Is Happiness an Acquired Taste?

There’s something I’ve noticed. Happiness doesn’t sit easily with me. It’s like I’m always waiting for (even looking for) the bad feelings to come. Or for the bad things to happen. Do other people feel that way? Or is it just me?

Sometimes, I even think feeling bad comes more naturally. How come it’s so much easier to feel sad? Lonely? Like a failure? Why is that? Because it’s familiar? Because of evolution?

 

 

 

 

 

So often, what I know to be good and healthy for me – in relationships, life, etc… starts out tasting so darned bitter. Even when I know I’m making good choices, there’s still a sense of failure. Maybe that I should have known better in the first place? Or that it shouldn’t be so hard to do what I already know is right?

Recognizing negative thought patterns and choosing differently even brings a sense of grief – for beating up on myself, which I’ve done for as long as I can remember. For missing all the good things that could have been. That I never felt acknowledged/valued for who I am, rather than who others needed me to be.

I wonder. If patterns of thinking create well worn neural pathways, cemented and made ultra-efficient by a myelin sheath, does a lifetime of negative self-talk become self perpetuating? Hard wired into my brain? Are brain cells generated within the chemical cocktail of stress or anxiety different than those created amidst joy and peace?

If so, it makes sense to me that it takes time to change thought patterns. The benefits lag behind the changes that need to be made. By a wide margin, I suspect…

That means I have to trust that certain things are good for me, recognize I won’t feel good for a while, and keep doing them anyways.

Lately, I’ve been trying to recognize the negative patterns and simply put them aside. I try to examine the “data” instead – a bit of convincing myself, I guess.

For example, if I worry that I’m not “good enough,” then I look around at the amazing friends I have. If I know how amazing they are, and I know that they think I’m pretty great too, then there
must be some reason they like me. I don’t even have to understand it. I just have to trust in it – I must have some value, for them to want me as their friend.

And then I find it easier to “surf” the emotions, the bad feelings that feel so real in the moment. Instead of “diving in” and wallowing in that beating up stuff, I’m trying to give myself a break instead. Recognize that the wave will pass, and go have a bubble bath. Or watch a movie. Or chat with people on twitter. Anything that distracts me.

Inevitably, once I’m back in calm waters, I see the world differently again. With perspective. And compassion for myself. And hope.

More and more often, I’ve noticed that happiness knocks on my door. “Hey there! I was in the neighborhood. Wanna hang out for a while?”

Indeed, I do! And, oh my goodness, how sweet it tastes…

 

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What We Say, What They Hear

When my daughter was less than 18 months old, I realized I didn’t want to parent by default, doing what my own mother had done or what I read in parenting magazines.

For example, “time outs” didn’t feel right – they felt manipulative. And worse, the currency I was using to manipulate my beloved child was my own love. “Be nice or I don’t want to be with you.” “Do as I tell you to or I won’t love you.”

As my child started to express her strong willed, determined, creative, intense and intelligent self, I realized that the default parenting I was doing was all about control. “Control your kid.” “Make her mind.” “You can’t let her act that way!”

Suddenly, my beliefs and actions collided.

When she was born, something changed. Call it “mama bear” instinct, or whatever, but I made a deep commitment that changed me – I knew I had to be the parent she (and later, her two brothers) needed me to be. Parenting was not something I was willing to “fail” at – no matter what!

Well, it turned out that was an easy commitment to make when I had a baby who needed nothing but to eat, poop and sleep. It was much more challenging to put into action with a toddler – her hands on her hips and eyes throwing daggers, determined to be heard!

I’d like to say that I immediately became the perfect mother. *snort*

But no, not so much! I can say that I strived every single day to do it differently. We talked and cuddled and too often, my kids steamrollered right over me. When I was tired or stressed or drained, I heard things come out of my mouth that I wished I could suck back.

Perhaps a hidden blessing has been that my kids simply don’t respond to rewards or punishment. That was indescribably frustrating when I wanted/needed a quick, easy way to get them to comply with something! But there’s nothing that could have forced me to figure out how to parent with influence and love rather than with control than having kids who refused to easily be controlled. I suppose I could have yelled louder or offered bigger rewards, but I didn’t want to “break” them either – so I kind of had no choice in the matter. Learn to do it differently just to survive!

Now skip about 10 years forward. Tween in the house! Need I say more?? Nature turned up the dial on the intensity…

Amidst every fight, some instinct told me that once again, parenting her was too often about control. And once again, the currency I was too often using to try to get her to do things was the threat of withholding my love and acceptance. “Do your homework or I won’t take you to your friend’s house.” “Stop yelling at me or I’ll take away your cell phone.”

There she stood before me – taller and more articulate. But still the same hands on her hips and the same eyes throwing daggers at me! And she still refused to comply!

I took up meditation.

And the quiet instinct inside of me told me that, deeper than whatever we might be fighting about at any particular moment, what she needed from me was to know she was loved – no matter how she acted or what she did. She needed to know that I wouldn’t leave her or give up on her. She needed to be seen and accepted for who she is, not for who I wanted her to be. In fact, isn’t that the very definition of being loved? Isn’t that what we all want and need?

I knew, in my heart, that I loved her beyond anything I could have imagined before she was born. I would literally jump in front of a bus for my children. I would tear myself inside out to be my best for them. But she obviously needed to hear it from me. So I made a commitment to myself: before I responded to anything she said or did, I would preface everything with a quiet and direct “I love you and…”

The first few times, I probably caught her off guard. She would pause, but then continue. And then a few days later, in the midst of another disagreement, she said “I know that you love me Mom, but right now I don’t feel it very much!”

Palm to forehead. Doh!

She hit such an important point – that “loving” isn’t about what we say, it’s about how those around us feel when they’re with us.

It struck me in that moment that loving my children isn’t about saying “I love you” (although that’s part of it). It’s about understanding that each of them is a miracle and a gift in my life, about feeling a deep and abiding appreciation that fills me up with joy every time I see or think of them. I know (and my children know) that my love for them is there all the time, no matter what’s going on – and yet, it’s up to me to make sure I let myself feel it, even when it would be easier to bury my face in my own misery or stress or needs. I’ve learned that when I feel it, they feel it too.

So I’ve changed my approach. Instead of focusing on saying “I love you and…” in a dispute, I stop and take a breath, letting my love burn like a fire in my belly. I let the warmth fill me. I let my wonder at these little miracles shine from me.

I’ve noticed that I can’t help but soften in that moment. I let my eyes meet my child’s eyes. I take in all the daggers and send back joy. I move closer and I speak softly.

And a funny thing happens – they pull closer too. Quite quickly, they soften and rest within my love.

I knew I was heading the right direction when, one day, my teen came back after an upset and said “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Can we try again?” Or when I kneeled down with my sobbing little one, asking what he needed (expecting him to say he needed help getting a toy back from his older siblings, or to get them to play with him) and instead he said “Mommy, I just need some lovin!”

That just wouldn’t have happened a year or two ago. Once again, my children have changed me. Or, more specifically, I’ve let the needs of my children change me.

I had to let go of my own “baggage” in order to wrap my arms around them. And I had to learn how to draw them close, so they could bask in the warm glow of that fire in my belly.

Only then could they actually start to hear me…

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Lost. Reward if found.

I’ve stood here before, looking into this same old mirror.


I’ve met many women here.

My mother’s daughter. My children’s mother.
A little sister. A wife. A partner. A quitter.
A geek. A friend. A misfit.
Someone who inspires. An imposter. A leader.
A problem solver. A disappointment.
Someone who asks big questions. A failure.

I often stand here, looking for someone else.
I look in that mirror and think “who am I? what do I want? what do I need? what matters to me??”

And I don’t know. I feel lost.

But sometime, as I wipe away the steam after my shower, I catch my eye.

I stop.

And I simply let all the stories fall away, dropping to the floor next to the dirty jeans and wet towel discarded there in a heap. Somehow, the water rinses off more than just the sweat and soap suds. I let it wash down parts of the “me” that I hold up to the world most days.

In this moment of honesty, I recognize that “I don’t know...” just meansI don’t think I can do that...” or “what if I’m wrong?

I don’t know...” just means “I’m afraid…

What am I afraid of?

Afraid that I really am a failure. Or not good enough. Or that you’ll be disappointed in me.

Afraid that I really am capable of so much more. That I can do great things. That I can do what I dream of. And, if so, why haven’t I done it before now? What’s taking me so long?

It brings to mind the famous quote by Marianna Williamson:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness,
that most frightens us.

What most frightens me? It seems easy to feel inadequate – and easy to find “evidence” for the negative stuff. But to feel powerful? Seems impossible, most days.

Truth is they both frighten me. And they’re both true. Perhaps that’s where freedom comes – from embracing these contradictions in my life.

Truth is that I’m ALL of those things.
And I’m still a worthy, capable, growing and changing human being.
I used to think I had to “figure it all out” and then I’d be okay…
Now I realize I’ll never figure it all out. Monks who meditate 365 days a year don’t have it all figured out. I certainly never will!

I’m beginning to feel like it’s okay to be on a journey, to take one thing at a time and trust in my own process. It’s not always how I want it to happen, but it’s happening nonetheless.

For this moment, I stand and look in the mirror and yes, I do know.
I know that I’m all sorts of things. And as long as I can embrace all of that and still keep striving to be better, that’s what counts.

For this moment, I can look at my weaknesses and failures and still believe in myself. I can be a little more patient because I know that I’ve already accomplished things that felt impossible before. I’m well on my way to being the mother that I want to be, that my children need. That hasn’t been a short or easy journey, by any means. And I’m doing it.

Likewise, as hopeless as it may feel in a moment, when I’m looking up at the mountain left to climb, I can look down and see how far I’ve come already – and have faith.

Indeed, this is the reward…

 

 

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It’s the trying…

Sometimes I get so tired. There are days when I feel like I just can’t possibly keep going – keep trying to change the world, keep trying to get everything done for everyone and keep trying not to feel like I’ve failed when I can’t do it all or when I fall down… Sigh.

So, as I read the book “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, the following excerpt resonated with me strongly. It contains good reminders to me – to remember that what I do (or don’t do) doesn’t define me. Or that I can live every moment of my life, experiencing it all without judgment. And (most important to me!) that it’s okay for me to stop and rest sometimes, caring for myself with at least as much energy as I give to caring for others!

Hope you enjoy!

It’s easy to lose sight of the divine in the partner who takes out the garbage, and easier still if he or she doesn’t. It’s hard to remember to look for and see the beloved in the parking attendant or the check-out clerk we encounter. We need shared gestures, small ceremonies that help us pay attention, that let us see and honor the mystery of the other every day. This is the commitment my soul longs to make to the world.

And I want to stop trying to do this.

It is not the being, not even the doing that exhausts. It is the trying: trying to be present, to be awake, to hold the whole world, to be better, more self-aware, more conscious. My hopes for us are real: I want to help create a world where the very idea of toxic waste would raise such a cry of anguish from the people as to make it unthinkable; where we would move, pulled by the heart, to care for the poor, the ill, the dying and despairing without debating whether they are deserving, without fear of contamination, seeing ourselves in each person.

But as honorable as these desires to make a difference may be, I know my motives are mixed. I am afraid that if I am not accomplishing something I will disappear. I will have nothing to offer you when we meet. I want to be able to be able to live for a day, a month, a year – even a life – that wouldn’t make a good story. If I have nothing to tell you when we meet and you ask me what has been happening, I want to be fully content with this. I want to be able to occupy my life to the corners and for this to be enough.

There are places inside me where the soothing balm of rest has never penetrated. I long for a small respite from the reaching, a moment of sweet stillness, quiet darkness, the great silence that can penetrate and loosen the small, hard knots of endless trying. I want to quit running from my own tiredness. I want to be willing and able to move only as fast as I am capable of moving while still remaining connected to the impulse to move from deep within, stopping when I have lost that slender thread of desire and having the courage and faith to wait, in stillness, until I find it again.

This is what I ache for: intimacy with myself, others, and the world, intimacy that touches the sacred in all that is life. This ache, this longing is the thread that guides me back through the labyrinth of compromises I have made, back to my soul’s desires. And sometimes I am afraid of my desires – afraid of what they will ask of me, what vision of myself or the world they will offer that may demand a sacrifice of my carefully cultivated way of seeing. If we are never consumed by the transforming fire of our desires, we risk falling in love with the sweet ache of longing, the daydream of “what if…” or “someday…”

The willingness to live our desires takes courage. So many times our desires have been used against us, used to sell us what someone else wanted us to buy. Moving towards our desire for deep commitment to Spirit, we have been sold blind obedience; opening to our desire to love, we have been sold an abandonment of self; seeking to embrace our desire for beauty, we have been sold everything from cars to clothes, exotic vacations to plastic surgery. We have been sold a lifestyle, when what our soul desired was life.

To taste our longing, to feel the ache, we risk finding our soul’s desire. We risk falling short of fulfilling those desires. We risk living our desires fully.

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