Vision Cocktail Party

Late yesterday afternoon I wrapped up a 2-day workshop with three dozen of my coworkers.  One of our last group activities was a Vision Party.  The basic idea is to have a vision of your future and share it with everyone you talk to at the party.  The other person gives you their ideas on how to bring you closer to your vision.  I’m not normally a person who enjoys just standing or sitting around and chatting; I’m an activity partner.  However, I thought it was really fun! 

I get bored with conversations pretty quickly, preferring to just keep someone company with a friendly presence or a few laughs while they do most of the talking.  Discussing our passions is a completely different realm.  When someone opens up and reveals something they truly desire, they beam with excitement and hope.  I’ve decided that I want every lengthy conversation I participate in to contain some of this.

From now on, when I say I want to meet for Happy Hour it’s going to be a Vision Happy Hour.  It doesn’t happen very often, so the timing should be perfect.  What I’m especially looking forward to is cheering from the sidelines while my friends accomplish the things that make them happy and having them do the same for me.

This is 40, well, almost 40. This is approaching 39.

                I’ve had this window open all day – a blank sheet of paper, the writer’s best friend and worst enemy.  Yes, I said “writer”.  It’s of no use to me to continue this game of mock indecision.  I’ve always known this is what I am.  Bookshelves of filled journals dating back to elementary school, lovely pens in every drawer of every room, an empty journal in every bag, backpack and suitcase, volumes of pages printed from files stored on my old Apple 2gs, files on a portable hard drive and taking up space on a couple of remote servers: it’s all proof of my denial.  So why haven’t I completed anything or even had any interest in writing for the past several years?   One tiny word that causes so much grief for everyone – ego.

I’m not sure why, as a society, we’re so addicted to ego.  We obsess about how we compare to those we consider to be the picture of beauty, talent, success, you name it.  Why can’t it just be wonderful to be ourselves?  Instead of embracing the variety of shapes, sizes, nationalities and colors we are born into, we pick one unattainable definition of perfection and measure ourselves against it.  In the end, even the person we believe bears the closest resemblance to perfect really is not.  Mr. or Miss Perfect compares him/herself to someone else too!  It’s like mental disease epidemic.  Here is where I insert my usual tagline, “and this is why I don’t have kids”.

Some people use that ego energy to propel themselves from humble beginnings to great success and superstardom.  They push themselves to get as close as they possibly can to what they believe is perfection.  Along the way many of them discover that what they are shooting for doesn’t exist.  Some people (and I fall into this category more often that the other) just give up.  What is the point of wanting something that can never be?  What’s the point of trying if you can n ever get what you want, especially if what you want doesn’t make you happy?  I may as well just accept the misery now and get it over with.  I got tired of getting my heart broken.  Amidst the melancholia, I observed something strange.  There was a glimmer of light, the surprising and blissful moments of complete clarity that somehow sustained my hope in some of the lowest depressions I experienced.  Even when those dreary days ran together into weeks, months, years, there was always that tiny spark keeping me going.  I don’t know how it survived, and that doesn’t really matter anyway.  I’m just thankful that it’s still there.

I’ve spent the majority of my life beating myself up for not feeling how “successful” people feel, as if there was any way I could have felt any differently or as if the self-inflicted guilt would change my feelings in a positive way.  Now, as 40 appears on the horizon, I finally don’t care.  I don’t care about pleasing or displeasing my mom.  I don’t care if my brother respects me.  I don’t care if my ex wants to be friends after we break up.  I don’t care if I never get anything else published.  I mean, yes, it would be nice but that isn’t why I write.  I write because it makes me feel sane.  I write because the chaos swirling around in my head runs through my fingertips and lines up nicely on the page.  Then, there’s quiet – peaceful, spacious quiet.  This is why I am a writer.

Life with a Dog

When I thought of getting a dog, which I’ve done frequently over the past year, I thought of a German Short-haired Pointer or a Doberman mix.  I wanted a dog that would run with me in the pre-dawn hours and provide protection on backpacking trips in the backcountry.  The fates aligned and bought me a rescue, Lucky.  Lucky is a Chihuahua mix (I think with Miniature Pinscher based on his long legs and pointy snout).  Had I seen Lucky on the adoption websites, I would have passed him up without a second glance.  That’s a rat, not a dog.  I still feel that way when we’re taking our evening walk.  I can’t exactly count on him to discourage an ill-intentioned aggressor.

Lucky was found running the street by one of my coworkers when she almost ran him over.  The shelter asked her to foster him until the owners showed up to claim him.  They never surfaced.  She and her family tried to keep him, but there was so much internal debate in their household about him that it proved to be more trouble than it was worth.  The kids were all allergic to him, and her husband was hesitant to let him stay from the beginning.  Six months after they adopted him, they were ready to surrender him.  I volunteered early in the period of unrest to take him in.  I’d already begun looking for adoption online again when she came to me and told me that they were ready to give Lucky away.

From the first day, my routine was forever changed.  I’ve traded my early morning coffee while watching the news for coffee while taking a freezing cold stroll outside.  I’ve traded my gym bag for dog treats, toys and miscellaneous supplies.  I’ve traded my nightlife for hiking and puppy play dates.  On weekday evenings I pack two lunches.

The thing I miss most is sleeping in.  As I write this my eyes are dry and burning from a combination of too much time reading the screen and needing more sleep.  The only quiet time I have to read, watch a movie or catch up on news and emails is in the evening while Lucky is fast asleep in his bed.  While I’m at work in the office he naps next to my desk, readying himself to prance and play when I take him out every few hours.  The need to simplify my life is more pressing than ever.  Basically I’m exhausted.

a dream about doves

In a massive ballroom decked out like a country club wedding reception, a small boy broke open his birthday piñata. A dove with a yarn leash fell out. The boy skipped off with his new toy in tow, flapping its wings in panic behind him. My eyes followed the dove as it attempted to fly away. When it came to the end if its tether, it strained against it and I caught a glimpse of something above us.

Dozens of white doves lined the rafters. They were all perched practically motionless - silent and calm with alertness in their eyes that was very much alive.  Many of them were thin with missing feathers from weeks of neglect – symbols used for celebrations past and forgotten. They were trapped by the grand architecture of the ballroom.  Twenty feet below the the dying birds, the oblivious crowd cheered, drank and danced. I was horrified. I pulled out my phone and called for help (animal rescue?). As I explained to the man on the other end how serious the situation was, I followed the boy out into the courtyard in hopes of getting ahold of the dove to set it free.

Upon spotting a group of children playing outside, the boy lost interest in the dove and released the leash. I took the bird in my hands and looked for a way to remove the leash as its panicked flapping subsided. His beak was broken as a person’s nose would be – misaligned and bloody. There were tiny blood splatters on his head. My heart sank. I couldn't set him free because he would surely die without medical attention.  I held the dove gently against my chest and felt his warm belly against my palm.  For a moment we were both absolutely still, gazing out over the sea of people as we waited for help to arrive.

Then I woke up.

What does it mean?

I made it!

The past several months of depression have been peppered with the occasional fun social evening. If not for obligation, I'd probably have no social life left at all. Now that I'm finally shaking off the weight of pessimism and self doubt, I feel soooooooo much better. It all began with my injury on Mt. Shasta, of which I was in complete denial. I was broken. At the moment when feeling small against the vastness of nature's glory is supposed to liberate a person, I instead felt crushed. I didn't want to sit and cry with the support group or hear encouraging words; I wanted to disappear. In some ways, I did. No one knew my heart. I didn't open up to a single person. When I sought professional help, the flaming hoops were more than I could handle. There was no avoiding the numbness.

I feel light, unencumbered, and incredibly relieved. I have a bit of work to get my affairs back in order, but I tell you that's nothing compared to feeling hopeless and uninspired. Phew. One day at a time, and I appreciate each little thing that makes me happy.

not all funk is good funk

The past month has been very challenging. I’m beginning to feel things turn around now. I suppose the change is mostly in my perspective though. My closest friend at work and my closest friend at home have both moved on to their new lives with grace. I. on the other hand, feel stuck. I’ve stopped doing the things that make me happy: writing, reading, working out, dancing. I’ve fallen into gambling, binge drinking/eating, isolation, laziness and just all around moodiness. I would consider myself a functional depressed person in comparison to most people, but I’m a far cry from what a happy me looks like.

I have moments of clarity, when I consider picking my yoga and meditation practices back up again, but I somehow talk myself out of it. I know how to get out of this funk, but I just haven’t done it. I guess this is how people feel when they’re depressed? I attempted to go to Kaiser for therapy. I threw myself into their hamster wheel, convinced that all the hoop-jumping would eventually pay off. In the end they stuck me with a woman who was so frail and afraid that I pitied her. I felt like I should be the one holding the pen and clipboard. Her persistent haranguing voicemail messages fell on deaf ears. There was no way that woman was going to help talk anybody out of a rut unless she was the punishment for staying in it. Poor thing.

It’s not just me. Of course it never is, but I’m completely self-absorbed. I’ve noticed some of my coworkers withdrawing. I don’t have much opportunity to observe anyone else since I don’t go out anymore unless someone threatens to come to my house. I hosted a video game party at the office last week, and many of us were more tipsy than we’d been in each other’s presence in years, YEARS! We needed some fun so badly that I’ve been asked to host another one in 2 weeks. Although I am excited about it, I have to remind myself of how to share my toys.

walking in the realm of fear

Today during lunch I watched Iyanla and Tony.  They didn’t have to share the spotlight this time.  These people are so much better solo.

Anyway, today’s message to me is to be courageous. 

Iyanla said that she created a vision for the direction of her life, and where she ended up was better than anything she could have imagined.  The first step is creating the vision to move you forward, out of the box.  You have to keep the vision as you would a fetus (you are pregnant with vision), taking great care with it and keeping it safe and healthy.  You can’t tell everyone about your vision.  You can’t ignore when you feel that your vision is being harmed by your behavior.

Tony, on the other hand, went about it the enthusiastic way.  Get up, get physical!  Change your posture and position.  Use the physiology of emotion in your favor.  You need 3 things to succeed: strategy (the right method of achieving your goal), Story (create your own story that helps you instead of hindering you) and state (change your perspective and outlook).

Everyone has fear.  Instead of using the fear to make excuses not to take risks, take risks that, regardless of the outcome, will enhance your life experience.  Even if you fail, you will be enriched.  So, what this means to me is that I’m back to writing as revelation.  Yes, it’s uncomfortable.  No, it doesn’t matter if I sell a book.  Yes, it will make me happy.