About a year ago, I bought some prayer beads from a little shop downtown. I don’t recall what prompted this acquisition, no doubt it was inspired by some article I’d read, a theory I’d latched onto. The beads are lovely, an irregular rainbow, copper next to coal-black next to mustard, pale mauve, Caribbean green. They have weight, like tiny marbles and they’re cool to the touch. The loop is finished with a tassel of multi-coloured threads.
Once home, I didn’t know what to do with my newly-acquired beads, and so draped them around the neck of a laughing Buddha that sits on a side-table in my bedroom. I see them every morning when I wake.
I was reminded lately that such beads are often used in meditation, or prayer, to assist the meditator in staying on mantra. It struck me then, an image of myself, sitting contentedly, facing east and cross-legged in an easy lotus position, eyes lightly closed (but not to napping), fingering each bead and saying to myself: I am a writer now. A sort of Steven Covey-meets-Elizabeth-Gilbert approach to morning ritual. (To those who I’ve offended by my contemplated use of such beads for, arguably, non-secular, non-spiritual purposes, my apologies).
I should do this, I tell myself. Really, I should. It would, you know, help.
When I opened my eyes this morning, there he stood, the jovial Buddha with the prayer beads round his neck. I sat up, stretched and slipped out of bed, trying not to wake my husband who had slept fitfully, vexed by a sore back and, from the sounds of it, the beginnings of a head cold.
I tip-toe to the table and pull the beads from Buddha’s neck, making a snapping, clattering racket as I do. I hadn’t realized how loud they were. I seat myself in a plum-coloured armchair in the corner of the room, but feel ridiculous. I’ll go downstairs, I think, where there is quiet and privacy. I put the beads around my own neck, feeling sillier still, and slip out the bedroom door, closing it carefully behind me.
Once in the kitchen, I settle in a favourite chair, look out the bay window. I don’t need to close my eyes. I can contemplate the waking world outside instead. I slide the beads from my neck and finger them tentatively, repeat the mantra in my head: I am a writer now.... At bead number six, our grey tabby, Miley, interrupts me. This is her job: should I enter the kitchen, she is obligated to remind me, multiple times, that she enjoys a good brushing and she will meow, repeatedly, to get her point across. I set the beads down on the table and follow her to where the brush sits. Once she is satisfied, I return to my station, sit down and start again. I am a writer now… I am a..
No sooner do I begin then our tortoise shell appears at the back door, an expectant look on her face. I sigh, get up and open the door. I could use a cup of coffee about now, I think, and cross the kitchen to start a pot. And since there is no sense trying again before the coffee’s ready, I head to the powder room, only to notice that the Christmas soap dispenser needs retiring and the towels need to be changed. This, inevitably, leads to contemplation of all things laundry.
I give up on the beads. Well, not exactly, because all this while there has been an idea percolating quietly in back of my mind. A theory. It started last night as I closed the cover of “the Happiness Project”. I abandon all thoughts of laundry, and grab my lap-top instead. I pour a cup of steaming coffee while I wait for it to boot-up.
I picked up Gretchen Rubin’s book, “the Happiness Project” in an airport bookstore about a month ago. I love a good story from the front-lines of working motherhood and was drawn by the concept: can we act ourselves happier? I read the first two chapters with a sense of anticipation, and then something in the tone started to irritate me, a niggling feeling that something was not right in Happy-ville, at least not for me. I took another chapter or two of slugging to identify what was chafing me so.
It was the underlying whisper of “should”.
I should lighten up. Clean my closets. Sing in the morning. She’s right, I don’t deny it. My interior coach weighed in, too: I should home-school my kids, take on that new client, drink eight glasses of water a day. Floss. My shoulders tense just thinking about it. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I should really sit still for five minutes, repeat my mantra and tweedle those beads.
Nope.
By the time I reached “Lighten Up” in April, I started to skip passages because it had begun to take on the cast of yet another self-help book. I skipped parts that sounded screechily like advice or reproach and skittered instead through the anecdotal tales of Gretchen’s life as a wife, mom, friend and writer. Those, I loved.
I grant Gretchen much credit here because she did aptly capture an earlier period in my life, a time when I, too, was mired in home life and young children and somehow felt like I wasn’t doing it all well enough. If I had been, I felt at the time, I would have been happier. I didn’t eat well or exercise regularly. I didn’t work hard enough at new directions in my career (let’s be honest: I couldn’t have cared less about my career). There were so many things that I should have been doing.
That kind of ‘should’ thinking just about sunk me. Several years later – my kids are now 12 and 14 – I understand this. I have quit the Should Brigade. Mostly. But at the time, in my early thirties, I just felt like a big fat failure.
The beads sit on the table as I type this. I like their presence, their reminder. I also like the fact that instead of my sitting, stiff-necked, praying, I knew enough to let it alone. I took up the call, sat down at my computer and eked out this essay. My coffee has gone cold. The cats’ meows have gone unheeded. The laundry is undone. The prayer beads did help, just not in the way I expected.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Dumping Superwoman
I am restless, today, irritated, like there’s a sliver in my thumb that I can’t extract. I feel pulled in too many directions, overwhelmed. No matter where I am in the house I see a task that needs attention: a stack of clothes to be mended, memorabilia to be sorted, laundry to be washed, dried, folded and put away.
There are so many ‘little jobs’ that need doing. I don’t know which one to take on first: the legal work I’m behind on? The yard? The house?
I’ve already hosted an Easter Sunday lunch and egg hunt today and - fun though it was - I’m tired. I try to nap, but can’t. Outside, the lawn begs to be raked, the gardens need cleaning up, the garage needs to be swept. Outside, it is also eighty degrees and sunny, miraculous weather for April 4th. Right. I pull on my old work clothes and head out the door.
I start on the side garden, a skinny strip of dirt running the length of the garage. I clear away the dead foliage, see raw hosta shoots poking out of the soil. Iris will soon follow, then bleeding hearts, purple balloon flowers and later, black-eyed susan. It takes no time at all to clear this little patch. I feel better. I dump the dried leavings in the compost pile. My spirits bolstered, I decide to take on the boulevard (that is, the lawn that begs to be raked).
Now understand something: my lawn is huge. Huge. The boulevard alone is probably 1800 square feet. Undeterred, I set to work with a fan rake, thinking that I can defeat this if I go at in sessions. The grass is dry and densely thatched. I cover a twelve by twelve patch before I come to my senses and give up.
Usually I know better. I enjoy working in the yard because it gives me a reason to be outside, to listen to the birds (none of whom I can identify), to breathe deeply of fresh air. The minute it becomes a goal-oriented activity, I am done for. I know this.
Sometimes I forget.
What I need to remember is this: We live in the country. Sort-of. The yard doesn’t have to be perfect. It is fine as it is. So either I need to accept that or I need to hire some help. I am not Superwoman, for heaven’s sakes. The thought stops me in my tracks: I am not Superwoman. And no one is asking me to be. The thousand other jobs awaiting me suddenly seem doable. Share-able. Delegatable. This is something I need to learn, no, to actually do: To Give Away a Job. I put down my rake. I remember a hand-made sign posted at the mail-box – “Spring Yard Clean-up” with little tear-away phone numbers. Right.
There are so many ‘little jobs’ that need doing. I don’t know which one to take on first: the legal work I’m behind on? The yard? The house?
I’ve already hosted an Easter Sunday lunch and egg hunt today and - fun though it was - I’m tired. I try to nap, but can’t. Outside, the lawn begs to be raked, the gardens need cleaning up, the garage needs to be swept. Outside, it is also eighty degrees and sunny, miraculous weather for April 4th. Right. I pull on my old work clothes and head out the door.
I start on the side garden, a skinny strip of dirt running the length of the garage. I clear away the dead foliage, see raw hosta shoots poking out of the soil. Iris will soon follow, then bleeding hearts, purple balloon flowers and later, black-eyed susan. It takes no time at all to clear this little patch. I feel better. I dump the dried leavings in the compost pile. My spirits bolstered, I decide to take on the boulevard (that is, the lawn that begs to be raked).
Now understand something: my lawn is huge. Huge. The boulevard alone is probably 1800 square feet. Undeterred, I set to work with a fan rake, thinking that I can defeat this if I go at in sessions. The grass is dry and densely thatched. I cover a twelve by twelve patch before I come to my senses and give up.
Usually I know better. I enjoy working in the yard because it gives me a reason to be outside, to listen to the birds (none of whom I can identify), to breathe deeply of fresh air. The minute it becomes a goal-oriented activity, I am done for. I know this.
Sometimes I forget.
What I need to remember is this: We live in the country. Sort-of. The yard doesn’t have to be perfect. It is fine as it is. So either I need to accept that or I need to hire some help. I am not Superwoman, for heaven’s sakes. The thought stops me in my tracks: I am not Superwoman. And no one is asking me to be. The thousand other jobs awaiting me suddenly seem doable. Share-able. Delegatable. This is something I need to learn, no, to actually do: To Give Away a Job. I put down my rake. I remember a hand-made sign posted at the mail-box – “Spring Yard Clean-up” with little tear-away phone numbers. Right.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Trophies to Give Away, Memories to Keep
It’s funny how memory works.
Last fall, in a fit of de-cluttering, I came across a storage bin full of old trophies: awards from various run/bike/swim events I’d competed in, cross-country ski loppets, mountain bike races. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, endurance sports were a big part of my life. There were academic awards, too, my Ontario scholar plaque, a couple of prizes from the short time I spent as a Toastmaster.
I had to ask myself what I was keeping all this stuff for. In comparison to the richness of my memories, this ‘hardware’ looked cheap and ridiculous. Knick-knacks. They weren’t even on display, they were sitting out here in the damp.
I picked up a trophy and read the plaque: Scanlon Creek Mountain Bike Race 1995, 1st place. The plastic cyclist perched on top was now riding a little askew. 1995. That would have been the summer we bought our first house, this house, the summer when I became pregnant with my first child. I remember one particular day during that time with absolute clarity. I was pedaling my road bike up a steep hill on a back-country road, something I was very good at. I was inexplicably short of breath, not able to get enough air in, and suddenly it occurred to me: “Could I be.. is it possible... am I pregnant?” This epiphany, this life-altering moment, came while I was on a bike, doing something I did well, powering a bike straight uphill. I put the trophy back down.
My husband helped me take photos of my collection – and his, too. We chose a handful of trophies to keep and trashed the rest. There is more work to do here, more paring down perhaps, and still the question of what to do with this stuff. But there is also this: the power of tangible reminders. What happens when you pick up an object from another time in your life and hold it in your hand.
Last fall, in a fit of de-cluttering, I came across a storage bin full of old trophies: awards from various run/bike/swim events I’d competed in, cross-country ski loppets, mountain bike races. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, endurance sports were a big part of my life. There were academic awards, too, my Ontario scholar plaque, a couple of prizes from the short time I spent as a Toastmaster.
I had to ask myself what I was keeping all this stuff for. In comparison to the richness of my memories, this ‘hardware’ looked cheap and ridiculous. Knick-knacks. They weren’t even on display, they were sitting out here in the damp.
I picked up a trophy and read the plaque: Scanlon Creek Mountain Bike Race 1995, 1st place. The plastic cyclist perched on top was now riding a little askew. 1995. That would have been the summer we bought our first house, this house, the summer when I became pregnant with my first child. I remember one particular day during that time with absolute clarity. I was pedaling my road bike up a steep hill on a back-country road, something I was very good at. I was inexplicably short of breath, not able to get enough air in, and suddenly it occurred to me: “Could I be.. is it possible... am I pregnant?” This epiphany, this life-altering moment, came while I was on a bike, doing something I did well, powering a bike straight uphill. I put the trophy back down.
My husband helped me take photos of my collection – and his, too. We chose a handful of trophies to keep and trashed the rest. There is more work to do here, more paring down perhaps, and still the question of what to do with this stuff. But there is also this: the power of tangible reminders. What happens when you pick up an object from another time in your life and hold it in your hand.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Stuff I Gave Away – Today’s Shortlist
• sandbox toys that were sun-faded and cracked;
• perfectly good weather-stripping that we don’t need;
• tennis balls faded to grey;
• decorative Christmas twigs spray-painted a garish gold that have left sparkly droppings everywhere they’ve been for the last five years; and
• my e-subscription to the World Intellectual Property Organizations’s SME Newsletter. Every month when this periodical arrives in my in-box, I file it under “To Read” and feel a pang of failure for never, ever actually reading it. (SME = Small & Medium Enterprise). To heck with it.
• perfectly good weather-stripping that we don’t need;
• tennis balls faded to grey;
• decorative Christmas twigs spray-painted a garish gold that have left sparkly droppings everywhere they’ve been for the last five years; and
• my e-subscription to the World Intellectual Property Organizations’s SME Newsletter. Every month when this periodical arrives in my in-box, I file it under “To Read” and feel a pang of failure for never, ever actually reading it. (SME = Small & Medium Enterprise). To heck with it.
De-Cluttering my Daughter's Desk
I am sitting at my daughter's desk, attempting to cure her computer of a nasty virus. There is a lot of waiting involved in this task, as the computer chugs through virus scans and multiples re-boots. My daughter is much like her father, filing things by the 'pile' method. Her desk is littered with a diverse collection of objects: fish food, eyeglass cleaner, three vampire books, lip gloss, homework that was due three months ago, a card from a board game, a scattering of markers, some of which actually have lids. It is next too impossible for me to sit here and not do something about this. My mind automatically sorts and categorizes: recycle, garbage, belongs elsewhere, needs repair. Perhaps I have read one too many books about de-cluttering. I begin to make piles. I throw out the gum wrappers, take the empty milk glass to the kitchen. By the time I have fixed her computer, I will have cleared her desk, too. "Thanks, mom!" she'll say and give me a hug. She'll have a fresh glass of milk in her hand that she'll set down on the freshly cleaned surface. She'll grab a scrap of paper for making notes. She may even pull a half-dead marker out of the trash. And so it goes. A symbiotic relationship, no?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Missing the School Bus
This morning my daughter missed the school bus. It used to be that driving her to school wouldn’t have been a big deal because we lived only eight minutes away. Now, though, my daughters attend a French-language high school in another city, a forty minute drive south.
I had already planned to drive to the school at twelve-fifteen, having promised my older daughter that I would deliver her Geography project at precisely one o’clock. Her geography project is an ice cream shop business and the prop in question is enough milkshake to serve her entire class. Wise business-woman that she is, she enlisted my help to minimize the risk of a catastrophic melt.
Two trips to school adds up to three hours of driving in the middle of a weekday. For a mom, that is time that might be spent doing errands, neating up, putting away breakfast dishes, mending. For a lawyer that time is potentially worth hundreds of dollars in billable time. But neither of these really matter today. The truth is this time is precious and not because I could use it to do three more loads of laundry or churn out a contract.
In fact what my younger daughter gave me was a gift: time spent sitting quietly beside her in the van as we drove to school, a chance to reach over and stroke her hair and trade a few thoughts. And on the way home, on a day with sunshine and clear skies, the chance to listen to a book-on-CD, to sit with my own thoughts in a place where neither the laundry not the todo list on my computer could pull me away.
And what did I give away? My time. Understanding, I suppose, for my daughter’s sleeping in. Acceptance. My control over my daughter’s management of her morning. Also, the tension that would have seized up my shoulders, and tied knots in my gut had I reacted differently. A good trade? I think so.
I had already planned to drive to the school at twelve-fifteen, having promised my older daughter that I would deliver her Geography project at precisely one o’clock. Her geography project is an ice cream shop business and the prop in question is enough milkshake to serve her entire class. Wise business-woman that she is, she enlisted my help to minimize the risk of a catastrophic melt.
Two trips to school adds up to three hours of driving in the middle of a weekday. For a mom, that is time that might be spent doing errands, neating up, putting away breakfast dishes, mending. For a lawyer that time is potentially worth hundreds of dollars in billable time. But neither of these really matter today. The truth is this time is precious and not because I could use it to do three more loads of laundry or churn out a contract.
In fact what my younger daughter gave me was a gift: time spent sitting quietly beside her in the van as we drove to school, a chance to reach over and stroke her hair and trade a few thoughts. And on the way home, on a day with sunshine and clear skies, the chance to listen to a book-on-CD, to sit with my own thoughts in a place where neither the laundry not the todo list on my computer could pull me away.
And what did I give away? My time. Understanding, I suppose, for my daughter’s sleeping in. Acceptance. My control over my daughter’s management of her morning. Also, the tension that would have seized up my shoulders, and tied knots in my gut had I reacted differently. A good trade? I think so.
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