Resigned to Happiness

 I loved my work. My supervisors were thoughtful and supportive. My colleagues were smart, fun, and caring. That's how I knew it was the right decision for me to resign. 

It's easy to quit a job that sucks. When you're over-worked, have to contend with jerks, and feel you have no future or purpose, resigning is a no-brainer. The true litmus test of knowing if it's the right move to step away from a job is when you're happy, and you still know deep down in your heart that you need to move on. In other words, you resign when quitting isn't a knee-jerk reaction. 

My decision was influenced by a number of factors, namely: my son's departure for college, a traumatic break-up that led to the start of a wonderful, new relationship, my desire to spend more time writing and traveling with my new beau, and —last but not least — the COVID-19 global pandemic, which altered my work dynamic when travel came to a screeching halt. 

Do we need to resign from ego in order to
 re-sign to what is truest to ourselves

Any one of those motivators would not have pushed me to resign a good job in an uncertain economy. But taken as a whole, my choice was clear: I needed to step away from full-time employment in order to regain balance and live in alignment with my priorities, goals, and dreams. But I didn't just up and quit. 

Because I loved my work and my colleagues, I gave more than a month's notice to provide time to hire my replacement. And that's when something really interesting occurred: As soon as I set my end date, I felt more empowered. 

After I tendered my resignation, I no longer had an agenda. I felt secure voicing my opinion if I felt it served the greater good. I've never been one to burn bridges. I wasn't an asshole, but I felt safe being candid. 

I also found it easier to set healthy boundaries. I didn't get caught up in company politics or gossip. (Of course, many of the convos were around returning to the office, which no longer applied to me.) And I declined extraneous meetings that I would have only attended pre-resignation for fear of being left out of a conversation or opportunity. 

Post-resignation, I stopped working nights and weekends. I still met all my deadlines, but I wasn't obsessed with them. I actually took time away from my computer to eat lunch. I ended my day on time so I could workout at the gym. 

Why hadn't I detached from my work in this way before? In sum: Along with my job, I resigned my ego. Maybe the secret to a happy work-life is to work as if tomorrow was your last day on the job.

Right now, as  our country takes a look at the future of the workplace, I wonder how much more productive, satisfied, and contented we would be if we detached from our ego's compulsions —to be right or perfect, to please everyone, to be better than, to be unique, to have all the answers, to fit in, to gloss over difficulties, to be in charge, or to avoid conflict at all costs. 

I wonder what would happen if we worked as though we had just tendered our resignations? 

River Rules

I've been spending more than a little time in the West these days. It's an amazing landscape and the ultimate playground for those who love being in the wilderness. But this brand of nature can be rugged —and even turn deadly in a heartbeat. I've come to appreciate its power and beauty.

Last weekend, I floated on a raft down the Colorado River for the first time. My boyfriend, Greg,  and a gang of our friends packed lots of snacks and beer and prepared for a fun afternoon. All were veterans on the river, except me. 

 
As we prepped for the excursion, the weather turned out to be a little different than we anticipated. Gusting headwinds blew in and made conditions challenging. But my companions assessed the situation, made a few adjustments, and forged ahead with our planned "float."  

Feeling the wind whip up the canyon, I was grateful to climb into a large raft commandeered by two of my new friends, Emily and Lauren, who are professional environmentalists and river guides. As Emily began to row against the wind, I eyed the turbulent water warily. "What do I need to know?" I asked. "What are the rules of the river?" 

Emily and Lauren laughed and then provided me with the four River Rules they've learned in their collective years of experience as water-women. 

River Rule #1: Always stay with your boat/watercraft.
On the river, your vessel carries you from point A to point B. To abandon it prematurely can cause you —and other people — a lot of harm. There are submerged rocks and debris in the rapidly moving water. It might seem like a good idea to jump in and swim, but that craft is going to keep floating. Pretty soon you'll literally “be up a creek without a paddle.” Oh, just in case you do tumble out, never take off your personal floatation device (aka life vest) while in moving water. 

River Rule #2: Keep up with your stuff.
When you're in a boat, and need your paddle or a carabiner or a rope or a beer, it's really helpful to know right where it is and how to lay your hands on it quickly. Sometimes you don't have a lot of time to scramble around and find that thing that's going to keep you from capsizing. 

Also, allowing your stuff to get underfoot can trip you up — or send other people toppling. A raft doesn't have a lot of floorspace to begin with, so allowing your beer cans or provisions to roll about on the floor can cause all sorts of havoc. 

River Rule #3: Don't be an asshole. 
Being an asshole on the river might include, but is not exclusive to the following actions: throwing trash in the water or violating nature in any way; being loud and obnoxious; creating big waves or a wake that could adversely impact smaller, more vulnerable vessels; enacting any behavior that compromises someone else's safety, well-being or enjoyment of nature. 

River Rule #4: Always pay attention.
Yes, you're there to have fun and enjoy the beauty of nature, but being on moving water requires vigilance about whatever lies ahead. The river is unpredictable. There's a fine balance between remaining in the moment, truly appreciating nature's beauty, and anticipating what's coming up around the bend. The river demands that you hold both presence and vigilance in equal esteem. 

No matter how many times you've been on the water, it's never exactly the same river twice. Hazards can come at you without warning, so paying attention —even while you're partying and having a great time — is essential. Rocks, debris, flotsam and jetsam of all varieties can appear quickly. Other boaters and their stuff (see Rule 2) may create unanticipated issues as well. If you become too distracted by someone else's crap, you can lose your balance —or your way — in an instant. 

At first, I thought my friends were simply imparting etiquette about how to behave on this wild and often unpredictable force of Nature. But then it hit me: These are rules that apply to all of life. 

Life Rule #1. Stay with your boat. 
Ego might tell me that I'm strong enough to make it through life without a Higher Power, without a vessel to protect me from unseen hazards, but that's foolish to believe I can exist without Universal assistance. There have been many times when I jumped out of my metaphoric boat and was too foolhardy to ask for help. I didn't drown, but I was carried off by currents that didn't serve others or me very well. 

The good news is this: If I realize I need that vessel, I might just find it waiting for me in a tranquil eddy. I've had to swallow my pride (and set aside my Ego) more than once and admit that I was in over my head and needed a hand. And there have been times when I've been washed up on shore, seemingly abandoned —only to discover that I was exactly where I needed to be in order to (eventually) move forward. 

Life Rule # 2:  Keep up with your stuff.
In life, my stuff has often gotten in my way, tripped me up, kept me from meaningful purpose. On this journey, I'm learning to leave what isn't necessary on the shore. I want to carry only the essentials necessary to sustain me and others. And I need to keep those things in check. I don't need to allow my misdeeds to roll around underfoot. My experiences in life shouldn't create an obstacle course for other people either. My actions are mine to own and (hopefully) learn from and use to become a better human being.

Life Rule #3: Don't be an asshole. 
This one seems obvious and I hope doesn't need any explanation, but just in case it isn't clear, here goes: Avoid any action that's selfish, dishonest, self-centered, inconsiderate, or harmful in anyway to
others, to nature, or to yourself.

Life Rule # 4. Always pay attention.
Thich Nhat Hahn, Eckhart Tolle and many other other esteemed gurus write about the importance of remaining in the moment and taking life as it comes. Life requires the same balance of presence and anticipation as required when floating a river. It can be difficult to allow events to unfold with appreciation and knowledge that shit can and will happen and you have to keep going. 

Just like floating down the Colorado River on raft, life involves going with the flow. You can anticipate the rapids, but you will never be able to manage or control them. The best you can do on the river and in life is to be conscious of the hazards, prepare yourself for the inevitable, and keep moving forward. And of course, it's always a good idea to stop every now for a cold beer and a snack to makes the journey that much more enjoyable.

PS: Need help planning your own adventure in the southwest? Check out my friend Emily's awesome Southwest Jeep Adventures for trip planning services or camper Jeep rentals! 

The Do-Over Life: How I Got Over FOSO

On December 27, 2019 I found myself starting over ... again. In an instant, my carefully curated life tumbled like so many Jenga blocks and my eight-year relationship ended. 

And yet, even in the initial days as the waves of shock, humiliation and sadness rolled over me, I felt a glimmer that the Universe knew what it was doing even if I did not. I read somewhere that when a relationship ends abruptly "God is doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves." Deep-down something told me this breakup was for the best even though I was not bold enough to have initiated it. 

The truth was this: For years I'd ignored the problems. My partner had many fine qualities (top of the list was the kindness he showed my son), and yet, we weren't evenly aligned. By that I mean there were many aspects of our personalities that didn't fit together. And yet, I stayed in this relationship. Why? 

Well, first and foremost, my son loved this man and looked up to him. There were plenty of times when my son liked him better than he liked me. (I was Bad Cop.) It's hard to disappoint a kid who'd already lost one father. But there was a bigger, more selfish reason: I liked the idea of having companionship, of sharing my home and my life with someone, and (harder to admit) I experienced fear of starting over, or FOSO. 

I doubt I would have ended our relationship if the Universe hadn't stepped in and sent me a text meant for my ex's OTHER girlfriend. (Ouch!) Even then, starting over was rough. 

Thankfully, I have a spiritual practice. I jumpstarted my journaling, meditation, and mindfulness practices and re-engaged my therapist. I took up strength training as a physical outlet. I also enrolled in the spiritual direction course that I had postponed for various reasons. And I reconnected with my network of friends. 

While the pandemic made starting over a challenge, I made a conscious effort to remain curious about what might happen next. And on nights when I felt lost and lonesome, I focused on gratitude to combat resentment and self-pity.

Within a few months, my life was remarkably happier and lighter. My son, although saddened and disappointed by the turn of events, showed a maturity, grace and resiliency that far surpassed his 18 years on the planet. Indeed, my world did not end when my ex moved out. In fact, it opened up to possibilities that surpassed my wildest, idealistic daydreams. 

FOSO no mo'!

A year later —almost to the day — I found myself falling in love with a remarkable man who shares my upbringing, principles, ambition, and positive outlook on life. This would not have been possible if I had not let go of my bitterness and leaned into that early glimmer of hope. There was really nothing to fear. In fact, surrendering to this abrupt do-over gave me the confidence to live in greater alignment with what is truest and best in myself.  

And the Do-Over wasn't over ...

Last week, I resigned my full-time job and jumped back into freelancing. Yes, at age 58, I'm in embracing a Big Do-Over in both career and love and I'm happy to report that taking a leap of faith is life affirming. The good news is that at my (e-hem!) age, I've lived through enough disruptions to know that change yields tremendous opportunity for growth and learning. 

Today, I'm grateful, so very grateful, that the Universe pulled the rug out from under me. And I'm grateful that I didn't immediately try to plant my feet firmly on the ground. "The only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land," Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron writes in her book When Things Fall Apart. "We use these situations either to wake ourselves up or to put ourselves to sleep." This opportunity to reside in "groundlessness", as Chodron calls it is the place where personal growth occurs. 

Humans by our nature want the sure thing. We want people, jobs, cars, electronics and economies that we can rely upon. And we are often disappointed. People are unreliable. Employers are fickle. Cars need repairs. Electronics quit without warning. Economies rise and fall. Nothing is permanent or fixed. As much as we try to deny it, loss is part of life. And when loss occurs we have a choice to start over or become stuck.

Perhaps the way to get unstuck is to not look life as having a start or a finish. Starting over connotes that there was a definitive end. There are never really "endings" —there are only next chapters. 

Today, I'm optimistic about what the future holds. I'm no longer complacent about any aspect of my life. I've also learned an important lesson: There's no such thing as stability when you're standing on a rug! Maybe if I remain groundless in what is truest and best in myself, no floor coverings will be yanked out from under me ever again.

#dooverlife, #fearofstartingover, #FOSO

Post-Pandemic Unpacking

I like to think of life as a journey with guideposts along the way that give us a chance to evaluate, take stock, and regroup before moving along. There are choices to be made before we continue—belongings to pack and unpack. What will we carry with us? 

If ever there was a time to take stock before moving forward, this is it. What will we carry with us? What will we leave behind?

In February 2020, as rumblings of the Corona virus were bantered about by the media, it still seemed a distant threat. Reports from China and Italy were bleak, but I thought, "It can't hurt us here!" (As though US Citizenship makes us immune.) It was foolish and vain. I was in a bubble and that bubble was about to burst. 

Leave it to Thich Nhat Hahn to remind me of reality. 

My good friend Margaret and I planned to attend a retreat at Hahn's meditation site, Magnolia Grove in Batesville, Mississippi. We were both recovering from traumatic losses. Spending four days eating amazingly delicious vegan food, sitting in meditation, and practicing mindfulness seemed just the thing to help us heal. So when an email arrived from Magnolia Grove cancelling the treat due to the pandemic threat, I was incredulous. I thought the good monks and nuns were just being conservative because people traveled from around the world to visit this monastery and they didn't want the liability. 

Foolhardy and a bit desperate for a getaway, Margaret and I kept our date. Instead of spending time at the monastery, sitting in noble silence, contemplating emptiness and meditating, we met in Oxford, stocked up on snacks and wine and held our own private respite. 

In the four days that followed, we watched as the world slowly folded up its doormat and made its own retreat. By the time I returned to Birmingham, the company I worked for had ceased all travel. A few days later, my colleagues in the office were asked to gather up their laptops and go home until further notice. 

Since I already worked remotely, this edict didn't effect me, but it did have an impact. Suddenly EVERYONE was working from home and a thing called "Zoom" became the primary means of communication. Previously, I could write undisturbed for hours on end. Now, my computer sounded like a pinball machine, chiming every few minutes with group Teams messages and endless streams of GIFs. I had to put on make-up and clothes (other than a bathrobe) to attend the video meetings that took the place of good ol' conference calls (remember those?!) 

And when I did venture out to get groceries, I could drive from one end of town to the other without being deterred by traffic. The world was much quieter. There was less airplane traffic and even the interstates were relatively still. The air was markedly clearer and cleaner. What did become congested was my beloved Vulcan Trail, where I walked almost daily. Once a deserted path where I could stroll alone at almost any time of day, was now the town's most popular pandemic activity. 

The hardest part was that we didn't know how long sheltering-in-place would last. There was no precedent for how to navigate a pandemic. As the months went by, the novelty wore off. People finally stopped stockpiling paper goods and ceased hoarding flour and yeast! (Really people, what DID you do with ALL that bread!?) 

And now, a little more than a year later, here we are —spit out into a post-pandemic world. 

As the post-global pandemic world opens up, it might be easy to forget what it was like when we were shut down —for better and for worse. 

A recent excursion to the Saturday morning farmer's market revealed that many people are no longer wearing masks. I assume that the availability of the vaccine has emboldened them. But it seems odd to simply throw down that little strip of cloth that, just a few days ago, was grasped like a binky. Life is returning to the way it was, but is that a good thing? 

Am I ready to leave the mask behind? 

I am looking forward to hugging people with abandon and not being afraid to shake a stranger's hand. I'm looking forward to being unmasked when I go into the grocery store or a restaurant. I'm looking forward to going to the movie theater again and traveling to Europe. But there are many practices that I hope I carry forward long after the threat of this virus has subsided. 

I hope I remember how fragile our eco-systems and economies are and that we are ALL interconnected. I want to remember the feeling I had in the first days of the shut-down as I realized that this disruption that would change the way we did business. There are still so many opportunities to correct unhealthy practices that we've embraced out of laziness. For example, do I really need to fly across country to meet in-person for business? Do I really need to jump in my car and drive to the mall because I'm bored? 

During the height of the pandemic, a greater awareness developed around how our actions impacted other people's health. As practices loosen, it's already hard to believe that Americans were as compliant as we were staying home, donning face masks, shutting down businesses, and curtailing unnecessary travel all because of an invisible (and often deadly) threat. 

There was also social upheaval that —hopefully —left us with a greater consciousness around the issues of race and inequity in our country. Will we remember that, and what we learned from those very dark days? I hope so. 

In many ways, there was an elevation of consciousness when the pandemic was still viewed as a major health crisis. But now that COVID is becoming mundane, will I leave my global concern behind? Will I set aside my appreciation for spending quality time at home with my family? Will I abandon my genuine concern about how my actions directly and indirectly affect other people? Or will I carry forward my gratitude for my health and our earth, and realization of how fragile humanity really is? As I prepare for the next leg of my journey, it's time to decide what to pack.

If Only They Knew to Love the Silence

When you are all alone, there is a quiet in the morning that can never, ever happen when someone else is there -- no matter how much you love and appreciate their presence. 

In that quiet space, there is the divine, the whole of all things. There is infinity and closeness. There is nothing to fear when the world is quiet and dark and fresh, the day not yet dawn. There is such beauty in quiet. Breaking the silence feels like spoiling it all, and it may never come again. And you are grateful when it does. 

Learning to love the quiet can be difficult if you think that happiness resides in the voices of children and lovers and friends, in the cacophony that they deliver each day, freshly made like bread warm from the oven, the aroma preceding the taste. 

And if you think that is life ... there is so much more. Sound would not have meaning if not for quiet. If not for the lack of, the deficit, the absence of. 

I don't appreciate it enough, but this morning I awoke giving gratitude for the quiet that envelopes me, warm and comforting and impermanent. For as the day comes in, the sun rises, the birds begin their song, the rattle and hum of the world starts up, the motor of the universe churning in its infinite manner, filling all the little crevices where silence once was. 

Where does the silence go? Where does it retreat? Is it under the bed, in the closet, or the basement or attic? Where does silence go when my head begins to race with thoughts getting ahead of time and plotting out the next design of the next day, and the next? Silence is always there, as necessary as light, as air, as water. An essential element often maligned, misused or forgotten. 

If they only knew to love the silence, all other love would be easier, freer, more complete because in the silence there is that all important thing -- the absence of all. The nothing that is everything and even in most silence there is something, a distant hum of the freeway, or a neighbor four doors down starting the car or feeding the dog. Sounds so distant and feint that you can barely discern them, and yet they are filling in the space between you and me. The sound between this minute and that. The sound between having and losing, between birth and death. 

It is the absence of voice, of laughter, of rattle, of hum that creates its own world of meaning. If you learn to love the silence -- that space between everything -- you discover beauty and respite. A place to rest between breath, between cord, and tone.  So much more is said in that space between thought and word. When there is no future, no past, only present. The silence between thought and word is where the truth spills out. Give someone silence and they will draw their own conclusion and write their own story. 

If they only knew to love the silence they would never long for anything else. There would be no cause for envy or doubt or fear or sadness. These emotions would be felt for what they are: noise and clammer cluttering up the still small space that is filled with divine essence. Silence is what is present in the ancient wood where the redwood have stood for centuries, holding the stillness in their branches, allowing for peace. Perhaps that is why churches were built, to hold the silence. 

Those who never rise before dawn may never know this God time, this God presence. The lack of everything and the abundance of all. If they only knew to embrace the quietude of life, there would be no reason to argue or lie or cheat or steal or harm one another. That's why meditation is so important. Why taking time, and making time to be without noise, even the clatter of your own thoughts, allows for something greater to come in. God is in the silence. 

If only they knew to love the silence, the world would take a breath and pause and hold its collective tongue and just listen ... and be reborn.

It's Official. I'm the Worst Mother in the World

Two weeks ago I dropped my one and only child off at college and I haven’t looked back. I’ve called him once — just once! —  to make sure he was alive. (He is.) But otherwise I haven’t obsessed or worried or even shed a tear. There must be something fatally wrong with me. Right?

1st day of kindergarten

For years, I dreaded the day Jack would leave my home and go off to college. Sure, I wanted my son to succeed, but the thought of my only kid leaving me made me queazy. 

This was the boy I taught to fish and play tennis, spent untold hours reading bedtime stories, playing Hot Wheels and building elaborate tracks for Thomas the Tank Engine. But thankfully, children grow up slowly -- and there's this thing called puberty that really helps you detach, or at least put some distance between you and your son's stinky feet.

In January, when Jack was accepted to his first-choice college, Auburn, with an academic scholarship to boot, reality kicked in. My son was leaving me behind to begin living a life that largely would not include me. The thought made me sad. 

But then I realized … it was just a thought. And a thought in and of itself  has no power over me — or shouldn’t — unless I give it power. And often I do. 

My thought goes like this: “Jack is leaving me behind! He doesn’t need me anymore. I will be alone.” But that’s not true. Yes, my son is leaving to go to college, and I am not going to move into his dorm room with him. (And everyone is really happy about that.) And he doesn’t need me anymore in the way he did when he was younger. (Thank God.) Nor will he be living under my roof 24/7. (Again, thank you!) 

A more accurate thought is this: “Jack is moving towards his own goals and dreams which don’t need to include me, which is healthy. And I am moving towards my goals and dreams which don’t always include him, which is also healthy.” (The “I will be alone” statement is just over-the-top melodrama. I mean, I could be alone if I want to be alone, but that’s also a choice I make.)

When it comes down to it, all my attitudes are a choice. I can choose to look at a turn of events as a loss or a gain. I can choose to be happy for my son and for myself in this new stage of our lives, or I can choose to be nostalgic and maudlin. Why would I want to choose to be miserable when my son is experiencing a sense of accomplishment? Why would I want to dwell on the negative when it’s just as easy to find the good? 

First day of college

Last Wednesday, as I made the two hour drive home from Auburn after depositing Jack and his worldly goods on campus, I considered how easy it would be to feel sad. But I chose to feel satisfied, contented, even happy for him and for myself. After all, sending a kid to college is a great accomplishment even under the best conditions; and we had, shall I say, our share of challenges along the way. 

So no, I’m not sad about Jack’s departure. I don’t feel lonely or depressed. The dreaded day came and went and I’m relieved and happy that he’s on his way to adulthood. I almost feel guilty for not feeling sad. Almost. Instead I’m happy with the knowledge that our lives are unfolding exactly as they should. This is what Buddhists call non-attachment. Although it may sound crass it is actually a form of unconditional love. Imagine that?

I certainly didn’t always make the best choices as Jack was growing up. In fact, I made some really bad ones along the way. But somehow it seems that maybe, just maybe, I’m not the worst mother in the world after all.

Shopping for One-ness

Today, for the first time in 24 years I grocery shopped for one. 

It's been 24 years since I've been without a husband or child in the house. Almost a quarter of a century since I made purchases that were solely for my consumption. During that time, there's no telling how many hundreds of  trips I've made to the grocery store always thinking of one person or another. 

Today was different.

I thought shopping only for myself might be depressing, but today I strolled the aisles studying the produce and happily picking out mushrooms, heirloom tomatoes, arugula, corn, avocados and limes as though I was shopping for the first time. As I loaded the cart with Kettle chips, goat cheese, a small piece of salmon, a petite ribeye steak, and a bag of roasted almonds, I was very conscious of the fact that the only person I had to please was me. And I was very pleased.

How many decisions did I make in the past 24 years to please someone else? How many times did I walk down the aisles of life ignoring my own taste, setting aside my principles, or not considering my goals because someone else's seemed to matter more? I'll answer that for you: Too many.

There's nothing wrong with taking others into consideration when making decisions. As a parent, you have to do that all the time. But if I'm subjugating my own preferences in relationships, then I need to examine my motives. Because, in my experience, when I do something that is outside of my principles, I end up resenting the other person for it -- as well as resenting myself.  

Case in point: All of my adult life, I've loved mushrooms but when I married and discovered that my husband didn't share my feelings for fungi, I stopped preparing dishes that called for them. Granted, I didn't really care that much about mushrooms, but it was a little thing that I denied myself because of someone else's opinion. There were bigger ways I deferred my preferences and tastes in that marriage, and eventually those differences became insurmountable. In the end, I resented my ex for so many things I denied myself. And I realize now that wasn't his fault. It was mine. 

So today as I perused the isles at Aldi, filling my cart with single-sized portions and items that only I would eat, I felt a glimmer of freedom. For the first time in a very long time, I realized the satisfaction that comes from being one and whole. 

 

August 21, 2020