Tough Love

 

My loving, friendly, generous Universe blesses me daily. I live in a world where miracles abound. All things happen with everyone’s best interest in mind. There is a reason for everything, even the difficult stuff. I try to go gently, practicing kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental.

Obviously, there are days when I’m more successful at this than others.

I don’t rely on Oracle cards, but I do follow Colette Baron-Reid on F***book. She posts a daily card, which I often don’t see until days after the fact so, clearly, I’m not that invested. Still, there are occasions when the card of a particular day will ring true in hindsight (not that I look behind me that often. As Ragnar said to his sons in a later episode of Vikings, “Don’t look back; that’s not where you’re going.”)

One day recently, the card simply stated “It Is What It Is.” The message advised me to adopt radical acceptance, explaining that acceptance is the best means of opening myself to greater abundance, blessing, and/or happiness. It suggested taking things at face value and not to read more into a given instant. Sometimes things just happen. Not everything has a deeper meaning. Acceptance enables good energy to flow easily, clearing log jams that result from us focusing too intently on what vexes us.

That very same day, I lost my mind over something so trivial it’s almost embarrassing.

Anyone who knows me also knows that my vehicle is sacrosanct. Indeed, only two things can drive me to spontaneous acts of violence: Flyer games, and any slight, be it a scratch, dent or other misdemeanour, against my vehicle. Well, on this day, I was the victim of a visitor who parked in my reserved space – and boom! Kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental flew right out the window. I seethed and foamed and fretted at the utter lack of morality in that individual. Capital punishment was a just penalty for the crime of forcing me to park my beloved Tiguan on the street.

Once I cooled off (and it took a while), I marvelled at how cushy my life is that I have the luxury of obsessing over something that, as a First World problem, barely rates as a problem at all ... or it shouldn’t.

Suddenly, the day’s Oracle card returned to mind: It Is What It Is.

Huh, I thought. The card meaning was suddenly clear. By advocating radical acceptance, the Universe was saying, in the most loving, friendly and generous way:

“Get over it.”

Wobbly Knees and Wonky Fingers

Now that summer has finally come out of the closet, so have the summer clothes. With those clothes come the perennial questions like: “How does a busty woman hide her bra straps under a sleeveless dress?” or “When do shorts become too-shorts?”

I practice being non-judgmental at the bus stop, but one must wonder what the plaid shorts/tropical print shirt combo was thinking, and I genuinely lament the days of the plain ponytail during the ongoing parade of modern-day “manbuns”. Mostly, though, I admire the sleek young women in flippy dresses and wispy sandals, their bare legs impossibly tanned. When in my 20s, despite the arthritis, my legs were long and straight, and looked pretty darned good in a short skirt. Nowadays, I have knobbly Grinch knees that make it comically ill-advised even to wear leggings, let alone dare a raised hem.

Fortunately, mid-calf still works on me, even if my ankles are a bit thicker and less flexible than they were 30 years ago.

Make no mistake—I don’t envy the gazelles in Gap garb; I had my time in miniskirts and heels. And I’ve grown fond of my crooked knees. After all, they’ve got a ton of mileage on them. My whole body is like that, actually: mid-century modern that’s held up pretty well, all things considered.

For someone who has spent decades at war with her compostable container, this is an impressively mature attitude. I used to fear the ravages of age, blithely unaware that those ravages were happening well in advance of my dotage via the aforementioned arthritis. Perhaps I sensed my golden years might be worse as a result; though I naively imagined that when the RA burned out, my bones would be magically restored to mint condition, I was purely bitter that no one thought to warn me I’d later have to deal with the damage done in my teens. Then there was my well-meaning but misguided notion that all the pre-emptive therapies I could foist upon myself would pre-empt more pain. So much for that.

I’ve always said that I don’t care what it looks like so long as it works, and while I may have been deceiving myself in my youth, this has become my truth in middle age. My recent quest to heal—or at least subdue—the angst of last winter has led me to a more compassionate view of my physical self. Now I can regard my wonky knees and gnarled knuckles with affection. My body has been to war and come out alive. Her swollen joints are a testament to survival, to a challenge met and ultimately defeated. Every day, she gets me from point A to B and beyond, sometimes with a side order of arg and sometimes nary a whimper, but the point is, she gets me where I want to go and will, I hope, continue doing so for as long as she has breath.

Gone are the days of mid-thigh skirts and silly shoes, but that’s okay. I own my scars. I’ve earned them.

In the Name of Love

After the Orlando shooting, I felt compelled to attend a pride flag ceremony at City Hall. I took time off work and hiked down the street, joined the throng of other like-minded souls and listened as our mayor made a speech before asking us to participate in a moment of silence for the victims of this purely hate-driven crime. I stood with my head bowed and my hand on my heart, and when the moment was over, I heard someone say my name.

Looking up, I was pleasantly surprised to see a former workmate who had moved on to bigger and better things. His office was just down the street, he said, what was I doing here?

“I’m just so sorry that this happened,” I replied. “I can’t believe it.” And yet I could, given the pin-headed contrast in this enlightened age. We chatted for a minute, catching up, then he introduced me to his sister, who is in a lesbian relationship. If his compassion had not made sense to me before—which it had; he’s a truly lovely guy—it made complete sense to me then.

Whether you know it or not, at some point in your life, a friend, co-worker, neighbour, or family member has either been attracted to the same sex or wanted to be a member of the opposite. If you knew and you were okay with it, kudos to you. If you’re running through a list of everyone you’ve ever known and wondering, please stop wasting your time. It’s obvious that you wouldn’t have been okay.

In my opinion, as long as it’s consensual and the players are of legal age, there is no shame in loving where your heart leads you. The shame is in the shaming.

You can’t convince me that the percentage of gay, lesbian, bi- or trans-gender people in society has increased over the years. I’m pretty sure they have always lived among us; they just haven’t been free to express it the way they are fighting to express it in the twenty-first century.

Personally, I consider them among the bravest people in the world. Nor do I condemn the folks who hid their true natures from fear of persecution and/or prosecution in times not so long past. It must have been—and still must be—horrible to pretend to be someone you’re not because being yourself might cost your family/job/reputation/life.

Our so-cool-it’s-painful Prime Minister recently marched in Toronto’s pride parade. This guy is so together, so enlightened, so necessary for the future of our country and society as a whole. He’s a great example of what Canadians not only are, but what we can be if we choose love over hate and acceptance instead of fear. Gay men are not predators and lesbian women are not mutants. Trans-gender people (and I have known one myself) only seek to be happy in their own skin. It’s not about carnal relations—or it shouldn’t be. It’s about the freedom to love where our hearts, not our minds, take us.

And so, with love,

Love and Service

An unusual thing happened to me the other day. Riding the elevator to my office, I suddenly, gleefully, thought, I want to be evil. I wanted to be bad, mean, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, über-critical, unhelpful; in general, the direct opposite of the way I was brought up and, incidentally, against my nature.

I got to the eighth floor, put my lunch in the fridge, cleaned out the dish drainer, switched on the kettle, replenished the snack bowls, and lit up my “doctor is in” sign.

Sigh.

Life at present has gotten beyond my control. Too much is happening that affects me, yet I can do nothing but cope—and coping is getting harder by the day. I’ve been haranguing my angels and doing the self-talk, fighting the good fight, resisting the impulse to flush myself into the Vortex of Doom, and pursued the positive attitude to the ends of the earth. On the elevator that day, I admitted defeat.

And that’s okay. I can’t do it all. I can’t always be optimistic. I’m human, after all, not superhuman. It’s not my job to rejig the misaligned energy fields. All I have to do is take my hands off the wheel and be patient. Be kind with others, and with myself. Take small steps. Find joy in the present moment—or admit when joy ain’t happening. It’s okay if my outlook is bleak. It won’t stay that way. It never does. And no matter how rough my life is, someone else’s is always rougher. Knowing so does not lessen my angst, but it puts things in perspective.

So did the entry on the Zen desk calendar for my “wanna be evil” day. It’s a piece called the Bodhisatta Vows, and I like it better than I ever liked the Lord’s Prayer:

May I be a guard for those who need protection

A guide for those on the path

A boat, a raft, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood

May I be a lamp in the darkness

A resting place for the weary

A healing medicine for all who are sick

A vase of plenty, a tree of miracles

And for the boundless multitude of living beings

May I bring sustenance and awakening

Enduring like the earth and sky

Until all beings are freed from sorrow

And all are awakened

With love,

So Loved

this was today's entry on Ter's desk calendar - the perfect sentiment!

I woke up that way this morning. Actually, I wake up that way every morning, but I don’t always feel it as acutely as I do on my birthday.

The dreaded Tuesday birthday—also the first day of school when I was a kid, now a vacation day ’cause I’m a grown up and can do what I want. Ter has dropped me in the village for an Asian Mist followed by a flânerie in the rain. It’s rare for September 2 to be anything other than an invigorating mix of crisp and sunny, but this year it’s grey and showery. We had planned a birthday visit to Saltspring Island, but have postponed the trip to tomorrow, when the weather is expected to be better. She’s out spiffing up the Tiguan while I spend the day being loved. An afternoon nap and a teatime birthday bag await. I dunno if I’ll write anything other than this post; I’m still on vacation but am not concerned if I don’t finish one of the three, count ’em three, stories currently in progress. I’ve let go. I write whatever wants to be written and trust it’ll work out in the end. If it doesn’t, that’s what editing is for. If I start to get frustrated with one thing, I switch to something else. Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.

But back to being loved. Today I give myself permission to accept it—from Ter, from friends and family, from the universe, and from myself. Worthiness is irrelevant. Love does not judge. Love does not dole itself out by measures of merit. Love does what it does because it can. We’re the ones who put conditions on it, but in truth, it’s always there. All we have to do is accept it.

For one day a year, I do.

But I love everyone else always.

Mindfulness

Whenever you become anxious or stressed, outer purpose has taken over and you have lost sight of your inner purpose. You have forgotten that your state of consciousness is primary, all else secondary. – Eckhart Tolle

This happened to me on Monday. Back at work after a three day weekend and I was a wreck by dinnertime. Admittedly, the cat-herding part of my job has lately been nuttier than usual, but in trying to stay ahead of the nuttery, I lost my mind.

By that I mean I lost my state of awareness, falling prey to the Demon of Mindless Munching and consuming enough sugar to cause a combustible crash at the checkered flag. By sundown, my inner purpose had been trumped by outer purpose and my world felt dark, cold and hollow. Pointles. Joyless. Never hopeless, but certainly less hopeful.

Yes, my diet that day was a factor, but I let the frenzied pace of the office drive me off track. Anxious to stay ahead of the stress (and failing, I may add), I paid no attention to what sort of fuel I put into my coping mechanism. When I start a day fully intending to focus on each moment and that day ends in a smoking pile of rubble, I know I’ve lost consciousness along the way.

The trick is how to get it back.

My good fortune lies in Ter, who, even in her bleakest moments, has the smarts to identify what’s happening. When she is unavailable, however, I have to do the work myself.

Breathe in (calm)

Breathe out (smile)

Breathe in (present moment)

Breathe out (wonderful moment).

Rinse and repeat.

My little voice has also begun asking me what the Sam Hill is going on, whereupon I sit back and go, “Yeah, what is going on?” Since learning the difference between mind and spirit, ego and heart, it’s becoming easier for me to look objectively at my reaction to a situation and figure out where said response originates. If I’m stressed and spooked, then “outer purpose” has invariably out-muscled “inner”. Managing the monster will be a significant challenge until being mindful becomes a habit and so far it’s taken conscious, ongoing effort.

It’s also been worth it.

Not My Bliss

My guru hero from "Kung Fu Panda" - Master Shifu

How’s that acceptance gig going, Ru?

Er … well …

2.5 hours into my Monday and I’m yelling at a co-worker: “Do you know how many New Year’s resolutions I’ve broken since I got here? Including the one about not yelling at you anymore!”

I like my job; really, I do. I like the people I work with, truly. I’m part of a supportive, cooperative, dedicated, talented group of adults who get important things done despite the powers that be, and I’m proud to be counted among them.

But this is not my bliss. I spent my vacation living life at my own speed in my own environment with my own peeps. After the holiday hoopla was over, I found a rhythm that matched Nature’s daily cycle. I was productive, I was happy, I was … okay, serene will never apply, but I was pretty darned close to experiencing ongoing inner peace. I actually felt able to re-enter my office world and not lose my cool.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Extenuating circumstances? Maybe. Full moon follies? Sure. Fourth quarter crazies? As usual. Then Ter mentioned the pendulum swing. She and I both wanted to slit our wrists after two days back at work. The third was the tipping point. We were tired at the end of it, but we were also more optimistic about surviving the rest of the week. We’ll make it ʼcause we always do. Humans are nothing if not adaptable, and much as I hate, loathe and despise waking up before I’m ready, I am finding my rhythm again.

Acceptance is next.

Acceptance

This moment sucks. So how do I find joy in it? How do I drum up enthusiasm for the relentless pounding behind my left eye?

I don’t. I take Tylenol and a nap, and hope that it’s better when I wake.

It isn’t. In fact, it might be worse. It’s one of those hormonally-based migraines that last thirty-six hours and peak at 5 on the Richter scale. Not enough to make me barf, but enough to make being awake unpleasant. It also gets me to thinking about the downside of being present. There are some moments where I’d rather be anywhere else but where I am, when hearing a cheerful “be here now” is less likely to make me grateful than it is to make me a murder suspect.

One of the principles admonished by spiritual guru/philosopher/consciously-aware smart guy Eckhart Tolle is a threefold number that can be applied to every crappy moment/event/situation in life:

If you can change it, do so.

If you can remove yourself from it, do so.

If you can do neither of the first two things, accept it. Accept that the moment sucks and accept that it will pass. Good, bad or indifferent, no moment lasts forever. Perhaps the most helpful thing you can do in a so-called helpless situation is allow yourself to feel ripped off – denying fear of a root canal or anger with an executive decision will only make it worse. Don’t dwell on it, but don’t deny it, either. Accept how you feel and move on. You may feel better for it – I certainly do. I cannot change when the Flyers are losing a game. I can quit watching, or I can accept it and be happy that I’m watching them at all. That’s the other thing Professor Ekkles has done. He’s broken acceptance into further opportunities for presence. Once you accept the moment. you can:

Be enthusiastic; and/or

Find joy; and/or

If you can do neither of these things, then acceptance will have to do. Ironically, it takes more strength to stop resisting than it does to resist, but accepting what you cannot change can actually empower you. Letting go is liberating.

Back to the thirty-six hour migraine. When the Tylenol/nap attack fails, I do what I can to live with it. My ridiculously-priced green tea is always comforting, so I brew a tumbler and cradle it in my hands, sipping slowly and savouring the sweet grassy flavour. I compose this post, squinting at the computer screen as I collect my thoughts. I talk at Ter, who is having a day herself; we don’t complain, but we bolster each other through our respective sucky moments, finally admitting out loud that “it is what it is” and moving on despite the lure of continuing to whine.

And then, as it always does, the thirty-seventh hour arrives.