Living Happiness

At 8:00 this morning I find that all of the words I wanted to say, that were flying around my head one hour ago and forcing me to rise from my nice warm bed, have all flown away and left me alone in my jammies with a cup of tea and only a faint recollection of what I had wanted to say that was so profoundly important. How did that happen?

I am writing today what will be the first, I’m sure, in a series of blogs about anger because anger is the “not-so-pretty” side of me I deal with most. Over the years, Anger has mostly been my nemesis–a mortal enemy completely at odds with all of the good I try to do with my life. As a child, you see, I learned that Anger is a passion you give into and then worry about the consequences of later. I was not taught how to deal with Anger appropriately. It was either violently repressed or vented in the most explosive way. There was no in-between.

You can imagine what life was like for me in college. It was a rude awakening to discover that my accepted “mood swings” at home had no place in the lives of my roommates or in the apartment we shared. This behavior simply wasn’t acceptable. I learned, but I learned the hard way. Even now, when people ask me about regrets and if I have any, I usually shake off the question and say, “Well, no. My life is what it is because of this, that, and the other,” which is mostly true. But I do regret and do wish I could have done differently that time in my life. I still live with its ghosts. And now, thanks to Facebook, I am haunted by them sometimes more than I want to be.

The bright side, I guess, of that dark period is that it truly was an awakening. A rude awakening, but an awakening. And in the 13 years since my graduation from university, I have spent a great deal of time, energy, and money on learning how to deal with Anger, banish Anger, and, finally, make friends with Anger — mostly in that order. I would like to think that I have been (mostly) successful, but Anger is still a constant in my life and, because of that, is probably going to be one of the more permanent fixtures in my blogs.

My most recent approach to Anger has been to make friends with it, to understand it and its role in my life. The way I do this, really, is quite simplistic — I think of it as a person. A part of me, yes, but a person. So … when Anger arrives, rather than banish myself from the room and let it have free reign, fight it, or (worse yet) deny that it’s there, I’ve started talking to it like it’s an old friend which (let’s face it) is kind of true. Anger’s been around in my life for a while. It probably knows quite a bit about what makes me tick.

Lately what this has meant is a lot of heart-to-hearts with Anger. And it begins with me saying some like this: “Why are you so angry?” I listen to the response, and then proceed from there a bit like Socrates until I get down to the nitty gritty of what’s going on. Then I try to reason with Anger, point out different perspectives, offer alternatives, provide solutions, much like a good friend giving good advice to another friend. You are probably not surprised that this works in both curbing my anger and allowing me to enlist it towards my good rather than my detriment. You may not be surprised. But it still shocks the pants off me (but in a good way)!

Anyway, I share all this with you because I have noticed a pattern in my life of the things that tend to summon Anger to the forefront, and there are three common motifs or “summoners” if you will:

1. I feel forgotten, neglected, overlooked
2. I feel that something that has occurred/is occurring is unjust
3. I am displeased that something has not gone the way I want it to

When I can isolate one of these summoners, I can usually think of a solution to my problem. If I discover for instance that Anger feels forgotten or overlooked, I can ask her why she feels that way and get to the root of whether this is a real or perceived slight. And I can also usually determine if this is because someone/something has overlooked her, or because (maybe, just maybe) Anger hasn’t spoken up for herself. There are quite a few times where the issue is really the latter, and that’s when I say, “Okay, then. There’s your solution. Speak up for yourself!”

But the point I’m getting at here is not so much to dissect the ins and outs of me and my anger patterns but to share a more recent discovery than that. For, in looking at these three patterns, what I see is an overriding element that unites them all: I become Angry when my reality isn’t the reality I’m confronted with. And that’s what leads me to comment on Stacked Life.

A friend of mine and an emerging artist, Gina Pruette, has recently completed the Block Series, a series of paintings that derive their theme from the simple play objects–blocks, balls, cylinders–that her young daughter uses to constructs towers, bridges, or whatever else seizes her imagination at play.

What I like about Gina’s portraits and the theme she chose for her study is the elemental truths they harbor at their root. My favorite of these is Tower Arch.

When I had my mini-epiphany about Anger, I realized that (in a lot of ways) I am like Gina’s daughter, Stella, taking the construction blocks and balls of my life and trying to arrange them in some sort of methodical (perhaps even meaningful) way. I like boxes the most. I like things that easily fit into or onto something else. I like things that can fit inside other things nicely, with no needs for adjustments. I don’t do well with balls.

Like Stella when her “tower” falls down, I become distraught when the order I am trying to impose on my world doesn’t take. Why can’t things stay together the way I’ve put them together? What’s wrong with my construction?

I think that perhaps a lot of us live our lives continuing the play that we began at Stella’s age, only with bigger and less tangible blocks and cylinders and arches. We try to construct meaning for our lives from these pieces (jobs, families, friendships, hobbies, ideologies, religion), and we become Angry when they do not remain fixed, or when the pieces don’t fit, and they crumble around us.

When this happens, some of us give up. The game is no longer fun. We see that this exercise is futile. We cease to engage.

But some of us do not give up. Instead, we start back again from square one and begin rearranging the blocks, hoping to remember what didn’t work last time so that maybe, just maybe, this time we can “get it right.”

What I like about Gina’s Tower Arch is it’s precariousness. Order has been imposed but the tower is leaning dangerously. Is it about to fall? Or will it stand, a child-like tribute to the most famous of leaning towers in Pisa?

Perhaps what matters, though, is not whether it stands. Perhaps what is more important is that it was constructed to begin with. A child managed to create a sense of order in his world, to arrange the pieces together in a way that was pleasing, and to (I am guessing here) enjoy the finished masterpiece. Isn’t this the most we can ask for in our own lives?

So, when I find myself becoming angry now, I will think of Stella’s blocks and Gina’s portraits. Things have not gone my way, that’s true. But I can still start arranging the blocks again, putting the pieces together, and hoping for the desired end (equipped with the knowledge of all that has come before).

I have a suspicion that the ultimate joy derived from this activity is the activity itself.

Thank you, Gina, for your paintings and letting me comment on them.

Om Shanti.
Namaste.
Peace be with you.

It is July 2005, and I am standing in my bedroom in my underwear. It is 11:48 in the morning, and it is a workday. I have been sent home.

Sammy and Zoe, the kitties, sit behind me on the bed and watch. Their little faces follow my pacing and draw back a little when I begin tossing random garments from the closet and onto the bed. Sammy then decides that the latest addition to the pile, his “favorite” sweatshirt, makes a cozier nest than my pillow and curls himself up on it. Zoe gets bored and starts cleaning herself.

I have been sent home for “inappropriate attire.” And now the question is: What can I find that’s suitable? Actually, to be more to the point, “What is the ugliest thing I can find to wear to work that is still in keeping with company dress code policy?” If I’m going to be made a spectacle, I at least want to make a point.

I finally decide on a clearance-item, muted blue, shapeless sweater from Casual Corner, bought when I was 15 pounds heavier. I pair it with a pair of equally shapeless, loose, jersey-cotton pants in navy and slide into a hideous pair of brown flats. I look like my mom. Actually, that’s not fair. My mom wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit.

After one more glance in the mirror, assured that I look as frumpy on the outside as I feel angry on the inside, I bid goodbye to the kitties (now oblivious to me), grab my ugliest handbag and walk back out the door. Off to work I go.

My earlier outfit of the day had been cute, smart, chic and trendy: a fuchsia fitted shell with a black-and-white fitted crop jacket, black mid-calf capris and black Nine West pumps. But apparently the sight of my ankles was a sheer abomination to the company’s higher-ups. And what might the clients think? Let us disregard the fact, of course, that I never see any of my clients because my entire job, everything I do, all day long, every day, is conducted by telephone, email and fax. I have only “seen” two of my clients in my entire three years with the company. But let us forget this, shall we?

I am fuming. And I have had enough.

Back at work, nobody notices my hideous outfit.

Later that day: I come home and disengage myself from the accoutrements from hell and throw on my favorite sweatshirt (now covered in kitty hair) and a pair of shorts. The kitties, sated with a yummy helping of Fancy Feast, sit on the bed and watch me again. But they can tell that something’s up, and Zoe nudges over and paws at me from behind as I stand in front of my dresser and contemplate what I am about to do.

I light the candle in front of me and slowly begin to breathe in, breathe out. I close my eyes and imagine a holy place opening up, an area of nothingness and fullness around me, and I feel myself begin to calm. On the dresser in front of me (next to the candle) is a pink chipped saucer, a writing pad, a pencil, and a blue plastic recipe box.

As I calm, I pick up the pencil and begin to write: Things That Have Had a Negative Influence Over Me Today. I think of the incident with the dress code and write it at the top of the list. And then I begin to add all of the other minor events of the day that followed, things that might have seemed trivial to some but which had managed to set my body humming with the injustice of it all. I am a taut string, and I feel like I might break. I write these things down.

When I finish, I look at my list for what it is. Sadly, I notice that it fills almost the whole page. It has been one of those days. But I am determined that it will not continue to be so: there is still day left in my day. And so I fold the paper in half and pick up the lighter in front of me. I strike it and set the flame to each of the three corners of the paper I hold, and I wait. Slowly I watch the paper become ash and drop onto the pink chipped saucer in front of me. I drop the last corner left, and it is done. I look at the ashes and say to them and to myself, “You have no more power over me now. Your influence lasted for a time, but I am not going to carry you with me.”

I take the pink chipped saucer outside and toss the ashes into the bushes.

A few minutes later I am back inside in front of my dresser. I pick up the pencil and the paper again, and I begin to write: Things I Am Grateful For About Today. This is harder than my other list to write. Sometimes it is a great struggle. But I look back at my kitties on the bed, and I write them down. I think of the lunch I had with the girls, and I write it down, too. I think of the yummy dinner I am about to make, and I add it to list. Slowly, my little list fills up. These are my blessings.

I close my eyes again and pray: Thank you for these bright spots in my day. These are the things that gave me energy and joy. Thank you.

I fold the paper and pull the blue plastic recipe box to me. I open its lid and place my list inside. These are my joys. I will not burn them. I will store them, shore them up, against any future storms.

Now my old day has ended, and I’m ready to begin fresh. I feel happier, at peace.
I walk into the kitchen and start supper.