I used to believe it was the most romantic phrase in all language – love of my life.
Wow!
In all of my life, before and henceforth, you are IT, baby. The BIG one. You are my soulmate. The ONLY one. You are my dream come true and no one else will ever come close. Set off those Disney fireworks, honey, because I finally found the answer to my prayers. YOU are the love of my life.
I guess it happens. Happens and sticks, I mean. I thought it happened to me once, I truly did. All of the above and add some more nauseating hyperbole if you want. Trouble is it didn’t stick. So now what? Am I done? Out of loves? I mean I’m still alive so I still have the life thing but since I previously anointed somebody the “love” thing and it didn’t work out, is it all over for me?
No. Because I carried on, learned some shit and decided the true love of my life was not some random Prince Charming dude. It was my son. My one and only son was the one and only true love of my life. And he is! He is certainly top of my love totem pole. The love I love the most. And I’m quite certain this love will endure.
But then I heard Viola Davis speak. Oh, how I love Viola Davis. And she talked about her own child, and about teaching her daughter that SHE was the love of her life. Her offspring was the love of her own life. Not momma’s life. HER life.
In other words, dear reader … YOU are the love of your own life.
You. Are. The. Love. Of. Your. Own. Life.
Or you should be.
Because you are the only person who will be with you non-stop for this entire glorious ride. You are the only person who can honestly make YOU happy. Others may bring happiness TO you or create joy WITH you but only YOU are in charge of your day-to-day emotions. Your victories. Your defeats. Your boredom and your exhilaration. YOU are the person you can count on. YOU are the somebody who has got your back. You are the leading character in your own memoir.
Most of us find this too difficult to accept because we feel it makes us seem selfish or egotistical. But when you think about it, isn’t it selfish and egotistical to expect some other human to meet all your needs? Gratify your appetites? Fulfill your most ardent dreams?
In my younger days, I actually believed that finding the love of my life would guarantee a happy ending to my challenging and dissatisfied existence. Like fairy dust, I thought a wee sprinkle of true love would solve all my problems and lead me (and my Prince) to everlasting harmony.
Nope.
That’s not to say that good love won’t enhance your life. And great love might detonate all-out pyrotechnics. I would be lying if I said it won’t matter if my son doesn’t find such emotion. It will. We are all built (to varying degrees) for relationship and partnership.
But relationship and partnership with oneself is SO important. The most important. What is that old saying? You can’t love someone else until you love yourself. Something like that.
So why not put yourself in the driver’s seat of your life and while you’re at it, make yourself the destination too. Treat yourself exactly as you would treat a person you adore with all your heart. Suck on all the oxygen you require first, so that you will have something in the tank to offer the other loves in your life. Don’t waste all your gas searching for the love of your life when she is staring at you in the mirror. Treat her with kindness and respect, serve her needs with grace and make HER the love of your life. Work hard for her and be proud of her.
Work hard for YOU and be proud of YOU. Make YOU the love of your life.
And then watch “other” love flow into your orbit. Because it will. The law of attraction dictates.
You are not only allowed to be the love of your own life, you should be.
(And why it is never a good idea to get too attached.)
I have a theory about life. I hope you will indulge me for a moment while I attempt to explain.
See, we are all riding on the bus of life. But it’s not just one bus. We all have our own bus. Individual. Unique to us alone. And we are the only full-time rider on that bus. All alone we are. There is no driver. Well, no, there is a driver. But we do not see this driver and we have no idea where this bus is taking us. We can talk with this driver (as if we see her) and we can make requests or even give directions, but we’re never quite sure what is heard, acknowledged or answered.
In the meantime, other people are getting on and off our bus all the time. It really is a never-ending stream of fellow riders. But here’s the thing: we never know when someone is going to get on our bus and we never know when they’re going to get off. Some people get on and off multiple times during our ride. Some people just stay for one stop. Some people stay for an extended journey and we get to enjoy their company for miles of scenery and experience.
But the truth is, we NEVER know how much of our bus ride any other person will share. ANY other person. Not the husbands we marry, not the children we birth, not the best friends we make and not even the beloved pets who hop on and off along with their human counterparts.
We never know. And we never will. No matter how attached we become, no matter how deeply we love, no matter what we do or say, we will never know the duration of any other being’s co-journey with US, on our bus.
Which brings me to Buddhism. You see, attachment, to those blessed seekers of higher truth, equals “grasping” or “clinging”. It speaks to our natural inclination to believe that other people or pets or things or even ideas will bring us happiness. Fulfillment. And isn’t that what we are all ultimately searching for?
The trouble is this: YOUR bus-ride is only yours. You are the only permanent rider on your bus. Everyone else, all those comers and goers, are transitory. Absolutely every last one. So, the moment you become firmly attached, desperate for the satisfaction that you derive from the attachment, dependent on the security and comfort of that attachment, you set yourself up for pain and heartbreak. Because that person IS going to, at some point, get off your bus. Even if their departure from your bus is instigated by YOUR bus ride’s conclusion, you will ultimately finish your bus ride alone.
When I think about the people I love, I despair at the thought of losing them. I could probably crawl into a hole of worry and fear and uncertainty and dwell there (to my own detriment and theirs), languishing like some damn martyr, wasting not only my own bus ride but also their participation in its magic and mystery.
OR …
I can accept that everyone has their own bus and their own ride and we all merely crisscross each other’s paths in a random and completely unpredictable fashion. The best we can strive for is complete presence and gratitude when we are joined on our bus by those who bring us joy. And when, for whatever reason, they must leave our bus, we accept with understanding and grace that neither we nor they were “owed” anything. We were granted the privilege of our great bus adventure. We were granted the privilege of our most excellent co-adventurers.
For a time.
We have no control over the bus driver or the schedule. The route or our seatmates. So let us relish the journey, savour the scenery, appreciate our fellow travelers for as long as we are granted their company and accept – truly recognize and accept that THIS is the great bus ride of life. No matter who comes and goes, no matter how much you loved them or for how long, no matter how much pain their departure causes you and no matter how lonely you may feel without them, YOU are still on YOUR bus. THEY were never yours to keep. To own. To control. To annex or to attach to.
The Buddhists talk about The Three Poisons.
Ignorance. What happens when you refuse to see things as they really are.
Aversion. What arises from our desire to avoid pain and suffering.
Attachment. Our desire to cling to people, things and experiences.
The Buddhists, to my knowledge, never talk about the Great Bus Ride of Life. That’s all me. But I believe it is such a simple analogy for relationships and our existence on this planet. We are guaranteed nothing. The moment we decide we’re not getting what we deserve or life is unfair or we feel abandoned, we get sucked into the swirling vortex of despair.
I’m not saying we are not allowed to hurt, experience loneliness and grieve when we experience loss. I am saying no matter what, YOUR bus is still revving. Idling. Waiting. For YOU.
In one of my recent scrolls through Instagram, I came upon a woman of a “certain age” bemoaning the indignities of growing old. She purported there were 4 major concerns we women will face, fight and to which we will ultimately capitulate.
1. Waking up with aches and pains.
Well sure. I suppose that as our bones get brittle and our muscles get tired we hurt a bit more. I, for one, was hurting back in my 20s when a fall off a galloping horse concussed me but good and in my 30s when severe whiplash compressed a couple of discs in my neck and headaches became as regular as morning coffee.
BUT … I am in no more pain now (or first thing in the morning) than I was then (any time of day) because I have made a choice to stay active. To get out in rain or shine or blizzard and do that daily walk. And recently, to begin my day with a series of stretches (also found on Instagram) and ridiculous dance moves (devised by ridiculous me) which have alleviated so much of my back and neck discomfort my chiropractor is astounded.
So, I say BAH to that, my old-lady friend. There is always something to be done (verb = activity) to combat life’s inevitable march. Just do it.
2. More wrinkles every day.
Yeah, that comes with the territory. But may I offer that more wrinkles in no way equals less beautiful. Truly, one of the most gorgeous faces I have ever seen belonged to my grandmother, when, in the throes of her dementia at 102, she lit up like a beauty queen when telling me about her new fiancé. One of my best friends, now 75, has never done Botox or makeup for that matter and when her smile lights up her face and her eyes twinkle with delight, man oh man, she is stunning.
I myself tried the ‘enhancement’ route years ago. Botox on my forehead (it was a frigging skating rink!), my ‘elevens’ vanquished (women know what this means) and even some lip filler which hurt like hell when injected and barely made my scrawny lips normal size, much less the Angelina Jolie pout I was hoping for. Ultimately, I gave it all up. I wasn’t totally digging my ‘done’ face (those overarched eyebrows are just plain spooky) and also couldn’t justify the expense. Let’s see … juicy lips or Italy?
Italy won every time.
Addendum: I just read an article stating scientific studies have proven that women who accept their natural faces age with far more self-esteem than women who seek to continually fight nature. That’s a study, okay, not my opinion. I have no problem with anyone doing anything that makes them happy. I’m pretty sure Jane Fonda is ‘done’ (and done well) and she looks amazing. I have just decided that FOR ME, loving my face in spite of my wrinkles and brown spots and droopy eye (just one, thanks) is the way I want to go. And once you make the decision, those wrinkles don’t own you anymore. You own them. Like the road map of a life well-lived they truly are.
3. Not remembering anything.
Oh geez. The other night I was in my kitchen, merrily assembling a lasagna when, at the end, as I sprinkled grated cheese on top, I realized I had sprinkled NO grated cheese in the middle layers. Ever try to disassemble a lasagna? Impossible.
And words. I am a word girl and the other day I could not find the word for those gauzy curtains that billow in the breeze. I had just ordered them online and I still could not find the word.
Sheers. The word is sheers.
Stuff like this is most certainly happening more frequently. Should I be worried? Maybe, but I am not. In decades full of cooking and words and writing and reading and just living, my brain is obviously FULL! And getting fuller every minute. I will forgive myself the occasional lapse and applaud my still intact ability to remember every lyric on Carole King’s Tapestry.
4. Feeling invisible.
Huh?
I don’t feel invisible.
Do I?
My guess is this woman feels invisible because for too long she relied on her appearance to be seen. To be noticed. To be acknowledged. So now, in her 60s (and still damn attractive) she doesn’t feel she possesses that same currency anymore. Where the heck did all those wolf whistles go?
I have an absolutely gorgeous friend who recently confessed that she feels invisible whenever she walks into a clothing store. She feels like the sales ‘girls’ ignore her. But she is model-thin and beautiful. I do not understand. Why would they do such a thing? Is it her age? Or is it her demeanor?
When I walk into any store, I make sure I am smiling my brightest smile and chirp a cheery hello before anybody has a chance to ignore me. Hell, that is my life mandate – I will not be ignored!
You know what? It works. No matter what your age, if you exude positivity in all situations, positivity will return to you. If you take the lead and set the tone, more often than not that same tone will be repaid. And if you feel invisible, you will be invisible.
I have no intention of shrinking into my dotage. I have every intention of living large (a size or two up from when I was 40, that’s for sure) and wrinkly and droopy and achy and forgetful and absolutely REAL – like my grandmother – until I am 100! No one on this planet has any right to make me feel invisible. Not the snooty young shop clerk, not the orthopedic surgeon who ‘aged’ me out of surgery on my broken wrist (“at your age and since it is not your dominant hand, we’ll just put a cast on it.”). Not the phone camera that magnifies all of my flaws and not the broad on Instagram who suggests that aging automatically begets obliteration. I can assure you, if you rely on your looks to stay visible, you will encounter invisibility as soon as those looks diminish.
I am not a ghost nor am I a shadow of my former self. I am fully in charge of my present and my future. I will age gratefully and possibly disgracefully. The mere act of aging fills me with absolute glee. I know far too many who will never know the glory of its freedom.
I refuse to compete with my former self. Talk about an exercise in futility! As long as a bright light continues to shine out of my eyes, I will consider myself beautiful.
You are not invisible. Your light is always there, waiting for YOU to turn it on. No wrinkle or number or ache or minor memory lapse has control of your light.
When we are kids, we are told that playing the game is enough; there is no need to win. Those of us who believe that are typically the ones who aren’t much good at whatever the game is. Those who are proficient (or even expert) already know that winning is THE thing. Inadvertently or not, society programs us from a very early age to strive for THE WIN. In games, in sports, in school, in relationships, in careers – everybody wants to be a winner.
Holy shit, what an immense amount of pressure that is! Whether young or old, constantly striving to triumph is exhausting. And that constant strife can also completely neutralize the sheer joy that CAN come from just playing. For the sake of play.
I know that I can be somewhat competitive. Sometimes. I once attended a media ski day where I was invited to participate in a slalom race. I wasn’t a superlative skier, but I did want to WIN so I pulled out all the stops and went for it. I did win. The award for “Best Face Plant”. As a matter of fact, I pretty much face-planted my way down the entire run. Any ability I may have possessed vanished once that cutthroat winning gene kicked in. Had I just approached the competition with a sense of fun, I might have actually got the gold because, quite frankly, the other women were less talented than I. But I wanted to “kill it.”
Did I learn a lesson? I think maybe I did.
I have now learned to engage in any number of competitive activities without ever competing. I play simply to play. Because I enjoy the game. Whether I win or lose is quite irrelevant. I like the playing.
Take Scrabble – one of my most beloved pastimes. I play against my computer daily. I play online against several friends. On occasion I even play for real, on an old-fashioned board against an actual human. I enjoy all these pursuits. Do I want to win? Sure? Do I play my best? Yup. Am I devastated when I lose? Nope. Never. Because it is the playing I truly enjoy. The playing is the cake. The winning is icing.
Not my beloved and my son. Oh man, those two can make a meal out of a game of Yahtzee. Each turn is analyzed and fraught over, each decision scrutinized and bemoaned. When they compete, it is full-on war. And they love it! Then there’s golf. Has there ever been a sport more frustrating? Thrown clubs, harsh words, kicked balls and depression. Over a game involving sticks and small holes. Seriously?
What about video games? I have a friend who once reacted so violently to a bad move, he threw his controller at the wall. Unfortunately, his expensive Martin guitar stood innocently between him and that wall and I’m sure you can guess the rest.
And sports fans? Of course, we know the word fan comes from fan-atic but what about those faithful spectators – live at the game or home in front of the television – who absolutely lose their shit over a game of baseball or hockey. Where does that kind of zealotry even come from? How do we get so consumed by people we don’t know playing a sport/game we are not actually playing ourselves … how do we get so invested we lose sleep and brain cells just from watching?
I don’t get it.
Sure, I guess some folks are just naturally inclined to fight to the death. I know a man who once kept his wife up until the middle of the night because she kept winning at Cribbage and he could not rest – literally – until he had beaten her at a game.
I am not kidding.
If I watch a movie I don’t ultimately care for, I get over it before the popcorn is put away. If I read a book that doesn’t grab my attention by the third chapter, I return it to the library. And if I lose a game of solitaire on my laptop, I just play another.
Which brings me to my mother. She loved to play FreeCell (a solitaire-type game) on her computer and played many games, daily, until the last few months of her life. These games kept her mind sharp well into her 90s. Yet even at that age, she was highly competitive … against herself! She kept track of the individual game numbers that she could not conquer, so that she could return time and time again to find resolution. And if she still did not, she would take a few days off before returning to that same game once again. My old ma was hell-bent on winning that contest!
I took a page from her book and began playing several versions of solitaire daily. Usually at lunch, one turn at each game. If I win – great. If I lose – great. My day is in no way impacted by these results. I play simply to keep my mind sharp. And for the sheer relaxing pleasure of the diversion.
So … my question to you is – do you play to play or play to win? Do you watch to enjoy or do you watch to witness the outcome? Do you enjoy the quest or is your satisfaction inextricably bound to the result? Can you accept a loss as graciously as you celebrate a win?
Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing abhorrent in striving for success. Practicing, working hard and thirsting for victory is a story as old as time. I too enjoy watching gold-medal hockey games, love a spirited round of Trivial Pursuit and have been known to use my own name as a curse-word on the golf course. I guess I’m just wondering how much “nicer” (i.e. calmer and less stressful) our lives would be if we sought to enjoy the recreation even more than the result. If the delightfully diverting journey was the goal, and the conclusion a mere afterthought. If we always played to play. If the cake was … enough.
We all need playful diversions to help us navigate this life. Amusements that entertain and beguile. Or relax and restore.
What I do not think we need is play that is no longer pleasure. How counterproductive is that?
I’m quite sure the Yahtzee games in this house will continue to be rollicking affairs filled with drama and delight! And I am also quite sure I will continue to play along for the simple pleasure of spending time with two men I adore.
Many years ago, when the Canadian Smooth Jazz Awards still existed, one of my musical girlfriends attended the show. She enjoyed it immensely but still could not resist a small (and very funny) “jab” at the end, when many of the musicians swarmed the stage for a final jam. After more than 15 minutes of strutting and blowing and shredding and generally showing off their considerable talents, these boys were still going strong. Yes, you heard that right … boys. None of the female musicians had joined this party. It was all the guys. Now, this was no doubt due to the fact that the stats were heavily lobsided in favour of male instrumentalists and there wasn’t much space for female vocalists in this jam. Nonetheless, it was a testosterone-fueled fiesta on that stage.
“Hmph!” she exclaimed with disdain. “That is nothing more than musical masturbation!”
I was dumfounded. And amused. She had a point, yes she did. As talented as these dudes were, they were also showing off. Massaging themselves in the glow of the limelight, as it were. Seeking gratification from their adoring fans without (much) thought to the ensemble. They were quite publicly getting their musical rocks off and enjoying every minute.
I am sure that many folks in the audience also enjoyed that provocative display. And then there were those who knew the real show was over and … left. To each his own.
But that term “musical masturbation” stayed with me. Over the years I witnessed it time and time again. Not really a big deal. Just a funny term that stuck.
Until now, almost 15 years later, when I witness this same type of public display daily. On social media. Primarily on Facebook, probably because the population there is decidedly older. Turns out young people do not so readily fall prey to this affliction. The affliction I have begun to call “Emotional Masturbation.”
What is this disorder, you might ask?
To put it simply, emotional masturbation is when you broadcast all of your pain, sorrow, fear, suffering, longing and torment to the masses. It is when you publicly mark the anniversary of the death of any person or pet you have ever loved, reminding us all (just in case we may have forgotten) how much you feel, how much you ache and how much you suffer. Often in the guise of gratitude and wisdom, you rip open old wounds, pound your chest with indignity or weep into your hanky mournfully, prostrating yourself (quietly or dramatically) before all your friends, in hopes of …
What?
In hopes of what?
What is it that you hope to achieve by social media-ing the fuck out of your pain?
Before you go getting your knickers in a knot (and unfriending me), please ask yourself that very question. What exactly is it that you hope to achieve?
Maybe it is simply catharsis? Perhaps the only way we can deal with our own anguish is to share it with our tribe. Maybe our community needs to cry together? Or, at the very least, watch our tears fall.
Okay. Fair enough. But how the hell did we survive BEFORE Facebook?
Maybe it is guilt? Perhaps we feel obliged to mark death anniversaries (and other tragedies) loudly and publicly lest we be thought unfeeling. Or self-centered.
Okay. But as we all know, life does go on. Living “backwards” may seem noble but it’s highly impractical for current well-being. That’s not to say these anniversaries should be ignored. Remembering and honouring love is always a good thing. But that can be accomplished quietly, every day. Can’t it?
Maybe it’s a need for validation?
Maybe it is a need for validation. Isn’t that what social media is all about? Publicizing our life and then waiting for validation?
When my dad died there was no social media. We received cards and flowers and when I returned to work, most folks offered sympathy and then ran for the hills. Death makes people uncomfortable. We are not a society terribly comfortable with grief.
Twenty years later, when my mother died, I did a post on Facebook. Very much a ‘celebration of her amazing life’. I accepted all the ensuing platitudes with gratitude and love. And that was that. On occasion since, I may mention my parents and I am always delighted to share old photos, but I do not broadcast my grief time and time again. Same with my dog. When Shiloh passed, I let the world know. I did not post endless memories and I do not express endless remorse. Publicly.
When I do miss my parents and my dog and other relatives and friends and pets who have died, I do it privately. Or in the company of close friends. I do not feel the need, nor do I find the worth in very publicly advertising my sorrow. Much like I do not feel the need to publicly masturbate. Is there nothing left to sacred solitude?
I am a great believer in “living forward.” We are all coloured by our pasts, both the tragedy and joy we experienced. But to spend too much time dwelling in yesterday can only be counterproductive, both physically and mentally, to empowering the now. And the future.
There has been much scientific discussion regarding the relationship between stress and disease. About how stress causes and exacerbates dis-ease. Also, about how the suppressing of emotions leads to stress which leads to physical disease. I get all of that. And I do practice emotional “release” almost daily.
I just don’t do it on Facebook.
Because (in my opinion) there is a huge difference between necessary and private emotional release and unnecessary public emotional masturbation.
I know, I know. You’re doing it for you. Not for validation. For you. For yourself.
I guess.
Please know that if you ever need my (private) ear to express grief and sorrow, bereavement or heartache, I am just a phone call away. And it you ever wonder why I do not “like” or comment on your public presentation … now you know. I truly believe you are just hurting yourself. Over and over again.
I do believe that, to a certain degree, pain and joy are a choice. Just look at that guy who lived in an iron lung for over 70 years! I also believe that if you choose to continually publicize your pain, it takes on a life of its own. YOUR life.
Why not choose joy instead? If you must trumpet, then trumpet joy. And if that seems impossible at this time, maybe choose quiet. Just so that when joy does show up, it doesn’t have to compete with all that boisterous blowing and strutting.
Perhaps our pain is better served in private community, where it can be acknowledged and nurtured.
The other day I was chatting with a very old friend. We have known each other for decades and traversed many of life’s mountains and valleys together. We have also completely ignored one another for years. But our bond is solid, and our connection is real.
We were talking about getting together for a visit and he exclaimed, “I would just really love to be somewhere where I don’t have to continually (pauses for thought) … adjust myself.”
My mind immediately went to dirty-land. Adjust yourself? Seriously?
But he carried on, unphased. “You know what I mean, right?”
I am quietly giggling while he explains. “Around most people, we are constantly adjusting ourselves. Making minor corrections or even major changes, just to keep the peace. Just to fit the situation and be the person that other person wants us to be.”
Holy shit. I am not giggling anymore. Because when I reflect on his words, I realize how right he is.
We are always adjusting ourselves. Always.
With our friends, family members, work colleagues, acquaintances, even lovers … how often do we really get to be truly and unequivocally authentic? Exactly who we are? Warts and all, deficiencies and foibles, stupidities and embarrassing antics, in the midst of everyday living (and surviving), how often do we get to be purely, genuinely, exactly who we are?
I guess it starts with knowing who you genuinely are. And then recognizing when and with whom the ‘adjusting’ creeps in.
Case in point: I am never myself with my family. I have never been myself with my family. Even when my parents were alive, I was never myself with my family because my family had expectations of me that had very little to do with the expectations I had for myself. My father, mother and sister were of a similar “ilk” and I was from Mars. For many years I tried to be “myself” in that environment but that typically resulted in conflict and woe. So, I learned to adjust myself in familial settings. I even married a man who would allow me to adjust myself daily, to suit my family and quite possibly, the rest of the world.
I also adjusted myself in new friend groups. I adjusted myself at work. I adjusted myself at home. Daily. My life was one big fat adjustment. And the crazy thing is, I’m not sure I even realized I was doing it. Adjusting oneself becomes so natural, so ingrained, so automatic … we just do it without thinking. It’s almost like the adjusted version of ourselves becomes as real to us as the authentic version.
I am aware that I still adjust myself daily with my beloved. I’m not sure how it goes in long-term, primordial relationships, but when you come to a love affair later in life, compromise is part of the daily menu. And compromise pretty much equals adjustment. Which reminds me that all adjustments are not negative.
But then – thank heavens – we find ourselves in the company of that special person who sees through all of our curated modifications and says, “No thanks.” That one special person who actually WANTS the bona fide you. That one special person who values and accepts the YOU they know YOU to be. For real. Not that character you customize for the rest of the world.
I have learned that to be unequivocally oneself at all times is impossible. Unattainable. Our world does not work that way and we are therefore compelled to keep adjusting, daily. One must, just to avoid the turmoil that would result if one didn’t.
That is why having that one special person who allows and even encourages you to be un-adjusted is such a blessing. Being with that person is almost like a vacation. A holiday from the struggle of everyday regulation.
I am so happy I can be that someone for my friend. I am even happier my friend can be that someone for me. We all require moments of free-spirited integrity, if only to counteract that other stuff we do (consciously or not) every single day.
I kindly urge you to tap into your unadjusted person as often as possible and then seek out your people – the people who not only allow that person to show up but welcome her enthusiastically. Find your person, be that person.
Even if the opportunity is transitory, I can assure you it will be empowering. Harmonizing. We all need a perfect fit. Even if it’s only for a moment.
Life is extra beautiful when there is no adjustment necessary.
“There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact.”
(Milan Kundera)
Read that again. Slowly.
Then take a breath and think about it. And think about today. From the moment you got out of bed until now, how often have you actually, truly been IN any moment? Any moment. The moment you took your first sip of coffee. The moment you gulped your first breath of fresh air as you stepped outside to walk the dog. The moment you stopped for a lunch break or the moment you received a funny text from your best friend. How many of those moments were you really in?
We just blast through our days willy-nilly, flitting from one task to the next, one interaction to the next, one breath to the next. We DO all the moments. We accomplish moments. We might even fulfill moments. But how many are we truly present for?
Crazy, right? Because the moment we are in is THE moment. The ONLY moment. And yet we are so immersed in future moments or past moments, we stupefy ourselves into completely ignoring that which is the most tangible, the most obvious. The NOW.
When I was living in an unhappy marriage, my head was always in some faraway moment. Some moment I could dream about and dwell in (delusionally, of course) to offset the disappointment of my present circumstance. Sure, there were times, especially with my child, that THE moment demanded (and got) my full attention. Even moments of sheer bliss when I was able to stop and recognize the magnitude of that moment. But there were far too many other moments when I attached my ultimate happiness to some future occasion. Some eventual development that would rain rapture on my head.
Not nearly enough times did I attempt to stop, breathe and take in completely the moment I was experiencing, negative as it may have been. Not nearly enough times did I stop, breathe and analyze what I could do to facilitate more productive moments. More moments that I wanted to be in. Fully. It was far too easy to dwell in dreamland, imagining my best life. Instead of living it.
Why do we do this? Are we just plain lazy? Are we just plain dumb? Just plain unaware? So sure of the infinite number of moments we have left to us we’re fine and dandy with squandering a billion or two along the way?
When my Prince Charming ultimately showed up and I left my marriage (leaving in my wake a mess of misery), I learned how to “live in the moment” instantly. Our moments were so jampacked with intensity and passion and angst and vulnerability, it was quite impossible to stray too far afield. Mentally or emotionally. I was living on high-alert and that meant I was living like stalked prey, head spinning constantly, eyes darting in all directions, ever vigilante for the next grenade.
Sounds nullifying, right?
It wasn’t. I mean, sure, there were moments of despair, but I learned then that living in each and every moment for whatever it was, well … it was electrifying. Life-affirming. Bordering on magical. I would fall asleep late every night in mid-conversation, so desperate was I to hear every word, experience every feeling, live every single moment to its fullest until my exhausted eyes finally won.
I go to bed pretty early these days. Perhaps it’s because I’m older, or maybe my living situation is less volatile or maybe it’s simply because I can handle only so much Netflix per evening. Irrespective, I no longer possess that burning desire to be present in my life indefatigably.
I will admit there are times this makes me sad. Leaving all that heightened ardor in the past. I will also admit that I love my bed. And the moments of rest it affords me are not to be sniffed at.
And so, the question begs: do we need to live a life of fierce struggle or profound drama to recognize the value of every moment? Does our country have to be at war, does someone have to be ill or dying, do we have to be enthralled by a sporting event or musical extravaganza to totally surrender ourselves to the exact moment we are in?
I don’t think so.
Recently, I read that as we age, it behooves us NOT to pop out of bed in the morning like a jack-in-the-box. Our systems need more time to get vertical, without blood rushing to the wrong places or hearts beating too irregularly. And so now I gently ease my legs over the side of the bed and I sit. For maybe 20 seconds. I sit in that very first moment of my morning and I express gratitude to the Universe that I’m still here. That I get another day. That I’m really close to getting my first latte and my puppy-dog kisses.
And then, as the day goes on, I try (and don’t always succeed) to check in with as many moments as I can. The good ones (when my son calls), the mundane ones (when I scroll through my socials), the fun ones (when I do my radio show) and the ones that remind me to be grateful (dinner with my beloved, a walk in the woods, a warm bed at night). Even the negative moments, the disappointments, the anxieties and the irritations remind me that I am alive. Still in the game. Still looking forward to any number of MORE moments.
Moments that I can squander. Or savour.
If you are feeling more sadness than you would choose, I gently suggest you start monitoring your moments. Consciously. Like brushing your teeth or washing your hands or thanking your server or hugging a friend, self-audit your moments so that are compelled to be IN them. Wholly. Heart and soul. Gratefully.
Maybe if we learn to live in what is tangible and palpable, moment by moment, the present moment will no longer elude us. It will become everything to us. Because the truth is, it really is the only thing that is guaranteed.
I recently saw a Tik Tok video about vulnerability. How difficult it is to achieve. How daunting it is to maintain. How, even when you practice it a little, or a lot, it is still really hard to live it every day. Hard, but not impossible. How yes, even you can become vulnerable! If you just keep trying. And then the host wrapped up this inspirational invocation with a sprightly, “You got this!” Like vulnerability is something you can train for. Practice. Adopt as a lifestyle, much like the keto diet or yoga.
I respectfully disagree.
And while I am disagreeing, I’d also like to state that I do not believe vulnerability is something you can inspire in someone else. Vulnerability is that rare precious state that bursts forth from a surprise seed, one which YOU have planted and one that has been germinating within. One that you are most likely not even aware of until it blooms like an exploding sunflower. Vulnerability is so personal it doesn’t pair well with sorority. Or society. It is a purely solo enterprise.
And not an enterprise that you choose. Vulnerability is not a choice.
Vulnerability comes to you … it blossoms …. as a result of a choice. Not THE choice to be vulnerable. A choice that you make. Might be binary, might be a multiple choice but it’s the kind of choice we all make every day.
Allow me to illustrate. Years ago, a good friend of mine was suffering from a profound heartbreak, having just been unceremoniously ditched by the love of his life. And so we, his friends, gathered around, offering a multitude of solutions on how he might “play” this. You see, he and his darling were still communicating. She had ended it, but they were still texting and emailing and, on some level, not completely letting go. My pals and I all had loads of advice on what he should say, not say, offer, hold back, how he should act, how often he should ignore her … on and on it went. We were gleefully mapping out all of his next moves, knowing we could help him win the day and the damsel and keep his pride intact blah, blah, blah …
And he just sat there quietly, taking us all in. And then finally, he raised his hands and said, “No.”
We were silenced by that single resolute word. He continued. “I am going to go home and write her an email. I am going to tell her the truth. Tell her how I feel. Tell her how I have always felt. Admit what I have done wrong and ask for another chance. I will play no games to try to win back her love. No matter what happens or how it all ends up, I must tell my truth. It is the only way I can go forward.”
And that, right here, is vulnerability in action. And such a simple, beautiful action – telling the truth – that it stunned the sorority into silence. And then … understanding. Our friend did not choose to be vulnerable. He made a choice, and that choice rendered him vulnerable.
It’s all about making the choice. The choice that life (or love) hands you daily. You make a choice to respond in truth, with no pretense, armour or falsehoods to guard you, and suddenly you are vulnerable. Because when you make the choice, you have absolutely no idea what the outcome will be. You have not read the last page first. You are not trying desperately to wrangle some imagined or desired conclusion by cleverly manipulating the situation. In telling the truth you are quite simply stripping yourself naked and hoping no one throws tomatoes at you. But if they do, you’ll take them. You’ll take them and maybe make some spaghetti sauce. You are, of course, terrified that the tomatoes are rotten, but you are willing to take the risk. Because somewhere along the rocky road of life you have realized that risking everything for the truth is so much more fulfilling than manipulating anything for a lie. For a payoff. For a result. It is also far more fulfilling than choosing to risk nothing at all.
Vulnerability is not a lifestyle. It demands that you show up to every crossroad ready to live in truth. That’s a big ask and we don’t always succeed. All we can hope is that we are present and aware, that we have a choice and then respond accordingly.
In case you’re wondering, my friend did write the email and his truth did ultimately bring the girl back. And then years down the road, one of his friends was facing a similar situation. His advice to his friend was simple: the greatest strength is vulnerability.
“But how do I become vulnerable?” his friend asked.
“You don’t. You just make the choice to tell the truth. Damn the torpedoes and let the chips fall where they may.”
One day at a time. One choice at a time. Your strength will arrive. And its name will be … vulnerability.
Re: Title #3 – Let’s be clear. I did not run a marathon. I ran IN a marathon. What I mean is, I snuck into the last 2 kilometres to run with my son who was, in fact, running the entire 42. I did this insane thing simply because HE thought it was a good idea. HE thought it might be a nice challenge for his old ma. HE thought (and here’s where he got me) it would be just what HE needed for that final push. Mommy shuffling beside him.
I say shuffle on purpose because that is exactly how I (now) run. I don’t. I shuffle. It’s like walking but a little faster (not much, trust me). Lots of tiny steps getting me nowhere slowly.
I used to run. We called it jogging back in the day. I banged out 4K most days without so much as an “Ouch, my poor knees!” But that was a couple of decades ago. A few broken bones ago. And about 20 lbs. ago. I now just walk. At a decent clip. But I can assure you I have no desire to take flight.
I like walking.
I do not like running. I do not enjoy that first stretch where you are huffing and puffing (and dying) and waiting to get over that first hump (“It’s natural,” they say, they being the spandexed sprites who sprint along merrily). I do not like my knees giving out and I really do not like the ensuing back pain. Do. Not. Like.
And here’s what I have learned. If you really do not like doing something, chances are you will wind up NOT doing it. Crazy, right?
Which brings me to Title #2 (apparently I like to go backwards) – When there is a choice between doing something you hate and doing what you CAN, you should always choose the latter. You should always choose something over nothing. When it comes to physical fitness and aging well, you MUST do something. You absolutely must. But if you suddenly get the urge to run but you hate running (and it hates you back), just don’t. And if walking 4K is daunting, walk 1. Or a half. Around the block. Do what you can. Because if you do what you can every single day, you will be doing something, which is so much better than sitting on the sofa eating chips. So do SOMETHING. Stick with it and see what happens. If it’s just a few steps a day – Yay You!! And if you suddenly find yourself longing to run a marathon, sit down on that damn couch and eat some Pringles. I can assure you the urge will pass.
Which leads me to Title #1 – who the hell wants to make friends with their pain? Most of us spend our entire lives avoiding pain at all costs. Whether emotional or physical, nobody wants to get schmucked. We avoid getting schmucked like the plague. We hide from schmuckery and when it shows it’s terrifying face we smack it down with denial, booze, drugs or sleep. Or even religion, anxiety and depression.
Poor Pain. Nobody wants to be his friend.
When my son ran his first marathon he trained like a demon, then drove across the country, caught a horrible cold and ran the damn thing anyway. He ran alone. And he told me that the “dark moments” – when he truly believed he could not take another step – were debilitating (emotionally and physically). All he could do was push on and hope. When his best friend joined him for the final 10K he said the relief was incredible. He was still struggling physically but the pure emotional relief of having a mate at his side was game-changing. He did it (sub 4 hours if you’re wondering) and we were all so proud.
For his second marathon he knew there would be a team by his side for the entire journey. Four of his mates were doing the relay (each running 10.5K) and he KNEW that support would be immeasurable.
In the month before the race, when I was “training” and so were they, he informed me that our complaints we all the same (sore knees, sore back). No matter that they are more than 3 decades younger than I am, the complaints were identical. And so my son (veteran marathoner that he is) says, “Make friends with your pain. Don’t cause injury to yourself but remind yourself that you can work through this discomfort. Pain is just telling you that you are evolving. Growing. Getting better. You can do this!”
Who the hell does he think he is – Richard Simmons?
(I can assure you, he has no idea who Richard Simmons is.)
But on race day I watched him run by me at around the 30K mark. He waved. He was smiling. He was killing it.
Shortly before the 41K mark, I joined him. I knew immediately there was a problem. These sub-4 runners were flying past me at speeds I’ve only experienced on motorcycles. AFTER over 40K! There was NO WAY I could do this. I would ruin his time and quite probably my own health … just in the trying. This was so out of my league I might as well have vied for the Nobel Prize in Astrophysics.
He smiled but he could barely speak. His mate high-fived me. And we ran.
Matey took off (he had upped his game to a half-marathon and was not about to be foiled by Sam’s tortoise aka momma) but my son insisted he would finish with me!
Oh my baby.
I spattered and spewed and started coughing and pretty much dying (their pace was nuts!) and I cried, “Please … go! Finish strong! Please … leave me here to die alone … in peace!”
Okay. It was not nearly that dramatic. I just said, “Go!”
And he did. He knew that, in these final metres, if he let up, his legs would seize. He knew he was putting in a stellar time. He looked at me with all the love his exhausted blue eyes could muster and yelled, “See you at the finish line momma!”
And then … taillights.
So … what did I do?
I stopped running. Are you crazy? I was about to vomit blood.
Not really, but I was pooped.
I kept walking as I watched intrepid marathoners boldly pass me as they approached that beautiful END. So many of them looked way worse than me (ya think?). All ages, all sexes, all colours and all speeds, they just kept flying (or staggering) past me.
I was in awe.
I also had no idea what I should do. Do I cut across the park and try to find the finish line? Do I call an Uber (oh, that sounded nice). Hop a bus or just keep strolling?
I started running again. I knew there was another kilometre or so (the course is actually almost 42.5) and I just started running it. At MY pace. The slow, steady old-lady shuffle that I had rehearsed for an entire month before that fateful day.
As I approached the finish the crowds grew in size and volume. There were signs (literally) of encouragement and praise. Folks hooting and hollering and offering waves and smiles. I kept running.
Then there was a hill. Are you kidding me? A HILL at the END of a marathon?
I kept running. I ran up that damn hill and kept going. I was slow. But I was still running.
And then the finish line was in site. The roar of the crowd was deafening. I was surrounded by other athletes. I was laughing my frigging head off because I knew I was the biggest imposter who ever lived! I’ll tell you, it was shameful and hilarious and exhausting, ALL at the same time.
And then I saw my son.
Just across the finish line, he was waiting, phone in hand, believing that his momma WOULD INDEED have finished the race on her own, she would indeed cross through that big red gate and he would be there smiling, proud, spent, emotional, yet arms outstretched, ready to get a photo.
Do. What. You. Can.
I can assure you that getting out of your own personal comfort zone will always be … uncomfortable. Maybe even painful.
Sam told me that for this, his second marathon, he allowed his pain to show up but he did NOT allow it to consume him. He knew he would get through it. He knew it wouldn’t beat him. So he made friends with his pain. “Sure, run with me if you must,” he said, “But you will not be with me forever. I will get through this with my friends and my mother and my own determination. Pain – you are not the boss of me! I can handle you and be better for it.”
I believe with all my heart this goes for all pain. It s such a natural part of the human experience. So there is no need to hide from it, pretend it doesn’t exist or numb it with whatever toxin you can find.
Make friends. Allow Pain to coexist. For a while. Until you are ready to run again.
Do what you can. Always push a little harder but even when you can’t, do what you can.
No need to run a marathon.
Unless of course, you want to.
My son now wants me to train for 5K which he has promised to run with me. The whole damn thing.
I’m not sure who exactly said those words (not about Liz and Glennon, and it wasn’t me) but I sure as hell know I have lived it.
Have you?
How many of us have gone to unimaginable lengths to allow someone else – our partner, our boss, our parents, even our children – to be comfortable while we ourselves exist in harrowing discomfort, trying with all our might NOT to upset the status quo?
For me, this was a life I lived for many years. Actually, it was two lives. Because for many years I lived one life in public and one life in private. Sometimes the “private” was just in my head but all the same, it was the fantasy life that appealed to me and my honest inner self. Not the outward life I was play-acting for my husband, family and friends.
It began in the early days of my relationship with my ex-husband. He had taken me to an old friend’s wedding, where I knew no one, and then promptly left me languishing in a giant ballroom while he got dragged off by an old “friend,” ostensibly to “meet up with the old gang!” Why I was not invited on the expedition is beyond me (I have my suspicions, old friend, dearest) but what was intolerable to me was the fact that my boyfriend did not seem to have a problem leaving me behind. In a room full of strangers!
Naturally, I brought this to his attention when he returned and we ended up in the hotel lobby bar, “discussing” the matter. I was none too pleased.
Ultimately he looked at me with a glare that only the truly smug can muster and spewed, “I don’t need this shit!”
Holy fuck!
He didn’t need my shit. That means he didn’t need me. And if he didn’t need me he would leave me. Not only in a hotel ballroom but forever. And I would be alone. Again. He was above my shit. Beyond my shit. Too good for my shit. It didn’t matter that his actions were disgraceful, he did not need my shit!
So I apologized. Probably groveled. Maybe offered up an extra-special time in bed. Whatever I did, it kept our relationship alive (if that’s what you call it) and set us on a course to an even larger explosion many years down the road. Because the rules had been established. The winner had been declared! Henceforth Vickie would be a good girl and not pester her man with her petty insecurities and emotions. Cause you know why … he did not need my shit!
And thus the war began. Not between him and me. Between me and me. The war in me erupted quietly and then as months and years went by that war seeped out of me, in ways not exactly pride-inducing. That is not to say I didn’t continue to try, on occasion, to show my true colours, in all their disgustingly messy glory, to my husband. I recall screaming one night, “I just want to throw this fucking marriage against the wall and see what sticks! Like goddamn spaghetti!”
His response was to walk out of the kitchen. He did not return for a few hours at which time Good-Girl-Vickie had politely returned. She apologized for causing a ruckus. She went to bed contritely. Because she KNEW he did not need this shit. And she was not ready (yet) to give up on the (fake) life she had constructed. Because it must be her fault, right? She was loud and demanding (when she wasn’t busy being good) and turns out nobody needed that shit.
But eventually the war won. Because even the Hundred Year War HAD to end. Eventually I got tired of living a life that was neither authentic nor battle-free. Because that’s the thing – when you avoid conflict to keep the peace, you begin the war within yourself. And the war within me was killing me just as violently as a fellow human stabbing me with a bayonet. My blood was spilling onto my child and my friends and my whole damn life. I truly believed that if I just sucked it up the entire fucking world would benefit! They all loved me in my marriage. Me in my rightful place in the world. Me living the dream with a man who was obviously comfortable in our manufactured détente. What I did not realize (until it was far too late to respond civilly) was that I would never win the war inside of me as long as I was sacrificing ME to some greater good (or good-girl). I had to go … to go rescue me … from me.
Fun, right? Especially when there is a fellow Warrior waiting in the wings. Yep … that always makes surrender taste so much sweeter.
Which brings me to Liz and Glennon.
I love fabulous female writers and spiritual activists (or whatever you want to call them) who live their lives boldly (after, of course, living them bold-less) because they have seen the light and no longer give a shit if somebody doesn’t need their shit because they know what their shit is and their shit is valuable and righteous and hard-won and they have FOUGHT and STRIVED to be shit-free (if there is such a thing) because golly, girls, we all need to be REAL!
I agree.
What I see now with both of these fabulous (yet not fearless) women is they did NOT embark on their perilous journeys of authenticity WITHOUT someone to go to. WITHOUT another warrior waiting in the wings. WITHOUT a Plan B already in place. Sure, their futures were wrought with uncertainty and (in Liz’s case) guaranteed sorrow (her new beloved was terminal). But they had a NEW someone who gave a shit.
And that is huge. Having someone who gives a shit can definitely diminish the war in your soul.
Unlike Liz and Glennon though, my person (Warrior) who gave a shit, didn’t really … not for very long anyway … and in fairly short order I found myself alone, fighting the world solo and unguarded.
You know what? It was hard but it was worth it. It was worth it because I was only fighting the world. I was not fighting a fake reality and I was not fighting a war within my own soul.
I can handle the world.
A few nights ago I asked my beloved to engage in an exercise. A “couples’ exercise” that I thought would be enlightening (and useful). He stared at me with the most painful deer-in-headlights look and said “Vickie, I just can’t do this stuff. I am so sorry but I can’t!”
He did not say “I don’t need this shit.” He did not go for a long walk. He acknowledged that the problem was his and he begged (silently) that I acknowledge that too and still let him off the hook.
So I did.
There is no war raging in my breast. I do not feel slighted and betrayed. I have come to learn that humans are fragile and strong and scared and brave and authentic and sometimes … in need of understanding. I have also come to learn that sacrificing my own truthfulness for someone else’s comfort will not end well. And so a few night ago I responded, “Okay. My truthfulness, longing for YOUR truthfulness, is still here. But I accept that your wheelhouse is not cooperating. Maybe we’ll try another time.”
I said this NOT because I need his shit. I said this NOT because he did not offer shit. He offered truth and vulnerability AND he acknowledged that my request had merit yet still scared the shit out of him.
That shit I can handle.
I have no Plan B. Plan A has, for many years, been solid in my soul. If you don’t need my shit, I will not wither so that you can thrive. If you’re not sure what to do with my shit … I am more than willing to walk that path by your side.
winesoakedramblings - the blog of Vickie van Dyke 