Last night I was feeling very stressed and self-critical because of a story I read on the interwebs machine, and especially the harsh comments afterwards. It's enough, that I already chastise myself constantly and feel physically debilitated because of putting on an excessive amount of weight in the past year and a half. To read the horrible comments that suggested everything short of suicide as an appropriate punishment for obesity, the scourge of all human conditions, the worst possible thing that a person can do to herself, put me in the frame of mind for great self-flagellation while trying to go to sleep. That was interspersed with repeated protestations from the tiny, squeaky voice rising from somewhere in the vicinity of my pancreas, saying "I'm not that bad, I'm not hopeless, I'll do better, really I will, just don't beat me anymore."
A modest breakfast of yogurt and fruit, with a cup of stout English tea, followed by a brisk walk through the woods, up and down hills with Buddy boy, gave me a great start to my 8,794th new life of moderation and good health. I can even look forward to the delivery of my farm-fresh produce box this afternoon.
Straightening up the front room, I pick up a magazine from several weeks ago that I hadn't read yet. It was early. I still had plenty of time to do laundry and get to the writing I'm going to do. I could flip through it while I had a mid-morning snack, maybe an apple. An hour later, I had read the magazine and eaten a good bit of ice cream and polished off Jill's uber-healthy, expensive whole food potato chips. Really? REALLY?
It's not that I didn't know what I was doing. It's that I didn't interrupt the impulse. And that ----- that is how addiction works.
One would assume, but one would be wrong, that having almost 32 years of recovery from alcohol and drug addiction would give a person every possible tool, desire, impetus and strategy for sloughing off other troublesome addictive behaviors. Alas.
Were the consequences so much greater all those years ago, that I was willing to go through the inevitable withdrawal and very steep learning curve, in order to stop drinking? I had tried many times before, but one day it worked and I never picked up again. Over the years I've been troubled by other self-destructive behaviors that I have since been able to put to rest. But this ---- I don't know what it will take.
Nobody ever got "better" about anything by being yelled at and beaten. When I had kids who had learning problems, I didn't stand over them telling them they were stupid and hopeless and would never learn anything. But I don't seem to be able to stop yelling at myself and launching into yet another cycle of seeking relief in the very thing that is most likely to kill me in the end.
Someday, unless the pols succeed in banishing science altogether, the brain scientists may get this all figured out and work hand in hand with the behavioral scientists to develop effective treatments for such stubbornly resistant subjects as I. I hope they do, and I wish I'd still be around to reap the benefits. In the meantime, though, it is not helpful or effective for me or anyone else to view this as anything but the vicious addictive cycle that it is.
I've got will power. I've got knowledge. I've got desire. What I don't have, is any defense against that first mouthful.
No wisdom here today. No humor, either.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Garden of Solitude
I had a friend who used to say that he had moved from the "desert of loneliness to the garden of solitude". While he has since moved on to the garden beyond, I hold those words very close in my heart. That description was a lasting gift from Julian to me.
It's been a week of being busy outside of the house for me, and today I am steadfast in my resolve to spend time alone. I took Mama to daycare early so that it would be cool enough for a walk in the woods with Buddy. We've been missing our walks for the past six days.
For me, there is always the danger of becoming unmotivated to do the things that are best for me, if I go on hiatus for awhile. I don't know what that is ---- some internal bent toward self-destruction, or just plain laziness and sloth ---- but going six days without walking was right on the borderline of saying what the hell, and giving it up entirely.
By 8:10 Buddy and I were parking on North Hills Drive to try another link of the Ironwood Trail that we hadn't walked before. I knew where it would end up, but we were starting from another point. Buddy has missed his walks terribly and was positively jubilant when we got on the trail. He didn't know what to sniff first, and couldn't stop prancing back and forth across the path. To my surprise, I felt much the same way. We were no sooner out of sight of the road than I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time in days. There was a ferocious wind and rain storm last night, so the trees were dripping in the early morning sun, the usually quiescent stream was out of its banks and careening toward Crabtree Creek. The damp earth and clean air combined to give the forest the sense of having been freshly scrubbed, ready for whatever adventures the new day would bring. And that is how I felt as well.
The first three decades of my life, I spent a fair amount of time outdoors. My mother was of the old-school in believing that children needed to play outside whenever possible. Since there were no toys outside, we devised our own games and star-studded theatricals. We could take a few things out with us --- toy dishes, tricycles, dolls. But for the most part we used what we found ---- sticks make admirable guns and swords for pirates, cowboys, cops and robbers. Jumpropes were good for everything from defining boundaries to tying up bad guys. And there's really no way to cook up a three course dinner without plenty of flowers, grass, seeds, and mud. If the sky hadn't provided water lately, there was always the yard pump or the garden hose.
Somehow, playing outside, even though I was scared of bugs and spiders from an early age, was the memory that has survived the longest. Perhaps that's because it was so sensory laden. Perhaps it was the level of attention I gave it; I was absorbed completely in whatever I was doing.
The need to be outside in order to feel whole carried over into adulthood, to some extent, though it started to be extinguished during my twenties. I still went for long, solitary walks by riverbanks and through parks. Whenever I was overcome with feelings that needed to spill, I sought the out of doors. More than once, I literally hugged trees. There were also escapades aplenty as I grew older, the ones that necessitated secrecy and subterfuge. Where better than a lonely beach or abandoned farmhouse, neglected walled garden or secluded forest to indulge in activities that were off limits? Skinny dipping in the river, smoking pot in the old barn, and let's not forget parking in the corn fields. I didn't get sober till I was thirty, so there was plenty of opportunity for scrapes and scrambles with illicit company in the great out-of-doors. Did I mention cemeteries? Nighttime on the golf course?
From thirty to sixty I was busy, too busy for all that messing around in the mud. Even taking children to the park seemed like an imposition on my very busy life. It's amazing that they got outdoors at all. I haven't ever talked to them about their memories of indoor/outdoor life ---- that will be an interesting conversation or two. I do know that both of them enjoy plenty of outdoor activities now, as adults. Making a living and raising kids, trying to run a business, stay sober, tend to everyday family life, kept me indoors and on the run for most of my middle decades. There were exceptions: some camping here and there, visits to state parks and lakes, trips to the beach. But somehow, when my life already felt so chaotic, nature did not feel restorative, it felt untamed, unpredictable, dangerous. There might be enormous, scary bugs in the woods, or murderers and rapists on the greenways. And anyway, I just didn't have time.
So now, once again, I'm back full circle. I haven't made any mud pies, but I've certainly been floating sticks and leaves in the creeks and running along the bank to watch them float through the rapids. I don't stay out playing in the long grass till I'm covered with sunburn and mosquito bites, but I smell the trees and flowers and listen for birdsongs, watch the fledgling cardinals in the backyard and hold very still to see the doe and her fawns cross the stream close by. Maybe one of these days I'll fling myself down in the grass to watch the clouds, or roll down a velvety hill to make myself giggle. I've been known to make a snow angel, winter before last.
What I hope is that the child of wonder who still resides within and the natural world that never stopped rocking along without, will continue to converge. For me, that's the best of all worlds.
It's been a week of being busy outside of the house for me, and today I am steadfast in my resolve to spend time alone. I took Mama to daycare early so that it would be cool enough for a walk in the woods with Buddy. We've been missing our walks for the past six days.
For me, there is always the danger of becoming unmotivated to do the things that are best for me, if I go on hiatus for awhile. I don't know what that is ---- some internal bent toward self-destruction, or just plain laziness and sloth ---- but going six days without walking was right on the borderline of saying what the hell, and giving it up entirely.
By 8:10 Buddy and I were parking on North Hills Drive to try another link of the Ironwood Trail that we hadn't walked before. I knew where it would end up, but we were starting from another point. Buddy has missed his walks terribly and was positively jubilant when we got on the trail. He didn't know what to sniff first, and couldn't stop prancing back and forth across the path. To my surprise, I felt much the same way. We were no sooner out of sight of the road than I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time in days. There was a ferocious wind and rain storm last night, so the trees were dripping in the early morning sun, the usually quiescent stream was out of its banks and careening toward Crabtree Creek. The damp earth and clean air combined to give the forest the sense of having been freshly scrubbed, ready for whatever adventures the new day would bring. And that is how I felt as well.
The first three decades of my life, I spent a fair amount of time outdoors. My mother was of the old-school in believing that children needed to play outside whenever possible. Since there were no toys outside, we devised our own games and star-studded theatricals. We could take a few things out with us --- toy dishes, tricycles, dolls. But for the most part we used what we found ---- sticks make admirable guns and swords for pirates, cowboys, cops and robbers. Jumpropes were good for everything from defining boundaries to tying up bad guys. And there's really no way to cook up a three course dinner without plenty of flowers, grass, seeds, and mud. If the sky hadn't provided water lately, there was always the yard pump or the garden hose.
Somehow, playing outside, even though I was scared of bugs and spiders from an early age, was the memory that has survived the longest. Perhaps that's because it was so sensory laden. Perhaps it was the level of attention I gave it; I was absorbed completely in whatever I was doing.
The need to be outside in order to feel whole carried over into adulthood, to some extent, though it started to be extinguished during my twenties. I still went for long, solitary walks by riverbanks and through parks. Whenever I was overcome with feelings that needed to spill, I sought the out of doors. More than once, I literally hugged trees. There were also escapades aplenty as I grew older, the ones that necessitated secrecy and subterfuge. Where better than a lonely beach or abandoned farmhouse, neglected walled garden or secluded forest to indulge in activities that were off limits? Skinny dipping in the river, smoking pot in the old barn, and let's not forget parking in the corn fields. I didn't get sober till I was thirty, so there was plenty of opportunity for scrapes and scrambles with illicit company in the great out-of-doors. Did I mention cemeteries? Nighttime on the golf course?
From thirty to sixty I was busy, too busy for all that messing around in the mud. Even taking children to the park seemed like an imposition on my very busy life. It's amazing that they got outdoors at all. I haven't ever talked to them about their memories of indoor/outdoor life ---- that will be an interesting conversation or two. I do know that both of them enjoy plenty of outdoor activities now, as adults. Making a living and raising kids, trying to run a business, stay sober, tend to everyday family life, kept me indoors and on the run for most of my middle decades. There were exceptions: some camping here and there, visits to state parks and lakes, trips to the beach. But somehow, when my life already felt so chaotic, nature did not feel restorative, it felt untamed, unpredictable, dangerous. There might be enormous, scary bugs in the woods, or murderers and rapists on the greenways. And anyway, I just didn't have time.
So now, once again, I'm back full circle. I haven't made any mud pies, but I've certainly been floating sticks and leaves in the creeks and running along the bank to watch them float through the rapids. I don't stay out playing in the long grass till I'm covered with sunburn and mosquito bites, but I smell the trees and flowers and listen for birdsongs, watch the fledgling cardinals in the backyard and hold very still to see the doe and her fawns cross the stream close by. Maybe one of these days I'll fling myself down in the grass to watch the clouds, or roll down a velvety hill to make myself giggle. I've been known to make a snow angel, winter before last.
What I hope is that the child of wonder who still resides within and the natural world that never stopped rocking along without, will continue to converge. For me, that's the best of all worlds.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Clarion Call!
First of all, Greenland is melting. Yes, really melting in a big way in just the past few weeks. It astounds me that nobody is talking about that very much. It seems like some of the biggest news out there, and I'm not being an alarmist. All of a sudden something like 97% of the ice has melted. What in the world??
All I can say about that is, it's a good thing the North Carolina legislature decided that a rise in ocean level is not a problem we need to plan for. Pretty soon, I'll have beach front property without even having to move. We can rent out our Raleigh beach house and make a lot of money and buy a place in the mountains!
Ah, the Mountains. Jill and I just spent 3 nights in a 100 year old fishing cabin above the New River. It was great! When you walk in the door, it smells like 100 years worth of fires in the huge stone fireplace. The cabin's logs were hand hewn. Of course it was updated, a kitchen and bath added (very tiny) and it even had internet. And there was the hot tub out back in a little covered gazebo. I don't believe that was original to the property.
We went to the mountains for "respite" ----- that's a big word in the caregiving business. I've been learning a whole new vocabulary since taking Mom in to live with us nine months ago. We definitely were in need of some respite. It's one of those situations where you don't know how much you need it until you do it. Though Mom had spent a couple of weekends with my sister Barb, we had not been away by ourselves for the whole nine months. When we're at home, even if she's asleep, there's never a sense of being alone. She's always popping up and when she does, she requires constant, though subtle, supervision. It's a tricky dance we do, keeping a watchful eye while letting her feel like she's independent. You never know what she's going to do next.
People with little kids are thinking, yeah, yeah, whatever. Try a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and an infant. And that's certainly true. I've raised kids and I remember how relentless and tiring that is. They're every bit as likely to hurt themselves and be unpredictable as a demented old person. The difference is, that they learn (hopefully) from experience. Mom can't even remember what she did or said 5 minutes ago. There is no learning taking place, there are no memories being created. Every moment is in the now and when it's gone, it's gone. She can't explain what she was thinking or how she's feeling.
The past few days at daycare, she's thrown hissy fits over nothing that anyone can figure out. She's been destructive and mean, cussing at the staff, trying to break things, trying to escape. It's entirely out of character for her. I've had to pick her up early and she has no memory of what happened. She says, sorrowfully and sincerely, "I don't want to do that. I'm sorry." and I know that's true. The mother who raised me, who taught me right from wrong and how to behave, would be mortified if she could see herself now. It is truly heartbreaking to watch.
While we were "respiting" in the mountains, I left it all behind --- the stress, sadness, exasperation, confusion, anger and fear over my mother's condition. I was able to be in the moment with Jill, to reconnect with my wife, the woman I love to love, and felt immeasurably grateful for everything from the beauty of the countryside to the luxury of a king-sized bed. I left the worry behind, but not the awareness. I found myself haunted, as I am so often, with thoughts of how immediate and precious all of life is to me now. Will I be my mother in 10 or 15 years? Will Jill have to do for me what I do for Mom every day?
It's not a worry so much as a call to attention. This day is well and truly mine. How do I want to spend it? Will I work myself up into a lather over Chik-fil-A and electoral politics? Even Greenland, that really and truly feels like a canary, no, more like Big Bird with a megaphone, in the coal mine for our planet --- even that is not something I will allow myself to lose serenity over.
I can't control what happens in the big world, but I can keep tabs on my inner universe. And my choice today is to be here now and breathe.
All I can say about that is, it's a good thing the North Carolina legislature decided that a rise in ocean level is not a problem we need to plan for. Pretty soon, I'll have beach front property without even having to move. We can rent out our Raleigh beach house and make a lot of money and buy a place in the mountains!
Ah, the Mountains. Jill and I just spent 3 nights in a 100 year old fishing cabin above the New River. It was great! When you walk in the door, it smells like 100 years worth of fires in the huge stone fireplace. The cabin's logs were hand hewn. Of course it was updated, a kitchen and bath added (very tiny) and it even had internet. And there was the hot tub out back in a little covered gazebo. I don't believe that was original to the property.
We went to the mountains for "respite" ----- that's a big word in the caregiving business. I've been learning a whole new vocabulary since taking Mom in to live with us nine months ago. We definitely were in need of some respite. It's one of those situations where you don't know how much you need it until you do it. Though Mom had spent a couple of weekends with my sister Barb, we had not been away by ourselves for the whole nine months. When we're at home, even if she's asleep, there's never a sense of being alone. She's always popping up and when she does, she requires constant, though subtle, supervision. It's a tricky dance we do, keeping a watchful eye while letting her feel like she's independent. You never know what she's going to do next.
People with little kids are thinking, yeah, yeah, whatever. Try a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and an infant. And that's certainly true. I've raised kids and I remember how relentless and tiring that is. They're every bit as likely to hurt themselves and be unpredictable as a demented old person. The difference is, that they learn (hopefully) from experience. Mom can't even remember what she did or said 5 minutes ago. There is no learning taking place, there are no memories being created. Every moment is in the now and when it's gone, it's gone. She can't explain what she was thinking or how she's feeling.
The past few days at daycare, she's thrown hissy fits over nothing that anyone can figure out. She's been destructive and mean, cussing at the staff, trying to break things, trying to escape. It's entirely out of character for her. I've had to pick her up early and she has no memory of what happened. She says, sorrowfully and sincerely, "I don't want to do that. I'm sorry." and I know that's true. The mother who raised me, who taught me right from wrong and how to behave, would be mortified if she could see herself now. It is truly heartbreaking to watch.
While we were "respiting" in the mountains, I left it all behind --- the stress, sadness, exasperation, confusion, anger and fear over my mother's condition. I was able to be in the moment with Jill, to reconnect with my wife, the woman I love to love, and felt immeasurably grateful for everything from the beauty of the countryside to the luxury of a king-sized bed. I left the worry behind, but not the awareness. I found myself haunted, as I am so often, with thoughts of how immediate and precious all of life is to me now. Will I be my mother in 10 or 15 years? Will Jill have to do for me what I do for Mom every day?
It's not a worry so much as a call to attention. This day is well and truly mine. How do I want to spend it? Will I work myself up into a lather over Chik-fil-A and electoral politics? Even Greenland, that really and truly feels like a canary, no, more like Big Bird with a megaphone, in the coal mine for our planet --- even that is not something I will allow myself to lose serenity over.
I can't control what happens in the big world, but I can keep tabs on my inner universe. And my choice today is to be here now and breathe.
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