out a little more salary each year — oh it will be these years of which I will be most proud.

And perhaps I will remember them as the time I was the most free.

I keep getting distracted by all the things I should be dissatisfied with. I don't make enough money. My job is pretty boring and routine. I sit in a cube all day. My car is crappy. My apartment, small. I don't like my furniture. But I'm laughing as I type this.

Silly girl.

Happiness is for now, not later. Happiness won't come with a new car, a new job or even a big brand new house. When you move on, you bring your happiness with you. Or your misery.

New houses aren't furnished with emotion. In fact, nothing new includes happiness. It's sort of like batteries — happiness is sold separately. Happiness is a choice, you choose it every single moment, as it occurs. You don't get to pre-order it for the future, and you don't get to send it back in time. Happiness only exists right now, even as you read this.

Your choice.

Figure out how to be happy right now, or fire off all the reasons you can't be happy. Get angry. Tell me why I'm wrong. See how far that gets you. Go on and pack your bags with misery and expect to find something else when you unpack.

I read once that Freud said daydreams were the territory of the dissatisfied and meloncholy. Happy people don't daydream. I have a tendency to daydream away the present, wrapping the fantasies of future successes around me while I completely miss what's lovely right now.

It's cloudy out, the pavement is covered with rain. I can't comment on the sun. But the parking lot looks slick and black, and the grass is greener than it ought to be. Michigan is lush and wet, and I want to roll around in it.

I think I will.

Right now.

Everything Is Perfect, Including You

I love you a little bit more today than I did yesterday. Don't know why, I just do.

Maybe it's because you looked vulnerable. Maybe it's because I kissed you all over your face. Maybe it's because the sex was phenomenal.

Maybe there's just a whole helluva lot of good in this world, and you remind me of that.

Some days are just good. Some days are full of certainty. Some moments are full of you, and I am satiated. In these moments I am certain of everything. Worry is a thing of the past. Insecurity is cast aside, and suddenly there is room for faith. Can a wary girl have faith in anything? Yes, if she allows herself to believe.

Nirvana is living in the moment. Nirvana is not worrying about the past or the future. All concerns that have nothing to do with Right Now only destroy our happiness. But like a well conditioned lab rat, I keep pushing the lever, over and over again, waiting to get my reward or punishment. I'm a salivating dog. I anticipate everything, good and bad -- and in my anticipation, I ruin the moment. Because right now, I don't need whatever might come. I don't need anything more than this.

Sometimes I'm amazed how everything is saturated with the teachings of the Buddha. The lessons of awareness, and of letting go seep into the dry soil of my life -- work, boyfriend, family, son -- all of it filling with the same clear waters of acceptance. Everything is as it should be. Right now. Perfect.

As are you.

A Warning.

The dead body is still there.

I know, I know. I should clean it up. What kind of a person leaves the remains of a giant centipede sqaushed onto the trim along the floor? Every time I walk down the hall I stare at it. Its legs are still splayed this way and that, frozen in their final caress.

Ew.

As soon as my son notices it, I'm going to have to get the Windex and scrub it off. It's just that the very thought of touching it, even through several layers of paper towel, gives me the heebiest of jeebies.

Maybe I can leave it there as a warning to other centipedes?

In the middle ages they used to flay thieves, and nail their skins to the doors as warnings.

That's right.

I said it.

I'm going medieval on those furry fuckers.

Consider yourselves warned.