Gratitude

Gratitude is not a feeling that comes easily to me. In the language of emotions, it is not my default. This is not to say that I don’t understand it, or haven’t felt it, but rather that it remains further out of reach than some of the others.

I read somewhere once that we live in a society that prizes the mind above all emotional intelligence and how damaging that is, and I wonder how many languages there are, and how many of those languages exist outside the realm of letters and words.

I feel joy easily. Embarrassment too. Guilt, often. Wonder and thrill and excitement. But not gratitude. And I think it’s because I have this idea that gratitude exists when things are settled--stable. But life is rarely any of those things. And frankly, I crave movement. So I am making a practice of it. Not by writing lists, but by realizing it’s a roll-of-a-dice that separates me from the guy across the aisle on the train. It’s a roll of the dice between health and not, work and not, life and not. It’s a roll of the dice between me and the woman who gets onto the elevator, hands shaking, knees bent by the exhaustion of a fading body. And I’d like to be clear here: I’m not saying fate or luck frees us from responsibility, but rather some parameters simply are. We don’t get all the say. But we get to choose how we behave within a set of rules--to face struggle and complications with grace and kindness.

I am learning to feel gratitude even in the choppy waters. Because my iteration of this life is lucky. And when I think about that, even as I occasionally struggle to stay afloat, gratitude erupts before me. Even as terror and discomfort and confusion reign, so does a deep wonder and satedness. The landscape isn’t flat and  life isn’t still. And if I waited for those things I’d never know what it is to be thankful. But I’d also never know what it is to be human, to struggle, and to keep going.

In Defense of the Struggle

Just over a year ago my parents bought a house. It is beautiful home, with high ceilings and polished wood floors and windows for days. It is almost entirely furnished with plush leather furniture purchased in consignment shops. When I visit now, we take a tour of my father’s favorite second-hand stores and search for beveled mirrors and muted rugs, dressers made with weathered wood. 

And then there is the view. A perfect view. A panoramic swath of mountain. White in the winter and twenty shades of green in the summer. It is a home. It is a home my parents worked all of their lives to own.

They looked for five years in the same, small town before they found it. A year after living there my father still points out all of the houses they visited and my mother rolls her eyes and catches her breath, pleading with him to stop. Two offers fell through before this one, and that summer my mother told my father that if they didn’t find anything by the end of the season, it was time to move on. They saw it on a Saturday afternoon in late August; it was theirs the following night. They say they walked in, took one look around, took one look at each other, and that was that.

When I visit it is one giant exhale, a softening of the skin around my eyes, and the space just below my left breastbone. The space feels sacred. Built on years of sacrifice and planning. And it is that awareness that fills me with gratitude every time I walk through the door, every time I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle of wine and stand in front of the window and stare, each time I nestle into the couch or climb into bed. My parents worked for that home all of their lives and because of that, it means more. It was never a given.  

I have come to understand, hard-won things mean something entirely different. Better.

The thing about struggle, is that it inversely affects entitlement. It engenders gratitude and increases value. It gives shape and provides context. And yet we live in this culture that espouses ease and convenience above all else.

Sometimes I wonder who I will be when I visit that house ten years from now. I wonder where I will be living and if I’ll have published a book. I wonder who will go with me, if I’ll have small children, and whether we’ll be happy. I used to wish for it all sooner. The answers, the straight path, the ease. But then I think of that house and how much it means and how some things are worth not only the wait, but the struggle of that which comes before. And even on the nights when I crawl into bed, my heart breaking just a little, I can't help but think, Damn, if this isn't all so lucky. 

Treat Yo Self 2016

I'd been reading in bed for the better part of an hour last night when anxiety began to creep in. It had been such a good weekend--this welcome pause at the end of a frenetic and busy and meaningful two weeks. The blizzard swept in in all of it's glory and for the first time in a good, long while it felt okay--sanctioned, even--to not do anything. But Monday was fast approaching, and with it, invisible to-do lists were taking root in some dusty corner of my brain. 

And suddenly, lying there, a good book between my hands, I wanted something sweet. Sugar. Except that I don't usually keep any in the house. Not in the fridge or the cabinets or hidden beneath my bed. And since Julie and I had spent an hour earlier in the evening discussing health and wellness and what we believe in, I paused for a moment, wondering if I could trace the root of the sudden craving. 

It's been a really exceptional two weeks. Meaningful and important and frankly, scary. And I've been doing my best to hang out in the discomfort of not-knowing. So what I really wanted was--for just a moment--an escape from that feeling. A little hit of dopamine, an activation of the senses. I didn't have sugar lying around, so I couldn't satisfy taste. But I did have a damn fine face mask that would cover two of my other senses: touch and smell. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? A face mask in lieu of candy? But it worked. I pulled out the tiny jar, rubbed a small amount between my hands and patted it onto my skin. And its lemon and vanilla smell, the soft texture of it, clean, as few products are, well...it felt sweet. And I climbed back into bed satisfied.

My mantra at the start of any new year is now a commitment to really active self-care: treat yo self. (Parks and Rec, anyone?). It is my response to the media and advertisers' narrative that a new year is the chance to transform yourself totally and immediately because you are somehow unworthy, as you are, right now. There is always much I want to accomplish when the calendar flips, but it is motivated by a desire to inch my life forward, not a conditioned response to self-loathing. My version of treat yo self has little to do with expensive meals or big ticket items, rather it's a capitulation to the everyday indulgence: Mrs. Meyer's cleaning soap for the dishes, fresh flowers before the snowstorm, a fancy face mask that I can put on morning and night. And those small things help signal to myself that I am in fact worth it, right now, in this moment--and also, that I'm worth the hard work that moving your life forward demands--sending the scary emails, making the phone calls, learning to tolerate the discomfort of not having an ever-loving-clue as to what comes next. And until I do, I'll keep getting the nice soap. Hell, I'll probably get the nice soap even after I know where my life is headed. 

the year ahead

There is so much I want to accomplish this year--or perhaps not accomplish, but do. Little things and big things and in-between-things that I cling to with my hands. I want to stop crossing my arms across my chest, take up yoga, and travel. I want to make changes and try new things and grab life by the throat. But more than anything I want to regard as much as I can with awe. To remember that life is a fluid thing--one grand experiment--and it is my job to be kind to myself, and others, as it continues to unfold. Nothing is permanent--not my fear, not the fact that I'm really bad at yoga, not where I live or what I do, or even my idea of what I want to come home to at the end of the day. There's just the willingness to show up, to try again, and to marvel at all of it--to raise my eyebrows, look around, and give thanks for life in all of its messy imperfection. 

2016

image source. 

Here's what I'm learning: 

If the first bus is super crowded, wait the 30 seconds for the next one--it'll make for a much more pleasant ride. 

No one feeling is more valid than another. And you can't just decide upon happiness. But when five feelings are blowing through you, you can choose which one to lean into. And joy feels a heck of a lot better than most of the others. 

If you do enough things that feel like standing-on-the-edge-of-a-cliff, suddenly that cliff-edge doesn't feel so scary (and you may even start to enjoy the view). 

And as a girlfriend said to me recently--to assuage a particular fear--Oh, it's like finding a parking place--eventually, you'll get one.