Grace

Today, dear reader, I invite you to walk with me through an exercise in empathy.  It will feel uncomfortable, even painful.  Don't be afraid - it's a good thing (really).

I want you to think about a person that makes you mental.  That crazy-making person who pushes your buttons with the way they live, the way they speak, the way they "are".  We all have one or two of them.  Go ahead, bring that person to mind.


Now, I'd like you to take off the hats you wear daily - the successful business-person hat, the loving parent hat, the cherished friend hat....try, if you can, to pile as many of your hats as you can on the ground next to your chair (I'll bet there are a lot of them). 

Now that your head is a little clearer, I'd like you to reach out and try to guess at what kind of hats "your" person might wear.  Pick one of them up and take a look at it - turn it around in your hands.  


Put down the asshat - that's too obvious.  Play along here, people.


Does your person wear a defensive, abrasive hat (it kind of looks like a cactus, with a lovely crown of pink flowers above the spikes)?  Do they wear a teflon hat, so as to have nothing stick to them (but instead deflects every.single.thing and ends up sticking to the people nearest to them)?  Underneath the obvious ones, are they wearing a crown of brambles that constantly digs into their head and reminds them of the circumstances that gifted them with it?  Perhaps a hat woven of the darkest, heaviest, most uncomfortable material you can imagine?

Now take a minute and think about why on Earth any person would voluntarily decide to wear one of those awful hats.  Hell, why would you own one, let alone wear it out?

There is a reason for every hat we wear, and every role we play.  We can only imagine, really, why another person is the way they are.  Even once we think we know the other guy, we never truly "know" - we have the clues we pick up from our interactions with them, and the information they choose to share, but this is only a pencil sketch of a person who is actually a full-colour portrait, created through layers and layers of experience.

So use your imagination - flesh out the character you know.  Embellish them with what if's, and then start putting THEIR hats on YOUR head.  Wear them for a little while, try to imagine balancing their unique stack of hats on your own head.  How might that feel?

Congratulations - you just felt empathy for the person who usually drives you around the bend.  

If you can exercise your mind to accept a sense of that person, you can apply the same technique to any one.  I suggest you make it into a routine - with a little work it becomes second-nature.  

Next time another person starts to make you angsty, or angry, or frustrated, remember how it felt to wear their hats for a little while, and I will guarantee it will take some of the sting out of your interaction with them.

I'm not suggesting that you will suddenly love them, or even necessarily like them any more than you do now.  You might, however, feel a little softer toward them, a little more understanding of their experience.

As a result, you will be giving both of you the gift of grace, and that is the best gift of all.


         

The Scoop

I've sat down to the keyboard repeatedly in the past few weeks, full of intention to write another post.

I've stood back up repeatedly, consistently.  For some reason I have been stymied (blocked, as it were) - the words just will not come.


This is the point at which I have heaved a big sigh and started hitting the "delete" button.  Then turned off the machine.

I have pondered (I ponder really well).  I have given my "self" a good talking to.

My "self" responded by telling me to piss off - she's a plain-speaking broad.  Then she told me to get back to work - there's a lot to do, and it isn't going to get done by itself.

Therein lies the rub, I think.

I have a really full plate (like most people).  All the time.  I don't expect that fact to change anytime soon.

The plate, surprisingly, has become a bit of a heaping mess.  The usual, with a heap of new concerns, a sprinkle of plot twists, and a large scoop of uncertainties to top it off.

That scoop, which I would love to say is the cherry on top of my personal meal, has been threatening to be the fish bone you don't see that gets caught in your throat and makes you choke (nothing quite like mixing those metaphors).

I have learned, after many years of being, that in order to be happy with the meal placed before me I have to look at each thing on the plate as a gift.  That's a bit of a stretch with some things (asparaguts, for example - I just can't embrace that stuff, no matter how I try), so for the rare thing that shows up on my plate that makes my face screw up I do try to remind myself that I CAN deal with things that I don't specially care for and that, since it's on the menu, I have to choose how to manage it.

This new scoop of uncertainties has put me off my meal.  I have stared at it for too long, and now it's all I can see on the plate - it has skewed my perception to the point that I haven't been taking the time to look at all of the good stuff that is sitting right there in plain view.

Ah-ha!!

So today I am going to look at everything on the plate, and savour a bite of each dish.  I will keep my mind open to the possibility that I might find some glorious new flavour combination that will excite my tastebuds and surprise me.  Perhaps even the possibility of something amazing to look forward to, rather than staring at that one scoop and dreading the what-ifs that are attached to it. 

I'll even take one small bite of the asparaguts - it's there, so I must eat it.  There has to be some redeeming quality to it, and I'll never find out what it is if I don't give it a try. 

Remember your place.....

Just like the rest of the world, I was shocked and saddened to hear of the news of Robin Williams' passing earlier this week.

He was an entertainment icon - he's been in our living rooms and in our theaters for decades.  The consummate funny-man - he made us laugh, and consider, and gave us the means to escape our own realities for a short while, over and over.  There was rarely a sound bite that didn't include some small amount of his special brand of humour.

But.

We did not know him, and I think that is a really important thing for all of us to keep in mind.

We knew his public persona.  We fell in love with his characters.  We nodded our heads in recognition (between laughs) at his insightful stand-up quips. We related to his self-professed struggles.

I'm sure that we caught a glimpse of the real Robin from time to time.  In every artist's work there is a glimpse of the artist.  Or at least, a glimpse of that part that the artist chooses to share with us.

Those small slivers, though, do not give us any kind of a real picture of the man.  I think that we do ourselves, and our entertainers, a huge disservice by assuming that we ever really know anything about them.

The entertainment industry is just that - it is a business, a machine, that creates a product for the public to buy, and use, for its entertainment.  No more than that.  The people who choose to practice their art publicly are doing that only - they are showing us their art, or at least the stuff that the machine deems fit for public consumption (and we certainly do eat it up).

But.

We don't know them.  We can't know them.  We are not in THEIR living rooms.  We are not in THEIR circle.  We do not belong there.  That is not our place.  We are not their intimates.  Frankly, outside of the art they choose to share with us, the persona they publicly present, they are none of our damn business.

Somehow we've lost the ability to see the line that separates the performance from the person doing the performing.  We've bought into an industry that makes us think that we know them.  "Enquiring minds want to know."  Inquiring minds have no business knowing, bottom line.

In a kinder, more reasonable society, we would have never known the "how" of Mr. Williams' passing.  His impressive body of work would not have been reduced by speculation and opinion, ad nauseum, of his state of mind, or his health (or lack thereof). More details are surely going to make their way into the public domain - more the pity.  We have no more right to be in the man's home now than we did when he was still living.

I am grateful to Robin Williams for his work - his ability to make me laugh, and cry, and ponder.  I am thankful that I am able to appreciate his art, his wit, his schtick.  He gave us, the public, so much during his life.

The least we can do at this time is honour his contributions by backing off and allowing his circle to say goodbye to him privately.  

The rest of us?  We can pop in a movie, or watch an episode, and appreciate the part of Robin Williams that was meant for us.  

The Scarf

This year I have rediscovered the joys of yarn.

Yes, that might sound a little strange to anyone who has never knit/woven/crocheted/stitched.

No, I do not care if anyone thinks it's strange.

My yarn time is all about me.  From September to December my evenings are chock-a-block full with cross-stitching and pin-quilting ornaments that I sell, but the rest of the year has, until now, not included any creative pursuits.

I began by knitting, which I have done in the past.  The re-learning curve was fairly gentle, and I remembered fairly quickly what was what.  Before much time had passed I was cranking out cotton dishcloths like a machine (I really enjoy practical, usable things).  Soon enough this morphed into a shawl for a dear friend whom I wanted to hug desperately, but was too far away to allow me to physically touch.  I was hooked!

What I honestly wanted to do, though, was crochet.  I had been trying to learn, on and off, since I was about six, and had been stymied every time.  My mom (who was a south-paw) tried innumerable times to teach me, but I was never able to translate her smooth, practiced left-handedness into anything that made sense to my tangled (right-handed) fingers.

So I bought a little book.  It had very simple instructions that were well-suited to my pre-existing level of crochet-angst (a person builds up some pretty skookum walls when they've tried, and failed, to do something for 40 years).  Nice, clear pictures featuring primary colours.  Perfect.

I studied that book relentlessly for days, and convinced myself that this crochet thing might well be doable.  I got out a crochet hook and some light-coloured yarn (the easier to see the stitches, as instructed by the book), and started playing a little bit.

And, hot damn!!!  I COULD do it!  I was doing it.  When I got myself stuck ("crochet" is an entirely different language - read a simple pattern and you'll see what I mean) I walked over to the handy-dandy puter and went on YouTube and found a tutorial for the finer points (sweet blessed technology).

I crocheted for weeks, playing with the yarn, combining different stitches.  I got to know what worked (a chain between two stitches leaves a hole ON PURPOSE!) and what didn't (too much tension creates WAY too much tension, man - tear that shit apart and start again).

It was almost zen-like.  AND I could be interrupted (because that is my life) and not have to count back 30 stitches and try to figure out where I left off.  Big bonus!

Then a friend pointed out a knitted scarf that she loved.  I told her I could make it for her.  She was happy.

I bought the pattern and found some yarn for a test-run (as I had never used a pattern designed by that designer, and I wanted to be sure it turned out the way it looked before I went to work on my friend's).

It was hell.  Hell!  I tell you!  The pattern was not overly difficult - the bulk of it was 19 stitches and four repeating rows. That. I. could. NOT. seem. to. grasp.
For a couple of weeks I worked on that !@##$& scarf, every evening.

My neck muscles were in knots.  I would sit down in the evenings, pick up my needles and sigh. Knit, tear out.  Knit, tear out.  There was nothing relaxing about this at all.

This is where I tell you that I stuck with it, plowed through, and finished the scarf. 

Or not.

What I actually did?  I quit the scarf.  I made a decision on the side of self-preservation and sent my friend a message on Facebook (she lives at the other end of the province) and told her that I hated the scarf, and I would not be delivering on this one.

Her response?  "Okay.  Don't fret!"

I have the best friends.

So the next day I went and picked out some butter-soft yarn.  Dark red, which she loves (and which suits her).  That evening, I picked up the crochet hook and simply started.

It isn't what she had wanted, and I do hope that she likes it.  It's a design that was never intended for the purpose I am using it for.

It is beautiful.  More importantly, I hope that when she wraps it around herself she gets a sense of the pleasure making it has given me.  The ease and joy of creating something practical, yet pretty, from a place of peace and tranquility, as opposed to stress and struggle.

I don't like to quit anything.  I reallllly don't like letting my friends down.

I really like my yarn time.  Zen won out.  It feels awesome. 
      

The Power of Perspective

Perspective.  Point of view.  Outlook.  Angle.  Attitude.  Position.  Frame of reference.  Interpretation.

Whatever you call it, it is the most powerful tool available to you for the practice of relentless gratitude.

A Helping Hand

Yesterday was my last day at work before a much-needed two week break.  I had spent a lot of time over the week wrapping up loose ends so I could mentally leave the job and enjoy the time off.

The last task on my to-do list was a visit to our local mega-home improvement retailer.  I needed to buy paint.  Large quantities in big, heavy buckets.  At 4:00.  On a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon.

Yeah......

4:04 AM

A few years ago, during a time of extreme, extended personal stress, my internal clock broke.

It still keeps time, but it also has a mind of it's own.  It insists, consistently,  that I wake up at stupid o'clock in the morning.  Every morning.