I'm not a retreat person. By my count, it's been at least 25 years since I 've been on a true retreat, where you truly are invited to leave the rest of the world for a few days and to delve into your inner self. Sounds so "touchy-feely" when I say it here. And, in some aspects, it is.
My partner and I have spent the past few days in a meditative retreat designed to help couples find ways to identify difficulties and heal with each other. I could not possibly do the techniques and philosophy justice in words here, so I won't try. What I'd rather focus on here are a few observations that, for me, tie my inner retreat to the outer, bigger world we all live in.
Leaving Christmasland. When I first signed up for the retreat weekend in August, I didn't give a whole lot of thought to the timing: December 14-16. It was months away at the time. As December approached, I began to have vague misgivings about having obligated us to a complete "time out" during what is, for us as a family, a very busy time. As the season went into full-court press after Thanksgiving, pressure began to build: Must get the Christmas cards made; must buy gifts; must do the holiday baking; must tie up year-end details; must wrap, must mail gifts; must, must, must!
Friday arrived. we had, miraculously, gone into overdrive task-mode and gotten things done. On that drizzly, cold morning,we pulled away from the house and, unknowingly, left Christmasland behind.
Tofu & Silence. Tired from the stressors of the season, we arrived at the beautiful setting for the retreat: rural, oceanside, remote, wintry. Our room was Spartan by some standards. Beds were lumpy, small and old. But all serviceable. And, by Sunday, any concerns about the accommodations had completely given way to matters more important: matters of the heart.
Of course, there could not be meditation without silence. Without being still, how could we hear our own hearts? I wasn't prepared for the duration and intensity of the meditations. And yet, surrendering to our leaders' entreats to "be present" and do some more, I did. And I found that I could. And that I learned where I didn't expect to find learning.
My skeptical self knew the vegan meals could pose a challenge to this carnivore; and yet, we both found ourselves enticed by the aromas wafting from the kitchen as mealtimes approached; and we both ate the delicious meatless dishes heartily, but without feeling like gluttons. And we both left the table feeling satisfied.
Acceptance, not achievement. The lovely part of our work (and it was intense work!) was the permission-giving quality of the exercises. We were invited rather than instructed. The goals were framed in allowing yourself into the exercises, the yoga, the intimate conversation work, as opposed to achieving some required level of competence. It was almost as if the retreat leaders were offering up the framework, the exercises, the meditations--as gifts to receive, not achieve.
How different from the commands and stressors of our everyday lives. And what a mind-shift from the overwhelming "to do" lists of the holiday season.
And so there was peace. For many, the weekend brought clarity, understanding and re-commitment to long and loving relationships. For all of us, it seemed to me, the result of 48 hours of focused honoring of relationship brought no small measure of quiet, satisfaction, and yes, peace between us. Even as we mourned the tragedy that occurred in Connecticut on Friday, we found comfort in the humanity of our peers.
We reflected on our present and past. We mused about our futures. Emotional blocks were dislodged. Misunderstandings were cleared away.We wept and laughed within the safety of a loving group of people who, just a day or so before, were strangers to each other.
A commitment to carry on. In the end, there were no grand pronouncements or shout-it-from-the-rooftop epiphanies. But there was again, an invitation--initiated by the group itself--to stay in touch. To reconnect with this unique community from time to time in the future. To not entirely lose these special connections with special people. Will it happen? I'm optimistic that it will. I'm also mindful that, at least, for me, the "real world" is likely to creep back in with its honking horns, pushy people and my own reactions of impatience and irritation.
But, just for now, I'm inviting myself (not striving!) to hold on to the serenity of knowing there are good people out there. People who could, through mindful calm, could be strangers in that strange world out there 72 hours ago--and loving, connected people now.
Touchy-feely? Yeah, definitely. It reminds me of my childhood and every December, about this time of year, when my mom would ask, her eyes twinkling, "Have you got that Christmas spirit yet?" It was a signal that acknowledged a child's innocent glee and joy.
Well, mom, the answer now, today, is, "Yes." I have that Christmas spirit. And it comes from the depth of giving and love that came from my loving partner, Lou, and from a group of perfect strangers.
It was a most unexpected gift. You can't put a bow on it, but it's the one that means the most.
Until next time, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanzaa. Whatever you celebrate, open your heart. Receive. And be glad.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
The Choices We Make: What Did Your Vote Mean Yesterday?
It's the day after our nation went to the polls to choose, among other elected officials, the President of the United States. Sounds impressive when it's written out: President of the United States. And it should. For better or worse, the President guides the ship of state though whatever waters--murky, calm or stormy--that history serves up at the time. It's a daunting job. I often wonder, Who could possibly want this position?
And yet, every four years, political parties, special interests, friends, neighbors, family and business associates engage in the national debate over who should assume the highest leadership post in the land. The debate ranges from the friendly to the spirited to the enraged. Yes, some of us are disengaged from the process and claim no vested interest in the outcome: They're all jerks is the collective refrain from that corner.
But, despite your feelings about the candidates, their ads, their records, their debate performances or their promises--what happens to your voice if you opt out of the process?
In my humble--and singular--opinion, when you choose not to participate, your voice is, quite simply, silenced--when it matters most.
So why am I addressing this from the vantage point of the therapist's chair?
Well, I work with a variety of clients, many who are striving to be heard: by their children, spouse, boss, friends, the cable company, customer service reps, and, yes, by their government officials. As I have asserted in past posts, being heard is important to us humans. That's why it baffles me, from a therapist's point of view, why anyone would relinquish their right to be heard--and with no possibility of being rebuffed or discounted. Every vote is equal, Every vote counts.
Even yours.
So, if you are one of the 115 million US residents of voting age who cast their ballot yesterday, congratulations. No matter how you feel about the outcome you came out a winner. If you didn't vote, I humbly invite you back into the national dialogue.
Your voice matters. And if you don't speak up, you can't be heard.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
And yet, every four years, political parties, special interests, friends, neighbors, family and business associates engage in the national debate over who should assume the highest leadership post in the land. The debate ranges from the friendly to the spirited to the enraged. Yes, some of us are disengaged from the process and claim no vested interest in the outcome: They're all jerks is the collective refrain from that corner.
But, despite your feelings about the candidates, their ads, their records, their debate performances or their promises--what happens to your voice if you opt out of the process?
In my humble--and singular--opinion, when you choose not to participate, your voice is, quite simply, silenced--when it matters most.
So why am I addressing this from the vantage point of the therapist's chair?
Well, I work with a variety of clients, many who are striving to be heard: by their children, spouse, boss, friends, the cable company, customer service reps, and, yes, by their government officials. As I have asserted in past posts, being heard is important to us humans. That's why it baffles me, from a therapist's point of view, why anyone would relinquish their right to be heard--and with no possibility of being rebuffed or discounted. Every vote is equal, Every vote counts.
Even yours.
So, if you are one of the 115 million US residents of voting age who cast their ballot yesterday, congratulations. No matter how you feel about the outcome you came out a winner. If you didn't vote, I humbly invite you back into the national dialogue.
Your voice matters. And if you don't speak up, you can't be heard.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Our Faces, Our Masks: Boo! It's Our Persona!
I just turned off the porch light and blew out the candle in our pumpkin. Another Halloween night has come and gone.
I'm prompted to write on a number of fronts: one, a personal one. I'm touched by the sheer glee of a six-year-old in a lion suit shouting, "Twik or treat!" and eagerly awaiting a mini-Mars bar or a miniature box of Dots. Does anyone remember Dots, the precursor to gummy bears? I do. Fondly. And that, in itself dates me. But, I digress. That's another post for another time.
From a professional perspective, Halloween's masked marauders bring to mind Swiss psychologist Carl Jung and his concept of the persona: the social face the individual presents to the world, "a kind of mask, designed on the one hand to make a definite impression on others, and on the other to conceal the true nature of the individual." Carl Jung, 1953.
More simply put, our persona is the mask we wear the other 364 days of the year.
I think about how we all--ok, most of us--generally, usually--ok, sometimes!--want the approval or least the acceptance of others. Seventh grade--any seventh grade--provides some of the earliest and most definitive evidence of personas at work. It's the class system of middle school. Seventh graders work hard to begin to define themselves--for themselves and their peers.
To that end, we, as seventh graders, gravitate toward the styles (think 1967: wide-wale cords, white vinyl boots), phrases (1989: "Don't be a butthead"), trends (2004: Hello Kitty!), pop idols (2010: Justin Beber?), and "coolness" (sorry, my persona in 7th grade verged on the brainy/nerd--I couldn't comment on what "cool" could possibly be). And so it went.
As we age and, arguably, mature, our personas--the face we want the world to see and accept--also change. Often, we seek to define ourselves with our work and our possessions. No, you say? I'm an individual you say. Ok. Absolutely. But, think about it: Are you Apple, or a PC? iPhone or Android? BMW or Prius? Even the staunchest individuals make choices. Choices that say things about us. Intentionally or not.
Jung felt that those intentional choices contributed to our personas. What we choose to wear. Where we hang out. Who we hang out with. How we'd like the rest of the world to perceive us.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against personas whatsoever. It's part and parcel of what makes us interesting, engaging, complex--and human.
I raise the concept--at Halloween especially--only to point out that sometimes, like at Halloween, we spend a lot of time and effort crafting and constructing our costume. And, sometimes, maintaining that persona can become not only exhausting, but also distressing. Destructive. And defeating.
When maintaining the mask becomes distressing, it's time to take another look at the price we're putting on acceptance, and maybe, just maybe look at the person we are behind the persona.
I'm the first to acknowledge that self-reflection can be unsettling. But, when, over time, you couple introspection with a growing approval of who you really are--of the person you are--the need to guild the mask may become less important. You may discover, over time, that you find satisfaction in your own self-approval. Maybe the rest of the world will like you, too. Just as you are. If not, maybe that's not the end of the world after all.
Right now, I'm taking satisfaction from the last of the mini Three Musketeer bars. Yes, it's pure sugar and probably not a "good choice" for me for a whole host of reasons. So be it. I am working on incorporating the truths of an occasional piece of candy, a weekly Bacon Egg & Cheese McGriddle, moderate amounts of butter, not margarine, and a slightly larger waistline than 10 years ago--I'm working on incorporating those truths of my personhood into my persona. I'm working on putting the person--not so much the persona--out there. And, of course, Jung might say that's my persona.
My clients tell me it can be really freeing to "let down my guard," to devote less energy to "maintaining the image," to just "put myself out there."
It can, as my clients also find, require the courage just to be yourself. Like the six-year-old in the lion suit, unabashedly screaming, "Trick or treat!"
But, as another lion, the lion in The Wizard of Oz found out, that courage just may be inside of us all along. Roar.
Happy Halloween.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
More simply put, our persona is the mask we wear the other 364 days of the year.
I think about how we all--ok, most of us--generally, usually--ok, sometimes!--want the approval or least the acceptance of others. Seventh grade--any seventh grade--provides some of the earliest and most definitive evidence of personas at work. It's the class system of middle school. Seventh graders work hard to begin to define themselves--for themselves and their peers.
To that end, we, as seventh graders, gravitate toward the styles (think 1967: wide-wale cords, white vinyl boots), phrases (1989: "Don't be a butthead"), trends (2004: Hello Kitty!), pop idols (2010: Justin Beber?), and "coolness" (sorry, my persona in 7th grade verged on the brainy/nerd--I couldn't comment on what "cool" could possibly be). And so it went.
As we age and, arguably, mature, our personas--the face we want the world to see and accept--also change. Often, we seek to define ourselves with our work and our possessions. No, you say? I'm an individual you say. Ok. Absolutely. But, think about it: Are you Apple, or a PC? iPhone or Android? BMW or Prius? Even the staunchest individuals make choices. Choices that say things about us. Intentionally or not.
Jung felt that those intentional choices contributed to our personas. What we choose to wear. Where we hang out. Who we hang out with. How we'd like the rest of the world to perceive us.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against personas whatsoever. It's part and parcel of what makes us interesting, engaging, complex--and human.
I raise the concept--at Halloween especially--only to point out that sometimes, like at Halloween, we spend a lot of time and effort crafting and constructing our costume. And, sometimes, maintaining that persona can become not only exhausting, but also distressing. Destructive. And defeating.
When maintaining the mask becomes distressing, it's time to take another look at the price we're putting on acceptance, and maybe, just maybe look at the person we are behind the persona.
I'm the first to acknowledge that self-reflection can be unsettling. But, when, over time, you couple introspection with a growing approval of who you really are--of the person you are--the need to guild the mask may become less important. You may discover, over time, that you find satisfaction in your own self-approval. Maybe the rest of the world will like you, too. Just as you are. If not, maybe that's not the end of the world after all.
Right now, I'm taking satisfaction from the last of the mini Three Musketeer bars. Yes, it's pure sugar and probably not a "good choice" for me for a whole host of reasons. So be it. I am working on incorporating the truths of an occasional piece of candy, a weekly Bacon Egg & Cheese McGriddle, moderate amounts of butter, not margarine, and a slightly larger waistline than 10 years ago--I'm working on incorporating those truths of my personhood into my persona. I'm working on putting the person--not so much the persona--out there. And, of course, Jung might say that's my persona.
My clients tell me it can be really freeing to "let down my guard," to devote less energy to "maintaining the image," to just "put myself out there."
It can, as my clients also find, require the courage just to be yourself. Like the six-year-old in the lion suit, unabashedly screaming, "Trick or treat!"
But, as another lion, the lion in The Wizard of Oz found out, that courage just may be inside of us all along. Roar.
Happy Halloween.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Listening To Understand, Or You Said What?
I am privileged to work with couples in my private practice. Often they come to me in crisis: one or both is already mentioning the "d" word: Divorce. And each of them often spends alot of our first sessions trying to convince me that they are right--and their spouse is wrong.
What I've figured out, over time, is that it's less about being right or wrong, but more about being heard. Sounds simple, but it's amazing how many of us are just not good listeners.
What seems to be getting in the way, with many couples, is the way they listen to their partner.
Take Jane and Kevin (not their real names, of course). Like many couples, they came in describing a rift in their relationship--a breech, for one, of their marital bond; a trust that felt intact for one, abused for the other. For me, as a therapist, it is not so much the content of their dialogue, but the manner in which they communicate.
As a couples therapist, I will never settle disputes, right wrongs, or dispense absolution or judgment. It's just not what I do. What I can do and hope to do is to observe the communication process and to help improve it on fundamental levels. Only then can the real issues in the marriage be addressed.
Back to Jane and Kevin: Me: What is one important thing that you would like Kevin to hear from you today? Jane: Hmm....I just want him (to Kevin) you to know that I feel really frustrated when you go out with the guys and leave me at home with the baby alone. Me: Kevin, what did you hear? Kevin: That she resents me for having any fun at all. Me: OK. Let's see. Jane, was that what you said? Jane: No. He's got it all wrong...Me: OK. Jane, were you saying you "resent" Kevin? Jane: No! Me: Were you saying you don't want him to "have any fun at all?" Jane: Absolutely not. Kevin: Really? Jane: Really. Me: OK. Let's try it again. And this time, Kevin, I want you to really open your mind to Jane, and pay lots of attention to the exact words she says, nothing more. OK? Kevin: OK.
After two more tries, Kevin is able to play back to Jane what her real concerns are, and the dialogue goes in a different, more connected direction. Why? Because, in this single interchange, I invited each of them to listen without motive: without wanting to win. Without wanting to convince, change, sway, correct or demoralize.
It is simply about listening to understand your partner. Just simply to understand.
I am clear that I'm not asking them to agree with one another.
I don't ask them to sanction the other's behavior or reasoning.
I simply want to start with basic understanding. In Jane and Kevin's case, it led to the understanding that Jane wanted more support with their 6-month-old daughter. She wasn't criticizing Kevin's fathering. She didn't resent him or want terminate his fun. To the contrary, she felt he was wonderful with their child. Jane just needed to tell Kevin--and for him to hear--that she needed more balance in the time they spent taking care of her.
With the need to be "right," or to persuade, vilify or defend out of the way, listening--real listening--can occur. It's an acquired skill for most, but a valuable one for all.
So, if you're not feeling heard by your spouse, or you get the feedback, "You're not listening to me," take a step back and ask yourself: am I really listening to understand? Am I planning my rebuttal even as my partner speaks? If so, take a deep breath and try again.
Does it always work? Well, "always" is a pretty drastic promise. But I can say, with some certainty, that you might learn something you haven't heard before. And, with the person you love the most in this world, that can be a reassuring start to better communication.
So, until next time, ears open! And thanks for listening.
What I've figured out, over time, is that it's less about being right or wrong, but more about being heard. Sounds simple, but it's amazing how many of us are just not good listeners.
What seems to be getting in the way, with many couples, is the way they listen to their partner.
Take Jane and Kevin (not their real names, of course). Like many couples, they came in describing a rift in their relationship--a breech, for one, of their marital bond; a trust that felt intact for one, abused for the other. For me, as a therapist, it is not so much the content of their dialogue, but the manner in which they communicate.
As a couples therapist, I will never settle disputes, right wrongs, or dispense absolution or judgment. It's just not what I do. What I can do and hope to do is to observe the communication process and to help improve it on fundamental levels. Only then can the real issues in the marriage be addressed.
Back to Jane and Kevin: Me: What is one important thing that you would like Kevin to hear from you today? Jane: Hmm....I just want him (to Kevin) you to know that I feel really frustrated when you go out with the guys and leave me at home with the baby alone. Me: Kevin, what did you hear? Kevin: That she resents me for having any fun at all. Me: OK. Let's see. Jane, was that what you said? Jane: No. He's got it all wrong...Me: OK. Jane, were you saying you "resent" Kevin? Jane: No! Me: Were you saying you don't want him to "have any fun at all?" Jane: Absolutely not. Kevin: Really? Jane: Really. Me: OK. Let's try it again. And this time, Kevin, I want you to really open your mind to Jane, and pay lots of attention to the exact words she says, nothing more. OK? Kevin: OK.
After two more tries, Kevin is able to play back to Jane what her real concerns are, and the dialogue goes in a different, more connected direction. Why? Because, in this single interchange, I invited each of them to listen without motive: without wanting to win. Without wanting to convince, change, sway, correct or demoralize.
It is simply about listening to understand your partner. Just simply to understand.
I am clear that I'm not asking them to agree with one another.
I don't ask them to sanction the other's behavior or reasoning.
I simply want to start with basic understanding. In Jane and Kevin's case, it led to the understanding that Jane wanted more support with their 6-month-old daughter. She wasn't criticizing Kevin's fathering. She didn't resent him or want terminate his fun. To the contrary, she felt he was wonderful with their child. Jane just needed to tell Kevin--and for him to hear--that she needed more balance in the time they spent taking care of her.
With the need to be "right," or to persuade, vilify or defend out of the way, listening--real listening--can occur. It's an acquired skill for most, but a valuable one for all.
So, if you're not feeling heard by your spouse, or you get the feedback, "You're not listening to me," take a step back and ask yourself: am I really listening to understand? Am I planning my rebuttal even as my partner speaks? If so, take a deep breath and try again.
Does it always work? Well, "always" is a pretty drastic promise. But I can say, with some certainty, that you might learn something you haven't heard before. And, with the person you love the most in this world, that can be a reassuring start to better communication.
So, until next time, ears open! And thanks for listening.
Monday, July 23, 2012
For The Love Of Butterfat, Spitting Seeds & Other Simple Joys of Summer.
I had resisted it for several months. I knew no good would come of it. I would not be able to say no once it started. And yet, I did it anyway. I ordered an ice cream maker.
Not just any ice cream maker, mind you. The deluxe two-quart, automatic, no-ice, no-salt Cuisinart model.
And I couldn't leave it at that. At the online urging of over 500 reviewers, I also got the authentic Ben & Jerry's ice cream recipe book. The book that gives you only three options: a lot of butterfat, more butterfat, and the most butterfat recipes.
To me, summertime is homemade ice cream. I remember sweltering July evenings at my Uncle Bill and Aunt Vivian's house, taking turns hand-cranking the ice cream paddle, as Uncle Bill added ice and salt around the freezing container, and the cream and milk concoction inside magically turned--much too slowly for me--into a mouthful of summer.
Watermelon also spelled summer. Unlike homemade ice cream which was made in precious batches that seemed to be the size of thimbles, and was doled out in delicious but fleeting scoops, watermelon was the one dessert that we kids could have in abundance. The sheer size of the slices was enticing. The contrast between the air temperature of a Virginia summer night and a slice of iced melon was enough to lower your body heat index several points. Add family--particularly my cousin Mike from two houses away--and you not only had a cold treat; you had a competition: spitting seeds. The furthest. With the most accuracy. The highest. The most machine-gun-like.
The one thing both of these delicacies had in common, aside from being sticky and delicious--they were fun, made special by the fact they were seasonal. Because they weren't available every day, they became, by definition, fleeting joys.
So now, well into summer, I fervently gathered the ingredients mandated by Ben & Jerry, chilled them to the requisite temperature, waited a full 24 hours for the freezing insert to freeze solid, and then carefully--and with some tempered glee--whipped the eggs and sugar into a frenzy and combined them with enough fat calories to equal a bag of potato chips, two or three sugared lattes and at least one chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.
And then the magic began. With a click of the "on" switch, the motor began to whir, the freezer compartment began to turn, the paddle swam through the sea of cream and milk. Twenty-five minutes later: ice cream.
It was delicious. It was sinfully caloric. Frighteningly fatty. And altogether summer.
I am resigned to the fact that there will be several more batches this summer, and that, despite future efforts to reduce the butterfat content, they will still be fatty--and delicious. And summer.
This must be why divine providence makes homemade ice cream seasonal. It's certainly what makes it special.
Oh--and I don't want to forget to mention why we're talking about ice cream and watermelon here. Despite the fact that one is sinfully caloric and the other is juicy and messy--they, in my humble opinion, are stress reducers. For me, anyway, it's almost impossible to stress out over a scoop or two of French Vanilla or Orange Dream. Ditto for a cold slice of sweet watermelon.
They transport me back to a simpler time: a time of no schedules, no serious job commitments. A time when the biggest worry might be will it rain on the Fourth of July? Or, will our mothers let us walk--without adults--to the "Little Store" to get Double Colas?
Don't get me wrong. I like a certain amount of order in life. And I love my work. But summer brings back reminders of simple joys--and balance, between what needs to get done, and what is simply fun to get done.
I vote for a balance of both, and wish the same for you as summer stretches into August.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Not just any ice cream maker, mind you. The deluxe two-quart, automatic, no-ice, no-salt Cuisinart model.
And I couldn't leave it at that. At the online urging of over 500 reviewers, I also got the authentic Ben & Jerry's ice cream recipe book. The book that gives you only three options: a lot of butterfat, more butterfat, and the most butterfat recipes.
To me, summertime is homemade ice cream. I remember sweltering July evenings at my Uncle Bill and Aunt Vivian's house, taking turns hand-cranking the ice cream paddle, as Uncle Bill added ice and salt around the freezing container, and the cream and milk concoction inside magically turned--much too slowly for me--into a mouthful of summer.
Watermelon also spelled summer. Unlike homemade ice cream which was made in precious batches that seemed to be the size of thimbles, and was doled out in delicious but fleeting scoops, watermelon was the one dessert that we kids could have in abundance. The sheer size of the slices was enticing. The contrast between the air temperature of a Virginia summer night and a slice of iced melon was enough to lower your body heat index several points. Add family--particularly my cousin Mike from two houses away--and you not only had a cold treat; you had a competition: spitting seeds. The furthest. With the most accuracy. The highest. The most machine-gun-like.
The one thing both of these delicacies had in common, aside from being sticky and delicious--they were fun, made special by the fact they were seasonal. Because they weren't available every day, they became, by definition, fleeting joys.
So now, well into summer, I fervently gathered the ingredients mandated by Ben & Jerry, chilled them to the requisite temperature, waited a full 24 hours for the freezing insert to freeze solid, and then carefully--and with some tempered glee--whipped the eggs and sugar into a frenzy and combined them with enough fat calories to equal a bag of potato chips, two or three sugared lattes and at least one chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.
And then the magic began. With a click of the "on" switch, the motor began to whir, the freezer compartment began to turn, the paddle swam through the sea of cream and milk. Twenty-five minutes later: ice cream.
It was delicious. It was sinfully caloric. Frighteningly fatty. And altogether summer.
I am resigned to the fact that there will be several more batches this summer, and that, despite future efforts to reduce the butterfat content, they will still be fatty--and delicious. And summer.
This must be why divine providence makes homemade ice cream seasonal. It's certainly what makes it special.
Oh--and I don't want to forget to mention why we're talking about ice cream and watermelon here. Despite the fact that one is sinfully caloric and the other is juicy and messy--they, in my humble opinion, are stress reducers. For me, anyway, it's almost impossible to stress out over a scoop or two of French Vanilla or Orange Dream. Ditto for a cold slice of sweet watermelon.
They transport me back to a simpler time: a time of no schedules, no serious job commitments. A time when the biggest worry might be will it rain on the Fourth of July? Or, will our mothers let us walk--without adults--to the "Little Store" to get Double Colas?
Don't get me wrong. I like a certain amount of order in life. And I love my work. But summer brings back reminders of simple joys--and balance, between what needs to get done, and what is simply fun to get done.
I vote for a balance of both, and wish the same for you as summer stretches into August.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
To Kill A Mockingbird Or, Sitting With Tragedy That's Not Fiction.
I have recently taken the time to reread Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. I suppose it's been more than 40 years since I first read it. My grandmother, who died in 1972, was still alive; I remember talking with her about how unfair the events were, how hateful and judgemental many of the characters were. How sad the story was. How sad that, despite being fiction, it could have easily been fact.
If you haven't read the book, I won't spoil it for you. Suffice it to say, it's a novel about racial injustice, set in 1930's in the fictional deep-South town of Maycomb, Alabama. It's also a novel about social progress--painfully slow--but progress, nonetheless. It's also a story of learned kindness. It's a story so powerful and universal that the author, Haprer Lee, won the Pulitzer Prize for it, her first novel.
In the course of almost a decade of sitting with clients, I can remember many sessions as if they had concluded only this morning. As I've said in previous posts, I am honored that my clients entrust me with the truths about their lives: their insecurities, triumphs, disappointments--and sometimes the horrific events that would leave any human injured, cynical, emotionally scarred.
It's not an easy thing for clients to disclose the injustices of their experiences. Some are so embarrassed, so afraid of judgement, so emotionally bound to their injuries that it can take months of work to bring the pain to the surface so it can be dealt with.
This is part of the work of therapy. To help my clients process past psychic traumas in order to move through--possibly beyond them. The trauma never is erased. Just made less powerful, less present--hopefully, less painful.
In the book, in a pivotal passage about kindness and moral goodness, Miss Maudie one of Maycomb's more enlightened denizens imparts a seminal lesson of kindness to her young neighbor, Scout, also the book's nine-year-old narrator: Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in the corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.
And so it is with most children. And most good-hearted adults. I believe, in my heart, and from my experience, we're mostly good. Mostly kind. Mostly sensitive to others. Most of the time.
Yes, human beings can be unpleasant, even mean. And when humans inflict cruelty on others, the trauma can be devastating. And lasting.
And yet, healing can, and does, take place. In the arms of a loved one. Over countless coffees with a best friend. In sanctuary of a church or synagogue. Or in a therapy office.
As therapists, we hear the worst of what people can do to people. By definition, and of necessity, it comes with the territory. How do we hear it, sit with it, work with it, day in and day out?
For me, I take comfort in my steadfast belief in mockingbirds and the simple joy they bring. And, in the slow, but often sure progress that comes with healing.
And in those moments, I remind myself how privileged I am to sit in the therapist's chair. To all my clients who honor me with their stories, thank you.
Until next time.
If you haven't read the book, I won't spoil it for you. Suffice it to say, it's a novel about racial injustice, set in 1930's in the fictional deep-South town of Maycomb, Alabama. It's also a novel about social progress--painfully slow--but progress, nonetheless. It's also a story of learned kindness. It's a story so powerful and universal that the author, Haprer Lee, won the Pulitzer Prize for it, her first novel.
In the course of almost a decade of sitting with clients, I can remember many sessions as if they had concluded only this morning. As I've said in previous posts, I am honored that my clients entrust me with the truths about their lives: their insecurities, triumphs, disappointments--and sometimes the horrific events that would leave any human injured, cynical, emotionally scarred.
It's not an easy thing for clients to disclose the injustices of their experiences. Some are so embarrassed, so afraid of judgement, so emotionally bound to their injuries that it can take months of work to bring the pain to the surface so it can be dealt with.
This is part of the work of therapy. To help my clients process past psychic traumas in order to move through--possibly beyond them. The trauma never is erased. Just made less powerful, less present--hopefully, less painful.
In the book, in a pivotal passage about kindness and moral goodness, Miss Maudie one of Maycomb's more enlightened denizens imparts a seminal lesson of kindness to her young neighbor, Scout, also the book's nine-year-old narrator: Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in the corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.
And so it is with most children. And most good-hearted adults. I believe, in my heart, and from my experience, we're mostly good. Mostly kind. Mostly sensitive to others. Most of the time.
Yes, human beings can be unpleasant, even mean. And when humans inflict cruelty on others, the trauma can be devastating. And lasting.
And yet, healing can, and does, take place. In the arms of a loved one. Over countless coffees with a best friend. In sanctuary of a church or synagogue. Or in a therapy office.
As therapists, we hear the worst of what people can do to people. By definition, and of necessity, it comes with the territory. How do we hear it, sit with it, work with it, day in and day out?
For me, I take comfort in my steadfast belief in mockingbirds and the simple joy they bring. And, in the slow, but often sure progress that comes with healing.
And in those moments, I remind myself how privileged I am to sit in the therapist's chair. To all my clients who honor me with their stories, thank you.
Until next time.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Slowing Down, or "How Would You Know If Your Body Was Saying No?"
Summertime. A time when alot of us take a vacation. Time away from work, from our regular routines. Time to relax, recharge, reset.
Often, a vacation is exactly what we need to temporarily move out of work mode in order to give our bodies--and minds--a respite from daily stressors.
But, what if a vacation isn't enough? How would you know if you needed to do more than slow down for a week or two? And, what if you really needed to make a lasting change in the velocity of your life? How would you know? Where would you start?
Most twenty- and even thirty-somethings rarely think about slowing down. If anything, life is about wringing the most out of each moment, experience, opprotunity or relationship. "More" and "faster" are simply better. And, twenty-and thirty-year-olds, more often than not, have the physical stamina to keep up with their inner expectations.
As we age (can you tell I was recently called a "Senior?") our bodies often send us different--even disconcerting--messages regarding our ability to withstand stressors. Daily, repetitive mental stressors can take their toll in a variety of ways that often show up in a yearly physical (most healthcare plans, even the bare-bones plans, provide for a yearly "wellness" exams. If you're not sure, ask!) The effects of stress and what I call "time-starvation" (not enought time to do everything) can show up in the form of elevated blood pressure, weight gain, aches and pains, insomnia, and a variety of other somatic (bodily) symptoms that might not point to anything by themselves, but add up to a wake-up call in the aggregate.
So your doctor says, "you need to slow down, cut back, de-stress." A reasonable question is, "How?"
Just as weight loss requires a lifestyle change (or at least a change in one's relationship with food), so "stress loss" requires a change in your relationship with yourself--your professional expectations, physical expectations, relationship expectations, and possibly even an adjustment of your self image.
Sound like alot? The longer-term alternatives could be chronic stress, obesity, headaches, bowel disorders, high blood pressure, depression--even death. Stress, untreated, can literally be a killer.
Obviously, therapy can be a healthy start to treating stress and making life changes to reduce it. If you're thinking of taking steps to de-stress your life a bit, here are some questions to consider:
*how many hours a week do I devote to work?
*how many hours of vigorous (make you sweat) exercise do I get on a regular weekly basis?
*how stressful are my primary relationships (partner, children, colleagues)?
*have others commented about my stress/anger/health?
*how many hours do I devote to activities that renew me (hobbies, passions)?
*when was the last time I had any solitary--me--time?
If you can't remember when you even addressed the above questions, it might be useful to sit down--and write down the answers. At least begin the conversation with yourself. If you're wondering if you're stressed out, ask someone close to you for an honest opinion.
The road to stress-reduction starts with the understanding that maybe--just maybe--you're cramming too much into your life--and enjoying it less.
And, if your life feels mostly like the opposite of a vacation, it might be time to slow down and see how you might begin to put things back into balance. The good news is, you took on your life obligations--you're the one who can prioritize and, if needed, reduce them.
Until next time, thanks for listening. Enjoy your vactation.
Often, a vacation is exactly what we need to temporarily move out of work mode in order to give our bodies--and minds--a respite from daily stressors.
But, what if a vacation isn't enough? How would you know if you needed to do more than slow down for a week or two? And, what if you really needed to make a lasting change in the velocity of your life? How would you know? Where would you start?
Most twenty- and even thirty-somethings rarely think about slowing down. If anything, life is about wringing the most out of each moment, experience, opprotunity or relationship. "More" and "faster" are simply better. And, twenty-and thirty-year-olds, more often than not, have the physical stamina to keep up with their inner expectations.
As we age (can you tell I was recently called a "Senior?") our bodies often send us different--even disconcerting--messages regarding our ability to withstand stressors. Daily, repetitive mental stressors can take their toll in a variety of ways that often show up in a yearly physical (most healthcare plans, even the bare-bones plans, provide for a yearly "wellness" exams. If you're not sure, ask!) The effects of stress and what I call "time-starvation" (not enought time to do everything) can show up in the form of elevated blood pressure, weight gain, aches and pains, insomnia, and a variety of other somatic (bodily) symptoms that might not point to anything by themselves, but add up to a wake-up call in the aggregate.
So your doctor says, "you need to slow down, cut back, de-stress." A reasonable question is, "How?"
Just as weight loss requires a lifestyle change (or at least a change in one's relationship with food), so "stress loss" requires a change in your relationship with yourself--your professional expectations, physical expectations, relationship expectations, and possibly even an adjustment of your self image.
Sound like alot? The longer-term alternatives could be chronic stress, obesity, headaches, bowel disorders, high blood pressure, depression--even death. Stress, untreated, can literally be a killer.
Obviously, therapy can be a healthy start to treating stress and making life changes to reduce it. If you're thinking of taking steps to de-stress your life a bit, here are some questions to consider:
*how many hours a week do I devote to work?
*how many hours of vigorous (make you sweat) exercise do I get on a regular weekly basis?
*how stressful are my primary relationships (partner, children, colleagues)?
*have others commented about my stress/anger/health?
*how many hours do I devote to activities that renew me (hobbies, passions)?
*when was the last time I had any solitary--me--time?
If you can't remember when you even addressed the above questions, it might be useful to sit down--and write down the answers. At least begin the conversation with yourself. If you're wondering if you're stressed out, ask someone close to you for an honest opinion.
The road to stress-reduction starts with the understanding that maybe--just maybe--you're cramming too much into your life--and enjoying it less.
And, if your life feels mostly like the opposite of a vacation, it might be time to slow down and see how you might begin to put things back into balance. The good news is, you took on your life obligations--you're the one who can prioritize and, if needed, reduce them.
Until next time, thanks for listening. Enjoy your vactation.
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