Living Happiness

This morning my husband got under my skin. He did one of those little things he always does that, sometimes, I can overlook but most of the time simply drive me batty. And today was not the day.

It all happened as we were departing for the gym. He performs XYZ annoyance (for the umpteenth time!!!) and I let him know I’m annoyed and then he gets annoyed that I’m annoyed, and this is how we drive all the way down to Planet Fitness where, hopefully, we will work out our frustrations on the equipment rather than on each other (although, in my current state, I’m certain I could take him … despite the thirty pounds he’s up on me … and despite the fact that he’s been bench pressing God knows how much weight for years now).

Righteously indignant and inflamed with what is now becoming a simmering (not quite seething) rage, I hop onto the treadmill and begin plotting my revenge. Well, first I pat myself on the back and congratulate myself for speaking up about what was so obviously an infringement of my rights. After all, only one of us can be right, and that’s obviously me. And this, therefore, is why I am in prime position to make a point.

I like making points; they make me look good. I gather up evidence and then present it like a surprise witness in a murder-one case, and everyone is floored, while I (the prosecutor) weave my well-articulated little tale and convince the jury that all the previous evidence presented by the other side now carries no weight whatsoever. Yes, I like making points: cases in points, especially.

So having spent a good ten minutes on the treadmill now talking myself up, I begin the plotting, and I decide that I am going to start keeping a list. That’s right: a list documenting every single instance of my husband performing said annoyance. I am certain it will be full within a week’s time; in fact, it may fill up in even less! I grin with sadistic glee as I envision me presenting it to him the next time this annoyance-doing goes one step too far:

“Ha-haaaaaa,” I laugh inside, “Vengeance is mine. There’s no way he can squirm out of this one!” Even the jury is unanimous. “Guilty!” they cry. And then I hear it: the unmistakable little voice of my better self (not my ego) that is now almost screaming to be heard over my maniacal internal laughing.

“What good can come of this?” She says. “What are you hoping to prove? And do I need to remind you that this is a completely one-sided argument? Puh-leaze!” And up she gets from where she has been waiting quietly and strides over to where I am sitting, still in my mental courtroom. Looming over me, hands firmly planted on the prosecution’s table, my better self leans in and says, “What about we take a look at another list, hm?” And she whips out List B.

Pan scene now to me, sitting behind desk in my (still) mental (in more ways than one) courtroom, shamed and stunned into silence. She’s right. She’s always right. Despite that one little annoyance that runs itself on repeat, there are a thousand other actions throughout the day that more than atone for his (my husband’s) “sins.”

My better self turns now and walks back over to me and whispers, “If we’re going to start drawing up lists, I suggest this one is the one to begin with.”

The courtroom scene disappears, and I am again back on the treadmill, and I am no longer angry. Instead, I am overwhelmed with the recollection of all the ways that my husband shows me every day that he loves me and chooses me. She is right, my better self. If I want to focus on anything about my relationship with my husband, it should be the positive, the actions that are the mortar that bind the bricks of our marriage together. That other list – it just tears down the foundations.

So I leave the gym, at peace in more ways than one, and I come home now to share this story with you.

I look forward to hearing from you today.

Om shanti.
Namaste.

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Opening photo credit: flickrphoto by nouQraz
Middle photo credit: flickrphoto by lokicrayon
Closing photo credit: flickrphoto by credenzio

Yesterday evening I sat down at my computer for a heart-to-heart with myself. I know, I know. A computer seems like a strange place for one of these chats, not very rendezvous-y. But I “talk” to myself by writing, and I write best at the computer, where the words can flow from mind to fingers to keyboard almost as quickly as the time it takes for me to think them.

I was not in my pajamas (or maybe I was, come to think of it) but my husband had been earlier that day. All the way into town in fact, right up into him standing in line at the bank, and by then it was too late for him to do anything about it. Yes, all of our errands got run yesterday by a man wearing gray pajamas as he motorbiked through the streets of Chania. Obviously, living with him keeps me grounded (and relaxed) in more ways than one.

Anywho, so – perhaps clad in my pajamas, perhaps not – I sat down last night for this heart-to-heart with Me because Me has been letting me know for a while that something’s up, and we need to talk about it.

Now, Me here is a bit like God or Jesus or the Universe or whatever you want to call it. If you’ve read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love you’ll know what I’m talking about. (But I didn’t copy her, I promise. I’ve been meeting with myself like this for a while now and was completely tickled when I read her book and found out I wasn’t the only one who kept up this unusual practice.)

We sit down, Me and me, and the conversation begins. And this time, I’m not the one doing all of the talking for a change. Instead, Me is the one who’s letting me know how it is. “Chania Girl,” She says to me, “you’ve been skulking around being chicken long enough. It’s time for you to see what I’ve got in store for you and stop lurking about behind the curtain.” She said it more nicely than this, though, was very patient with me, in fact, and soothed and cajoled and responded to all of my fears until I was 100% 98% ready to see what She wanted to show me. And when She did, I couldn’t believe what all my fuss had been about.

How did She help me do this, you might wonder. What little tactics did She have for getting me past my own limited vision of the present and my much-preferred fondness for the past? Well, I’ll tell you, even though it’s a bit morbid: She told me to write my obituary.

What?! Yes. She said, “Write your obituary. You yourself know deep down inside how this story is going to play out and how you want it to play out, so write it. Do it. Do it now!”

So I did. For ten minutes or so I let fingers fly over the keyboard writing the words and the visions as they came to me. And at the end, I was struck dumb with amazement. There was La Bella Vita laid out before me, and it was mine. (Julie, it was mine!)

For the rest of the evening I was good for nothing. Really, I was. All I could think about was the life before me, and so much life it is! And that got me thinking about this blog and my post for today.

The idea of living life to the fullest crops up a lot in the media today in blogs, film, books, and song. When I made the move to Greece, in fact, one of the number one songs at that time was by country music artist, Tim McGraw: Live Like You Were Dying. The sentiment of the song was a lovely one: live every moment like it’s your last, no holds barred, no reservations. I embraced the spirit of this wholeheartedly as I set off to leave my safe and comfortable life for an entirely new and foreign one. Bring it on! No regrets! And what an adventure it’s been.

But what if we did, indeed, live like we were dying by doing just as I did yesterday – writing the end of the story?

What do you think? Too crazy? Too fly-in-the-face of conformity? It’s up to you.

All I can say is this: I woke up this morning with joy unspeakable and full of glory and the words of Walt Whitman on my lips:

Om shanti.
Namaste.
And happy Friday!

Photo credits:

Opening photo flickrphoto by ecky_ducky_loves_thread less

Middle photo flickrphoto by Lovro67

Closing photo flickrphoto by bennibaerenstark