This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
I was going to title this essay "My Struggle," but unfortunately Hitler already used it up. Yeah. Can't recycle that title without sounding like a Nazi.
Anyhow...
I have recently become reacquainted with my unmanageable life, which--not gonna lie--has not been fun. With this most recent bout of mind spinning, I have learned a bunch of new things since my last mind spinning caused me to emotionally crash in 2019.
Here is a visual of what happens:
I've had a couple of rough weeks with work, Fox, my health, and relationships. All the cylinders in my engine were down. It was hard.
For the past six years, I focused on my spiritual and emotional growth as part of my effort to take care of my mental health. About a year ago, I started a new job. My focus of my spiritual growth decreased as I had to make time to adjust to my new role. And the new job was a struggle. There were some personality clashes that made learning my new role a challenge. Instead of doubling down my on my spiritual practice, I slowed down. I had thought I had a solid base of serenity. I wasn't wrong, but I didn't realize over time my sense of inner peace was wearing down, and imperceptibly becoming depleted.
Last week, my life had become unmanageable. It wasn't nearly as bad as the rock bottom that I hit in 2019, but the familiar feeling of dread was coming back. I realized I needed help. My spiritual practice discusses calling upon a higher power when we are struggling. We are supposed to turn our will and our lives over to care of a god of our understanding.
This is easier said than done.
This week, I realize I was turning my problems over to my near and dear friends instead of my higher power. As I discussed my problems over and over with my friends, I realized I wasn't feeling better. It isn't that my friends aren't good listeners or full of compassion and concern -- they are. It is wonderful to connect with them, but for some reason I wasn't feeling healed or at peace. I am a verbal processor, and while talking to my friends can help me clarify my thoughts and feelings, I still need to turn my problems over to my HP, and therein was my problem.
A dear friend of mine and I were discussing Maslow's hierarchy of needs today. At the bottom are physiological needs, like air, food, water and shelter. At the top is self-actualization and self-acceptance.
I think this needs to be changed. Inner peace needs to be the base, the center, the foundation of survival.
I have several friends right now who are struggling post-divorce. Some are struggling financially, trying to figure out their livelihood in middle age. Others are struggling in new relationships.
When I think of the opposite of self-actualization or inner peace, I think of anxiety or worry. I can't imagine 500 years ago a hunter in the forest, tracking a deer, being able to successfully hunt if he was spinning out or full of worry. The fisherman needs to stay calm. I see women knitting sweaters or scarves or mittens find themselves in a zen or mediative state as their needles click and the yarn floats through their fingers. Our sleep can be disrupted when our mind is chattering and whirring.
Inner peace is what allows survival. I think of Viktor Frankl who wrote of his life in a Nazi concentration camp in Man's Search for Meaning, and how his sense of inner peace helped him to survive horrific conditions.
Instead of a pyramid, I've created Lauren's Flower of Inner Peace. Inner peace is at the center, and everything else flows out from there.
Inner peace allows us to thrive, and thriving helps us survive. Pediatricians have a general bucket for infants who aren't growing or hitting their developmental milestones: failure to thrive. Even babies can experience inner peace and its absence. Abused children don't have it, and they are frightened for their survival, which makes it harder for them to thrive.
When I have inner peace:
I don't think I am having a middle life crisis, but I just dropped an insane amount on a painting this weekend. In. Sane. More money than I have ever paid for a painting before.
Why am I vexing over this?
Art History was my favorite class in college. If I haven't so conventional, I probably would have majored in it. I loved modern art, and studied Mondrian. My daughter has a keener eye for art than I do. She is a New York girlie, and loves museums.
This new painting is different than any other painting I have. It is not a variation of a landscape or a still life or a picture of birds. It is painting by a Japanese artist and called Picnic on the Moon. It is wild and daring and bold. It is beautiful and sweet and sensual and pretty. It is filled with colors that remind me of my late childhood and early adolescence. It makes me wonder and ponder and smile.
I like it.
Yet, why do I feel bad from dropping a large chunk of change on something so cool?
One friend suggested I have enough art (true), and that I should donate the money to charity instead. I used to donate lots of money to charity back when I was married. I still do, but I am starting to think that buying art isn't that different. I am not buying paintings that are so expensive that they are putting the artists or the gallery owners in the 1%. I am hopefully helping someone continue to afford their artistic lifestyle, and buy groceries and pay rent. People who create beautiful things that make people feel deserve to get paid.
I was at my Pilates class this Sunday when I got the call from the gallery. I stepped outside to take the call. The gallery gave the right of first refusal the day before, meaning I could go home, measure my walls, and sleep on it before I bought it. They were calling because a potential buyer was driving down from Vancouver, B.C., to look at it. I had already spent the morning texting a friend discussing if I should buy it.
"You've already picked out where you are going to hang it," she said. "I think you have made your decision."
And so I said yes when the dealer called, but not without a pit in my stomach.
I went back to class. There were only three of us there: me, the teacher and Roberto. The teacher asked what I paid for the painting, and I told him. I also told him I had a pit in my stomach for this size of purchase.
"I know the feeling," said Roberto. "I just dropped the same amount for World Cup tickets for next year."
Man, it was so nice to hear that someone could relate to my angst.
I grew up learning to save for a rainy day. I learned the importance of compound interest and living beneath your means and how to reinvest dividends. I knew the importance of an emergency fund, six months or more in savings in case I were to lose my job and needed to pay rent or the mortgage or now my HOA dues.
I didn't learn the art of saving for a sunny, to spend money on special things you love, that bring you joy. I am good at some sunny day spending, like traveling with my kids. I am good at going out to eat with friends.
Art is my sports car. Some people like Porsches. Some people like fancy handbags or shoes.
I like art. It is my sports car, my Porsche, my Birkin bag.
I love my dog, and I am afraid he is going to die. Not because he is acting like he is going to die, but because he is old.
"He's at life expectancy," said the vet last week. Pomeranian-Chihuahuas can live as long as eighteen, but not all. We don't know how old he really is, as he was a rescue. I've had him for twelve years, so he's at least thirteen as he wasn't a puppy when we got him.
It took the pup to the vet because he was having some loose stools. Nothing major, but it would come and go and not really get better.
At the vet, they decided to do a chest x-tay because he has a cough that hasn't gone away for a year. They wants to see if he had fluid in his lungs and would need a diuretic. (He doesn't.) He has a floppy trachea, a slightly enlarged heart, and a few compressed vertebrae near his tail. Nothing too epic or noteworthy for a dog his age, which is good.
The worst part was the trauma of the x-ray for Fox Dog. I asked if he needed sedation, and they said nope, he would be fine. Did they want me in the room? Nope, not worth exposing me to excess radiation. That's all well and good.
The worst part was the aftermath of the x-ray. I imagine they had to manhandle my eleven pound lapdog who isn't used to rough-housing like big dogs who like to wrestle. Fox was exhausted. I have never seem him so tired and stressed. The torture wore him out, and I was worried. I stayed home Friday night, with him on my lap.
Fox is the only remaining part of my old family. A few years ago, I had two kids, a husband and a dog.
Now I have a dog, and he is so dear to me. I wish to release my fear of his dying to the universe, so I can enjoy him as he is today, while I have him.
Forty-eight hours after his x-ray, he bounced back to his usual cheerful and chipper self.
Some Seattleites think Fremont is the center of the universe, but I think it is Ravenna.
I went to a 4th of July picnic last week at an old friend's home in my old neighborhood. I've known her since our daughters were in kindergarten together. Lots of other people were there who I knew back when I first moved to NE Seattle. I ran into friends who helped me cut my teeth in politics. It was great to re-connect with this crew.
I remember I used to think NE Seattle was the center of the universe when I first moved there. The moms I met were both smart and kind. Like all of the moms were smart and kind--not just some of them. One mom, Jessica, was convinced she was stupid but she was fascinating and warm-hearted and welcoming. In her early twenties, she moved to Italy for a few years where she met her husband. I can't see how someone so adventurous and brave could consider themselves a dullard.
I miss NE Seattle. I miss having a yard and trees and neighbors my own age. I miss people in neighborhood who knew my kids growing up. I miss the park and the bike trails. I miss the house parties and the coffee shop around the corner where I knew everyone who worked there.
I am jealous that my kids still get to spend time in the old neighborhood when they come home.
In reality, it takes me fifteen other twenty minutes to get to NE Seattle from downtown, so I should really visit more often than I do and make a better effort to stay in touch with my friends there.
