Emotions

I tend to be a very intense, emotional person. And while I like the intensity and it has gotten me far, and I appreciate and honor my nature as a sensitive, feeling, and compassionate person, I do not want to be ruled by my emotions. This is something that I've thought about over the past few years, and that in the past few weeks-- weeks that have been incredibly emotional for me-- has become a more pressing issue in my life.

Today, I became frustrated with a very dear friend. While I was not specifically angry at that friend and did not blow up at the friend, I let my emotions get the best of me. Focused on my own emotions regarding a situation in which I currently find myself-- a situation I may have created for myself to some degree-- I allowed my feelings of frustration, guilt, hurt, worry, and heartbreak to spill out in a way that was not very controlled, considerate, or fair. I truly and humbly feel regret over this, and hope that my friend, when we talk, will forgive me for giving myself over to the tumultuous and unpredictable emotions circling me during this time. I am sorry.

Over the past few weeks, being drawn to philosophies and practices that offer practical tips on managing emotions, I've been once again drawn to Tibetan Buddhism. A few weeks ago, I bought An Open Heart by the Dalai Lama at one of the many local used bookstores. From the inside cover: "In this book the path begins with simple and clear ruminations on the advantages of a virtuous life and moves on to practices that can temper destructive and impulsive emotions. Such practices can be undertaken at odd moments of the day, at once transforming the aimless or anxious mind into a disciplined and open mind." Sounds good, right? Yeah, and my husband thought so too, immediately taking up this book to begin reading it himself (which, if I'm honest, makes me very happy).

So, today, I went to the library and picked up How to Practice: The Way to a Meaningful Life by the Dalai Lama. While waiting on my shift to start, and for a short while after my work shift this evening, I read the first few chapters. It is wonderful, and very helpful. He discusses the three practices as the discipline of morality, concentrated meditation, and manifest knowledge (or wisdom). Morality, he discusses, is the foundation upon which the other two are built. And I was reassured in reading this because I feel that the first step-- practicing morality-- is one in which I am strong. I am easily compassionate and sensitive and empathic by nature, and hold to high standards of integrity and authenticity in my life. That part of practice will be a honing and broadening for me, rather than an introduction. Adding in a stronger appreciation for and practice of the other two will provide the pieces I've been missing off and on over the past little bit of my life. I am looking forward to working through this book, as well as the other one (once I get it back from my husband). I hope to always remain a compassionate, sensitive, loving person. Just one in which the passion part of the compassion is a little more controlled.

And speaking of my husband, have I mentioned lately how much the last few weeks have made me appreciate him more? He has supported me completely through a process in which I have done something very difficult because he knew I needed to do it. He has loved me enough to allow me the freedom to explore some ideas and thoughts that may not have always been comfortable for either of us. He has acknowledged who I am, how I relate to others, and that life isn't always neat and tidy. And because he has been so supportive and open through every challenge we've ever faced together, instead of responding to uncertainty with jealousy, threats, or defensiveness, he remains my confidante, my best friend, and my sounding board. He has never put me into a position where I have felt the need to hide from him-- not myself, not my thoughts, not my actions. I'm only recently realizing how precious and rare that might be.

Interpersonal skills are not my friend.

Imagine with me for a minute that a person exists with a tremendous natural gift for music which has been honed through years of practice, education, and experience. This person has a fair amount of talent, and her friends often comment that she is able to find the most unusual, but beautiful, harmonies for even unexpected melodies. Over the years, she has educated herself in all things musical, both with self-education found in her hours of practice and listening to the beautiful music of others, as well as a smattering of formal lessons and education along the way. She finds the beauty in almost every song she hears, no matter how unusual it may be, and her mind is constantly filled with some song or another-- replaying something beautiful or haunting that she's recently heard, or imagining up some melody of her own to keep her company.

She loves to have time to play or sing, but is still enough of a technician to easily read almost all of the sheets of music placed before her. In a symphony setting, playing off the same sheet of music with a group of friends equally committed to technical integrity, and with similar appreciation for musical beauty, she shines as a musician, combining both skill and artistry, enjoying the experience, leaving the concert full of energy, awe, and joy. Playing on her own, she is even more able to be lost in the experience, transformed by it, grown through it. With a small group of close friends, she's even able to improvise, lose sight of the technical details and just make music, play, share in the common experience of joy through music, no sheet music required.

But taken out of her comfort zone, placed into a group of people she is only now getting to know, things are more difficult. Attempting to get lost in the free-flow of playing together, she's never quite sure what she's supposed to be doing, not having the benefit of a few years of jamming with each other to draw upon. She knows she can fall back on using the sheet music and technical know-how as her cheat sheet, but then she's so busy following along that she misses out on much of the passion and beauty of the music, and leaves more mentally exhausted than emotionally refreshed. And it sucks, because she knows she's really damn good at music-- technically and casually-- and should be better than this.

And she knows that she can read people like a sheet of music, and craves social outlets, and loves experiencing that connection, no matter how momentary, or realizing that someone else is playing along with you, joining you in the joy of it all, and that the few of you are lost together, for the moment, in each others' company, and it is wonderful. It's wonderful, that is, when you know who you're playing with, and there's a comfort level there that precludes any need to censor or fear, and you can just put away the technical notes penciled into the margins of the sheet music, and Play. Be. Live. Love.

But for whatever reason, playing with the new crowd, she can't seem to get her footing to feel safe enough to put that stupid sheet music away, quit trying to figure out where things are going, and stop herself from over-analyzing every comment, every glance, every omission, for clues as to where things really stand (since most people, if we'll admit it, aren't often very transparent or straightforward about our intentions or opinions). It's exhausting.

Maybe I will become a hermit. Maybe I'll allow myself to slowly start turning into one of those crazy old cat ladies who lives in the house with the darkened windows, about whom all the neighbor kids tell ghost stories, and whose friendly "hello" to the kids as they pass by is enough to send them scattering in fear because she's just so damned WEIRD. Maybe I'll wear the same creepy gold lamé sweatsuit every day, with matching sequined slippers, and sip appletinis on my front porch all day long, every day, stopping only occasionally to cat-call the lawn guys. Maybe I'll just hang out with my husband, and do the best I can with my kids, and accept that in spite of my intense craving for friendship, that I am just destined to be a recluse.

Or maybe, if I'm lucky, things will get better. I just want some normal damn friends. Friends who are in similar places in their lives. Friends I don't have to keep secret. Friends who tell me what's going on so I don't have to intuit. Friends who treat each other with integrity and kindness.

Loving the Death Bot

When we first moved to North Carolina four months ago, we did so with little money, no jobs, and an incredibly strong faith that we were doing what we knew we were supposed to be doing, all outward appearances aside. So far, no regrets! Shortly after arriving here and in accordance with our pre-move plan, I went and rounded up a job that would provide some income while we sorted out the other details of being here. The benefits of this are, of course, income, as well as the opportunity for a seasoned people-watcher to have a virtual national geographic special of co-workers and guests by whom I am constantly reminded of the complexity of the human journey. Some of them are even becoming friends, little by little, like the prince taming the fox, awaiting the secret. The down side to having a joe job, other than the amount of physical exhaustion, would also, however, be having a virtual national geographic special of co-workers and guests by whom I am constantly reminded of the complexity of the human journey.

Last Friday, we spent all day moving furniture into the new home. By Friday evening, exhausted, and hours past our children's normal bedtimes, I sat down to play with my children a little before finally putting them down for the night. And when Wonder Girl (age 2) came running up to jump into my lap, I first noticed a HUGE lump on the right side of her neck. She had been working through a little cold for a few days at that point, but wasn't acting all that sick or like it hurt, so we decided to wait out the night before getting her checked out. Saturday morning, after returning our moving van, I was sitting in the office of the local urgent care. We signed in, and Wonder Girl went to check out the toybox.

With three older brothers (if we count Wonder Boy as older, which he technically is by just over 2 hours), she immediately picked up a hard, plastic, evil-looking black robot/transformer/terminator-looking action figure-- the kind I don't even let my kids have in our home-- and which had a button on the front that, when you pushed it, made it pretend to walk while red lights flashed in its eyes. CREEPY. I could not, for the life of me, figure out why she liked that silly robot death machine better than some of the other toys in the toybox, but she did. "Yook, mama, it's a PIRATE!" She carried that silly toy around, every now and then declaring it to be a pirate, which from her experience (having recently watched Muppets Treasure Island) was a fun and funny and delightful thing to be!

And after a while, she went from mechanically pushing the buttons and making it do its death march, to holding it and cuddling it, and reading books to it. Pretty soon, she was even expecting me to get in on the action. She ran up to me, pushed the red-eyed robot up against my chest, and grinned. "Wuv it, mama! Wuv da pirate!" Amused by her innocence and irresistible cuteness, I did a lame snuggle, trying to appease her sweet nature. Apparently, my feeble attempt was not enough, and she pressed the death bot harder into my chest-- "Don't you wuv it, Mama? WUV IT!!" So, with all the sincerity I could muster, I snuggled and cuddled her silly toy. "Oh, yes!" I said, "What a wonderful pirate you are! I love this pirate!"

Sitting there in an urgent care office on the weekend, knowing I had to be at work that night, sleep-deprived, stressed out, and unsure of what was wrong with my baby, I snuggled that silly macho toy, declaring to love it, and watching the way my daughter's eyes lit up as I did. The funny thing?-- The more I snuggled it, the more I actually liked that toy, and the better I felt. I am 100% positive that "cute, cuddly, snuggly, and loveable" were not words that the designer of that toy would have thought of when designing that toy. I'm sure their intent was not to foster practice for loving relationships, or to give toddlers the chance to "wuv" and cuddle a new favorite toy. But for her, that didn't matter, and allowing myself (even for a few minutes) to get into her world, where the only intent that matters is her own, I did kinda wuv her pirate, and just for a little while, it was real.

We could learn a lot from a two year old.

I think part of why my relationships with my co-workers (most of them, anyway) aren't as complicated and prone to annoyance might be that usually (not always, but usually), I see the best in them. If they say something stupid, or do something annoying, or act in a way that doesn't on the surface seem to be kind, I do my best to assume positive intent, even if the outer expression of that intent comes in the form of a red-eyed, evil-looking, hard, plastic death bot. Most of us have good intentions, after all, especially when we feel that we are important to others, and that they're interested in seeing us for who we are.

And even if they had bad intent and were trying to frustrate or hurt me, what good would it serve to acknowledge that with either anger or hurftul behavior of my own? What good would it do to tear someone down, to insult them, to play mean-spirited pranks? Would it improve the relationship? Would it solve the problem? Would it make me feel better? What if we allow ourselves to imagine, if only for a few minutes, a situation in which someone DID call you out with specific intent to hurt you, and instead of being hurt and reacting from that hurt, we simply assumed (incorrectly) that it wasn't intentional, continued on our way with a cheerful spirit, and refused to hand over to anyone else the strings and buttons that control our emotions? Would we feel stupid for not fully understanding their ill intent? Or could we simply continue to be at peace with a positive assessment of the situation? What if, instead of getting pissed off, we simply let it roll off, continued to see that person as an overall good person, and refused to get caught up in the emotional drama that permeates our lives (not just at work, but in every sphere of our lives)? In the end, what is our goal? To avenge every wrong, no matter how small? Or to live a life that is fun and vibrant and fully alive? Can we be okay with being wrong about someone else, even if it means our own lives are happier? Can we simply ignore the hard, plastic shell and red, glaring eyes, and love the death bot in spite of it all?

Don't get me wrong-- I'm not always a ray of sunshine. I have my moments when I am full of rage, disappointed in humanity, and convinced that another person is a waste of space. I'm human. But I'd like to think I have many, many more moments in which my love for others outweighs my displaced anger, which assumes that they took my power from me, when in fact, I have to give it away to allow someone else to make me angry.

I guess what it all comes down to, for me, is intent. God's intent (for you to live a life that is constantly frustrated by others, or for you to live an empowered life that is full of joy and meaning), your intent (revenge and hypercriticism, or acceptance and love), and the intent of others (which often, in cases where someone else is coming out against you, boils down to their own self-protection amidst inter- and intra-personal uncertainty).

So what's it going to be? Can we be that patient with others, forgiving of them as we'd hope them to be forgiving of our own shortcomings? Do we stick around long enough to know the fox's secret?

Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

When the outer is throwing us off, messing us up, and keeping us frustrated, remember that The Essential is only found with the heart.