Reclaiming My Optimism

I’ve been so unhappy for so long that it’s become my natural state. Only it’s not my natural state; it’s just the by-product of a particularly rough patch in this glorious gift of human experience. I have also adapted to it, disliking how I feel yet feeling powerless to change it.

Then one day I realized that I can change it. So I stood up and declared, “I am reclaiming my optimism!”

And nothing happened.

Oh, life continued. It may even have improved, though it wasn’t reflected in my mood. A week passed and I was still miserable. When I asked myself why this was, the answer came pretty quickly:

“Reclaim  is a verb, Ru. You have to do something.”

Oh. Yeah.

Darn.

See, when I’m unhappy, I lack motivation. I want things to right themselves while I loaf around in front of the TV or snooze on the sofa or complain to everyone about everything. Why do I have to make myself feel better when it’s not my fault that I feel crappy?

Well, “reclaim” is a verb. If I have the wherewithal to recognize that I am unhappy, and that I dislike being unhappy, it’s up to me to stop being unhappy.

But how?

Good question. Simple answer.

Gratitude.

I know, I know. If someone had said that to me three weeks ago, I’d have barfed on them. Problem is, it’s true. When all else fails, employ gratitude. I dragged out my old “shoot for the moon” journal, the one I started in 2010 where the last entry was dated 2016, and I started logging things for which I am grateful. I wrote every day, focusing on little things when big things continued to overwhelm, and gradually, I began to feel better. Happier. More hopeful. More empowered. More optimistic. More me.

Miracles happen all the time whether or not I see them, so now I look for them. I may only find one in a day, but at least I’m looking! And, just as negativity gains momentum, positivity does the same.

It’s a process, of course, and some days are still a struggle, but spark by spark, I’m pulling myself out of the dark.

Welcome back, Ru.

With love,

100 Things

Thanks for the photo, Beanie!

Not only was I inspired to pinch this picture from Nicole’s recent post at The Paper Teapot, I was prompted to follow her example and list one hundred things I love. She took the challenge from Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write”, a creative manual I have not acquired myself, but then I’ve always appreciated others doing the reading for me.

Nic was right about this—once you start, it’s hard to stop. So here goes, in no particular order (except the top three) and in no way the limit of things that give me joy:

1.             Ter

2.            My family

3.            My friends

4.            Chocolate

5.            Vampires

6.            “A Song of Ice and Fire” (the books, not the TV series)

7.            Sitting at the ocean

8.           French fries

9.            Bass players

10.        Fast cars

11.         Movies about writers

12.        19^th century Paris

13.        Puppies

14.        Bailey’s Original

15.         Flâneries

16.        Duran Duran

17.         Warming spices

18.        Laughing

19.        Making other people laugh

20.       Summer rain

21.        Winter storms

22.       Documentaries about royalty

23.       Charles II of England

24.       Chrome (not the browser)

25.        The rumble of a muscle car’s engine

26.       Smooth jazz

27.        Fridays

28.       Lavender

29.       Extra-foamy tea lattes

30.       My CD collection

31.        Family photos

32.       Horses

33.       James Tiberius Kirk

34.       Stretching

35.        Candlelight

36.       Costume dramas

37.        Singing along

38.       Going for tea

39.       Shawls

40.       Teddy bears

41.        Bacon cheeseburgers

42.       Watching the sunrise

43.       Christmas

44.       The first page of a new read

45.        White roses

46.       Reminiscing

47.        Soft ice cream

48.       Finishing a writing project

49.       Starting a writing project

50.       Classic Mustangs

51.         Watching snow fall

52.        Hot showers

53.        Afternoon naps

54.        Baking cookies

55.        Solitude

56.        Michael York

57.        Going barefoot

58.       Art Deco

59.        Long necklaces

60.       Rhubarb crumble with custard

61.        Turkey stuffing

62.       Cashmere

63.       Birthday presents

64.       Cheesecake

65.        Fuzzy socks

66.       Hockey

67.        Canada

68.       Hugs (giving and getting)

69.       “The Night Circus”

70.       Telling people how wonderful they are

71.         Embracing my age

72.        Philosophical debates

73.        Long drives

74.        Night skies

75.        Def Leppard

76.        Museums

77.        Colouring

78.       Brownies

79.        Main streets in little villages

80.      Breakfast for dinner

81.        Full skirts

82.       Morning fog

83.       Kids playing street hockey

84.       Lying on the couch listening to music

85.       Massages

86.       The wind blowing through me

87.       Peppermint

88.      Crossword puzzles

89.       Lazy Sundays

90.       The sun on my skin

91.        Classic rock

92.       Sharpies

93.       Getting my hair done

94.       Making gratitude lists

95.        Bedtime

96.       Bookstores

97.        Jaguar X-types

98.       Flying

99.       Dreaming

100.   Being alive ...

With love,

The Hint of a Smile

I’ve been practicing yoga since January. I follow a thirty minute program on DVD two or three times a week. Each session ends with a ten minute meditation guided by the instructor. In the beginning, it was easier for me to stretch my body and breathe. The meditation was harder because my mind jumps around like a hyper Jack Russell and seven months ago, I was still very much controlled by my thoughts.

For instance, at the end of the practice, the instructor invites us to bring our hands together at our heart centre, close our eyes, and breathe. “Feel the hint of a smile on your face,” she says—and when I first heard that, I nearly blew apart resisting the urge to laugh. Oh, puh-leese! “The hint of a smile?” Seriously? Come on!

But I did it because a) I was alone, and b) I was determined to adhere to the practice no matter what, and guess what? Something strange occurred.

I felt happier. Instantly. And not just because the brutal floor poses were over. What the …?

Over the next few months, I continued to persevere and gradually my cynical snotitude melted away like the tension in my neck during the ear-to-shoulder pose. Even now, today, after completing the practice and listening to the meditation, I summoned a smile to my face. And you know what? It never fails! Calling a smile equals instant happy!

I’m not talking goofy grin here; just a little curve to the lips in a peaceful moment. They say it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown. If the path of least resistance is your preference (as it is mine), you might want to give it a try, just for fun. Just to see what happens.

I bet you’ll feel better for it.

With love,

DIY

“Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile” – Albert Einstein

After twenty years in the same suite, our dear friend Treena has bought herself a condominium. Before she moves in, however, she’s renovating. And she’s doing it herself.

Ter and I were called to assist with collecting supplies last week—namely transporting a thousand pounds of laminate flooring and seven gallons of paint from the shop to the condo. Tiggy is a little Stormtrooper, but he also has a maximum load capacity of 1110 pounds so, after some frantic mental math during which our combined weight was added to the load, we estimated that the flooring alone would take three trips. Picture this: one Tiguan, two babes in their mid-fifties, and one waif hauling 34 boxes weighing approximately 20 lbs apiece from the curb to the second floor suite.

Bwahahahahahaha!

The first load was tricky since, having committed and therefore unable to reverse, we had no idea how we were going to accomplish this feat without killing ourselves. We bumbled through 5 return trips, during which I predicted we’d be professionals by the time we were finished.

Load #2—half the remaining flooring and 5 rolls of underlay were picked up at the shop and sat in the Tiguan while his girls took a union lunchbreak. Appropriately fuelled up, the “curb to condo” routine went somewhat more smoothly. (Curiously, Ter was energized by the carbs she’d consumed while Treena and I could have used a nap.)

Load #3—the last 160 lbs of floor plus seven cans of paint (3 eggshell, 2 semi-gloss, 1 primer and something else that I’ve forgotten); Tig was all but doing wheelies up the road with the weight over his rear axle. And when we arrive at the building … no parking save for the passenger zone with its 3 minute maximum.

Ter slammed the car into “park”, killed the motor and declared, “We’re doing it.” And from sheer terror of being busted (and potentially fined) by the strata council, we had everything out of the car, up the elevator and down the hall in twenty minutes flat.

As I’d predicted six hours earlier, professionals.

Treena comes from a family of do-it-yourselfers. Her aunt happens to be Ter’s best friend from high school, and there is nothing she can’t fix, improve, or invent on the fly. Ter is equally smart when it comes to improvising. My superpower is pointing out that “you’ve missed a spot”. Thinking about hard work exhausts me, but something magical happened on the chain gang that day:

I had a blast.

I was aching all over and two loads of laundry awaited when I got home, but I spent the day helping someone I love alongside someone I love and that made me happy. Treena, bless her, was ever so grateful for our help, and I suppose that contributed to the joy (gratitude tends to inspire a greater effort), but I am grateful to her in turn, for giving me the chance to experience the unexpected delight of offering my time and my heart in service to one of my kind.

Love and service. That’s what life is all about, Charlie Brown.

The Daily Mood

Guess what? I’ve discovered that if I miss the seventeen second window on waking, I can still determine how my day will go by consciously choosing my mood when I get to work.

Ter gave me this hilarious item for Christmas—a little flip chart of “mood possibilities” with emoticon visuals. To get maximum use of it, I brought it to the office and have consulted it every weekday since. I’ll get my morning tea and, while my computer boots, I’ll peruse the pages with one question in mind: What’s my mood?

I’m already in one when I get to work, of course. It’s not always good, but it’s usually better than my default on waking (I miss that window a lot) because I may like my job, but it’s not my bliss and who wants to get up early for something less? The receptionist where I once worked could read someone’s state of mind on sight, without exchanging a word. It became a joke between us. I’d walk in and ask her, “How’s my vibe today?” She’d either nod, shake her head, or wag her hand in the yea/nay gesture, and the tone for my day would be set.

She was right ninety-nine percent of the time.

Fast forward to Now. I’m at my desk, flipping through my options. So far this year, I’ve been Addled, Borderline, Bouncy, Chill, Dreamlike, Fabulous, Hunky-Dory, Overstimulated, Rockin’, Rushed, Scattered, Splendid, and Wonky. I’d like not to repeat myself, but I can’t bring myself to admit when I might feel Apathetic, Cantankerous, Maniacal, Neglected, Non-Essential, Redundant, or Subversive … except for one day at the end of January, when our office manager innocently asked me ahead of my decision how I was doing that morning.

I silently flashed the card for Grouchy.

She gave me wide eyes and retreated a pace. “Ohhh …”

“But it’s okay,” I assured her. “It won’t last.”

It rarely does. Acknowledging my crappy mood will often make it disappear, like a petulant child who just wants a pat on the head before running off to play by herself. Even if I suspect I’m closer to the Dark Side of a morning, if I hesitate on one of the more negative options, I will hesitate again by asking myself if I really want to be in a crummy mood for all to see.

I do not.

Since then, our office manager will pause at my door when she comes in, and I will proudly flash whatever card I’ve chosen for the day.

It’s become a happy ritual.

A Virtuous Life (Part II)

I no longer believe that I have a greater purpose beyond a) being happy and b) making others happy. Item b) isn’t actually my responsibility—it’s the individual’s—but if I can help to make someone’s day better, I’m game. Ever the fan of recipes with fewer than five ingredients, and thanks to Dr. Wayne Dyer, I was recently reminded of the four cardinal virtues as defined by Lao-tzu in the Tao Te Ching:

Reverence (Respect)

Sincerity (Honesty)

Gentleness (Kindness)

Supportiveness (Service)

I know; that looks like eight, but it’s not. The four virtues are so called because they originate with our divine natures, therefore it’s more natural for us to practice them in all their incarnations, i.e., “reverence” being interpreted as unconditional love and respect for ourselves, for each other, and for all living beings. You can include the planet in the last category, as the world and everything in it is made of energy on some vibrational level and is, therefore, alive.

You’ll note that patience is not listed, despite being hailed by established religions as one of the nobler virtues.

Well, maybe it’s there after all—filed under “Gentleness”. There may be four cardinal virtues, but like the four astrological elements, there are descending (or ascending?) variations of each. Secondary and tertiary virtues sprung from the original, if you will. Some have been decreed by religious dogma, but any quality that makes the world a kinder place is fine by me. The point being that, since the cardinal four actually come with us from beyond the veil, daily practice of same can and will enrich a person’s life as well as those whom that person encounters, and it doesn’t matter which god claims you.

This sounds simple, and it probably is. Humans do have a way of complicating things. Within the maelstrom that is daily life, simplicity is hard to come by.

That’s why it’s called “practice”. You may not get it right the first time. If you do, good luck sustaining it. But as long as you persevere, practice eventually becomes a way of life. Same goes if you choose to be a pin-headed rat bastard. Practice anything with regularity and you’ll achieve it. Even miserable sods have the power to increase their abundance. The Universe serves everyone.

Or tries to serve. I still get in my own way. I still grip the wheel with both hands and try to force my will on it. All I have to do is set the intention and step away from the helm, but can I do that???

Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh—No.

Virgo = Control freak. For someone who has no limitations, I have given myself limitations.

Four little virtues. Respect, honesty, kindness and service.

Practice, practice, practice.

With love,

A Virtuous Life (Part I)

Tolstoy wrote a short story called The Death of Ivan Ilyich. I haven’t read it, but I know the premise. On his deathbed, the protagonist laments, “What if my whole life has been wrong?”

That’s a scary thought, especially when one considers that Jacob Marley, in A Christmas Carol and also on his deathbed, knew that his life had been wrong.

Only it hadn’t been. Neither had Ivan’s. Neither is mine. Nor is yours.

Nobody’s life is ever “wrong”. We may regret, at the end, how we chose to live it, but life is meant to teach us by letting us make mistakes. Even poor choices are merely choices, decisions made whether or not we are aware of making them.

The saddest choice a person can make is to give up too soon. Children are shaped by external influences: parents, siblings, friends, peers, media, religion, etc. The first thirty years of my life (this time) were spent in pursuit of someone else’s idea of happiness. During those years, I believed my primary purpose was to marry and have children, be a support to hubby and a pillar in my community. Failing that (which I did), I was expected to get a secure job and settle into the role of small spanner in the larger works.

Writing was a nice-to-have.

It still is.

I had my midlife crisis at thirty. By religious standards, I was past my best-before date and other women my age were married and bearing children. What was wrong with me that I wasn’t able to do the same?

Only upon closer inspection did I discover that—gasp!—I was happy with my life. Oh, it was a little rough, being gainfully unemployed and still on the marriage market, but Ter and I were making ends meet and having a ball wherever possible. I was writing, she was drawing, we were young, optimistic, and I still had my Mustang. We regularly tripped to Vancouver for rock concerts and went to the movies a lot; even after we landed those secure jobs and became pension prisoners, we spent our cruise/golfing vacation money on Def Leppard and Duran Duran tickets—more than once!

After I turned forty, I started thinking more deeply about life’s meaning. More importantly, about my life’s meaning. I’ve heard that we spend most of our lives trying to become who we were when we started in those magical, new-penny moments after we were born. Everyone comes to this world with a plan and pure intent. The first half of our life messes us up, and we spend the rest of it (hopefully) getting back to ourselves.

This involves unlearning what loving but fallible folks have taught us from day one, and unlistening to the know-it-all ego that has its own motivation for holding us back. It’s a process that requires daily recalibration and ongoing forgiveness of ourselves and others. Most of us will depart this estate with a greater understanding than we had when we arrived. Some of us won’t—but guess what? They get to repeat Grade Three! 

… to be continued