Contentment

You know how sometimes a word or a phrase will start popping onto your awareness? It seems really random. You haven’t noticed that letter or word configuration in ages and then suddenly it shows up in the newspaper, someone speaks it in conversation, and you come across it in an article in Oprah. For me, recently, that word is contentment.

In contemplating it, I’ve decided that contentment is a word that’s just the teeniest bit ambiguous. I mean we all want contentment, right? But is it enough? Let’s face it, it could even be considered on the bland end of the well-being spectrum. It’s not euphoria, or happiness, or even serenity. In fact, when you compare contentment to euphoria it seems, well, a bit lame and boring. Hmmm.

I decided to look it up in the dictionary. Contentment – The state of being contented: satisfaction. So, naturally, I had to look up the definition of Satisfaction – 1. a. The fulfillment or gratification of a need, desire, or appetite. b. Pleasure derived from such gratification.

That got me thinking (always a tenuous excursion) about whether I’m satisfied with my life and, if so, whether that defined my contentment.

What I’ve decided to take away is that contentment, for me at least, is great -- for the short term. I really enjoy feeling satisfied with my work on a project, with my spiritual development, or with my personal relationships. But what I’ve gradually discovered is that to be ultimately “content” I need to keep moving forward.

My contentment is not about long-term status quo, but rather embracing satisfaction for today, this week, or even this month, but then stretching out there a bit when the itch of dissatisfaction starts wiggling its way onto my internal radar. That stretch toward a new goal or a greater level of connection pulls me forward to the next plane of my contentment and that’s what leads to truly satisfying gratification.

Euphoria may be the fleeting Angelina Jolie of well-being, but contentment is the Jennifer Aniston-- dependable, reassuring, and real.

I’ve concluded that my contentment, by its very nature, remains a work in progress, but I’ve come to realize it’s the trek itself that I find gratifying.

Time + Distance = No Change

Not long ago I had the great good fortune to be able to spend two evenings in a row with most of my closest high school friends. While it hasn’t been decades since we’ve been together, it doesn’t happen often, so two nights in a row was a pretty big deal. And pretty big fun.

One thing I truly find amazing is how quickly we reconnect. We fall right back in step almost like we were walking down the halls of HHS again. We are all such distinctly different personalities, living a variety of lifestyles, yet something melded all those years ago, forging a bond that remains unshaken by time, trials, distance, or absence. Perhaps it has something to do with sharing the formative years when everything from boredom with school, to one’s love life, to friendship, was felt with tremendous intensity.

Or maybe it’s because we share something so precious that it’s impossible to reproduce. We share a history. That allows us to reconvene with a gratifying level of acceptance. There is no judgment between us, at least none that I perceive, and no pretense either. It would be pointless. We know each other too well. We are, after all -- us. We were there during sleepovers and séances, crises of the heart and/or grounding, first beer, first love, and, well you know the rest. We were together at school in classes and clubs. After school we heightened the energy crisis by ceaselessly cruising “The Ville.” We’d finally go home only to get on the phone to touch base again. We would have considered Facebook a gift from God.

It wasn’t always idyllic. In fact it often wasn’t, but our friendships were breathtakingly vital to us. We absolutely needed each other in ways that I can’t say I totally understand, but I certainly do recall with complete clarity.

Our group has splintered a bit geographically, but emotionally? Never. We stay in touch, sporadically with words, but always with hearts. We have lived enough to know that life can be a tenuous proposition. People change and friendships end. But that doesn’t worry us because ours are committed relationships. We’re in it for the long haul. We accept what’s past, offer support in the present, and hold hope for a bright and bountiful future.

I am blessed to have my ya ya sisters in my tribe. You know who you are. Thank you. Love you. Always.

Signs Signs Everywhere Signs

I‘m one of those people who is always looking for a sign. That leads to two things. First, I wonder if I see signs everywhere. Second, I over-analyze to the point when I suspect none of them are really signs after all. Yes, I’m aware there is probably a DSM-IV diagnosis that fits, but let’s not go there.

I spend a lot of time and energy pondering the meaning and purpose of my life. Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing in terms of vocation? Am I serving my highest purpose? All the while I’m parallel praying that I’m not! Thus, I seek THE SIGN. I just wish it would come in the form of certified mail to remove any risk of misinterpretation.

The other morning when I got to the office, I immediately noticed a teeny configuration of yellow eggs (at least I think they’re some kind of egg) in the shape of a fish on my window. What? See the attached photo for yourself. No? Squint a little bit. Ah, there it is, right? I figure this must be a sign, kind of like the spider web in “Charlotte’s Web,” or the Virgin Mary toast. But what does it mean? Is it a sign of rebirth (if they are in fact eggs)? Is it a spiritual omen (think Jesus fish)? Should I “swim” away from my desk? Am I destined to be a marine biologist? Actually, probably not that one given my phobia of green water.

I continue to search for potential fish significance, but I remind myself that while it’s fine to wait for new directions and adventures, it’s most important to actively participate in my present life – every single day. My world is filled with signs of abundance and love and I’m oh-so-grateful for them. In my search for ever-greater fulfillment and satisfaction, I must not forget to acknowledge and appreciate the great gifts I’ve already received.

In all honesty, I think I’ll always seek new directions, no matter what adventures unfold. I guess that’s not a bad thing. Whatever signs I get, whether via mailbox or window aquarium, I just want to be ready and aware, so I get it right. So far I’m not getting any strong vibes on what the fish means. I’ll keep you posted if anything shows up on my toast in the morning.

Holding On and Letting Go

Recently I was pondering a situation about which I felt conflicted. I was practicing looking at it objectively from all vantage points, which is, of course, impossible. Still, I pretend. Anyway, while wrangling it all around in my head, it occurred to me that the entire dilemma could be pared down to the very basic issue of holding on versus letting go. I found that enlightening. I was shocked that it could be quite that simple. So, I extrapolated a bit and I came to the realization that life is absolutely filled with contrasts that, when stripped down to their bare essences, are about that same dichotomy.

Anger is a prime example of the struggle between the part of you that knows it’s an exhausting and destructive force that you should let go of, and the part of you that wants to hold on to it and cradle it against your heart like a newborn. Holding on to anger lets you feel right, strong, and superior. Letting go just lets you feel good.

Fear is another example. Most of us have some fear of change. We hold on to it to keep from having to push forward and stretch out of our box. We may call it caution or practicality or being sensible, but changing the name doesn’t really change the emotion. We hold on to fear because it’s a known quantity and it’s familiar. It’s like being in 3rd grade and hanging out with the mean kid who calls you names and always makes you run after the ball. Better to hang with him and be abused than to risk dumping him and ending up alone in the unknown. Holding on --- letting go.

One of my personal favorites is hanging on to the past. Who among us hasn’t got that down to an art form? It’s as if we think that by mentally rewriting the script about a bazillion times, we might someday created a revised version of reality. Um-hm, that’s a great use of time and energy.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the ever popular parent/child conundrum. Children grow up and struggle to find the navigable path between holding on to Mom or Dad and letting go to step into their own world. And, you know it’s coming, parents have to face their own (much, much more challenging if you ask me) struggle of holding on to the most precious beings God ever contemplated, to keep them safe and secure and close, versus letting them go so that they might take a risk, fall flat, and become active participants in creating their destiny. Whew! It’s enough to wear me out.

For the last few years I’ve been seeking to learn more about balance. Yin and yang. I believe holding on and letting go is just another verse to that song. Neither holding on nor letting go can be absolute, but rather both function as counterpoints to help us find that sweet spot of equilibrium and contentment. Sometimes it still feels like a walk on a high wire, but I’m learning to relax my grip and move forward into the challenge.

Just Because

I’m not a particularly political person. Oh, I have opinions, of course. Some of them are well thought out and researched, others not so much. Sometimes it’s just because. That’s one good reason you’ll seldom catch me in a debate. It’s pretty hard to defend your stance when the crux of your argument is “just because.” But the oil cataclysm in the gulf has left even me feeling vocal. No doubt that is due in part to my family having visited there early in April. We visited Fort Morgan Beach in Alabama. It was absolutely beautiful. We walked the white sand beaches and watched dolphins play in the waves. Behind the dolphins, interrupting the horizon, were oil rigs. Now, watching the endless billowing flow of underwater oil and the dazed and oil-doused wildlife on CNN, I feel a keener sense of loss, as though that ecosystem is somehow more “mine,” than I would have felt a year ago.

I don’t have the answers are as to how to rescue this area of water and land and its living organisms, including the people whose livelihoods are now obliterated. I’m not sure it’s possible. But one thing I feel especially sorrowful about is that the whole country is focused now and demanding action, but what about before? Why didn’t we demand more active formulation of alternative energy sources? Just imagine the strides forward we will make if we invest just a fraction of what will be spent on this recovery on promoting wind farms or use of solar energy instead. We are complacent, soaking up ever-increasing billions of gallons of oil and empowering those who will reap monstrous profits from our consumption.

I drive as much as the next person. I like my home warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I know it’s not going to be easy, and I know it’s not going to solve the big problem, but I’m willing to make some changes, including learning more about alternative energy sources. And if anyone asks me why, I’ll have more to say than, “just because.”

My Trio of Sheroes

Someone commented recently about heroes and “sheroes” and it got me thinking about mine. There are many people I admire, but when thinking about famous people whom I aspire to be like, I came up with three right off the bat, Martha Beck, Anne Lamott, and Georgia O’Keeffe.

I fell in love with the art of Georgia O’Keeffe when I was a young girl. Then, pretty much like now, I really didn’t know much about art, but her work was the first that really moved me. I can’t draw, so there’s absolutely no endeavoring on my part to emulate her as an artist, but over the years I’ve read a lot about her and I truly admire her spirit as a woman. She was always a bit different, but in spite of pulls to conform, Georgia remained true to herself. For years I yearned to visit her home, Ghost Ranch, in New Mexico. Last fall I finally made the trip. It was fabulous. Even the drive there was incredible. The scenery is spectacular and I crave it still. As I walked around the ranch, I was amazed that it felt at once immense and intimate. I marveled at how challenging life must have been when Georgia moved there 70+ years ago. She was isolated from her friends and family. She had none of the modern comforts. Yet she felt at home there, so there she stayed. Her passion for her work, her absolute need to express herself through her art, was ultimately rewarding, both monetarily and in acclaim, but it cost her a great deal, too. Maybe that’s always the case. Anyway, she was who she was and she never wavered. She motored on even when it was very, very difficult. My favorite Georgia quote is, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life – and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” If that’s not heroic, then I don’t know what is.

Martha Beck is the reason I become a Life Coach. Although I’ve come to realize that my mom coached people for years while sitting at our kitchen table. She just didn’t call it that. As far as she was concerned she was just being a good friend, but many people benefited from her ability to truly listen. That’s what coaching is about really, intense listening, and Mom was a champion.

But Martha is the first person I knew of who called it Life Coaching (see www.marthabeck.com). From the first time I read her work, I liked her style and her commitment to helping people. She makes it her business to help others dig through the sludge of fear and doubt that heap onto our truest desires to keep them from bubbling up to the surface. She is a cut-to-the-chase, matter-of-fact sort of woman who, despite incredible obstacles, has evolved into a brand that signifies self-care and self-actualization. I would love to touch and empower even a fraction of the number of people she has.

Finally, Anne Lamott, one of my all time best friends, even though we’ve never met face to face. She lives and writes the way I dream of doing, if only I had her talent, faith and courage! Her life is literally an open book. I guess that’s the reason I feel I know her well enough to call her friend. She is someone with whom I believe I could sit, have a glass of wine, and share anything. The reason for that is that she accepts people, and herself, as they are, unconditionally. She never holds back when spilling the sometimes frightening and hurtful facts about her feelings and actions, but still she manages to love herself. That’s why she leaves her readers feeling loved, too. Her soul-baring work provides comfort by inviting us close to the mirror where in our mind’s eye and ear we can see our reflection next to hers and hear her say, “In spite of it all, we’re okay. I love us.” Annie is all good and knowing that makes me better.

These three women, so different in background and style, are similar in that they have had intense struggles, yet they kept moving forward, sometimes stumbling ahead rather than gliding, but continuing to stride nevertheless. They were at times, devalued, wounded, and held down, but they didn’t quit. Many others, in far less public forums, have that same spirit. As I’ve gotten older (not to say old --- just older!) I’ve come to realize that the spirit of those who came before us and those who walk alongside us really does fill us if we open ourselves to it. The heroics are not reserved for the famous people who obtain incredible success. That’s awesome, for sure, but heroic acts of sacrifice, commitment, and courage are happening all around us every day. Even in our own little worlds. Even by us. Take the time to recognize that survival spirit in yourself and others. It flows through you and out of you as you stride, stroll, or stumble into the next act of your unique and unpredictable life.

Rooted at Home

The other day I was sitting on our deck. That in itself is a rarity, but not only was I just sitting there, I wasn’t doing anything. I wasn’t reading. I wasn’t talking on the phone. I was just sitting there contemplating. I’m making an effort to spend more time being still and quiet.

My eyes landed on a particular tree in our backyard. It’s right next to the swing set/playhouse that, for some inexplicable reason, still stands, even though our children are hardly that anymore. I noted that the tree is three or four times as tall as the swing set, when it once was the same height. It brought to mind the first days of residence in our home. We moved in when our oldest was three, almost four, and I was six weeks away from delivering our bouncing baby girl, the one who now is merely days away from 17.

I marveled at how tall the tree had grown. Scenes from our life together floated into focus. I remember our son driving his battery powered jeep around the yard while Dad followed with the camcorder and I carried our new baby girl. When we watch that video, as we have many times, that tree is in the background, still pliable and fragile. In the footage of baby girl taking her first steps the tree is a little taller, a little sturdier, but still very much in its youth. In later photos of baseball playing kids, the tree is twice as tall as the swing set. And so it goes through the history of our little corner of the world.

As I stared at the now majestic and towering tree, I recognized how beautiful it is and how it is rather like the four of us. It mirrors our evolution. All the while our young family was growing and developing, so was that tree. Like us it has weathered sunny days and stormy times, but it grew to be strong and resilient. Like us, it has some twists and imperfections, but you only see those when you look really hard. And, in fact, they only add to the character and appeal of its appearance. Perhaps a tree grown in a climate-controlled greenhouse, where everything is optimal, can become a perfect specimen with no flaws, but our tree triumphed not in an artificial environment, but in the real world. We are triumphing, too, I think. We four branch out as separate individuals, living independent lives, but at our foundation, like the trunk of our old tree, we come together to form a solid base from which to draw strength.

Like our tree we’re still growing and reaching higher. We don’t know all the different ways we’ll branch out and bloom, but I’m pretty sure we’ll always find comfort and strength in being firmly rooted at home.

Positively Mean

My husband recently had an unfortunate incident that required a visit to Reid Hospital. It was one of those awakening in the middle of the night in excruciating pain scenes of which nightmares are made. We arrived at Reid’s emergency room at 2:30ish and it was deserted save for a man riding a floor cleaning machine, which I think I could love (the machine, not the man), and a nurse seated in front of a computer behind a window in a darkened room.

I won’t go into all the nitty-gritty details, but the upshot is that she was mean, hateful and disrespectful to my husband, who was literally in agony. It was as if I had stumbled into the Twilight Zone and Nurse Ratchett jumped into the scene on a break from filming One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It truly felt surreal in the absolute worst of ways. I was already nearly panicked and then she started with her ugliness and my good girl upbringing kicked in, so my mind was then whirring with not only thoughts of what was wrong with my husband, who was at that point lying on the floor in the middle of the room, but also thinking that it was my responsibility to make this all better and keep everybody happy. Did I mention I was starting to feel short of breath?

Okay, so the story has a happy ending in that my husband had a kidney stone. Not that anyone who has had one would apply the term happy to any part of the experience, but at least we walked out of there together, relatively pain-free and in one piece.

But I’m still irked about the witchy nurse. Why is she in a helping profession if she doesn’t want to help? I’m not saying she should be a doormat, but most people don’t choose to visit the ER for jollies. The very fact that they’re there is indicative of distress. Is it too much to expect a little compassion?

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few years working at dealing with negativity, both in myself and in others. I have a few good friends who are much more evolved in their ability to shield themselves from picking up other people’s negative energy. I’m still a novice, but I’m making progress. I want to pick happy and be happy and exude happy. But, man, that bitch nurse does not make me happy.

So, I decided I’d blog about the incident and then let it go. It’s my assignment to myself. I’m going to reframe and be positive, leave it to karma and move on. And if a certain mean-girl nurse is stricken with an intensely uncomfortable, but ultimately inconsequential, medical emergency, I’ll be positive she deserves it!

The Urge to Purge

I start each day with an email from Martha Beck. She is one of my heroes, both as a life coach and as a woman. She imparts lots of wonderful nuggets to which I typically relate. I guess I should add that these aren’t exactly personal emails from Martha. Given the opportunity to actually meet I have no doubt that we would become fast friends, but so far we haven’t been able to connect. You know how it is. We both have pretty demanding schedules.

Anyway, one recent quote was:


"Living space is such a powerful metaphor because everything in it- every pot, plant, and pillow – reflects choices we make from among countless options, for countless reasons. The portrait that emerges is all the more accurate for having been created unconsciously." —Martha Beck, O At Home--Fall, 2004

I read it over several times. The word “portrait” particularly caught my eye. Does she mean portrait as in a depiction of who I am and what my life represents? I think maybe she does. I think I may be in serious trouble.

For instance I have only one plant in my house. That alone seems pathological now that I’ve actually taken a plant census, but the really scary thing is that the solitary specimen of vegetation looks like it belongs in a botanical ICU. Does that pitiful, spindly, greenish black sprig really accurately reflect my essence?

And then there are my closets. I don’t like chaos and disorder. In fact it drives me crazy. So why are all my closets so bloated with junk that closing the doors is like trying to squeeze the spring-coiled “snake” back into the faux can of peanuts? These cluttered closets should not paint a stroke on the portrait of me! Or at least not the me I want to be.

The result of all this reflection has created an urge to purge. As in throwing it all away and starting over. I guess it is not unlike my feelings of starting anew with this blog after all my work was launched into the great unknown of cyberspace. I have fantasies of gathering up every stitch of clothing and hauling it to Goodwill. I envision people carrying off my firmly used furniture from an oh-so-successful garage sale. I want a fresh start, open space, empty hangers and shelves. Oh, the glory of it!

Okay, so back to reality. I can’t throw away all my stuff. And, of course, even if I could, I wouldn’t. But, what else? Is it just about doing a little premature spring cleaning? Will that satisfy the urge to purge, or does it go beyond the surface? I do know one thing for certain; if serious cleaning isn’t going to help, I’m seriously not going to do it.

I think Martha owes me an answer on this. I’ll have my people get with her people to see if they can set up a little pow-wow. However, given that I don’t have any actual people, the prospects for a quick resolution might not be all that good.

Instead, I may have to depend on the fristers who already know they’re my fristers (I’m sure Martha would qualify if she only knew!) to offer suggestions. What do you say?

What’s in a name?

Deciding what to name my blog was a challenge. I want it to reflect who I am, but I also want it to invite others to identify with it. In trying to narrow down my choice, I realized that I have multiple interests. That’s a good thing, but it might result in a person being just the teensiest bit tangential. So, I tried to be logical and focused with my approach to the naming process. When that didn’t work, I let my instincts prevail. Here’s the story:

After our mother’s death, my sisters and I decided we would get together every year around Mom’s birthday to spend time together and to toast our awesome mother. There aren’t any real hard and fast guidelines for this, after all we’re nothing if not flexible, but we have managed to carve out time together every year. Last year I decided I wanted to write a little something to commemorate the day. While mulling it over in the days preceding, I heard the word frenemy (someone who pretends to be your friend, but really is your enemy) for the first time. It struck my ear and started rolling around my subconscious. Eventually it came to me that I would write a little essay about why it’s good to have frelatives (friends/relatives). At the end of the piece I noted that we three could take it a step beyond frelatives because we are fristers (friends/sisters). I made them each a little fristers day badge and they courageously wore them the entire day. I took that as further evidence that the embarrassment tolerance threshold is directly proportional to wisdom and maturity.

Anyway, that was that. We had a great day, toasted our mother, and had a lot of laughs. Fast forward a couple months. In the middle of the night I had a very clear thought. Now that is very unusual for me. Not having a clear thought as much as having a random one in the middle of the night. Well, maybe both. In any case, I really can’t say whether I was asleep or in the state between wakefulness and sleep, but it came to me that I should make fristers magnets and that I should remember the idea in the morning.

In the morning the memory was so clear and so odd that I felt I had to follow up on it, even though I have never, ever thought about making magnets of any sort. Hmmm, what to do? Rather than approach the project in a completely logical and focused manner with tons of research and a business plan, (this is me after all) I partnered with my niece the artist. We put our little heads together, decided our definition of frister is, “A loyal and loved friend/sister,” designed fristers magnets and cards, and called ourselves foreverfristers.

There you have it. I don’t know what the future holds for foreverfristers, but it is near and dear to my heart as are all my many fristers. Foreverfristers represents some of my strong emotional ties and relationships that are woven with friends and family. Gathering together the collective spirit of my fristers provides the power that comes from knowing my tribe. It helps me discern where I belong and with whom. I have come to understand that biology doesn’t always dictate the definition of family.

Thus, my blog became fristerspeak. I consider it an open space for my true voice . . . and yours. It is my deepest hope that fristerspeak will allow an ever-widening circle of us to gather as fristers to share, shelter, and support each other through trials and triumphs.

Let's get this party started

2010 – I like it. I like the roundness and evenness of it. I even like saying “twenty ten.” I take comfort in its tidiness and flow, but something about starting a new decade left me feeling a little bit at loose ends. Maybe the feeling had more to do with other things than it did with the beginning of a new decade, but, whatever, I felt the need to sort some things out, become more centered. Actually, I’ve felt that way pretty much my entire life, but for me that process often includes writing through things, fleshing them out. By getting things down I usually gain some insight.

Oh yeah, also we had computer issues which resulted in my losing every single manuscript I’ve ever written. There was that. . .

So it came to me, after stifling the urges at various moments to cry, vomit, or throw the freaking computer through the freaking window, that perhaps I needed to reframe a bit. Instead of looking at the erased files as a devastating loss, maybe I could view the incident as an opportunity for a fresh slate, a chance to begin anew. And, after all, what other choice did I really have? Thus, the idea to start a blog popped into my head.

Up to this point I haven’t been a big blogger, but I like the concept. I like to share thoughts and ideas. I like conversations with other women (and men) who offer insights and opinions that can enhance my perspective and expand my world view. I believe that we are all connected and that in our essence we are much more alike than we are different. That being said, I want to tap into that connection. It seems to me a blog is a great way to expand one’s reach without extensive travel or expending the kind of time and energy involved with huge amounts of individualized communications or correspondence. Think of this space as a sort of cyber coffee klatch. No, let’s make that a cyber happy hour. I think I like the feel of that a little better. There are no rules other than kindness prevails. I may blog twice a week or twice a month, but please know that your comments are wished for.

Whether you are seated in front of your computer with a cup of green tea or a glass of red wine, I hope you will take advantage of the opportunity to add to the conversation. As evidenced by the quote above, Emily Dickinson understood the importance of having a haven for free expression. It does our hearts good to pour words onto a page or into another’s ear. Please feel free to spoon in some of your own. Whether our current life conditions are sunny and fair or more like a tropical storm, our synergy can provide shelter enough for us all.

Stayed tuned for the next post to learn more about the name “fristerspeak”

Feel free to invite others who might enjoy the conversation